By St John Bosco 
Reading time: 20 min.
The wise man’s heart,” we read in Holy Scripture, “knows times and judgments; for there is a time and a judgment for everything. Yet it is a great affliction for man that he is ignorant of what is to come; for who will make known to him how it will be?” [Eccl. 8, 5-7]
That Don Bosco knew when to toil and when to pause and explain, that he was not ignorant of things past and future concerning his mission, is further proven by the unswerving dedication inspiring the chronicles of Father Ruffino and Father Bonetti and the memoirs of Bishop John Cagliero, Father Chiala, and others who were privileged to hear Don Bosco’s words.
With remarkable accord, they report another dream in which Don Bosco saw the Oratory and its beneficial results, the spiritual condition of his pupils, their vocation — as Salesian priests or brothers or as laymen in the world — and, lastly, the future of his budding congregation.
Don Bosco’s dream occurred during the night of May 1, 1861 and lasted about six hours. At dawn on May 2, he arose and jotted down the dream’s highlights and the names of some of the various people he had seen in it. He narrated it after night prayers on three successive nights from the little rostrum in the porticoes. The first night, May 2, he spoke for nearly forty-five minutes. The introduction, as usual, seemed somewhat obscure and strange for reasons we have already explained and for others we shall soon give.
After announcing his topic, he continued:
This dream concerns the students only. Very much of what I saw simply defies description. I seemed to have just started out of my house at Becchi on a path leading to Capriglio, a village near Castelnuovo. I wanted to see a field belonging to my family in a little dale behind a farmstead called “Valcappone.” As a boy I had often worked there. The field was very sandy and its yield barely equaled the taxes on it. As 1 was nearing it, I met a man in his forties, of average height, suntanned, and with a long, well-trimmed beard. He wore a tunic reaching to his knees and fastened around his waist, and a white beret. He seemed to be waiting for somebody. He greeted me cordially, like an old acquaintance, and then asked, “Where are you going?”
“To a nearby field of mine,” I answered. “And what brings you around here?”
“Don’t be so curious,” he replied. “You don’t have to know that.”
“Very well. Will you at least tell me your name? You seem to know me, but you are a stranger to me.”
“You don’t have to know that, either. Just come along with me.”
I followed him and after a few steps saw a large fig orchard. “Look at those figs!” the man exclaimed. “Aren’t they luscious? Go ahead, help yourself!”
Taken aback by the sight, I replied, “That’s funny! There never were figs here before!”
“There are now!” he replied.
“But this isn’t the season for figs! They can’t be ripe.”
“But some are! If you want to pick them, hurry because it’s getting late.” I did not stir and so my friend insisted: “Hurry, don’t waste time because it will soon be dark.”
“Why do you rush me? Besides, I don’t want any. I like to look at them and give them away, but I personally don’t care very much for them.”
“In that case, let’s go on. But remember what St. Matthew’s Gospel says about great events menacing Jerusalem: ‘From the fig tree learn a parable: When its branch is now tender and leaves break forth, you know that summer is near.’ [Matt. 24, 32] It’s all the nearer now that the figs are already beginning to ripen.”
We resumed our walk and came to a vineyard. “Perhaps you care for grapes,” the man said. “Take some!”
“Not now! In due time I’ll pick them from my own vineyard.”
“But you have grapes right here!”
“Not now!”
“Can’t you see how ripe they are?”
“I can hardly believe it. This isn’t the season for grapes!”
“Hurry because it’s getting dark. You can’t afford to lose time.”
“What’s the hurry? It will be soon enough if I get home before dark.” “Hurry, I say, because night is coming.”
“So what? Morning will follow!”
“You are wrong. There will be no morning!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that night is coming.”
“What kind of night? Are you trying to say that I have to pack up for eternity?”
“I repeat: Night is coming! You haven’t much time left.”
“Tell me, at least, if it will be very soon.”
“Don’t be so curious. Non plus sapere quam oportet sapere. [Don’t try to know more than is good for you.]”
“That’s what my mother used to say about nosy people,” I thought. Then I said aloud: “All right, but I still don’t want any grapes!”
So we continued along the road and soon came to my field. My brother Joseph was there loading a wagon. He greeted us both, but, seeing that the stranger ignored him, asked me if he was a schoolmate of mine.
“No,” I answered. “I never saw him before.”
My brother then turned to him. “Would you please tell me your name?” There was no response. In amazement my brother again asked me, “Who is he?”
“I don’t know. He won’t tell!”
We both again pleaded with the stranger to identify himself but he kept repeating, “Non plus sapere quam oportet sapere. [Don’t try to know more than is good for you.]”
My brother gave up and left us alone. The stranger then turned to me and said, “Would you like to see something unusual?”
“Certainly!” I replied.
“Would you like to see your boys as they are now and as they will be in the future? Would you want to count them?”
“Very much so!”
“Come here then.”
From I don’t know where he pulled out a strange contraption housing a large wheel and set it on the ground.
“What’s this wheel?” I asked.
“The wheel of eternity,” he replied, and, seizing the handle, he gave it a spin.
“Now, you try it,” he said.
I did so.
“Look inside.”
I looked and saw a large lens encased in the wheel. The lens was about five feet in diameter, and its edge bore the inscription: Hic est oculus qui humilia respicit in caelo et in terra. [This is the eye that sees the lowly things in heaven and on earth.]
I immediately looked through the lens. What a sight! All the Oratory boys stood there before my eyes. “How can this be?” I said to myself. “I have never before seen anyone around here and now the place is full of boys. Aren’t they in Turin?” I carefully examined the whole contraption; only through the lens could I see anybody. I looked at the stranger in amazement. After a few moments, he ordered me to turn the handle once more. Something startling happened: the boys were separated into two groups: the good and the bad; the former beaming with joy, the latter — not many, thank God — a sorry sight. I recognized them all. How different they were from what their companions believed them to be! Some had tongues pierced through with holes, others had pitifully squinting eyes, and still others had ugly sores covering their heads or worms gnawing at their hearts. The longer I looked, the more I grieved for them. “Can these possibly be my boys?” I asked. “What can these strange ailments mean?”
“I will tell you,” the stranger replied. “Pierced tongues symbolize foul talk; squinting eyes indicate a lack of appreciation of God’s graces by setting earthly things above the heavenly. Sores on the head show that they neglect your advice and cater to their own whims; worms symbolize evil passions gnawing at their hearts. There are boys, too, who do not want to hear your words lest they have to put them into practice.”
At a nod from him, I spun the wheel again and pressed my eyes to the lens. Four boys bound with heavy chains came into view. I looked at them carefully and recognized them. I asked the stranger what that meant. “That shouldn’t be hard to figure out,” he replied. “These are the boys who pay no attention to your advice. If they do not mend their ways, they run the risk of ending up in jail and rotting there for their crimes.”
“Let me jot their names down lest I forget,” I said, but the stranger objected, “You don’t have to! Their names are in this book.”
I noticed then that he carried a notebook. At his word I gave the wheel another turn and looked. This time I saw seven other boys, defiant and distrustful, their lips padlocked. Three were also clamping their ears shut with their hands. Again I wanted to write their names down, but again the stranger firmly forbade it.
Painfully amazed to see those boys in their predicament, I asked why their lips were padlocked.
“Can’t you see it for yourself?” the stranger replied. “These are the boys who refuse to tell.”
“Tell what?”
“They won’t tell, that’s all!”
I understood then that he meant confession. These are boys who, even when questioned by their confessor, will not answer or will answer evasively or contrary to the truth. They say “no” when the answer should be “yes.” My friend then went on: “Do you see those three clamping their hands over their ears? Aren’t they a sorry sight? Well, they are boys who not only do not tell their sins, but even refuse to listen to their confessor’s advice, warnings, and orders. They hear your words, but pay no heed to them. They could unplug their ears, but won’t. The other four boys, instead, listened to your exhortations and warnings but did not put them into practice.”
“How can they get rid of that padlock?” I inquired.
“Ejiciatur superbia e cordibus eorum” he replied. [Let pride be cast out of their hearts.]
“I will speak to these boys,” I went on, “but there is little hope for those who willfully shut their ears.” That stranger then advised that whenever I say a few words by way of sermon, half those words should be on making a good confession.
I promised that I would. I don’t mean to say that I will carry out that injunction to the letter because I would make myself tiresome, but I will do my best to impress the importance and need of good confessions upon all and as often as possible. In fact, more people are eternally lost through bad confessions than in any other way because even the worst people occasionally do go to confession. There are very many, however, who make bad confessions.
When, at the stranger’s command, I gave the wheel another turn, I was horrified to see three boys gripped from behind by three husky monkeys armed with horns. Each beast gripped its victim’s throat by its forepaws so tightly that the boy’s face became flushed and his bloodshot eyes almost popped out of their sockets. Moreover, the beast’s hind legs and long tail bound the boy’s thighs and legs so as to almost completely immobilize him. These were boys who go through a spiritual retreat and still remain in mortal sin, guilty especially of impurity, of a serious offense against the Sixth Commandment. The devil chokes them to keep them from speaking when they should; he makes them blush to the point of losing their heads so that they no longer realize what they are doing. A false shame then overwhelms them and leads them to perdition. The devil has them by their throats so tightly that their eyes seem to pop from their sockets, and they can no longer see their miserable condition and the way to get out of their horrible mess. A senseless fear and repugnance keep them from the sacraments. The devil grips their thighs and legs to make is impossible for them to take a step in the right direction. So strong are their bad habits that these boys become convinced they can no longer help themselves.
I assure you, my dear boys, that I wept at that sight. I wanted to rescue those unfortunate lads, but as soon as I drew away from the lens I could see them no more. I also wanted to take down their names, but my friend would have none of it. “It’s unnecessary,” he kept saying, “because they are all written down in this notebook.”
Grieved by this sight beyond words, I tearfully turned to my companion, sobbing, “How is this possible? How can these boys be in such miserable shape after I lavished so much care on them in confession and out of confession?”
“Labor, Sudor, Fervor,” was his scrambled, mumbled reply.
“I didn’t quite get it,” I said. “Please speak more clearly.”
Again he muttered, “Labor, Sudor, Fervor”
“It’s no use,” I said. “As long as you keep mumbling, I can’t make out what you are saying.”
“Are you making fun of me?” he asked.
“Not at all! I just can’t understand you.”
“Listen, you know your grammar. Just pay attention: Labor — comma; Sudor — comma; Fervor — period. Do you get it now?”
“I get the words,” I replied, “but what’s the message?”
“All right, I’ll make it clearer: Labor in assiduis operibus [Constant hard work]; Sudor in poenitentiis continuis [Incessant, painstaking mortification]; Fervor in orationibus ferventibus et perseverantibus [Fervent and persevering prayer]. For these boys, however, your sacrifices, no matter how great, will be of no avail. You will not win them over, because they do not want to shake off Satan’s yoke of slavery.”
Meanwhile I kept staring through the lens, fretting and thinking, “How is this possible? Are those boys really doomed, even after a spiritual retreat? Were all my sacrifices, efforts, sermons, suggestions, and warnings to no avail? Were all their promises a sham? What a letdown!”
These thoughts utterly disheartened me. My friend noticed it. “How proud and conceited you are!” he chided me. “Do you expect your boys to be converted just because you work for them, to respond to your cares just because you love them? Do you perhaps think that you love, work, and suffer more than Our Blessed Savior? Do you expect your words to be more effective than His? Do you preach better than He did? Do you believe you have been more loving and anxious for your boys than Our Lord was for His Apostles? Aren’t you aware that they lived constantly with Him, endlessly benefited from all kinds of graces and favors, heard His admonitions and precepts, and witnessed His divine example? Shouldn’t all this have effectively spurred them to saintly lives? Didn’t He do all He could for Judas? And yet Judas betrayed Him and died impenitent. Are you better than the Apostles? Didn’t they carefully choose seven deacons? They chose but seven and one of them went astray. Are you surprised and upset if among five hundred boys a few will not respond to your care? Are you so conceited as to expect that none of your boys will turn out badly and be lost? How proud can you be?”
These words silenced me, but for all that I still felt very much disheartened.
“Cheer up!” my friend went on. “Turn the wheel again and see how generous God is! See how many souls He wants to give you! Look at all those boys.”
I peered again into the lens and saw a very large number of boys totally unknown to me.
“I see them,” I remarked, “but I don’t know any of them.”
“Well,” he replied, “the Lord will give you all these boys to make up for the fourteen who do not cooperate with you. For each one of them He will give you a hundred!”
“Poor me!” I exclaimed. “The Oratory is full already. Where shall I put them?”
“Don’t worry. Right now that’s no problem. Later, He who sends them will make room for them.”
“I’m not too worried about that,” I said. “My greatest worry is feeding them!”
“Don’t worry about that either! The Lord will provide.”
“In that case, I am quite happy!” I replied in deep relief.
Delightedly I kept looking at those boys, studying the features of very many so as to be able to recognize them if I ever met them.
Thus ended Don Bosco’s talk on the night of May 2, 1861.
Don Bosco resumed his story on the following night, concisely and vividly. Through the lens he had also seen the vocation of each of his boys. However, he did not disclose any names and postponed to a later account the questions he had put to his guide and the latter’s answers concerning symbols and allegories of the dream.
The cleric Dominic Ruffino was nevertheless able to gather a few names confidentially from the boys themselves to whom Don Bosco had more privately manifested what he had seen about them. Ruffino recorded the names in 1861 and gave us the list. To make our narration clearer and avoid repetitions, we shall insert names and explanations, mostly in non-dialogue form, while still reporting the chronicle word by word. Don Bosco resumed his narration on May 3, as follows:
was rejoicing to see so many new boys when the stranger, still standing by his apparatus, asked me: “Would you like to see something even more delightful?”
“Certainly!” I replied.
“Then give the wheel another turn.”
I did and peered through the lens. I saw the boys separated into two groups, some distance apart, in a broad area. At my left I could see a vast field, in which all sorts of vegetables were growing, and a meadow lined at its edge with a few rows of wild vines. The first group of boys was working this field with spades, hoes, picks, shovels, and rakes. They were broken up into squads, each with a foreman. The whole group took orders from Chevalier Oreglia who was busy handing out tools and prodding sluggish workers. Farther away, near the edge of the field, I saw other boys sowing seed. A second group was working on my right in a vast field covered with golden wheat. A long trench separated this field from other fields which stretched out as far as the eye could see. All the boys were busy harvesting — bundling into sheaves, piling them, gleaning, carting, threshing, sharpening sickles, and handing them out.
Some boys were also playing guitars. I assure you, it was quite a scene. Nearby, in the shade of ancient trees, were tables laden with food; a little further off, one could see a gorgeous garden with all kinds of flowers in full bloom. The two groups of boys symbolized different vocations: the lay state and the priesthood. I did not know this at the time, and so I asked, “What’s the meaning of all this?”
“Can’t you see it yet?” he replied. “Boys tilling the soil are those who work for themselves alone. They are not called to be priests.”
I understood then that this applied to the artisans. In their state of life they only think of saving their own souls and feel no special obligation to work at saving the souls of others.
“And the second group?” I asked. But then it dawned on me that these boys were called to be priests. Now I knew who were called to the priesthood and who were not.
As I watched very interestedly, I noticed that Provera was handing out sickles. I took this to mean that he might become the rector of a seminary, a religious community, or a house of studies; perhaps he might become something even more important. I observed that not all the reapers received their sickles from him. The boys who did are those who are destined to join the [Salesian] Congregation. The others, instead, are to become diocesan priests. The sickle symbolized the Word of God. Another detail: Provera did not readily give a sickle to all who asked. Some he just ordered to take either one or two morsels of food. The first morsel signified piety, the second knowledge. James Rossi was sent to take one. The boys had to report to the cleric [Celestine] Durando who was in the little grove setting tables and serving the reapers — the task of those who are particularly destined to promote devotion to the Most Blessed Sacrament. Matthew Galliano was busy serving beverages. Costamagna, too, asked for a sickle, but was first sent by Provera to pick two flowers from the garden. The same happened to Quattroccolo. Rebuffo was promised a sickle on condition that he first pick three flowers. Olivero also was there.
Meanwhile, all the other boys were scattered here and there in the wheatfield, some working abreast with larger or narrower rows to cultivate. Father Ciattino, the pastor of Maretto, was using a sickle he had received from Provera. Francesia and Vibert were cutting wheat. So too were Hyacinth Perucatti, Merlone, Momo, Garino, and Jarach — an indication that they would save souls by their preaching if they persevered in their vocation. Some reaped more than others. Bondioni was cutting wheat like mad, but how long could he last? Others hacked at the wheat with all their strength but cut nothing. Vaschetti took hold of a sickle, began to cut, and went at it zestfully until he found himself working in another field. He wasn’t the only one, either. Some sickles were dull or blunted or in such poor condition that they actually did more harm than good.
Dominic Ruffino had a long row to take care of. His sickle was very sharp, but blunted at the point, signifying lack of humility and an ambition to outdo his companions. He went to Francis Cerruti to have his sickle fixed. The latter had been given that task, a symbol that one day he would become a teacher and instill knowledge and piety into students. Hammering, in fact, is the task of those charged with forming priestly candidates. Provera handed the blunted sickles to Cerruti and the dull ones to Rocchietti and others — an indication that they would one day form priestly vocations to piety. Viale came up for a sickle and picked out a dull one, but Provera made him take one he had just sharpened. I also saw Rinaudo servicing farm tools.
While all this was going on, Fusero was tying sheaves. This meant that his task would be to keep souls in God’s grace, particularly the souls of those called to the priesthood. In other words, he would one day form young clerics.
Others were helping him; among them I saw Turchi and Ghivarello. This meant that they would work especially in setting consciences right, as, for example, in hearing confessions, particularly of priests or priestly candidates.
Others were loading sheaves on a wagon symbolizing God’s grace. Converted sinners must climb upon this wagon in order to make a start on their way to heaven. When the wagon was fully loaded, oxen — a symbol of strength and perseverance — started pulling it. Some boys led them, following Rua. This means that Rua’s task will be to lead souls to heaven. [Angelo] Savio trailed behind, gleaning ears of wheat or sheaves which fell from the wagon.
Scattered about the field were John Bonetti, Joseph Bongiovanni, and others, busily gleaning. Their task will be to rescue obstinate sinners. Bonetti, especially, is called by God to seek such unfortunate people.
Fusero and Anfossi were preparing sheaves for threshing. Perhaps this suggested a teaching career. Others, like Father Alasonatti, stacked them; they are those who administer finances, watch over the observance of rules, and teach prayers and hymns — in short, those who materially and morally contribute in directing souls to heaven.
One strip of land had been cleared and smoothed out for threshing. John Cagliero, who had just gone to the garden for flowers and had handed them out to his companions, betook himself to the threshing area, still holding a little bouquet of flowers. Threshing grain symbolizes God’s call to instruct the common people.
Far off, black columns of smoke were rising to the sky. Some boys had gathered cockle and were burning it outside the field. This symbolized those who would remove the bad from the good as directors of our future houses. Among them I saw Francis Cerruti, John Baptist Tamietti, Dominic Belmonte, Paul Albera, and others, who are now studying in the lower Latin grades.
All the above scenes kept unfolding simultaneously. I saw some boys in that crowd hold lighted lanterns, though it was broad daylight. Evidently they were destined to be beacons, giving good example to other workers in the Lord’s vineyard. Among them was Paul Albera, who, besides carrying a lamp, also played the guitar. This means that not only will he guide priests, but he will also encourage them to persevere. It suggested, too, some high post in the Church.
Amid so much hustle and bustle, however, not all the boys were busy. One fellow was holding a pistol, an indication that he was inclined to a military career, though he was as yet uncertain. Others just stood about idly, watching the reapers, with no intention of joining them. Some looked undecided; being too lazy for action, they couldn’t make up their minds. Others instead ran for a sickle, but a few of these did nothing on reaching the field. There were also some who swung the sickle wrongly. Molino was one of them. These are boys who always do the opposite of what they should. Quite a few others kept roaming about or picking wild grapes, denoting those who waste their time in tasks not pertaining to them.
The boys tilling the soil in the field at the left were also an odd sight. While most of those sturdy lads worked very diligently, a few were using their hoes the wrong way or only pretending to work. Some knocked the blade off the handle at every blow. The handle symbolized the right intention.
I also observed artisans reaping wheat and students hoeing. I again tried to jot down some notes, but my guide would immediately show me his notebook and stop me. I could also see that very many boys stood idly about because they couldn’t make up their minds. Instead, the two Dalmazzo brothers, Primo Gariglio, Monasterolo, and many others seemed determined to make a decision one way or the other. I saw some quit hoeing to go and do some reaping. One boy was in such a hurry that he forgot to get a sickle. Shamefacedly, he went back for one, but the person in charge refused to give it to him despite his insistence. “It’s not time yet!” he told him.
“Yes, it is!” the lad insisted. “I want it now!”
“Not now!” was the reply. “First go to the garden and pick two flowers.”
“All right,” he exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ll pick all the flowers you want.”
“Two will do!”
He ran to the garden but, on getting there, realized he had not asked which two flowers he should pick. He rushed back to ask.
“Pick the flower of charity and that of humility,” he was told.
“I’ve got them already.”
“You only think you have them!”
The boy famed, clenched his fists, and raged.
“This is no time for a tantrum,” the one in charge told him, and he absolutely refused to hand him a scythe. The lad bit his fists in rage.
After this I stopped looking through the lens, which had enabled me to learn so much. I felt stirred, too, by the moral applications my friend had suggested. I again asked for a few more explanations. The stranger repeated: “The wheat field is the Church; the harvest is the fruit reaped; the sickle is the tool — the Word of God especially — to harvest the fruit. The dull blade means lack of piety; the blunted point signifies lack of humility. Leaving the field while reaping means leaving the Oratory and the Salesian Society.”
The following night, May 4, 1861, Don Bosco concluded his narrative. The first part had shown him the Oratory pupils, especially the students; the second indicated those who were called to the priesthood. The third part was a succession of visions: the Salesian Society in 1861, its prodigious growth, and the gradual disappearance of the first Salesians and their replacement by others. Don Bosco spoke thus:
After I had leisurely taken in the richly varied harvest scene, the obliging stranger said, “Now give the wheel ten turns and look.”
I obeyed. Marvelously, those very lads whom I had patted as children a few days before were now virile, bearded men, some with greying hair.
“How could this happen?” I inquired. “That man was a mere youngster the other day!”
My friend answered, “Don’t be surprised! How many turns did you give the wheel?”
“Ten.”
“Then they are all ten years older. We have gone from 1861 to 1871.”
“Oh!” Through that mysterious lens I saw new places, new houses of ours, and many pupils in the care of my dear Oratory boys, now priests, teachers, and directors.
“Give the wheel ten more turns, and we shall reach 1881,” the stranger told me. I complied and peered into the lens. Now I saw only about half the boys I had seen before. Nearly all were grey-haired, a few stooping.
“Where are the others?” I asked.
“Gone into eternity,” he replied.
This striking loss grieved me considerably, but I was consoled by the sight of an immense tableau of new and unknown regions and a multitude of boys led by teachers unknown to me but pupils of my first boys, some already mature in years.
I gave the wheel ten more turns and then saw only one-fourth of the boys I had seen but a few moments before. They were much older and white-haired.
“Where are the others?” I asked.
“Gone into eternity. This is now 1891.”
I then beheld a very touching sight. My toil-worn priests were surrounded by boys I had never seen; many were of a different race and color.
I turned the wheel ten more times. I could only see a few of my first boys, tottering and bent with age, gaunt and thin. Among others I remember seeing Father Rua, so old and haggard as to be hardly recognizable.
“What about all the others?” I asked.
“Gone into eternity! We are now in the year 1901.”
I saw many houses of ours, but none of my old Salesians. The directors and teachers were all unknown to me. The multitude of boys kept growing, as was the number of houses and personnel.
“Now,” the stranger said, “turn the wheel ten more times, and you will see things that will both cheer and sadden you.” I complied.
“Nineteen hundred and eleven!” my friend exclaimed.
My dear boys, I saw new houses, new boys, new directors, and teachers dressed differently from us. And what about my first Oratory boys? I searched and searched through the great multitude and could find only one of you, white-haired, bent with age. Surrounded by boys, he was telling them about the Oratory’s beginnings and repeating things he had learned from Don Bosco, while pointing out to them his picture hanging on the parlor wall. And what about the first pupils and superiors that I had just seen as old men? . . .
At a nod from the stranger, I again gave the wheel several turns. All I could see was a vast solitude, with nobody in sight. “Oh!” I gasped. “There is nobody here! Where are all the cheerful, lively, strong boys that are at the Oratory with me right now?”
“Gone into eternity! Remember that a decade goes by with every ten turns of the wheel.”
I figured that I had given the wheel fifty turns and that around 1911 the boys that are now at the Oratory would all be gone into eternity.
“Now,” the stranger said, “would you like to see something really startling?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Watch! Give the wheel as many turns counterclockwise as you did clockwise.”
I did so.
“Now look!” the stranger cried.
I saw an immense crowd of boys of countless nations, features, and tongues. So vast was the throng that I could single out only a small fraction with their superiors.
“I don’t know any of them,” I said to the stranger.
“Still,” he replied, “they are all your sons. Listen. They are talking about you and your first boys, their superiors, now long dead, and the teaching you and your first sons handed down to them.”
Again I looked intently, but on removing my gaze from the lens, I saw the wheel begin to spin by itself so fast and so noisily that I awoke and found myself in bed, exhausted.
Now that I have told you all these things, you may think that Don Bosco is an extraordinary man, a great man, a saint, no doubt! My dear lads, before you entertain such foolish notions about me, feel absolutely free to believe or not believe these things and to make whatever you want of them. I only ask that you do not make fun of them, whether among yourselves or with outsiders. Bear in mind, though, that Our Lord can manifest His will in many ways. Sometimes He makes use of the most unsuitable, unworthy instruments, as when He made Balaam’s donkey speak and even used Balaam himself — a false prophet — to foretell many things concerning the Messiah. Such may be the case with me. I warn you, then, not to follow my example blindly. What you must do is to pay close attention to all I say because that at least, I hope, will always be in accordance with God’s will and helpful to your souls.
As for what I do, never say, “Don Bosco did it and so it has to be good.” Examine it first. If you see it is good, do likewise, but if it were, perchance, bad, beware of imitating it. Don’t! [Good night!]”
(MB IT VI, 898-916 / MB EN VI, 530-544)
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