Part 25 (1/2)

THE CHANGELINGS

Out on the road to Fairyland where the dreaming children go, There's a little inn at the Sign of the Rose, that all the fairies know, For t.i.tania lodged in that tavern once, and betwixt the night and the day The children that crowded about her there, she stole their hearts away!

Peaseblossom, Moth and Mustardseed, Agate and Airymouse too, Once were children that laughed and played as children always do, But when t.i.tania kissed their lips, and crowned them with daffodil gold They never forgot what she whispered them, they never knew how to grow old!

Mothers that wonder why little lads forget their homely ways, And little maids put their dolls aside and take to acting plays, Ah, let them be kings and queens awhile, for there's nothing sad or mean In their innocent thought, and their crowns were wrought by the touch o' the Fairy Queen!

Close to the heart o' the world they come, the children who know the way To the little low gateway under the rose, where 't is neither night nor day.

They see what others can never guess, they hear what we cannot hear, And the loathly dragons that waste our life they never learn to fear.

The little inn at the Sign of the Rose,--ah, who can forget the place Where t.i.tania danced with the children small and lent them her elfin grace?

And wherever they go and whatever they do in the years that turn them gray They never forget the charm she said when she stole their hearts away!

XVII

THE GARDENS OF HELeNE

”Is there not any saint of the kitchen, at all?” asked the serious-eyed little demoiselle sorting herbs under the pear-tree. Old Jacqueline, gathering the tiny f.a.gots into her capacious ap.r.o.n, chuckled wisely.

”There should be, if there isn't. Perhaps the good G.o.d thinks that the men will take care that there are kitchens, without His help.” She hobbled briskly into the house. Helene sat for a few minutes with hands folded, her small nose alert as a rabbit's to the marvelous blend of odors in the hot suns.h.i.+ny air.

It was a very agreeable place, that old French garden. There had been a kitchen-garden on that very spot for more than five hundred years; at least, so said Monsieur Lescarbot the lawyer, and he knew all about the history of the world. A part of the old wall had been there in the days of the First Crusade, and the rest looked as if it had. When Henry of Navarre dined at the Guildhall, before Ivry, they had come to Jacqueline for poultry and seasoning. She could show you exactly where she gathered the parsley, the thyme, the marjoram, the carrots and the onion for the stuffing, and from which tree the selected chestnuts came. A white hen proudly promenading the yard at this moment was the direct descendant of the fowl chosen for the King's favorite dish of _poulet en ca.s.serole_.

But the common herbs were far from being all that this garden held.

Besides the dozen or more herbs and as many vegetables which all cooks used, there were artichokes, cuc.u.mbers, peppers of several kinds, marigolds, rhubarb, and even two plants of that curious Peruvian vegetable with the golden-centered creamy white flowers, called po-te-to. Jacqueline's husband, who had been a sea-captain, had brought those roots from Brazil, and she,--Helene,--who was very little then, had disgraced herself by gathering the flowers for a nosegay. It was after that that Jacqueline had begun to teach her what each plant was good for, and how it must be fed and tended. Helene had grown to feel that every plant, shrub or seedling was alive and had thoughts. In the delightful fairy tales that Monsieur Marc Lescarbot told her they were alive, and talked of her when they left their places at night and held moonlight dances.

Lescarbot's thin keen face with the bald forehead and humorous eyes appeared now at the grille in the green door. He swept off his beret and made a deep bow. ”Mademoiselle la bien-aimee de la bonne Sainte Marthe,”

he said gravely, ”may I come in?”

He had a new name for her every time he came, usually a long one. ”But why Sainte Marthe?” she asked, running to let him in.

”She is the patron saint of cooks and housewives, pet.i.te. A good cook can do anything. Sainte Marthe entertained the blessed Lord in her own home, and was the first nun of the sisterhood she founded. Moreover when she was preaching at Aix a fearful dragon by the name of Tarasque inhabited the river Rhone, and came out each night to devastate the country until Sainte Marthe was the means of his--conversion.”

”Oh, go on!” cried Helene, and Lescarbot sat down on the old bench under the pear-tree and began to help with the herbs.

”Sainte Marthe was an excellent cook, and the first thing she did when she founded her convent was to plant a kitchen-garden. On Saint John's Eve she went into the garden and watered each plant with holy water, blessing it in the use of G.o.d. People came from miles around to get roots and seeds from the garden and to ask for Sainte Marthe's recipes for broths and cordials for the sick. Often they brought roots of such plants as rhubarb and--er--marigold, which had been imported from heathen countries, to be blessed and made wholesome.” Lescarbot's eye rested on the potato plant, which he distrusted.

”Well. The dragon prowled around and around the convent walls, but of course he could not come in. At last he pretended to be sick and sent for Sainte Marthe to come and cure him. As soon as she set eyes on him she knew what a wicked lie he had told, and resolved to punish him for his impudence. Of course all he wanted of her was to get her recipes for sauces and stews so that he might cook and eat his victims without having indigestion--which is what a good sauce is for. Sainte Marthe promised to make him some broth if he would do no harm while she was gone, and just to make sure he kept his promise she made him hold out his fore-paws and tied them hard and fast with her girdle, while he sat with his fore-legs around his--er--knees, and her broomstick thrust crosswise between. Then she got out her largest kettle and made a good savory broth of all the herbs in her garden--there were three hundred and sixty-five kinds. She knew that if he drank it all, the blessed herbs would work such a change in his inside that he would be like a lamb forever after.

”But one thing neither she nor Tarasque had thought of, and that was, that the broth was hot. Of course he always took his food and drink very cold. When he smelled its delicious fragrance he opened his mouth wide, and she poured it hissing hot down his throat, and it melted him into a famous bubbling spring. People go there to be cured of colic.”

Helene drew a long breath. She did not believe that Lescarbot had found that story in any book of legends of the saints, but she liked it none the worse for that.

”I wonder if Sainte Marthe blessed this garden?” she said.

”I have no doubt she did, and that is why it flourishes from Easter to Michaelmas. But I came to-day for a potato. Sieur de Monts desires to see one and to understand the method of its cultivation.”