"You may depend upon it that during the storm some poor fellow had been
caught out in the forest by a falling limb of a tree, one of the boughs
of which pinned him to the ground and smashed his leg."
"An oak-tree," I said, quite enjoying the fact that he was inventing a
story.
"No, boy, an elm. Oak branches when they break are so full of tough
fibre that they hang on by the stump. It is your elm that is the
treacherous tree, and snaps short off, and comes down like thunder."
"An elm-tree, then," I said, paring away.
"Yes, a huge branch of an elm, and there the poor fellow lay till some
one heard his shouts, and came to his help."
"Where he would be lying in horrible agony," I said, trimming away at
the bough.
"Wrong again, Grant. Nature is kinder than that. With such an injury
the poor fellow's limb would be numbed by the terrible shock, and
possibly he felt but little pain. I knew an officer whose foot was
taken off in a battle in India. A cannon-ball struck him just above the
ankle, and he felt a terrible blow, but it did not hurt him afterwards
for the time; and all he thought of was that his horse was killed, till
he began to struggle away from the fallen beast, when he found that his
own leg was gone."
"How horrible!" I said.
"All war is horrible, my boy," he said gravely. "Well, to go on with my
story. I believe that they came and hoisted out the poor fellow under
the tree, and carried him up to the old priory to have his broken leg
cured by one of the monks, who would be out in his garden just the same
as we are, Grant, cutting off and paring the broken boughs of his apple
and pear trees. Then they laid him in one of the cells, and his leg was
bound up and dressed with healing herbs, and the poor fellow was left to
get well."
"And did he?" I said.
"Then the gardener monk went out into the garden again and continued to
trim off the broken branches, sawing these and cutting those, and
thinking all the while about his patient in the cell.
"Then the next day came, and the poor fellow's relatives ran up to see
him, and he was in very great agony, and they called upon the monks to
help him, and they dressed the terrible injury again, and the poor
fellow was very feverish and bad in spite of all that was done. But at
last he dropped off into a weary sleep, and the poor people went away
thinking what a great thing it was to have so much knowledge of healing,
while, as soon as they had gone the monk shook his head.
"Next day came, and the relatives and friends were delighted, for the
pain was nearly all gone, and the injured man lay very still.
"`He'll soon get well now,' they said; and they went away full of hope
and quite satisfied; but the monk, after he had given the patient some
refreshing drink, went out into his garden among his trees, and then
after walking about in the sunny walk under the old stone wall, he
stopped by the mossy seat by the sun-dial, and stood looking down at the
gnomon, whose shadow marked the hours, and sighed deeply as he thought
how many times the shadow would point to noon before his poor patient
was dead."
"Why, I thought he was getting better," I said.
"Carry your ladder to the next tree, Grant," said the old gentleman,
"and you shall work while I prattle."
I obeyed him, and this time I had a great apple-tree bough to operate
upon with the thin saw. I began using the saw very gently, and
listening, for I seemed to see that monk in his long grey garment, and
rope round his waist, looking down at the sun-dial, when Old Brownsmith
went on slowly:
"He knew it could not be long first, for the man's leg was crushed and
the bone splintered so terribly that it would never heal up, and that
the calm sense of comfort was a bad sign, for the limb was mortifying,
and unless that mortification was stopped the man must die."
"Poor fellow!" I ejaculated, for the old man told the story with such
earnestness that it seemed to be real.
"Yes, poor fellow! That is what the monk said as he thought of all the
herbs and decoctions he had made, and that not one of them would stop
the terrible change that was going on. He felt how helpless he was, and
at last, Grant, he sat down on the mossy old stone bench, and covering
his face with his hands, cried like a child."
"But he was a man," I said.
"Yes, my lad; but there are times when men are so prostrated by misery
and despair that they cry like women--not often--perhaps only once or
twice in a man's life. My monk cried bitterly, and then he jumped up,
feeling ashamed of himself, and began walking up and down. Then he went
and stood by the great fish stew, where the big carp and tench were
growing fatter as they fed by night and basked in the sunshine among the
water weeds by day; but no thought came to him as to how he could save
the poor fellow lying in the cell."
Old Brownsmith stopped to blow his nose on a brown-and-orange silk
handkerchief, and stroke two or three cats, while I sawed away very
slowly, waiting for what was to come.
"Then he went round by where one apple-tree, like that, had lost a
bough, and whose stump he had carefully trimmed--just as you are going
to trim that, Grant."
"I know," I cried, eagerly; "and then--"
"You attend to your apple-tree, sir, and let me tell my story," he said,
half gruffly, half in a good-humoured way, and I sawed away with my thin
saw till I was quite through, and the stump I had cut off fell with such
a bang that the cats all jumped in different directions, and then stared
back at the stump with dilated eyes, till, seeing that there was no
danger, one big Tom went and rubbed himself against it from end to end,
and the others followed suit.
"All at once, as he stood staring at the broken tree, an idea flashed
across his brain, Grant."
"Yes," I said, pruning-knife in hand.
"He knew that if he had not cut and trimmed off that branch the limb
would have gone on decaying right away, and perhaps have killed the
tree."
"Yes, of course," I said, still watching him.
"Isn't your knife sharp enough, my lad?" said Old Brownsmith dryly.
"Yes, sir," I said; and I went on trimming. "Well, he thought that if
this saved the tree, why should it not save the life of the man?" and he
grew so excited that he went in at once and had a look at the patient,
and then went in to the prior, who shook his head.
"`Poor fellow,' he said; `he will die.'
"`Yes,' said the young monk, `unless--'
"`Unless--' said the prior.
"`Yes, unless,' said the young monk; and he horrified the prior by
telling him all his ideas, while the other monks shook their heads.
"`It could not be done,' they said. `It would be too horrible.'
"`There is no horror in performing an act like that to save a man's
life,' said the young monk; `it is a duty.'
"`But it would kill the poor fellow,' they chorused.
"`He will die as it is,' said the young monk. `You said as much when I
came in, and I am sure of it.'
"`Yes,' said the prior sadly, `he will die.'
"`This might save his life,' said the young monk; but the old men shook
their heads.
"`Such a thing has never been done,' they said. `It is too horrible.'
"`And even if it saved his life he would only have one leg.'
"`Better have no legs at all,' said the young monk, `than die before his
time.'
"`But it would be his time,' said the old monks.
"`It would not be his time if I could save his life,' said the young
monk.
"But still the old monks shook their heads, and said that no man had
ever yet heard of such a thing. It was too terrible to be thought of,
and they frowned very severely upon the young monk till the prior, who
had been very thoughtful, exclaimed:--
"`And cutting the limb off the apple-tree made you think that?'
"The young monk said that it was so.
"`But a man is not an apple-tree,' said the oldest monk present; and all
the others shook their heads again; but, oddly enough, a few minutes
later they nodded their heads, for the prior suddenly exclaimed:--
"`Our brother is quite right, and he shall try.'
"There was a strange thrill ran through the monks, but what the prior
said was law in those days, Grant, and in a few minutes it was known all
through the priory that Brother Anselm was going to cut off the poor
swineherd's leg.
"Then--I say, my boy, I wish you'd go on with your work. I can't talk
if you do not," said Old Brownsmith, with a comical look at me, and I
went on busily again while he continued his story.
"When Brother Anselm had obtained the prior's leave to try his
experiment he felt nervous and shrank from the task. He went down the
garden and looked at the trees that he had cut, and he felt more than
ever that a man was, as the monks said, not an apple-tree. Then he
examined the places which looked healthy and well, and he wondered
whether if he performed such an operation on the poor patient he also
would be healthy and well at the end of a week, and he shook his head
and felt nervous."
"If you please, Mr Brownsmith," I said, "I can't go on till you've
done, and I must hear the end."
He chuckled a little, and seating himself on a bushel basket which he
turned upside down, a couple of cats sprang in his lap, another got on
his shoulder, and he went on talking while I thrust an arm through one
of the rounds of the ladder, and leaned back against it as he went on.
"Well, Grant," he said, "Brother Anselm felt sorry now that he had leave
to perform his experiment, and he went slowly back to the cell and
talked to the poor swineherd, a fine handsome, young man with fair curly
brown hair and a skin as white as a woman's where the sun had not tanned
him.
"And he talked to him about how he felt; and the poor fellow said he
felt much better and much worse--that the pain had all gone, but that he
did not think he should ever be well any more.
"This set the brother thinking more and more, but he felt that he could
do nothing that day, and he waited till the next, lying awake all night
thinking of what he would do and how he would do it, till the cold time
about sunrise, when he had given up the idea in despair. But when he
saw the light coming in the east, with the glorious gold and orange
clouds, and then the bright sunshine of a new day, he began to think of
how sad it would be for that young man, cut down as he had been in a
moment, to be left to die when perhaps he might be saved. He thought,
too, about trees that had been cut years before, and which had been
healthy and well ever since, and that morning, feeling stronger in his
determination, he went to the cell where the patient lay, to talk to
him, and the first thing the poor fellow said was:--
"`Tell me the truth, please. I'm going to die, am I not?'
"The young monk was silent.
"`I know it,' said the swineherd sadly. `I feel it now.'
"Brother Anselm looked at him sadly for a few minutes and then said to
him:--
"`I must not deceive you at such a time--yes; but one thing might save
your life.'
"`What is that?' cried the poor fellow eagerly; and he told him as
gently as he could of the great operation, expecting to see the patient
shudder and turn faint.
"`Well,' he said, when the monk had ended, `why don't you do it?'
"`But would you rather suffer that--would you run the risk?'
"`Am I not a man?' said the poor fellow calmly. `Yes: life is very
sweet, and I would bear any pain that I might live.'
"That settled the matter, and the monk went out of the cell to shut
himself up in his own and pray for the space of two hours, and the old
monks said that it was all talk, and that he had given up his horrible
idea; but the prior knew better, and he was not a bit surprised to see
Anselm coming out of his cell looking brave, and calm, and cool.
"Then he took a bottle of plant juice that he knew helped to stop
bleeding, and he got ready his bandages, and his keenest knives, and his
saw, and a bowl of water, and then he thought for a bit, and ended by
asking the monks which of them would help him, but they all shrank away
and turned pale, all but the prior, who said he would help, and then
they went into the poor fellow's cell."
Old Brownsmith stopped here, and kept on stroking one of the cats for
such a long time, beginning at the tip of his nose and going right on to
the end of his tail, that I grew impatient.
"And did he perform the operation?" I said eagerly.
"Yes, bravely and well, but of course very clumsily for want of
experience. He cut off the leg, Grant, right above where the bone was
splintered, and all the terrible irritation was going on."
"And the poor fellow died after all?" I said.
"No, he did not, my lad; it left him terribly weak and he was very low
for some days, but he began to mend from the very first, and I suppose
when he grew well and strong he had to make himself a wooden leg or else
to go about with a crutch. About that I know nothing. There was the
poor fellow dying, and there was a gardener who knew that if the broken
place were cut Nature would heal it up; for Nature likes to be helped
sometimes, my boy, and she is waiting for you now."
"Yes, sir, I'll do it directly," I said, glancing at the stump I had
sawn off, and thinking about the swineherd's leg, and half-wondering
that it did not bleed; "but tell me, please, is all that true?"
"I'm afraid not, Grant," he said smiling; "but it is my idea--my theory
about how our great surgeons gained their first knowledge from a
gardener; and if it is not true, it might very well be."
"Yes," I said, looking at him wonderingly as he smoothed the fur of his
cats and was surrounded by them, rubbing themselves and purring loudly,
"but I did not know you could tell stories like that."
"I did not know it myself, Grant, till I began, and one word coaxed out
another. Seriously, though, my boy, there is nothing to be ashamed of
in being a gardener."
"I'm not ashamed," I said; "I like it."
"Gardeners can propagate and bring into use plants that may prove to be
of great service to man; they can improve vegetables and fruits--and
when you come to think of what a number of trees and plants are useful,
you see what a field there is to work in! Why, even a man who makes a
better cabbage or potato grow than we have had before is one who has
been of great service to his fellow-creatures. So work away; you may do
something yet."
"Yes," I cried, "I'll work away and as hard as I can; but I begin to
wish now that you had some glass."
"So do I," said the old gentleman.
"There!" I said, coming down the ladder, "I think that will heal up
now, like the poor swineherd's leg. It's as smooth as smooth."
"Let me look," said a voice behind me; and I started with surprise to
find myself face to face with a man who seemed to be Old Brownsmith when
he was, if not Young Brownsmith, just about what he would have been at
forty.