The Birmingham age-herald., 1923-03-11

gave up CIldL WOTlu ana surrendered his life to the care of a garden in little, obscure village not far from Bordeaux. To those who knew him, it seemed sad miracle at first, and the buzz and whisper about it went far and wide, but when he grew old and died at length he was for gotten, l think, by all except the villagers. Even to them he was hardly more than a dim legend. This is the truth which lay behind the miracle
 Consider the garden first It lay par tfally enclosed by the old chateau, which was built with the wings circling back as if it had been originally planned that the structure should completely surround the court. The scheme proved too extensive, for the dream of the architect was scarcely more than third realized and stone wall finished the circle about the garden.
 Both building and wall were of a most tottering antiquity. The edges of the stones were slightly rounded by much weatherng, so that the climbing vines found a foothold in the crevices and twisted leisurely over the stones, green veil in spring and summer, and black network in winter. A few slender tentacles of green extended even across the gate, proving how seldom it was opened, and never in haste
 It seemed that surely everyone who made out through the bars of the gate and the mist of leaves the garden within must try to vault the barrier or else break it down; but though 1 have seen many people stop and peer wistfully inside, I have never known who tried either by request or free to enter.
 Perhaps they were little chilled by the strangeness of the garden, though it is true that none could define that strangeness In blossom-time the garden was wonderfully bright, whirlpool of color that circled about the central fountain and washed against the ancient walls, yet even in that glad season it was melancholy sight. I cannot explain any more than I can make it clear why flowers sometimes suggest thought of burial.
 Perhaps people could not forget the back ground of that garden the time -crumbled walls of the chateau, looming with the sad, solemn wisdom of centuries above the flow CTS, until they seem things of a moment only, which might vanish away like bril- liant vapor Yet none knew the evanescent beauty of the garden unless they stood there on moonlight night whe nthe colors grew palld and whispers passed from the lilies by the fountain to the mognonette on the, wall. It was like standing before the ghost of garden that died many years ago, just as the name and fame of the builder of the chateu had died; just as the love of life died in Henry Arsigny.
 After all, the ancient gray walls and the melancholy beauty of the garden were only the setting for Henry Arsgny. He was tall, erect, very slender, with mist of white hair, and eyes amazingly bright and black and young. Even to the end his mind re- mained clear and keen, and in spite of his age I used to be sure that he could come back to the world and make name for himself and place, if he had cared to try.
 But I knew that he would never leave that garden, nor the boundary of the time rusted walls Across the gate the climb ing vine each season ran another shoot, and every year the soul of Henry Arsigny was locked little more surely in that nar- row space.
 As for the village, after the first few years, it accepted Arsigny as one of those mysteries which one must not attempt to explain too closely. By his own people in New Orleans he had long been numbered among the living dead No one but myself, am sure, can tell the story of how the rich young American came to shut himself up in French chauteau and spend the rest of his life tending garden.
 will repeat that story exactly as he told it to me. When you have heard it you will say that time and breeding had filled the old mans mind with fancies Perhaps so, but certainly his voice was clear and his eye level as he told it to me.