“Then, as you are a Catholic, you know what to-day is,” said I.
“The twenty-ninth of August. No, sir, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“It is dedicated to one of our patron Saints—there are two for gardeners—Saint Phocas, a Greek, and Saint Fiacre, an Irishman. To-day is the day of Saint Phocas.”
The tailor crossed himself reverently.
“I’ll tell you the story if you like.” And, as he lay on his back, I told him the little legend of
Saint Phocas: Patron Saint of Gardeners.
“At the end of the third century there lived a certain good man called Phocas, who had a little dwelling outside the gates of the city of Sinope, in Pontus. He had a small garden in which he grew flowers and vegetables for the poor and for his own needs. Prayer, love of his labour, and care for the things he grew filled his life.”
My tailor interrupted here to ask, apologetically, what manner of garden Saint Phocas would have.
“Neat beds,” said I—for I had gone into the matter myself—“edged with box. The flowers and vegetables growing together. Violets, Leeks, Onions, with Crocuses, Narcissus, and Lilies. Then, in their season, Gladiolus, Hyacinths, Iris, Poppies, and plenty of Roses. Melons, also, and Gherkins, Peaches, Plums, Apples and Pomegranates, Olives, Almonds, Medlars, Cherries, and Pears, of which quite thirty kinds were known. In his house, on the window ledge, if he had one, he may have grown Violets and Lilies in window pots, for they did that in those days.”
“Now, isn’t that interesting?” said the tailor. “My sister will care to know that. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised to find her putting a statue of Saint Phocas over the door. She’s all for figures.”