celestial hamlet where he dwelled seemed less peaceful to him, the
shadows of the evening less soft, less white the breath of the lilies,
less hallowed the gleams of the carpenter's plane within the sheds,
less bright the singing pitchers whose water radiated like fresh
sheaves and fell cooling upon the flesh of the angels seated on the
curb-stones of the wells.

Therefore Francis set out on his way to find God, and He received him
in His Garden at the close of day. This garden of God was the most
humble but also the most beautiful. No one knew whence came the
miracle of its beauty. Perhaps because there was nothing in it but
love. Over the walls which the ages had filled with chinks dark lilacs
spread. The stones were joyous to support the smiling mosses whose
golden mouths were drinking at the shadowy heart of the violets.

In a diffused light which was neither like that of the dawn nor
like that of the twilight, for it was softer than either of these, a
blue-flowered leek blossomed in the center of a garden-bed. A sort of
mystery enveloped the blue globe of its inflorescence which remained
motionless and closed on its tall stalk. One felt that this plant was
dreaming. Of what? Perhaps of its soul's labor which sings on winter
evenings in the pot where boils the soup of the poor. Oh divine
destiny! Not far from the hedges of boxwood the lips of the lettuce
radiated mute words while a low light clung about the shadow of the
sleeping watering-pots. Their task was over.

And full of trust and serenity, without pride or humility, a
sage-plant let its insignificant odor rise toward God.

* * * * *