THE DEVIL'S GARDEN

THE DEVIL'S GARDEN


The Devil playeth in a man's mind like a
wanton child in a garden, bringing his filth
to choke each open path, uprooting the
tender plants, and trampling the buds that
should have blown for the Master.




I


The village postmaster stood staring at an official envelope that had
just been shaken out of a mailbag upon the sorting-table. It was
addressed to himself; and for a few moments his heart beat quicker,
with sharp, clean percussions, as if it were trying to imitate the
sounds made by the two clerks as they plied their stampers on the
blocks. Perhaps this envelope contained his fate.

Soon the stamping was finished; the sorting went on steadily and
methodically; before long the letters and parcels were neatly arranged
in compartments near the postmen's bags. The first delivery of the day
was ready to go forth to the awakening world.

"All through, Mr. Dale."

The postmaster struck a bell, and glanced at the clock. Five
fifty-six. Up to time, as usual.

"Now then, my lads, off with you."

The postmen had come into the sorting-room, and were packing their
bags and slinging their parcels.