Sociable fellows all,
full of contentment, pluck, and endurance, they lightened the last hour
upon a tedious road.
At length we reached the strip of herbage that divides the desert from the
town, a vegetable garden big enough to supply the needs of the Picture
City, and full of artichokes, asparagus, egg plants, sage, and thyme. The
patient labour of many generations had gone to reclaim this little patch
from the surrounding waste.
We passed the graveyard of the Protestants and Catholics, a retired place
that pleaded eloquently in its peacefulness for the last long rest that
awaits all mortal travellers. Much care had made it less a cemetery than a
garden, and it literally glowed and blazed with flowers--roses, geraniums,
verbena, and nasturtiums being most in evidence. A kindly priest of the
order of St. Francis invited us to rest, and enjoy the colour and
fragrance of his lovingly-tended oasis. And while we rested, he talked
briefly of his work in the town, and asked me of our journey. The place
reminded me strongly of a garden belonging to another Brotherhood of the
Roman Catholic Church, and set at Capernaum on the Sea of Galilee, where,
a few years ago, I saw the monks labouring among their flowers, with
results no less happy than I found here.
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