Seeds of Pine

by Emily F. Murphy

My room at the lodging-house is the best the place affords in that it has a cotton curtain for a door, and as yet doors are only used in the outside walls of the houses. The curtain is not, however, of much account in that the green lumber of the walls has warped to such narrow dimensions that the occupier of the adjoining room would have to shut his or her eyes to keep from seeing you. On the contrary part, you must of necessity go to bed in the dark unless you wish to fall a victim to the crafts and assaults of the mosquitoes who are attracted by the lamp. In a fortnight or so, they will have completely disappeared, but, in the meanwhile, if you would escape their nasty niggling ways you must neglect your hair, teeth, and sun-scalded nose. A real-estate agent was telling me to-day how the mosquitoes often disappeared in a night, and, to illustrate this fact, related a story of a Tipperary Orator, who said, "My fellow-countrymen, the round towers of Ireland have so completely disappeared that it is doubtful if they have ever existed."

.... A wagon is leaving this morning for St. Bernard's Mission on the hill, and by some felicity I am invited to go with it. Bill, who is the driver, received a bullet wound in a Mexican rebellion; had his leg broken by a fall from "a terrible mean cayuse"; lost an eye and part of his nose in a mine explosion, and says, by these same tokens, he will live to be a hundred unless he loses his head to the government. Bill was married once down Oregon, way, but his wife divorced him. His wife was very short-sighted, but, contrawise, her tongue was long. Besides, she was appallingly like her mother.

This trail to St. Bernard's, passing as it does through a trail of lanky poplars and birch in green lacy gowns, is a right pleasant one, and fills you with the great joy of growing things.

And also it is very pleasant this morning to shut your eyes that you may the better inhale the fine brew of the conifers, the reek of the wild roses, the pungent wafture of the mint from the meadows, and above all, the subtle incense of the warm spawning soil. This is to have a happiness as large as your wishes. This is to think thoughts that are very secret and only half-way wise.

At St. Bernard's the nuns take me to see their finely manicured garden with its rows of cabbages, leeks, turnips, radishes and its many herbs such as parsley, mint and sage. Their potatoes are coming on well and so are the posy beds. This sweet-breathed garden is tilled by voluntary labour and held in common, but it must be remembered the nun's occupation does not afford her any special opportunities for knowledge of the world at large and its shrewder ways.

I can easily discern that the pride of this garden are the cabbages, probably because more care has gone into their culture. Indeed, this vegetable seems to be peculiarly favoured by all gardeners of all classes, for even the haughty Diocletian, when asked to resume his crown, said to the ambassadors, "If you would come and see the cabbages I have planted, you would never again mention to me the name of empire." In this garden-plot the sisters have erected a pedestal upon which stands a fair shining woman, even she who is the mother to their Lord and wonderful God.

In order that her labour may become an offering to her tutelary spirit, every woman should have a statue in her garden embodying her highest ideal, whether it be of Isis, Mrs. Eddy, or Diana, the "Goddess excellently bright." Such a statue would tend also to keep her religion a divine intimacy rather than a creed or an institutional observance.

Sister Marie-des-Anges shows me the hospital, and pleasures me with a delicious cordial which is made out of wild berries and which tastes better than champagne.

Those who have an eye for esoteric apartments with etchings and faint-coloured prints on toned-down walls, would not be impressed with the wards and offices of this hospital where all the furniture is home-made. It is, however, cleverly contrived and has the prestige of being literally the original "mission furniture"—no one can gainsay it. In this connection, give me leave to transcribe here a passage which I have met with in the book of Thoreau, the naturalist. "Why should not our furniture be as simple as the Arab's or the Indian's?" he asks. "When I think of the benefactors of the race whom we have apotheosized as messengers from heaven, bearers of divine gifts to man, I do not see in my mind any retinue at their heels, any car-load of fashionable furniture."

I know not the answer of this question unless it be that we of Canada need practice in the excellencies of those graces which have respect to personal simplicity and disrespect to communal opinion. I have a mind to make a trial of this.