INTRODUCTION To End God's Garden There is a garden which God has planted for himself more beautiful than any earthly garden. The flowers that bloom there are the white souls of his saints, who have kept themselves pure and unspotted from the world. In God's Garden there is every kind of flower, each differing from the other in beauty. Some are tall and stately like the lilies, growing where all may see them in their dress of white and gold. Some are half concealed like the violets, and known only by the fragrance of kind of deeds and gentle words which have helped so sweeten the lives of others. While some, again, are hidden from all earthly eyes, and only God knows their loveliness and beholds the secret places where they are grown. But known or unknown all have risen above the dark earth, looking ever upward. And although often bent and beaten down by many a cruel storm of temptation and sin, they have ever raised their heads again, turning their faces towards God. Until at last they have been crowned with the perfect flower of holiness, and now blossom forever in the heavenly garden. In this book you will not find the stories of all God saints. I have gathered a few together, just as one gathers a little posy from a garden full of roses. But the stories I have chosen to tell are those that I hope children will love best to hear.  We may not be set where all can see us. Our place in God's garden may be a very humble and sheltered spot. Like the saints, we may keep our faces ever turned upward and learn to grow as they grew, like their master, pure and straight and strong, fit flowers to blossom in the garden of God. Saints are like roses when they flush rarest. Saints are like lilies when they bloom fairest. Saints are like violets, sweetest of their kind. End of the Introduction, Chapter 1 of In God's Garden. Once upon a time in the land of Brittany there lived a good king whose name was Theonatus. She had married a princess who was as good as she was beautiful, and they had one little daughter whom they called Ursula. It was a very happy and prosperous country over which Theonatus ruled, for he was a Christian, and governed both wisely and well. And nowhere was happiness more certain to be found than in the royal palace where the king and queen and the little princess Ursula lived. Ursula went merrily until Ursula was fifteen years old, and then a great trouble came, for the queen, her mother, died. The poor king was heartbroken, and for a long time even Ursula could not comfort him, but with patient tenderness she tried to do for him all that her mother had done, and gradually he began to feel that he still had something to live for. Her mother had taught Ursula with great care, and the little maid had loved her lessons, and so it came to pass that there was now no princess in all the world so learned as Princess Ursula. It is said that she knew all that had happened since the beginning of the world, all about the stars and the winds, all the poetry that had ever been written, and every science that learned men had ever known. But what was far better than all this learning was that the princess was humble and good. She never thought herself wiser than other people, and her chief pleasure was in doing kind things and helping others. Her father called her the light of his eyes, and his one fear was that she would someday marry and leave him alone. And true it was that many princes wished to marry Ursula, for the fame of her beauty and of her learning had spread to far distant lands. Now on the other side of the sea, not very far from Brittany, there was a country called England. The people there were strong and powerful, but they had not yet learned to be Christians. The king of that land had an only son called Cullinan, who was as handsome as he was brave, and when his father heard of the fame of the princess Ursula, he made up his mind that she should be his son's wife. So he sent a great company of nobles and ambassadors to the court of Brittany to ask King Theonatus for the hand of the princess Ursula. The king received the messengers most courteously, but he was very much troubled and perplexed at the request. He did not want to part with Ursula, and he knew she did not wish to marry and leave him.   But as he sat there thinking the door opened and Ursula came in. Why are thou so sad, my father? she asked, and what is that that trouble with thee so greatly? I have this day received an offer for thy hand, answered her father sadly, and the messengers are even now here, and because they come from the king of England I dare not refuse their request, and yet I know not what answer to give them when they return in the morning. If that is all, do not trouble thy self, dear father, answered Ursula. I myself will answer the messengers, and all will be well. Then the princess left her father and went to her own room that she might consider what answer might be wisest to send. But the more she thought, the more troubled she became. While at last she grew so weary that she took off her crown and placed it as usual at the foot of her bed and prepared to go to rest. Her little dog lay guarding her, and she slept calmly and peacefully until she dreamed a dream which seemed almost like a vision. For she thought she saw a bright light shining through the door, and through the light an angel coming towards her, who spoke to her and said, Trouble not thy self, Ursula, for to-morrow thou shalt know what answer thou shalt give. God has need of thee to save many souls, and though this prince doth offer thee an earthly crown, God has an unfading crown of heavenly beauty laid up for thee, which thou shalt win through much suffering. So the next morning when the messengers came to the great hall to receive their answer, they saw the princess Ursula herself sitting on the throne next to her father. She was so beautiful and greeted them so graciously that they longed more than ever that their prince might win her for his bride. And as they listened for the king to speak, it was Ursula's voice that fell on their ears. She began by sending her greeting to the king of England and to Prince Conan, his son, and made the messengers say that the honor offered her was more than she deserved. But since their choice had fallen upon her, she, on her side, was ready to accept the prince as her promised husband, if he would agree to three conditions. And first went on Ursula, leaning forward and speaking very clearly and slowly so that the foreign ambassadors might understand every word. I would have the prince, your master, send to me ten of the noblest ladies of your land to be my companions and friends, and for each of these ladies and for myself a thousand maidens to wait upon us. Secondly, he must give me three years before the date of my marriage so that I and these noble ladies may have time to serve God by visiting the shrines of the saints in distant lands. And thirdly, I ask that the prince and all his court shall accept the true faith and be baptized Christians, for I cannot wed even so great and perfect a prince if he not be as perfect a Christian. And Ursula stopped speaking, and the ambassadors bowed low before her beauty and wisdom, and went to take her answer to their king. Now Ursula did not make these conditions without a purpose, for in her heart she thought that surely the prince would not agree to such demands, and she would still be free. But even if he did all that she had asked, it would surely fulfill the purpose of her dream, and she would save these eleven thousand maidens and teach them to serve and honor God. Air long the ambassadors arrived safely in England and went to report their mission to the king. They could not say enough about the perfections of this wonderful princess of Brittany. She was as fair and straight as a lily, her rippling hair was golden as the sunshine, and her eyes like shining stars. The pearls that decked her bodice were not as fair as the whiteness of her throat. And her walk, and every gesture, was so full of grace that it clearly showed she was born to be a queen. And if the outside was so fair, words failed them when they would describe her wisdom and learning, her good deeds and kind actions. The king, as he listened to his nobles, felt that no conditions could be too hard that would secure such a princess for his son. And as for the prince himself, his only desire was to have her wishes fulfilled as quickly as possible, so that he might set sail for Brittany and see with his own eyes this beautiful princess who had promised to be his bride. So letters were sent north, south, east and west, to France and Scotland and Cornwall, wherever there were vassals of England to be found, bidding all knights and nobles to send their daughters to court with their attendant maidens, the fairest and noblest of the land. All were to be arrayed in the finest and costliest raiment and most precious jewels, so that they might be deemed fit companions for the princess Ursula, who was to wed Prince Conan, their liege lord. Then the knights and nobles sent all their fairest maidens, and so eager were they to do as the king desired, that very soon ten of the noblest maidens, each with a thousand attendants and another thousand for the princess Ursula, were ready to start for the court of Brittany. Never before was seen such a fair sight as when all these maidens went out to meet the princess Ursula, but the fairest of all was the princess herself as she stood to receive her guest. For the light of love shone in her eyes, and to each she gave a welcome as tender as if they had all been her own sisters. It seemed a glorious thing to think they were all to serve God together, and no longer to live the life of mere pleasure and vanity. As may well be believed the fame of these fair maidens spread far and near, and all the nobles and barons crowded to the court to see the sight that all the world talked about.  For when the soft spring weather was come, Ursula gathered all her companions together and led them to a green meadow outside the city, through which a clear stream flowed. The grass was starred with daisies and butter-cups, and a sweet scent of the lime-blossoms hung in the air, a fitting bower for those living flowers that gathered there that day. In the midst of the meadow there was a throne, and there the princess sat, and with words of wonderful power she told her companions the story of God's love and of the coming of our blessed Lord, and showed them what the beauty of a life lived for him might be. And the faces of the listening maidens shone with a glory that was more than earthly, as they, with one accord, promised to follow the princess Ursula wherever she might lead, if only she would help them to live the blessed life so that they too might win the heavenly crown. Then Ursula descended from her throne and talked with each of the maidens, and those who had not yet been baptized she led through the flowery meadow to the banks of the stream, and there a priest baptized them while the birds joined in the hymn of praise sung by the whole company. But all this while the prince Conan waited with no little impatience for news of Ursula. He had been baptized and joined the Christian faith. He had sent the companions she desired, and now he waited for her to fulfill her promise. And ere long a letter reached him, written round and fair in the princess's own handwriting, telling him that as he had so well fulfilled her conditions and was now her own true night, she gave him permission to come to her father's court that they might meet and learn to know each other. It was but little time that Prince Conan lost before he set sail for Brittany. The great warships made a prosperous voyage over the sea that parted the two countries, and came sailing majestically into the harbor of Brittany, where the people had gathered in crowds to see the young prince who had come to woo their fair princess. From every window gay carpets were hung, and the town was all in holiday as Ursula stood on the landing-place, the first to greet the prince as he stepped ashore, and all that Conan had heard of her seemed as nothing compared to the reality as she stood before him in her great beauty and welcomed him with gentle courtesy. And he grew to love her so truly that he was willing to do in all things as she wished, though he longed for the three years to be over that he might carry her off to England and make her his queen. But Ursula told the prince of the vision that had come to her in her dream. When the angel had said she must first go through much suffering and visit the shrines of saints in distant lands, and she told him she could not be happy unless he granted her these three years in which to serve God, and begged him meanwhile to stay with her father and comfort him while she was gone. So Ursula set out with her eleven thousand maidens, and the city was left very desolate and forlorn. But the pilgrims were happy as they sailed away over the sea, for they were doing the angel's bidding, and they feared nothing, for they trusted that God would protect and help them. At first the winds were contrary, and they were driven far out of their course, so that instead of arriving at Rome, which was the place they had meant to go, they were obliged to land at a city called Cologne, where the barbarous Germans lived. Here while they were resting for a little another dream was sent to Ursula, and the angel told her that in this very place on their return she and all her maidens would suffer death and win their heavenly crowns. This did not affright the princess and her companions, but rather made them rejoice that they should be found worthy to die for their faith. So they sailed on up the river Rhine till they could go no further, and they landed at the town of Basil, determined to do the rest of their pilgrimage on foot. It was a long and tedious journey over the mountains to Italy, and the tender feet of these pilgrims might have found it impossible to climb the rough road had not God sent six angels to help them on their way, to smooth over the rough places, and to help them in all danger so that no harm could befall them. First they journeyed past the great lakes where the snow-capped mountains towered in their white glory, then up the mountain road, ever higher and higher, where the glaciers threatened to sweep down upon them, and the path was crossed by fierce mountain torrents. But before long they began to descend the further side, and the snow melted in patches, and the green grass appeared. Then followed stretches of flowery meadowland, where the soft southern air whispered to them of the land of sunshine, fruit, and flowers. Lower down came the little sun-baked Italian villages, and the simple, kindly people who were eager to help the company of maidens in every way, and gazed upon them with reverence when they knew they were on a pilgrimage to Rome. Thus the pilgrims went onward until at length they came to the river Tiber, and entered the city of Rome, where were the shrines of St. Peter and St. Paul. Now the bishop of Rome, whom men call the Pope, was much troubled when it was told him that a company of eleven thousand fair women had entered his city. He could not understand what it might mean, and was inclined to fear it might be a temptation of the evil one. So he went out to meet them, taking with him all his clergy in a great procession, chanting their hymns as they went. Then soon the two processions met. And what was the amazement and joy of the Pope when a beautiful maiden came and knelt before him, and asked for his blessing, telling him why she and her companions had come to Rome? Most willingly do I give thee my blessing, answered the old man, and bid thee, and thy companions welcome to my city. My servants shall put up tents for you all in some quiet spot, and ye shall have the best that Rome can afford. So the maidens rested there in quiet happiness, thankful to have come to the end of their pilgrimage, and to have reached the shrines of God's great saints. But to Ursula an added joy was sent, which made her happiness complete. For the prince whom she had left behind grew impatient of her long absence, and the longing for his princess grew so strong he felt that he could not stay quietly at home, not knowing where she was nor what had befallen her. So he had set out, and journeyed by a different route, had arrived in Rome the same day as Ursula and her maidens were received by the good bishop. It is easy to picture the delight of Conan and Ursula when they met together again, and knelt hand in hand to receive the Pope's blessing. And when Ursula told him all that had happened, and of the angels whom God had sent to guide and protect them, the only desire the prince had was to share her pilgrimage and be near her when danger threatened, and his purpose only became stronger when she told him of the vision she had had in the city of Cologne. "'How can I leave thee, my princess?' he asked, when I have but now found thee. Life holds no pleasure when thou art absent, the days are gray and sunless without the sunshine of thy presence. Bid me come with thee and share thy dangers. And if it be, as thou sayest, that it is God's will that thou and all these maidens shall pass through suffering and death for his sake, then let me, too, when the heavenly crown that we may praise God together in that country where sorrow and separation can touch us no more.' And Ursula was glad to think that, through love of her, the prince should be led to love God, and so granted his request and bade her companions prepare to set out once more. The pope would feign have persuaded them to stop longer in Rome, but Ursula told him of her vision and how it was time to return as the dream had warned her. Then the pope and his clergy made up their minds to join the pilgrimage also, that they, too, might honor God by a martyr's death. Now there were in Rome at that time two great Roman captains who were cruel heathens, and who looked upon this pilgrimage with alarm and anger. They commanded all the imperial troops in the northern country of Germany, and when they heard that Ursula and her maidens were bound for Cologne, they were filled with dismay and wrath, for they said to each other, if so many good and beautiful women should reach that heathen land the men there will be captivated by their beauty and wish to marry them, then, of course, they will all become Christians, and the whole nation will be one over to this new religion. We cannot suffer this, was the answer.  So these two wicked heathen captains agreed to send a letter to the king of the Huns, a fierce savage who was just then besieging Cologne. In it they told him that thousands of fair women in a great company were on their way to help the city, and if they were allowed to enter all chances of victory for his army would vanish.  Meanwhile Ursula and her companions had set sail for Cologne, and with them were now Prince Cologne and his knights and the pope with many bishops and cardinals, and after many days of danger and adventure the pilgrims arrived at the city of Cologne. The army of barbarians, who were in camp before the city, was amazed to see such a strange company landing from the ships. For first there came the eleven thousand maidens, then a company of young unarmed knights, then a procession of old men, richly rubbed and bearing no weapons of any kind. For a moment the savage soldiers stood still in amazement, but then, remembering the orders they had received in the letter from the Roman captains, they rushed upon the defenseless strangers and began to slay them without mercy. Prince Cologne was the first to fall, pierced by an arrow, at the feet of his princess. Then the knights were slain and the pope with all his clergy. Again the savage soldiers paused, and then like a pack of wolves they fell upon the gentle maidens, and these spotless white lambs were slain by thousands. And in their midst, brave and fearless, was the princess Ursula, speaking cheerful words of comfort to the dying, and bidding one and all rejoice and look forward to the happy meeting in the heavenly country. So great was her beauty and courage, that even those wicked soldiers dared not touch her, and at last, when their savage work was done, they took her before their prince, that he might decide her fate. Never before had Ursula's beauty shone forth more wonderfully than it did that day when she stood among these savage men, and gazed with steadfast eyes upon the prince, as one might look upon a wild beast. The prince was amazed and enchanted, for he had never seen so lovely a maid in his life before, and he motioned to the soldiers to bring Ursula nearer to him. "'Do not weep, fair maiden,' he said, trying to speak in his gentlest voice. "'For though you have lost all your companions, you will not be alone. I will be your husband, and you shall be the greatest queen in Germany.' Then most proudly did Ursula draw herself up, and her clear eyes shone with scorn as she answered. "'Does it indeed seem to thee as though I wept? And can't thou believe that I would live, when all my dear ones have been slain by thee?' Thou cruel, coward, slayer of defenseless women and unarmed men.' And when the proud prince heard these scornful words he fell into a furious rage.  So the pure soul went to join the companions of her pilgrimage, and to receive the crown of life which the angel of her dream had promised her, and for which she had laid down her earthly crown as gladly as went in her peaceful home she laid it aside before she went to rest. End of Chapter 1 CHAPTER II Saint Benedict It was in the year of our Lord 540 that Saint Benedict was born at Spoleto in Italy, and he was only a boy of sixteen on the night when our story begins. Such a cold night it was, piercing winds swept over the mountains, whistling through the pine trees, and hurrying on to the great city of Rome that lay in the plains below. It was cold enough in the city where the people could take shelter in their houses, and sit warming their hands over their little pots of fire. But out on the bare hillside it was even worse, for the icy breath of the winter wind, which had come far over the snow, swept into every nook and corner as if determined to search out any summer warmth that might be lingering in a sheltered corner. And there in a cave high up among the rocks a boy sat listening to the wind, and thinking of many things as he tried to wrap his worn old cloak close around him. He was a tall thin lad, with sad dreaming eyes, and a face already sharpened by want and suffering. The cave in which he sat had little in it except a heap of dried leaves which served him for a bed. And it was difficult to imagine how any one could live, and so dreary and comfortless a place, so far from any other human being. But he was thinking of a very different home, as he sat shivering in the cold that night. Only a year ago he had lived in a beautiful palace where everything was pleasant and warm and bright. His father was the lord of the country around, and he, the only son of the house, had everything that he could want. They were all proud of him, he was so clever and brilliant, and as soon as he was old enough he was sent to study in Rome that he might become a great lawyer. There the boy's eye saw a different scene. The great city of Rome, where all was gaiety and pleasure, where all pleased the eye, the ear, and the taste. But where, alas, so much wickedness dwelt as well. He had tried to shut his eyes to things he did not wish to see, but day by day the sights and sounds around him, the talk of his companions, and the things they thought so pleasant, had become hateful to him. One day he had stolen secretly away from Rome, leaving everything behind, determined to go away into a desert place and live alone. This it seemed to him was the only way of truly serving God, to learn to deny himself in everything and to keep himself unspotted from the world.  True, he had left all and gone into the wilderness, but love could not so easily be left behind, and his old nurse had found out a way of following him, and would not be denied the pleasure of serving him and caring for his wants, even begging for food from door to door, that she might prepare a dainty meal for him. It had been very pleasant, but its very pleasantness had warned him that he must deny himself still further. So he had once more stolen away, when his old nurse was asleep and had hidden himself in the cave among the rocks of Subiaco. Here he was indeed alone, and the only food he had was a little bread which a kind old hermit gave him daily, and his only drink the clear water of the mountain streams. And here he seemed to live with God alone, seeing no one but the kind old hermit who brought him his daily bread. He was happy and peaceful, never ceasing to pray for those who in the busy world might forget to pray for themselves. But this night the thoughts of fast days were troubling him, and as he sat there listening to the wind he began to long for the things he had left behind. One beautiful face especially grew clearer than the rest, and smiling upon him beckoned him back to the pleasures and comforts and earthly joys he had put away from him. With a cry he sprang to his feet and rushed out of the cave. For a moment he felt as if his feet must carry him down the steep mountainside, over the plain and back to the beautiful city. And then he stood still, and with a prayer for help to overcome this temptation of the evil one, he threw himself into a thicket of thorny briars that grew by the side of the cave. There he rolled over and over until he was torn and bleeding. Then slowly returning to the cave he lay down upon his bed of leaves, peaceful and contented.  So Benedict began his life of self-denial and solitary prayer. Years passed by, and in spite of the loneliness of the place and the few people who ever passed by that way, it began to be known that one of God's saints lived in the mountain cave. The shepherds who fed their flocks on the lower hills would bring him little offerings of milk or cheese and ask his blessing, or perhaps a prayer for one who was sick.  Thus the fame of his goodness spread wider and wider, until a company of monks who lived some way off sent and besought him to come and live with them and be their head. Benedict was grieved to think of leaving his little cell which he had grown to love, and the simple mountain people who so often came to him in their need. But he thought this was a call he ought to obey, so he sorrowfully set out and journeyed many miles till he came to the convent of the brothers. It was all very strange to him after the stillness of his mountain cell, and he could not accustom himself to hearing voices all day long and to seeing so many faces. Until he strove to do his duty, and soon made many changes in the convent life, he told the brothers plainly that there were many comforts they must put away, and above all they must eat less and work more. Now the brothers did not like this at all, and they began to repent that they had asked so great a saint to come and rule over them, for he made their rule so hard and strict that few of them cared to keep it. Then one day a strange thing happened. The brothers were all dining together, and Benedict was silently eating his portion, his thoughts far away in the little mountain cell at Sobiaco. When someone touched his arm and offered him a cup of wine, Benedict turned and looked searchingly into the brothers' face, and then with upraised hand made the sign of the cross over the cup. Instantly it fell broken to the ground, and the wine was spilt upon the floor, for there had been poison in the cup, which the holy sign had destroyed. Then Benedict looked round at the company of brothers, who sat with downcast eyes, ashamed and silent, and without a word he rose and left them. He returned, alone as he had come, back to his mountain home, where instead of human voices there was the song of the birds, where the wildflowers looked at him with pure friendly faces, and even the wild animals did not count him their enemy and would do him no harm. Here he hoped once more to live quite alone, but one by one men came and built huts close to his cave, that they might be near so great a saint, and before long there was a great company living around him. Benedict's fame had spread even to Rome, and two of the Roman nobles sent their sons to be taught by him. One was only five years old, and the other twelve, and it seemed a hard life for such children, but Benedict cared for them and watched over them, and they loved him as if he had been their own father. And after all, life was very pleasant on the mountain side, when the sun shone and lessons and prayers were over. They could play among the pine trees and chase the goats over the rocks, and when the sun grew too hot, creep back into the cave to rest. In spring there were the first flowers to hunt for, and they would come back with eager hands filled with violets and mountain anemones, and in autumn there were nuts and berries to be gathered, which they laid up like young squirrels for the winter store. And among the daily duties there was nothing they liked so well as to go down to the lake to fetch water, when the mountain springs had run dry. One day it was the little one's turn to do this, and as he was leaning over his foot slipped, and he fell into the lake, and before he could utter a cry the water closed over his head. At that very moment Benedict, who was kneeling in prayer on the hill above, saw a vision of the boy's danger, and hastily sent the elder lad down to the lake to help the child. He never stayed to question why he was sent, but sped down the mountainside. And without a moment's delay threw himself into the lake, hoping to be able to reach the little dark head that had risen above the water for the last time. And lo! He found that the water grew firm beneath his feet, and he walked as if he was on dry land, and lifting the child carried him safely ashore. When Benedict saw that so many other hermets had taken up their abode on the mountain, he determined to form them into a company of brothers, and give them a rule to live by. And by and by they built a little chapel where they could meet for daily service. Now strangely enough, every evening at the hour of prayer one young monk became restless and uneasy, and would still silently out of the chapel and disappear down the hillside. None of the brothers could think what made him do this. But night after night the same thing happened just when prayers were about to begin. All were troubled and disturbed, till at last they went to Benedict and asked him what it could mean. Then the saint promised to watch, and that very evening he saw what no other eyes had seen. Into the chapel came a little demon, black as coal, and he seized the robe of the poor young monk, and dragged him out of the door. And though the demon was so tiny, he was stronger than the monk, and easily led him swiftly away out of sound of the chapel bell. Then Benedict followed, and touching the monk with his rod, made the demon be gone, and troubled him no longer. And after that the young monk stayed in the chapel with the rest, and the demon was seen no more. It seemed as if Benedict must always suffer from the malice of evil brothers who disliked his strict rule, and even in his own mountain home the danger followed him. This time the poison was put into a loaf of bread. Benedict knew that it was there, and while the wicked monk who offered it to him watched with evil eye, hoping to see him eat it, he turned to a wood nearby, where a young raven sat. "'Come hither,' said Benedict, holding out the loaf towards the raven. "'Come hither, and take this bread, and carry it where the poison that is hidden within can do no harm.' And the story tells us that the raven instantly obeyed and carried off the loaf, and ere long death, more powerful than the raven, carried off that wicked monk, so that the poison which lurked in his evil heart could no longer do harm to any one. It troubled Benedict greatly about this time, to hear that not very far off in Monte Cassino there was a heathen temple where the people worshipped false gods, and were living in darkness and sin. It seemed terrible that such a thing should be suffered in a Christian land. So Benedict made up his mind to go himself and force the people to listen to him.  They could not understand why any one would choose to be poor and suffer pain and hunger for the sake of God. But as Benedict taught them day by day, the majesty of his face and the solemn notes in his voice forced them to listen half unwillingly. Then as they began to learn about the true God, they saw that the gods they had worshipped were false, and they pulled down their temple and built two chapels on the place where it had stood. Here too Benedict built the first great monastery which was called after him, and after this the brothers began to be known by his name and were called Benedictines. But the evil one saw with great rage that Benedict was taking away his servants and destroying his temples, and he tried in every way to hinder the work. Once when the workmen were trying to raise a stone they found it impossible to move it, though they worked hard all day. At last, in despair, they besought Benedict to come to help them. As soon as he came he saw at once what was the matter, for on the stone sat a little black demon laughing at the efforts of the workmen, knowing they could never move the stone while he chose to sit there.  And with a howl of rage the imp fled, and the stone was lifted easily into its place. Upon a certain day, not long after the monastery was built, as Benedict was praying in the chapel of the convent, one of the brothers came to tell him that a great company of soldiers were coming up the hill, and at their head was Totelia, king of the Goths, who had sent a messenger to ask the saint to receive him. Benedict, who cared little for earthly kings, was yet too courteous to refuse any such request, so he went out to where the company was gathered on the mountain side. The rough soldiers stood with heads uncovered, and from their midst came one who wore a crown and sandals of gold and a kingly robe. He knelt before the king, and said in a loud, clear voice, I, Totelia, king of the Goths, have come to crave thy blessing, father, for thy fame hath spread even to the wild north country where I reign. The brothers, crowding behind Benedict, eager to see these curious strangers, were surprised to hear no answering words of welcome fall from the lips of the saint, and still more surprised were they when Benedict pointed an accusing finger at the glittering crown that shone on the king's head, and said, Why does thou bear upon thy head the sign of royalty which belongs not to thy station, and why have thy lips framed this deceit? Go to thy master, and bid him come to me in truth, and think not that I could mistake a servant for a king. And to the amazement of all, the real king, who had disguised his armor-bearer to test the power of the saint, came quickly forward, and with no royal robe or golden crown knelt low before the saint, confessing all, and praying to be forgiven. He was sure now that this was indeed a servant of God, and he listened humbly while Benedict reproved him for his many sins, and warned him of the fate that awaited him. And so the years passed on, bringing much honor and earthly renown to him, who had once lived a lonely boy upon the wild mountainside. Things had changed since those early days. He could no longer live quite alone as he had once loved to do, for the world had followed him even into the wilderness. But his heart was as pure and his purpose as strong as when he was a lonely boy seeking only to serve God. Perhaps the one great pleasure of his earthly life was the yearly visit he paid to his sister Scholastica, who had for many years come to live near him. She had formed a little company of nuns, who strove to live as the brothers were living, working and praying and denying themselves all earthly pleasures. And as it was a great delight to Benedict to visit his sister, so to Scholastica the day of his coming was the happiest day of all the year. The only thing that grieved her was that the golden hours of that bright day seemed to fly faster than any other, while she listened to his words of counsel and advice and told him all her troubles. And it drew near the time for one of these yearly visits. Scholastica began to long for her brother, as she had never longed before. Something told her that these bright summer days were to be the last she should spend on earth, and longing to see and talk to her brother grew almost more than she could bear. And when he came the hours slipped past even faster than was there want, and before she could realize it the time had come for him to go. There was so much still to say, and she needed his help sorely, that she prayed him to wait a few hours longer. But Benedict was persuaded that it was his duty to set off, and duty to him ever came before all else. He gently told her it could not be that he must return to the brothers that night. But while he spoke, Scholastica was not listening to his words nor heeding what he said. With her whole heart she was praying God that he would grant her this one request, and prevent her brother from leaving her so soon. And as she prayed the light suddenly died out of the sky. Great clouds arose. And before Benedict could set out a terrible storm began to rage. The thunder peeled overhead. The hail came down in a blinding shower, and it was impossible for anyone to leave the shelter of the house. Thus God answered the prayer of Scholastica, filling her heart with thankfulness, and afterwards the heart of Benedict was also filled with gratitude. For not many days later he saw in a vision the soul of his sister flying like a white dove up to Heaven's gate, and he knew he should see her on earth no more. Benedict had lived a long, hard life, eating but little, suffering cold, and denying himself in all things. But though his spirit only grew stronger and brighter as time went on, his body was worn out. And at last he prepared to lay it aside, as men lay aside the worn-out robe which had grown thread-bear. And as he had longed to live alone, so when death came, he prayed to be carried to the little chapel, and there to be left before the altar alone with God. Thus Benedict the Blessed went home at last, leaving his tired body in God's house, while his spirit returned to God, who gave it. End of chapter 2 Chapter 3 of In God's Garden This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. End God's Garden by Amy Steedman. Chapter 3 Saint Christopher Long ago in a far distant land there lived a boy named Ophiro. He was taller and stronger and braver than any of his companions, and he was called Ophiro, which means bearer, because he could carry the heaviest burdens on his broad shoulders without stooping under their weight. His was the grandest kind of strength, too, for it was not only strength of body, but strength of heart and soul besides. As Ophiro grew into manhood he began to tire of being first only in games and play, and he longed to use his strength for some real end, feeling sure there was work in the world waiting for his hand. Sometimes as he strode across the olive-clad hills and felt the wind in his hair, and drew in great breaths of life and strength, he would see before him a dim vision of some great purpose, ever beckoning him on, and in his ear a voice would sound that would bade him use his strength only for the highest. Night and day Ophiro thought upon the vision, and it seemed to him that its meaning was that he should go out into the world and do a man's work. And since for him the highest meant strength and fearlessness, he vowed that he would search until he found the bravest and strongest king and would take service only with him. So Ophiro set out, and after many weary wanderings he came to the gates of a great city. Here in a palace built of alabaster lived one whom the people called the greatest king on earth. He had more soldiers and horsemen and chariots than any other monarch, and the banner of crimson and gold that floated over the palace roof had never been lowered in the face of any foe. But Ophiro scarcely noticed all the glitter and splendor of the palace, or the crowd of waiting men. He was only eager to see the king, whom everyone said was as brave and strong as a lion. No one stopped him as he strode in. Even the royal guards at the palace door stood back to let him pass. He was dusty and travel-stained, and his armor was dull and dented by many a hard blow. But there was that in his walk and in his eyes, and the grasp of his great hand upon his sword, that made everyone fall back and let him pass. The king was seated upon his throne, making wise laws for his people, when Ophiro entered the audience hall. Straight to the steps of the throne he went, and kneeling there placed his sword at the king's feet and offered to be his true servant. For a moment the king looked in wonder and astonishment at this giant, and the great sword that stretched along the widest step of his ivory throne. Then with the look of pride at the strength of the man kneeling at his feet, he bade Ophiro rise and use his sword henceforth only in the king's service. So Ophiro became the king's servant, and not one of the king's enemies could stand against him. Wherever there was danger to be met, or fighting to be done, there he was ever to be found, and he made his master's name more feared and honored than that of any other monarch in the world. His work filled all his time and thoughts, and the vision he had seen grew so dim that it had nearly faded from his memory when one night a minstrel came to the court. This minstrel had a harp of gold, and his finger woke the sweetest music from the golden strings, but sweeter than all was his voice as he sang of brave deeds and mighty battles, the wisdom of the wise, and the courage of the strong. The heart of Ophiro was charmed by the music as he sat idly among the rest of the courtiers, listening in the great audience chamber. But as the minstrel sang, Ophiro noticed that the king looked disturbed, and once or twice made a strange sign with his hand when a certain evil name was repeated in the song. What almost seemed to Ophiro is if at such times a look of fear came into his eyes. Waiting behind the rest when the minstrel was gone, Ophiro looked gravely into the king's eyes and said, My liege, wilt thou tell thy servant why thou dismaig that sign upon thy forehead, and what the look that came into thine eyes may mean? Thou who fearest no man? Then the king answered Ophiro, saying, That sign is the sign of the cross, and I make it upon my brow whenever I hear the name of Satan, the evil spirit, because I fear him, and because that sign alone can protect me from him. And Ophiro bowed his head, and standing there before the king, he answered sadly, Fare thee well, O my king, for I may not serve thee longer. I have promised only to serve the greatest, and one who feared nothing, so I must even seek this evil spirit. If thou fearest him, must he not be more powerful than thou? So Ophiro went sorrowfully out of the king's presence, and away from the splendid court in the fair city, and as he went, the vision which of late had faded from him grew clearer, and seemed to beckon him on and on, and the voice that of old, sounded in his ear, spoke to him once more, so that his heart became light, and his purpose grew strong. Now after many days of toilsome wanderings, Ophiro came at last to the skirt of a great dark wood. The pines were so thick that never a sunbeam could pierce through their tops, and the trunks of the trees could only just be seen ghostly gray in the everlasting twilight that reigned there. Deeper and darker grew the wood as Ophiro went on, until he came to the darkest part of all, and there he found the evil spirit in his court. Ophiro could see nothing clearly in the gloom, but one great shadow stood out, bigger and stronger than any of the other shadows that flitted about, and on its brow was the outline of a kingly crown. What sickest thou here? asked the evil one in a deep strong voice, like the roar of a distant thunder. I seek to serve the greatest and strongest king on earth, and one who knows no fear, answered Ophiro.  So Ophiro became one of the servants of the king of evil, and his work was heavy, and his wage is light, but that seemed but a small matter to him if only he had indeed found the highest. Time passed on until there came a day when the evil one rode out with all his servants, and Ophiro at their head, and as they passed out of the wood they came to a cross set up by the wayside. It was only a rough cross of wood, standing out clear against the sky.  But when the eye of the evil one fell upon it, he shuttered, and turning quickly round, plunged back into the wood, followed by all his servants, and Ophiro saw he was trembling from head to foot. Stop! cried Ophiro, barring his way, for he was not afraid even of the great shadow upon the fierce black course. I would feign know what this meaneth, ere we go further.  It is not the cross I fear, answered the evil one, but him who once hung upon it. And who is he that you should tremble at the very thought of him? asked Ophiro. Is he a greater and stronger king than thou? He is greater, and he is stronger, answered Satan, and he is the only one I fear. Then Ophiro rode away from the dark wood and the evil company, out into the sunshine and light, and as he looked at the blue sky and felt the warmth of the blessed sunshine once more, the visions seemed to rise again before his eyes, ever beckoning him onward, and in his ear the same voice sounded, bidding him seek on, until he should indeed find the highest. Far and near did Ophiro wonder, asking all he met if they could tell him where he might find the Christ, this man who once hung upon a cross and who was greater and more powerful even than Satan, the king of evil. And some said one thing, and some another, but no one could aid him in his quest, until at last in his wanderings he came to a little hut in the midst of a desert. Here a holy man dwelt, with no living soul near him, serving God day and night. Most gladly did he welcome Ophiro, but Gladder still was he, when Ophiro eagerly asked him the question that had been upon his lips so long. Good Hermit, canst thou tell me where I may find the king called Christ, he who once hung upon a cross, and who is stronger even than the king of evil? That can I, answered the Hermit, for he is the master whom I serve, and in his name thou art welcome indeed. And taking Ophiro into his hut, the Hermit gave him food and made him rest. Then in the cool of the evening, when the red sun was sinking behind the belt of distant palm trees, and a mellow glow turned the sands of the desert into grains of gold, the Hermit sat without the hut, and told the wonderful Christ story to the listening ears of the giant who lay upon the ground at his feet. Never had Ophiro heard words like these before. Even the vision had not prepared him for this. With all his soul and his eyes he listened. Filled with wonder was he, at the thought that the king of all heaven should have dain to come to earth in the form of a little helpless child.  Ophiro sprang to his feet, and grasping his sword in his hand, he raised it to heaven and vowed he would be Christ faithful soldier and serve it unto his life's end, and would fight under no other banner but his, the king of heaven and earth. The Hermit was startled as he looked at the gleaming sword, upheld by that strong arm, and in his calm, kind voice he said, My son, the Lord Christ seeketh not to be served as an earthly king. His soldiers fight not with earthly swords, but with the weapons of prayer and fasting. Father, said Ophiro, how can I fight with weapons I know nothing of? If he has given me this great strength, surely there must be a way that he would have me use it in his service. Then the Hermit was troubled, for he saw that Ophiro must need serve Christ in some other way. All night he pondered, and in the morning he bade Ophiro come with him, and together they journeyed forth for many days until they came to the banks of a river. There the Hermit stayed his steps. It was a very deep and dangerous river, and because there was no bridge across it, and the current was strong, many travelers lost their lives in trying to forward it. This the Hermit told Ophiro, and bade him stay and watch there, so that he might help those who wished to cross, and save the lives of those who might otherwise perish without his aid. And in helping others, said the Hermit, thou wilt be helping Christ, and it may be he will accept thy service, and will one day come unto thee and take thee for his servant. So Ophiro built a hut on the river bank, and pulling up a palm tree that was growing there, he used it as his staff to lean upon when he waded through the deep water. He was so tall and strong, that no matter how high the river rose he could always wade across it. He was ever ready to help the weary, foot sore travelers, and often when they were too weak to stand against the current, even with the support of his strong arm, he would take them up upon his broad shoulders, and carry them safely across. For a time did Ophiro live in his little hut on the river bank, doing his work well, in the hope that his master might come to him as the Hermit had promised, but weeks and months went by, and still the king did not come, and Ophiro began to fear that he never would pass that way. Then one night a terrible storm began to rage. The wind howled round the lonely little hut, and the waters roared as they rushed past in the darkness. I need not watch tonight, thought Ophiro, for no one will seek to cross the river in such a storm as this. But as he sat listening to the roll of the thunder and the clashing of the hail on the roof, he fancied he heard, above the noise of the storm, a little voice crying outside, and a faint knocking at the door. It sounded like the cry of a child, and Ophiro hastily rose up and unbarring the door looked out. For a moment he could see nothing in the thick darkness and blinding rain, but presently he heard the cry again, sounding quite close to where he stood, and looking down he saw something small and white, and heard the little voice sounding clear above the storm. Kind Ophiro, will thou carry me across the river tonight?  Very tenderly Ophiro stooped down and lifted the little one in his kind, strong arms, and asked him how it came that he was out alone on such a stormy night. I must cross the river to-night, said the child in his soft, clear voice, and the water is deep, and I am afraid. I saw thy hut, and thought for chance one might dwell here who would help me. That I would gladly do, said Ophiro, as he felt the little arms clinging around his neck. The night is dark, and the river runs high indeed, but thou art such a tiny child. I shall scarcely feel thy weight. I will place thee high upon my shoulder so that the water may not reach even thy feet. So Ophiro took his great staff in his hand, and placed the child upon his shoulder, and stepped down into the roaring flood. Higher and higher rose the water. Stronger and stronger grew the current, as Ophiro waited on. Never before had his strength been put to such a test. And not only did the torrent threaten to sweep him off his feet, but the child upon his shoulder seemed to grow heavier and heavier with every step, until he could scarcely stagger on under the tremendous weight. But on he went, fighting for each step, and now he was past the worst and into the shallow water beyond.  Then Ophiro stood looking at him in great wonder and astonishment as he said. How is it that thou, who seemest but a feather-weight, has yet become heavier than any burden I ever bore in all my life before? And as Ophiro spoke, the child licked up into his face, and lo! a strange light seemed to shine round the golden head, and his white robe became bright and glistening as the light, and the wonderful look of majesty in those eyes drew Ophiro down to his knees. And as he knelt there, scarce daring to lift his eyes before that wonderful gaze, he heard the sweet, clear voice of the little child again, and knew it for the same that had guided him since the vision of his boyhood. No wonder that I seemed to thee a heavy burden, for I bear upon my shoulders the sins and sorrows of the whole world. I am the Christ, whom thou hast sought to serve. I came to thee in the form of a little helpless child that I might prove thee, if thou were indeed my faithful servant. And because thou hast been faithful in helping others, thou shalt be counted worthy to enter my service, and I will give thee the new name of Christopher, because thou hast borne Christ upon thy shoulders. Take now thy staff, and strike it into the earth, and thou shalt know by a sign that I am indeed thy king. Then the light faded away, and the child was gone. But where Christopher struck his staff, behold, it took root and butted out into leaves of tender green. And Christopher knelt on there in the darkness with a great joy in his heart, for he had seen the face of his king, and had found his master at last. He knew that his search was ended, and that henceforth he would serve only the highest, and all the trouble and perplexity had vanished away, for he understood now that in ministering to others he would always be serving his king, even if the work seemed but small and mean. So Christopher learned to be Christ's true soldier and servant even unto death, and because he fought manfully under his banner unto his life's end, he is called a saint. His old name of Ephero has been long forgotten, and we know him only by that new name which the Christ child gave him that stormy night, and call him Saint Christopher. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of In God's Garden This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. In God's Garden, by Amy Steedman. Chapter 4 Saint Catherine of Sienna As the years pass by, Father Time makes many changes in the busy town and quiet country, but there are some places he seems to have forgotten or passed over so lightly that they look very much the same today as they did hundreds of years ago. One of these places, which Time has dealt so gently with, is in the heart of Italy, built high upon a hill. It is a town whose towers and palaces and steep narrow streets are little changed from what they were five hundred and more years ago. When Catherine, the saint of Sienna, was born there. Today, if you climb the steep winding road that leads up to the city, and make your way through the gates and along the steepest of the narrow streets, you will come to a house with a motto written over the door in golden letters. Sposai Christi Caterinae Domus Which means the House of Catherine, the Bride of Christ. And if you go in you will see the very room where Saint Catherine used to live, the bed of planks on which she slept, her little chapel, and the rooms which her brothers and sisters used. It all looks just as it did when Ben and Caissa, the Dyer of Sienna, lived there with his wife, Leipa. They had more than twenty children, but each one was welcome. And when at last Catherine and a twin sister were born, there still did not seem one too many. The little sister lived only a few days, and perhaps that made the parents love Catherine all the more, and it was not only her own family who loved her. She was the favorite of all the neighbors, and however busy they were, they would always find time to stop and talk to her as they passed. It was not that she was very beautiful or even very clever, but she had a way of making everyone feel happy when she was near them, and she had the sunniest smile that ever dimpled at baby's face. It was like a sunbeam, lighting up everything near it, and it shone in her eye as well, so that ere long the people found a new name for her, and called her Joy instead of Catherine. As soon as she could walk alone Catherine would wander away, sure of a welcome at every house, and though at first when the other children cried, the baby is lost again, the mother would be anxious. She soon ceased to mind, and only say, she is sure to be safe somewhere. And safe she always was, for every one would stop work to look after her as she toddled along, and wherever she went Joy carried the sunshine with her. It happened that one afternoon when Catherine was about six years old, her mother sent her and an elder brother Stephen to carry a message to a house some way off. It was a beautiful evening, and as the children went hand in hand down the steep street and up the hill towards the great church of St. Dominic, Catherine stopped a moment to look at the sunset. She always loved beautiful colors, and tonight the little fleecy clouds were all touched with crimson and gold, like fairy islands in a pale green sea, and more beautiful than anything she had ever seen. Stephen did not care for sunsets. He was much more anxious to be home in time for supper, so he ran on alone, calling to Catherine to follow quickly. Catherine did not seem to hear his voice or to notice that he was gone, but stood there with ice fixed on the sunset, her face shining, and her hair like a halo of gold round her head. It was not the evening sky she was looking at, but a vision of heavenly beauty. For there among the rose-pink clouds she saw the Madonna seated upon a throne and holding in her arms the infant Christ. It was no longer the poor Madonna of the stable, but the queen of heaven, her dazzling robe blue as the summer sky, and a jeweled crown upon her head. Only the same sweet mother look was there as when she bent over the manger-bed. There are no words to tell of the beauty of the Christ child's face. Catherine only knew that as he looked at her he smiled, and held up his little hand as if in blessing, and that smile drew her heart to his feet. Then suddenly Catherine's arm was roughly shaken, and her brother asked her impatiently at what she was gazing. "'Oh, Stephen,' she cried, "'did you not see it, too? Look!' That the vision had faded, and the great twilight closed in upon the two little figures as they went slowly home. The boy vexed with his loitering sister, and she sobbing with disappointment to think that the window in heaven was shut, and that she might never again look within. As Catherine grew older she never forgot the vision she had seen, or how the hand of the Christ child had been stretched out to bless her, and it made her think often how she could best please him, so that some day he might smile on her again. Catherine had heard a great deal about the good men who went to live in deserts to be alone with God, how they lived in caves and had scarcely anything to eat, and how God would sometimes send the ravens to bring them food. Now she was always fond of wandering, and the idea of living in a desert seemed a beautiful way of serving Christ. She had never gone beyond the walls of the town, and all outside was a new world to her. So she was sure if only she could pass through the city gates she would soon find her way to the desert, where there would certainly be a cave ready for her to live in. So one day Catherine set out very early in the morning, carrying in her pocket a small loaf of bread, just in case the ravens should forget to come to a little girl hermit. In those days it was not safe to live outside the city walls, and there were no farms nor houses to be seen as Catherine slipped through the gates and began to find her way down the hillside, among tangled briars and over rough stones. Soon her feet grew very tired, and everything looked so forlorn and wild that she was sure this must be the desert at last, and there too was a little cave in the rocks waiting, all ready for her. It was very nice to creep in and out of the hot sunshine into the cool shade, and to rest until the sun went down. But as night came on and she knelt to say her evening prayer, she began to think of home and the kind mother waiting there, and she knew she had done wrong to come away, even though she had meant to serve God. Very quickly she left her cave, and as she ran home her feet seemed to fly over the ground.  As Catherine grew older she loved to listen to the stories of the saints, and there was one she was never tired of hearing. It was the life of St. Catherine of Alexandria, the saint whose name she bore. This young queen was said to be the wisest and noblest of all the saints, and when her courtiers wished her to bury she said she would only marry a prince who was perfect in every way. Such a prince was, of course, impossible to find. But one night a poor old hermit had a vision in which the Madonna came to him and told him that our blessed Lord, the only perfect man, would accept the love of the young queen's heart and the service of her hands. And when the queen knew this her joy was great, and that very night the virgin mother came to her in a cloud of glory surrounded by angels bearing crowns of lilies, and in her arms was the holy child who smiled on the queen and placed a ring upon her finger as a sign that she belonged to him. The more Catherine thought about this story the more she longed that Christ would accept her heart and service to, and one night in a dream he seemed to come to her just as he had come to the other Catherine, placing a ring upon her finger and bidding her remember that now she had given her heart to him. Thus it was a great trouble to Catherine when she was told by her parents, soon after this, that she was old enough to begin to think of marriage. She said she did not wish to marry at all, but this only made her parents angry with her, especially when one day they found out she had cut off all her beautiful golden hair, thinking to make herself so ugly that no one would want her for his wife. Very well, said her father, if thou wilt not marry as I bid thee, then thou shalt do the housework and be our servant. He expected this would be a great punishment, that Catherine was glad to have hard work to do, and did it so well and cheerfully that her father began to feel his anger melt away. Then it happened one day that in passing her room he looked in, and there he saw her kneeling with clasped tans and upturned face, and eyes in which the peace of heaven shone, while around her head was a bright light that took the form of a snow-white dove resting there. From that moment he ceased to be angry with Catherine, and said all should be as she wished, for surely the dove was a sign that God accepted her prayers and approved of what she did. So she was allowed to have a little room which she made into a chapel where she could be alone to think and to pray. She wanted to learn to conquer herself before she could serve Christ in the world, and for three years she lived almost entirely alone, praying in the little chapel, struggling to overcome her faults and to grow strong to resist temptation. But in spite of all her struggles, evil thoughts would come into her heart, and it seemed impossible to keep them out. It was easy to do right things, but so terribly difficult to think only pure and good thoughts. She knew that Satan sent the wicked thoughts into her heart, but the hardest trial of all was that Christ seemed to have left her to fight alone. He seemed so very far away. At last one night, as she lay sobbing in despair, suddenly the evil thoughts left her, and instead she felt that Christ was near, and that he bent tenderly over her.  She cried. I never left thee, his voice said quietly. But where were thou, Lord? When all was so dark and evil, she humbly asked. I was in thy heart, replied the voice.  If I had not been there, thou wouldst not have felt how black they were, but because I was in the midst they seemed to thee most evil, and thus I gave thee strength to cast them out. So Catherine's heart was filled with peace, and she learned to love Christ more and more, and to deny herself in every way, sleeping on bare planks with a log for her pillow, and eating the things she cared for least. It was not that she thought these things good in themselves, but she felt she must use every means to make her heart pure and fit to serve her master. And before very long, Christ spoke to her again in the stillness of the night, and told her she had lived long enough alone, that it was time now to go out into the world and help other people to grow good too. When Catherine thought of the busy, noisy life which other people led, compared to the quiet peacefulness of her little cell and chapel, she was very sad, and thought she had offended God that he was sending her away from him to mix with the world again. But his voice sounded in her ears once more, and told her it was not to separate her for himself that he sent her out, but that she should learn to help others. Thou knowest that love giveth two commandments, to love me and to love thy neighbor. I desire that thou shalt walk not on one but two feet, and fly to heaven on two wings. So Christ spoke to her, and Catherine with fearful heart prepared to obey, only praying that he would give her strength to do his will. And after that her life was spent in doing good to others. The smile that used to lighten her face when she was a little child had still the power of bringing peace and gladness to all, as she went amongst the poor, nursing the sick, helping everyone in trouble, and teaching people more by her life than her words, to love God. And as, when she was a baby, they called her Joy, so now again they found a new name for her, and she was known as the Child of the People. In every kind of trouble they came to her, even asking her to settle their quarrels, so that she was the peacemaker as well as the helper of the whole town. There was one special reason why people loved Catherine, and that was because she always saw the best that was in them. She knew there was good in every one, no matter how it was dimmed or hidden by the evil that wrapped it round. Where other eyes saw only evil temper or wicked spite, she looked beyond until she found some good that she could love. Every day she prayed to God that he would help her to see the beauty in each soul, so that she might help it to get rid of the sin that dimmed its beauty. And so, because she looked for good in every one, all showed her what was best in themselves, and for very shame would strive to be all that she thought them. Catherine had joined the Dominican sisterhood, and were the white robe and black veil, but she did not live in a convent as the other sisters did. Every morning when the sun began to gild the towers and roofs of the city, passers-by would see her leave her home and walk up the steep street towards the church of St. Dominic where she always went to early mass. Strangers must have wondered when they saw the men uncover their heads as she passed, as if she had been a queen instead of a poor sister clad in a coarse white robe and black veil. But if they had caught sight of her face, perhaps they would have understood, for her eyes seemed as if they were looking into heaven, and the holy peace that shone in her smile made men feel that she lived in the very presence of God. Every morning as she was going to church as usual in the first light of dawn, her thoughts far away and her lips moving in prayer, she was startled by the touch of a hand upon her robe and the sound of a voice asking for help. She turned to look and saw a poor man leaning against the wall, haggard in pale, and so weak that he could scarcely stand. "'What does thou want of me?' asked Catherine pitifully. "'I only ask a little help for my journey,' the poor man said. "'My home is far from here, and the fever laid its hand upon me as I worked to provide bread for those I love. So I pray thee, lady, give me a little money that I may buy food to strengthen me before I start.' "'I would gladly help thee,' answered Catherine most sorrowfully. "'But I am not a lady, only a poor sister, and I have no money of my own to give.' She turned as if to go on, but the eager hand still held her cloak, and the man begged once more. For Christ's sake, help me, for indeed I need thy help most sorely.' Then Catherine stood still. She felt she could not leave him so. There was nothing at home she could part with, for that very morning she had given away all the food that was in the house. Her father and mother were good and kind, but she must not give away the things they needed. Still and perplexed, her hand felt for the rosary which hung at her side. For in every trouble she ever turned in prayer to her dear Lord. Then as her fingers touched the beads, she suddenly remembered that here was at least one thing which was her very own. A small silver crucifix which she had had since she was a child, and which she had touched so often as she prayed that it was worn smooth and thin. Still it was silver, and would buy the sick man a meal, as she quickly unfastened it from the rosary and put it into his hand. The man's blessings followed her as she went, and though she had parted with the things she loved best, she counted the blessings more precious than the gift. And as she knelt in the dim church, after the mass was over, God sent a heavenly vision to reward his servant. Catherine thought she stood in a great hall filled with things more beautiful than words can tell, and in the midst stood our blessed Lord, holding in his hand the most beautiful thing of all. A cross of beaten gold, set with jewels of every hue, sparkling so brightly that it almost dazzled Catherine's eyes as she looked. Does thou see these shining gifts? he asked, and wouldst thou know whence they came? They are the noble deeds which men have done for my sake. And Catherine kneeling there with her empty hands could only bow her head and say, Lord, I am only a poor sister, as thou knowest, and have not to give thee. The service I can offer could not find a place among these glorious gifts. Then it seemed as if Christ smiled upon her, and holding out the golden cross, he asked, Has thou not seen this cross before, Catherine? No, Lord, she answered, wondering, never before have my eyes beheld anything so lovely. But as she gazed upon it her heart was filled with a sudden gladness, for in the midst of the golden jewels in the heart of the glorious light she saw the little worn silver crucifix which she had given to the poor man that morning for the love of Christ. And as the vision faded there rang in her ears the words she knew so well, and as much as she did it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, you did it unto me. As time went on the fame of Catherine spread to other towns outside Siena, and when there were disputes between the great cities of Italy they would send for Catherine and beg her to act as peacemakers, and she helped them all just as she did her own poor people of Siena. Even the Pope came to her for advice. In the midst of all this busy life Catherine fell ill. Her love for Christ was so real and her sorrow for his suffering so great that she prayed that she might bear the pain that he had borne. We do not know how our Lord granted her request, but in her hands and feet and side appeared the marks of nails and spear. All her sufferings she bore most patiently, but her heart was glad when the end came. The same vision that had smiled on her that summer evening when she was a child appeared in the sunset sky again, this time never to fade away. As Catherine the bride of Christ was led by the white-robed angels up to the throne of our Lord. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of In God's Garden The story of the life of St. Augustine is different from almost every other saint's story, because it is taken from his own words and not from what has been said about him. He wrote a wonderful book called The Confessions of St. Augustine, and in it we find all that he thought and did from the time he was a little child. Augustine was born in 354 in the northern part of Africa, which then belonged to Rome, and was one of the richest countries in the world. His mother, Monica, was a Christian, but all her prayers and loving care could not keep her son from evil ways. He is often called the prodigal saint, because he wandered very far astray for many years into that far country of the youngest son in the parable, living in the midst of the sins and evil pleasures of the world, until he learned to say, I will arise and go to my father. And so Augustine's story comforts and helps us when we feel how easy it is to do wrong, and how we fail every day to do the good things we meant to do. There are so few days when we can mark with a white stone, because we have really tried to be good. And so many days we are glad to forget because of the black cross that stands against them. And yet, who knows, but if we fight on to the end we too may be saints as Augustine was, for he won his crown through many failures. The story in Augustine's own words begins from the time when he was a very little baby, not from what he remembers, but from what he had learned as he watched other babies in whom he saw a picture of himself. First of all Augustine tells us of the tiny baby, who does nothing but sleep and eat and cry.  Then comes the time of learning to speak and walk. After that Augustine begins really to remember things about himself. For who could ever forget the trial of first going to school? Oh, how Augustine hated it, and how hard it seemed to him. The lessons were so difficult, and the masters were so strict, and he loved play so much better than work. And when he went back to school with lessons unlearned and work undone, the result was, of course, that he was whipped. It did seem so unjust to him, for he could not see the use of lessons, and the whippings were so sore, and in his book he tells us how it made him say his first prayer to God. I used to ask thee, though a very little boy, yet with no little earnestness, that I might not be whipped at school. Augustine could not see the reason why he should be forced to stay indoors and learn dull, weary some lessons, when he might be playing in the sunshine and learning new games, which seemed so much more worth knowing. How those games delighted him. He was always eager to be first, to win the victory, and to be ahead of every one else.  He did not understand how it could all be meant for his good. We never quite understand that, till we have left school far behind. I wonder if we all wrote down just exactly what we felt and did when we were little children, whether we would have as many things to confess as Augustine had. There are some thoughts which no one is very much ashamed to own, because they don't seem small and mean and pitiful. But who would like to confess to being greedy and stealing sweet things from the table when no one was looking? Who would care to own that he cheated at games, caring only to come out first whether he had played fairly or not? Yet this great saint tells us he remembers doing all these mean things, and looks back upon them with great sorrow. He warns other little children to kill these thoughts at the very beginning, for he knows how strong they grow and how difficult to conquer, when the mean child grows into a man whom no one can trust. As time went on and he grew to be a big boy, he went further and further astray.  But now that he was older it was out of mere pride and boastfulness that he took what did not belong to him. He thought it grand and manly to show off to other boys how little he cared about doing wrong. Augustine tells us that in a garden near his house there was a pear tree covered with pears, neither sweet nor large, but just because it belonged to someone else, and he thought it fun to steal. He and his companions went out one dark night and robbed the tree of all its fruit. They did not care to eat the pears, and after tasting one or two threw all the rest to the pigs. There was no particular pleasure in this he allows, and he would never have done it alone, but he wanted the other boys to admire him and to think he was afraid of nothing. And so years went on and Augustine grew up into manhood, and it seemed as if his evil ways would break his mother's heart. Through all his sin and foolishness she loved him and prayed for him, but he paid no heed to her, and wandered further away into that far country, wasting all he had in living wildly and forgetting the God he had prayed to when a child.  She thought she saw herself standing on a narrow wooden plank, and towards her there came a shining angel who smiled upon her as she stood there worn out with sorrow and weeping. Why are thou so sad, and wherefore dost thou weep these daily tears? asked the angel. I weep over the ruin of my son, answered the poor mother. Then the angel bade her cease from grieving and be at rest and told her to look and see that on the same narrow plank of salvation where she was standing Augustine stood beside her. His mother told Augustine of this dream, and though he only laughed at it, it seemed to sink into his heart and he remembered it many years after. And to Monica it came as a breath of hope and comforted her through many dark days, for she was sure that God had sent this dream to her, that in the end she and her son would stand together in his presence. But though Monica believed this, she never ceased to do all that was in her power to help Augustine, and once she went to a learned bishop and begged him to talk to Augustine and try what he could do. But the bishop was a wise man, and knew that by speaking he would do more harm than good, for Augustine was proud of his unbelief and had no longing in himself for better things. But Monica did not see this and could only implore the bishop to try, until the good man grew vexed with her, and said at last, I cannot help thee in this matter, but go thy way in peace, it cannot be that a son of such tears should perish. And these words comforted Monica, as the dream had done, and made her sure that in the end all would be right.  He longed to turn his face homeward, but now he had lost the way, and for long he sawed it with bitter tears. At last, one day, he felt he could bear the burden of his evil life no longer. His sins felt like a heavy chain dragging him down in the darkness, and there was no light to show him which way to turn. Taking a role of the scriptures, he wandered out into the garden, and there, as he wept, he heard a voice close by chanting over and over again. Take, read. He thought it must be some game that children were playing, but he could remember none that had those words in it, and then he thought perhaps this was a voice from heaven in answer to his prayer, telling him what to do. Eagerly he took the holy writings in his hand, and opened them to read, and there he found words telling him what sort of life he should lead. In a moment it all seemed clear to him. His father was waiting to receive and pardon him. So he arose, and left the far country in all his evil habits, and turned his face to God.  Then indeed was Monica's morning turned into joy, and so at her life's end she and her son sat hand in hand, both looking up towards the dawning heaven. He with eyes ashamed but full of hope, and she with tears all washed away, and eyes that shone with more than earthly joy. When his mother at last died and left him alone, Augustine did not grieve, for he knew that the parting was not for long. All that was left for him to do now was to strive and make good those years he had wasted, and be more fit to meet her when God should call him home. And so it came to pass that this great sinner became one of God's saints, and did a wonderful work for him in the world. He was made Bishop of Hippo, and was one of the most famous bishops the world has ever known. There is one legend told of Augustine which has comforted many hearts when puzzling questions have arisen, and it has seemed so difficult to understand all the Bible teaches us about our Father in heaven. They say that once when this great father of the church was walking along by the seashore, troubled and perplexed because he could not understand many things about God, he came upon a little child playing there alone. The child had digged a hole in the sand, and was carefully filling it with water which he brought from the sea in a spoon. The bishop stopped and watched him for a while, and then he asked, What are thou doing, my child? I mean to empty the sea into my hole, answered the child, busily going backwards and forwards with his spoon. But that is impossible, said the bishop. Not more impossible than that thy human mind should not understand the mind of God, said the child, gazing upwards at him with grave, sweet eyes. And before the bishop could answer, the child had vanished, and the saint knew that God had sent him as an answer to his troubled thoughts, and as a rebuke for his trying to understand the things that only God could know. CHAPTER VI Augustine of Canterbury It was market day in the great city of Rome, and the people were busy buying and selling and shouting, just as they do today with us when market day comes around. But there was a great difference between this Roman market and ours, a difference which would have seemed to us strange and cruel. For instead of sheep and oxen or green vegetables from the country, they were selling men and boys, and even little maidens. There in the great market place, with the sun beating down on their bare heads, they stood, looking with dull, despairing eyes, or with frightened glances at the crowds of buyers and sellers who were bargaining around. Suddenly a hush fell on the crowd, and a stately figure was seen crossing the square. People stood aside and bent their heads in reverence as Gregory passed by, for he was abbot of a great monastery in Rome, and was much beloved even by the rough Roman soldiers. He walked swiftly as if he did not care to linger in the market place, for it grieved his gentle heart to see the suffering of the slaves when he could do nothing to help them. But suddenly the crowd seemed to divide in front of him, and he stopped in wonder at the sight which met his eyes. It was only a group of little fair-haired English boys who had been captured in the wars, and carried off to be sold to slaves in the Roman market. But Gregory had never seen anything like them before. All around were dark-eyed, swarthy-faced Italians, or darker-skinned slaves from Africa, and these boys with their sunny golden hair, fair faces, and eyes blue as the sky overhead, seemed to him creatures from a different world. Whence come these children, and what name do they bear? asked the bishop of a man who stood beside him. From a savage island far over the sea, he answered, and men called him Angles. Then the kind bishop looked with pitying eyes upon the beautiful children, and said to himself, as he turned to go, they should not be called Angles, but Angels. The sight of those boys, so strong and fearless and beautiful, made Gregory think a great deal about the little island of Britain far away across the sea from whence they had come. He knew the people who lived there were a fierce warlike race, having a strange religion of their own, and that very few of them were Christians. And he knew, too, that though they were hard to conquer and difficult to teach, still they were a people worth teaching, and he longed to win them to the sight of Christ and to show them how to serve the true God. In those days people in Italy knew very little about that far away island, and it seemed to them as difficult and dangerous to go to England as it would seem to us if we were asked to go to the wildest part of Africa. True there were no lions nor tigers in England, but the tall, hair giants who lived there were as savage as they were brave, and might be even worse to deal with than the wild beast of other lands. So it may well be believed that when St. Gregory, who was now Pope of Rome, chose forty mucks and sent them on a mission to this distant island, they were not very anxious to go, and set out in fear and trembling. But at their head was one who knew no fear, and who was willing to face any dangers in the service of his master. This man was Augustine, a monk of Rome, whom Gregory had chosen to lead the mission, knowing that his courage would strengthen the others, and his wisdom would guide them a right. It took many long days and nights of travel to reach the coast where they were to find a ship to carry them across to Britain, and before they had gone very far the forty mucks were inclined to turn back in despair. From every side they heard such terrible tales of the savage islanders they were going to meet, that their hearts, never very courageous, were filled with terror, and they refused to go further. Nothing that Augustine could say would persuade them to go on, and they would only agree that he should go back to Rome and bear their prayers to St. Gregory, imploring him not to force them to face such horrible danger. If Augustine would do this, they promised to wait his return and to do then whatever the Pope ordered. They had not to wait many days, for Augustine speedily brought back the Pope's answer to their request, his dark-faced gloat and his eyes shone with the light of victory, as he read to them the letter which St. Gregory had sent. There was to be no thought of going back. St. Gregory's words were few but decisive. It is better not to begin a work than to turn back as soon as danger threatens. Therefore, my beloved sons, go forward by the help of our Lord. So they obeyed, and with Augustine at their head, once more set out, hardly hoping to escape the perils of the journey, and expecting, if they did arrive, to be speedily put to death by the savage islanders. Perhaps the worst trial of all was when they set sail from France and saw the land fading away in the distance. At the front there was nothing to be seen but angry waves and a cold, gray sky, and they seemed to be drifting away from the country of sunshine and safety into the dark region of uncertainty and danger. Nay, the island, whose very name was terrible to them, was nowhere to be seen, and seemed all the more horrible because it was wrapped in that mysterious gray mist. But though they did not know it, they had really nothing to fear in the island-people, for the queen of that part of England, where they landed, was a Christian, and had taught the king Ethelbert to show mercy and kindness. So when the company of cold, shivering monks came ashore, they were met with a kind and courteous welcome, and instead of enemies they found friends. The king himself came to meet them, and he ordered the little band of foreigners to be brought before him, that he might learn their errand. They did not receive them in any hall or palace, but out in the open air, for it seemed safer there in case these strangers should be workers of magic or witchcraft. It must have been a strange scene when the forty monks, with Augustine at their head, walked in procession up from the beach to a broad green meadow where the king and his soldiers waited for them. The tall, fair-haired warriors who stood around, sword in hand, ready to defend their king, must have looked with surprise at these black-robed men with shaven heads and empty hands. They carried no weapons of any sort, and they seemed to bear no banner to tell men whence they came. Only the foremost monks carried on high a silver cross and the picture of a crucified man, and instead of shouts and war cries there was the sound of a melodious chant sung by many voices, yet seeming as if sung by one. Then Augustine stood out from among the company of monks and waited for the king to speak. "'Who art thou? and from whence have come these men who are with thee?' asked the king. "'Me thinks thou comest in peace. Elsewhits thou have carried more deptly weapons than a silver charm and a painted sign. I feign would know the reason of thy visit to this, our island.' Slowly Augustine began to tell the story of their pilgrimage and the message they had brought. So long he spoke, that the sun began to sink, and the twilight fell over the silent sea that lay stretched out beyond the meadow, where they sat before his story was done. The king bent forward, thoughtfully weighing the words he had heard, and looking into the faces of these strange messengers of peace. At length he spoke, and the weary monks and stalwart warriors listened eagerly to his words. "'Thou hast spoken well,' he said to Augustine, and it may be there is truth in what thou sayest, but a man does not change his religion in an hour. I will hear more of this, but, meanwhile, you shall be well cared for, and all who choose may listen to your message.' Those were indeed welcome words to the company of four tired monks, and when the kindly islanders, following their king's example, made them welcome and gave them food and shelter, they could well echo the words of St. Gregory in the Roman market. These are not angles, but angels. And soon King Ethelbert gave the little company a house of their own, and allowed them to build up the ancient church at Canterbury, which had fallen into ruins. There they lived as simply and quietly as they had done in their convent in Italy, praying day and night for the souls of these heathen people, and teaching them, as much by their lives as their words, that it was good to serve the Lord Christ. But before very long the people began to listen eagerly to their teaching, and the king himself was baptized with many others. The chant which the monks had sung that first day of their landing no longer sounded strange and mysterious in the ears of the islanders, for they too learned to sing the Alleluia, and to praise God beneath the sign of the silver cross. Now Augustine was very anxious that the ancient British church should join his party, and that they should work together under the direction of Pope Gregory, but the British Christians were not sure if they might trust these strangers, and it was a range that they should meet first before making any plans. The ancient British church had almost been driven out of the land, and there were but few of her priests left. They did not know whether they ought to join Augustine and his foreign monks, or strive to work on alone. In their perplexity they went to a holy hermit, and asked him what they should do. "'If this man comes from God, then follow him,' said the hermit. "'But how can we know if he is of God?' asked the people. The hermit thought awhile, and then said, "'The true servant of God is ever humble and lowly of heart. Go to meet this man. If he rises and bids you welcome, then you will know that he bears Christ-yoke, and will lead you a rite. But if he be proud and haughty and treat you with scorn, or rising to welcome you, then see to it that you have not to do with him.' So the priests and bishops of the British church arranged to meet Augustine under a great oak tree, which was called ever afterwards Augustine's oak. They carefully planned that the foreign monks should arrive there first, in time to be seated, so that the hermit's test might be tried when they themselves should arrive. Unhappily Augustine did not think of rising to greet the British bishops, and they were very angry and would agree to nothing that he proposed, though he warned them solemnly that if they would not join their forces with his they would sooner or later fall by the hand of their enemies. Greatly disappointed Augustine returned to Canterbury and worked there for many years without help, until all who lived in that part of England learned to be Christians. And Pope Gregory, hearing of his labors, was pleased with the work his missionary had done, and thought it fit that the humble monks should be rewarded with a post of honour. So he made Augustine Archbishop of Canterbury, the first archbishop that England had known. It was a simple ceremony, then, with only the few faithful monks kneeling around the chair on which the archbishop was enthroned. But Augustine's keen, dark face, shone with the light of victory and humble thankfulness, for it seemed to seal upon his work, a pledge that the island should never again turn back from the faith of Christ. And could those dark eyes have looked forward and pierced the screen of many years? Augustine would have seen a goodly succession of archbishops, following in his footsteps, each in his turn, sitting in that same simple old chair, placed now in Westminster Abbey, and guarded as one of England's treasures. And he would have seen, too, what would have cheered his heart more than all. A Christian England, venerating the spot where his monastery once stood, and building upon it a college to his memory. And there he would have seen England's sons trained to become missionaries, and to go out into all the world to preach the gospel, just as that little band of monks, with Augustine at their head, came to our island in those dark, far-off days. But though Augustine could not know all this, his heart was filled with a great hope and a great love for the islanders, who now seemed like his own children. And he was more than content to spend his life amongst them. And when his work was ended, and the faithful soul gave up his charge, they buried him in the island which had once seemed to him a land of exile, but which at last had come to mean even more to him than his own sunny land of Italy.