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THE SOUL GARDEN 
 
 A LITTLE STORY OF SILENT INFLUENCE 
 5p 
 
 LILLY M. BRADFORD 
 

 Copyright 1911 
 By Lilly M, Bradford 
 
 ^ bSO 
 
 ICI.A3037G6 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 TO ALL YOUNG WOMENHOOD 
 
 WHOSE SWEETNESS OF MANNER AND 
 
 PURITY OF CHARACTER 
 
 INSPIRES 
 
 IN THE LIVES OF THOSE ABOUT THEM 
 
 THE DESIRE FOR TRUE LIVING 
 
 L. M. B. 
 
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 #alutatui«. 
 
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 ANY years ago, in the heart of 
 a city, there stood a garden. 
 
 The owner of the garden was 
 a man of business, of wide sym- 
 pathies and broad culture, and 
 who, in all his active life, found 
 time to trim and prune and keep 
 in constant blooming this plat of greenery that 
 served as medicine for tired eyes to see. 
 
 I do not think that he ever knew the full extent 
 of the good he was doing humanity in keeping 
 that one bit of God's green world right in the 
 heart of the business mart. 
 
Many years have passed since then, the master 
 of the little garden has gone to his reward, and 
 the plat on which the garden stood is now covered 
 with a magnificent government building, but there 
 are hundreds of hearts in that city to-day who 
 look back with fond remembrance to that scene 
 of growing things that stood bright in the midst 
 of the dust and smoke, and who can recall that 
 on every evening the music of the chimes, some 
 distance away, mingled with the perfume of the 
 flowers in a grand sermonette. 
 
 The garden, in the story following, is not the 
 same one of which we have been telling you ; the 
 one in "The Soul Garden" is only in imagination, 
 while the one of which we have been speaking 
 was in reality, but there is a semblance between 
 the two in that they both cheered and refreshed 
 the hearts of weary workers going from their toil. 
 
 We have noted that when in a crowded car or 
 thoroughfare some one enters with a bunch of 
 flowers, especially wild ones, how every one no- 
 tices those flowers, for flowers speak more than 
 the mere gaining of dollars and cents, they speak 
 of God. L. M. B. 
 
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 ■"^f:!^ 
 
 A little romance, so tradition says, 
 
 Wove its fair threads among the poplar trees 
 
 That stood within the garden on the hill. 
 
 The air was sweet with perfume of the rose, 
 
 The fragrance of the lilac and the mint, 
 
 And through it all, the great gray gabled dome 
 
 'Rose from a mansion of colonial fame, 
 
 And Marjorie, of the garden, dwelt therein. 
 
Restful and calm, this garden in repose 
 
 Looked down upon the city, just below, 
 
 The city with its dust and smoke and heat, 
 
 Its factory, grim, behind whose dingy walls, 
 
 So eager in their quest to earn the wage. 
 
 Were toil-bent men and maids 
 
 Who, coming from their labor, raised their eyes 
 
 To gaze upon the greenery on the hill. 
 
 "Oh, look !" they cried, "the glinting in the sun, 
 
 The swaying of those wind-tossed forest trees. 
 
 The lane, all lined with lilac blooms aglow, 
 
 'Tis resting me a'ready just to look," 
 
 And said they, to each other in their souls, 
 
 " 'Tis blessed that 'tis there." 
 
And youths there were, with manly hearts and true, 
 
 Who frequented this garden on the hill. 
 
 They loved the cooling freshness of it all, 
 
 The mossy paths beneath their heavy tread, 
 
 And to secure, upon their passing out, 
 
 A rose-bud from fair Marjorie's gentle hand. 
 
 And each one bore a longing in his soul 
 
 To win her and to hold her for his own, 
 
 But went his way with pondering in his heart. 
 
 The sweetness and the mystery of her. 
 
 That 'tho they brought rare gifts of their esteem, 
 
 Violets for truth and all the little things 
 
 That go to please the heart of any maid. 
 
 Still Marjorie, of the garden, had not loved. 
 
 
Another came, an Enoch of the slums, 
 
 His master from the workshop sent him there, 
 
 To do repairing of the eastern wing 
 
 And make the nest more beauteous than before. 
 
 And while he labored, deft with saw and tool, 
 
 A song of joy was welling in his heart. 
 
 He reveled in the glory of the place, 
 
 The over-hanging boughs, the ivy-vine, 
 
 The clustered beds of lilies and of mint. 
 
 But most of all, of Marjorie's charm and grace, 
 
 He had not known that womanhood was such, 
 
 So pure and innocent, so undefiled. 
 
 The women he had met were coarse and vile, 
 
 Much coarser than the lads with whom he chummed 
 
 (The world holds such as these.) 
 
 •J»<{»«J*»J~J»^»«J»«|»<J»^mJ«^»^mJ»<J»^»^»«J*^««J*«J«^»^»4|».J»^.^»^»^»^»^«^»^»»J»«J»«J..J»^»^»^ 
 
But Marjorie in her garden's shaded aisles, 
 Clad in her simple gown of tender white, 
 Was as an angel to him, unawares. 
 "To think that life held women such as she. 
 And he had never known." 
 So ran the tenor of young Enoch's thoughts, 
 The while his hammer, with new zest and zeal, 
 Made startling music in the ancient house. 
 And echoed and re-echoed thro' the halls. 
 'Twas but a semblance of his inner self, 
 The cause of which he scarcely could define, 
 Save that the grandeur and the peace of all 
 Had thrilled his very soul. 
 
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So when the heavy clanging of the hour 
 
 Rang from the belfry in the streets below, 
 
 That told the work-men that their toil had ceased 
 
 And it was evening now, 
 
 When lengthened shadows in the garden plot 
 
 Marked well the fitful ending of a day. 
 
 Our Enoch shouldered, then, his kit of tools 
 
 And stalked off thro' the shrubberies' heavy growth, 
 
 The lilac path that led from off the hill; 
 
 He dreaded so to go. 
 
 Still in his heart a newer life was born, 
 
 A strong desire to cleave unto the right, 
 
 A hope that led him up to higher things, 
 
 "He would not mind the toil." 
 
That night within the walls of Madlin hall, 
 
 A revelry was held of coarser hue, 
 
 And Enoch did not enter, as his wont, 
 
 But stood without and hearkened to the din. 
 
 The harsh and drunken laughter hard within. 
 
 The oaths and curses of the men and maids ; 
 
 It sickened him. 
 
 "To think," he said, "I loved it just as they. 
 
 That I had called it life." 
 
 And when his fellow comrades beckoned him, 
 
 "Come, Enoch, come! What ails our Enoch now?" 
 
 He only waved to them a gay salute 
 
 And answered, "Not to-night; another day;" 
 
 That other day for Enoch never came. 
 
 
For thro' the weeks that followed, at the bench 
 
 Or working off, elsewhere, among the men. 
 
 The vision of the garden and the maid 
 
 Was ever in his mind. 
 
 And when the evening shadows later fell, 
 
 He crept up thro' the twilight, unobserved. 
 
 Up thro' the mossy damp of growing things, 
 
 Up to the pillared porch and looked within. 
 
 He did not enter as the other youths 
 
 Who wooed her and had sought her for their own, 
 
 But stood without and gloried in the scene. 
 
 For Marjorie sat therein beneath the lamp, 
 
 A something soft and fluffy in her hands. 
 
 The light but made her beauty manifold. 
 
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Intensified the gold within her hair, 
 
 And shimmering whiteness of her snowy gown. 
 
 And Enoch drank the grandeur of it all 
 
 And turned away, made stronger in his soul 
 
 To meet the battle of the next day's toil. 
 
 Love is a magic wand within our hearts. 
 
 That strengthens and makes light most any task, 
 
 The fragile mother sacrifices much, 
 
 All for the tender love she bears her child, 
 
 And many deeds of valor and of worth 
 
 Would not be wrought, had not the hidden love 
 
 Of some one that they cared for, spurred them on ; 
 
 How empty all our days on earth would be 
 
 If we had none to love. 
 
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So evening upon evening he would come, 
 
 Made happy by a single sight of her, 
 
 Until one night, it was a sultry night. 
 
 He saw her in the twilight, just without. 
 
 A burning longing swept him in his soul 
 
 To clasp her close and hold her as his own. 
 
 He glanced down at the garments that he wore, 
 
 "These roughened hands beside her dimpled ones, 
 
 And I of common clay and she of purest gold? 
 
 It cannot be," he said, and turned away. 
 
 The lilies whispered as he passed them by, 
 
 "The lad is sad," thej^ said, 
 
 And watched him as he closed the outer gate 
 
 To enter it no more. 
 
The years sped by as years are wont to do, 
 
 And Enoch stood full strong within his own, 
 
 For fate had prospered him, the world had loved 
 
 The hard, true metal of his soul 
 
 That stood out for the right. 
 
 "How strange," they said, "a lad from out the slums 
 
 Should rise so prominent in walks of life 
 
 And stick to it," they did not know 
 
 The harsh and bitter struggle with himself. 
 
 And that so oft within the dead of night 
 
 The tempter came and wrestled well with him, 
 
 And said, " 'Tis lonely here. 
 
 The people whom you strive for do not care. 
 
 They do not take you with them as their own. 
 
But simply patronize and tolerate, 
 
 For blood of peasant cannot mix with king. 
 
 Come down ! the lights are bright, the dance is on, 
 
 The table now but waits you at the feast." 
 
 "And why not?" moaned poor Enoch. "As you say, 
 
 'Tis lonely here" — 
 
 When lo! before his gaze there then appeared 
 
 The garden in its splendor, unexcelled, 
 
 Its waving green, its lilac and its rose. 
 
 And Marjorie in her gown of simple white. 
 
 The tempter fled before that flood of light, 
 
 And Enoch, rising, breathed a little prayer, 
 
 A prayer so deep that no one heard but God, 
 
 " 'Tis heaven to be good." 
 
Another day, full many years from then, 
 
 He sat within his office walls, alone, 
 
 'Twas midnight and the thoroughfare was still. 
 
 Save when approaching footsteps passed his door 
 
 And went off into silence once again. 
 
 And Enoch sat and pondered o'er and o'er; 
 
 A paper lay, unsigned, before him there. 
 
 But waited, as it were, his signature. 
 
 Which, when once given, would then cause 
 
 The old factory walls to tumble down. 
 
 And in its stead a structure, grand and good, 
 
 Would then be built, full handsome to behold. 
 
 And used as a library for the town. 
 
 The lease expired, the master of the mill 
 
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Had planned to renew another term. 
 
 But should the city wish to buy the plat 
 
 On which to build the structure they had need, 
 
 He then would move the workings of his mill 
 
 To other parts, full many miles from there. 
 
 "Now," Enoch argued, "the unemployed. 
 
 The men thrown out of work, without the wage, 
 
 With little families flocking 'round their doors. 
 
 What would they do with them? 
 
 True, there was labor out in other fields. 
 
 In other factories of the little town, 
 
 But could they furnish work for all of these?" 
 
 For Enoch was the sort, the kind of man 
 
 Who went down deep within the hearts of all, 
 
E'en those most difficult to understand. 
 He knew their joys, their sorrows and their hopes, 
 And knew these men had purchased little homes. 
 Were paying for the same, on every month. 
 From out the scanty savings of their wage. 
 And there were those well on in middle life. 
 Would they be, also, thrown upon the world 
 To learn new trades, new methods and new ways, 
 And earning, at their best, a paltry sum, 
 Fit only for beginners to receive? 
 Would they succeed? Would they succeed? 
 But then his party wished so for the site. 
 None other would so beautify the town. 
 
His party that had stood by him for years, 
 
 Encouraged and had made him what he was 
 
 Financially before the world to-day. 
 
 Could he thus thwart this one great hope of theirs ? 
 
 (To many men that stand as Enoch stood, 
 
 In politics or business or in trade, 
 
 The pleasing of a party meaneth much.) 
 
 And then the added beauty for the town, 
 
 Its marble and its granite, its high walls, 
 
 'Twould make most valuable the simple place, 
 
 And then the knowledge flowing from its doors. 
 
 "Which is the greater, to feed the hungry minds. 
 
 Or feed the mouths of children in their need. 
 
 And crying for the bread that should be theirs ? 
 
 *♦* •■♦******'*%'*%**'I**v»**^** ♦v* *******"*'********«***'**********^I* •■*■• •^•^♦^•^•^••^♦•^♦•^♦^♦^^^•'^♦^^•^••J* 
 
Which is the greater, which the greater deed? 
 Oh! Christ who suffered in Gethsemane, 
 Teach me the way, teach me the way!" 
 When lo ! as if in answer to his prayer, 
 It seemd that Marjorie stood beside him, then, 
 Her hand upon his hand, the one that held the pen. 
 And Enoch, rising, went out in the night, 
 Out in the darkness, the stillness of the street. 
 To breathe the air of God's free universe, 
 The paper left unsigned upon his desk. 
 And in his heart a great and gladsome joy 
 Born from that inner sense of doing right, 
 And he could face, upon the coming morn. 
 The censure of his party and his friends. 
 
So thro' the years, the swift and hurrying years, 
 
 Thro' all the battles of a selfmade man, 
 
 The presence of sweet Marjorie followed him. 
 
 She, with the lilies and the roses and the mint, 
 
 The overhanging boughs, the ivy-vine. 
 
 The lane of lilacs gleaming in the sun. 
 
 Stood, as a living picture, to his eyes 
 
 That strengthened him for right. 
 
 And one glad night, it was an autumn night, 
 
 The flames ran high within the open grate. 
 
 His little daughter seated on his knee. 
 
 He told her of the garden and the maid, 
 
 The vision that had followed him thro' life 
 
 And made of him a man. 
 
"And you, dear one, with all your winning ways, 
 
 Your little dimples and your snowy frock. 
 
 Can lead strong men in ways of righteousness 
 
 And teach them to be true. 
 
 Just with your innocence, your purity of heart. 
 
 The sweetness and the wholesomeness of you ; 
 
 For there are those so eager to be led 
 
 If they but know the way." 
 
 So 'tis with us, what tho' temptations come, 
 
 What tho' the battle rages hard within. 
 
 If we but have an angel in our souls 
 
 To keep us in the right, 
 
 As 'twas with Enoch in his busy life, 
 
 While Marjorie, in her garden, never knew. 
 
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