ST. FIACRE 



nation to whom fairies and goblins of every kind are 

 daily actualities. Think of the Saint seeing his own 

 face daily reflected in the well as he drew his water ; 

 think of the mysterious quality of water in lonely wells 

 when it seems now to be troubled by unseen hands, 

 now to lift a clear smiling face to the sky. He must be 

 a mystic and a man filled with a simple goodness who 

 can garden in a wilderness like this. 



One can picture him seated at the door of his hut 

 eating his Acorn mash or Herb soup after a day's work 

 and prayer. A stout wooden spade rests by his side, 

 the shaft of Oak worn smooth by his hands. In front 

 of him what labours show in the ground ! Huge 

 stumps of trees that have been uprooted and dragged 

 away ; herbs he has tried to grow showing green in 

 the heavy soil ; wild flowers sweeting the air ; here the 

 beginnings of a vineyard ; there the first blades of a 

 patch of Wheat, or Oats. 



In various parts of Europe were other Irish people 

 at work sweetening the soil. Saint Gobhan near Laon, 

 Saint Etto, at Dompierre, Saint Caidoc and Saint 

 Fricor in Picardy, and Saint Judoc also there, Saint 

 Fursey, at Lagny, six miles north of Paris ; and a 

 daughter of an Irish king, Saint Dympna, at Gheel, in 

 Belgium. These are but a few of the Irish who ventured 

 forth to save the world. Beyond all of these does Saint 

 Fiacre appeal to us who love our gardens. 



Self-denial has been called the luxury of the Saints, 

 yet the phrase-maker would seem to such denials of 

 unessentials as rich foods and wines, and mortifications 

 of the flesh which a man may choose to do without any 

 suggestion of Saintship. Here, in Saint Fiacre, we 

 have a man whose process of purification was symbolised 

 by his work. The uprooting of trees, the uprooting 

 of a thousand superstitious ideas ; the purifying of the 



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