Long after his death it was the custom of the brethren of a certain house of his Order to go chanting in procession at midnight once in the year to his resting-place.  But the way was long and dark; the weather often bleak and stormy.  Little by little devotion cooled, and the friars fell away, till there remained but one old monk willing to go on this pilgrimage.  As he went into the dark and the storm, the road among the woods and rocks grew luminous, and in place of the cross and torches and canticles of the former days, great flocks of birds escorted him on his way, singing and keeping him company.  The little feathered brothers and sisters had not abated in their love of the Little Bedesman who had caressed and blessed them.