THE CHARM OF GARDENS 



soil, the cleansing of his heart ; the growing of food, 

 the sustenance for his spirit besides his body. 



He leaves his native land, he becomes monk, hermit, 

 gardener. He dwells in the wilds of a forest, one man, 

 alone, doing no great deed one might imagine that 

 would cause his fame to travel, living his quiet simple 

 life shut right away from the world by leagues of forest, 

 more buried than a man in the wilderness. For cathedral, 

 the depth of his woods, the aisles of great trees, the 

 tracery and windows made by boughs and leaves. 

 For choir, the birds. He was, one would think, so 

 utterly alone, that no step but his own ever broke the 

 silence of the woodland glades ; so isolated that no 

 human voice but his own ever penetrated the brakes 

 and thickets. Yet he became known. 



Doubtless some hunter, a wild man, to whom the 

 tracks in the forest were as roads, coming one day 

 through the woods after game, burst into the clearing, 

 and stood amazed, paused suspicious, wondering to 

 see the little oratory, the hut, the garden all about. 

 The hunter casts his keen eyes about, here and there, 

 alert, scenting danger, eyeing the new place with 

 anxious wonder, holding his spear in readiness. Then 

 comes the Saint from his hut and calls him brother, 

 bids him put down his spear, sit and eat. 



The hunter goes ; a swineherd, seeking lost droves of 

 pigs turned loose to fatten on the acorns, comes across 

 the place. The news niters through the country, 

 reaches the huddled villages by the river, reaches the 

 dwellers in the hills, the people of the forest. They 

 come to look, to stare, to be amazed. To each Saint 

 Fiacre offers his hospitality. 



As men, drawn irresistibly by a strong personality, 

 will throng towards a well whose water is supposed to 

 contain some virtue, or a stone to touch which restores 



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