sphere of action? And turning from the Book of Nature to the Book of Genesis, we may find our justification for the indulgence of this delightful pastime in the words: "The Lord God took man and put him into the Paradise of pleasure, to dress it and to keep it." M. C. KEOGH. LA VALLÉE DE LA SOUMESNE From out the chinks, its native home, Yet, even there the pine trees bold Their darksome green beshades the ground, And tumble o'er the shaggy rock, While sunbeams white glide gently down, Give, at the end of wintry day, W. P. H. THE BY A MONK'S GRAVE * HE solemn Requiem Mass in the little convent chapel was over, and they carried him, six stalwart peasants who had loved and been loved by him, down the narrow garden path behind a long procession of chanting priests and brotherfriars, to the quiet green cemetery where the graves of the monks lie side by side, guiltless of any monument save the nodding snowdrops and the green trees, and the blue skies of heaven. A great gathering of mourners testified to the affectionate esteem in which this dear, kindly, simple-hearted old man had been held by all-priests and monks innumerable, citizens, country folk, the farmers and peasantry from his own birthplace in a quiet country side lying at the other end of the county, under the shadow of the blue hills he had loved. One had read the prayers in the Mass for the dead with a curious feeling of peace and assurance, as though prayers for him were almost unnecessary; one could not doubt that his dear soul was already with God. There was nothing terrible or mournful in the lowering of the coffin into the open grave, not even in the dull thud of the earth thrown relentlessly down. One felt that a saintly old man, tired of life and longing for rest, had gone to his last sleep and its blissful awakening. Would that all of us might lay down our burdens at the last with the same trust and love! It was only when the funeral service was over, and the poor blind boys whose faithful brother and servant he had so long been (they were always "boys" to him, whether children of tender years or greyheaded, feeble old men) sang a Requiem hymn by the graveside, their sightless eyes turned heavenwards, that one turned away with a sob, half for the living, half for the dead, from that sorrowful, touching picture. I had known him as long as I could remember, for he had been an old friend of my father, and of his father and grandfather before him, and had seen five if not six generations of our * Brother Pacomius, O.D.C., died at St. Joseph's Asylum for the Blind, Drumcondra, Dublin, Jan. 29th, 1906. VOL. XXXIV.No. 394. family. It was a tie between the two old men, my father and himself, that they were both born in the same year, spending their childhood and boyhood together, sharing the same simple tastes, the same love of kin and country, especially that pleasant green strip of it intersected with winding lanes and blossoming hedges, which spelled home for both of them. That one made choice of a religious life when he came to manhood's years, did not diminish his friendship for the other, or lessen his interest in the romance of that other's marriage, the history of which he took delight in recounting to younger generations long after the principal actors were no more. I remember how he used to steal in unawares, in his brown habit, on a fine summer morning, ere the family had finished breakfast, having come, from choice, across the fields and by way of the farmyard and kitchen. He was the farmer brother of a religious community living a mile or so away from us, and would often come over thus to ask my father's trusted advice about a sick cow or horse, or to walk with him over the land, and inspect the fields of the farm and note the progress of the young crops. Let him come at any hour of however ordinary inconvenience to the housewife, he was always sure of a welcome. And in later years, when on Sunday or holiday, he would set out betimes from the Blind Asylum beyond the city in which the latter half of his life had been spent to visit the monastery which had been the home of his earlier years, and would call on his way to see some old friend and neighbour, perhaps just at the moment when "himself" was gone to Mass, the dinner in the act of preparing, and the children in their most troublesome mood, not even the busiest of housewives but would be glad to see his kindly face, and sit down and listen to his cheery talk, his wise, helpful advice. And very willingly, if sorrowfully, did they travel the long miles of country and city road, these farmers and poor peasants, to pay the last tribute of respect to his earthly remains on the day of his burial. Despite the many calls of his religious life he never lost interest in his old friends and neighbours, in the little old house smothered in ivy and overhanging apple-trees, in that sequestered country lane where had been his home. I well remember how he would place his hands in blessing on the heads of us children, how in particular he would pat the head of my younger sister, a big, sonsy," rosy-faced girl, now the mother of a large family, and would say to my father, "You must make a nun of Alice, old friend. She'd make a splendid Reverend Mother!” Just a fortnight before his death I saw him last, and thought then that he looked stronger and less tired than I had often seen him before. But he was very quiet, and being a little deaf, seemed glad at times to leave the talking to a younger brother who helped to entertain us. Owing to his weight of years and feeble health, he had been released from most of his duties with regard to the farm; but he took great delight in showing to the little children who came with me his farmyard and cattle and poultry, the garden and greenhouses, and last, though not least, a batch of half tame pheasants which had been hatched by a farmyard fowl out of eggs found in one of the convent meadows at mowing-time last year. He found great joy, too, in heaping cakes, oranges, and such like dainties on the children, and was greatly taken with the youngest, a chubby little fellow of two and a half years, whom, despite the child's great weight, he would carry about in his arms. At first sight of this child, who is said to be very like his grandfather, he called him by that grandfather's name. "He reminds me of old friends," he said quietly, when I noticed his absorption in the little fellow. He was ever the same, kindly, thoughtful, tender; and as he bade us good-bye at the gate he made us promise to come soon again-above all, "not to forget to bring the baby." And to-day, with the first breath of spring already in the air, and the birds singing a glad song in the sunshine, his blind boys chant for him a solemn hymn of rest, and our dear old friend lies sleeping his last sleep, in a quiet green corner where the wind blows in from the sea. NORA TYNAN O'MAHONY. LILIES In my garden lilies tall And I think with heart a-glow, Loving Lord and gracious King! Fiat lux-and (wondrous sight!) Never was such raiment spun, Thus I watch my lilies grow, From the lips of Jesus fell, Cling around each snowy bell. Listen ye whose brows are wet, Who unduly toil and fret, Hear the lilies' Master say: "Are not you much more than they?" MARY CORBETT. |