The Station Master's Garden.
Walking up and down the platform,
waiting for the southward train,
Breezes brought me scent of flowers
newly washed by falling rain.
In the rush of checking luggage, I had passed unheeding by
Such a homely little garden where Lobelia's blue eye
Smiled across at Black-eyed Susan,
pansies coronation-hued,
And a crimson rose whose petals on the path the wind had strewed.
Made me wonder what was hidden in behind that wooden door?
What the Station Master's life was when his working hours were o'er.
Had he wife, and were her tea cups blue and shaded very fine?
Were they bowl-shaped, greeny golden, set in patterns just like mine?
For a woman's heart spoke to me from the flowers smiling there—
I could almost see her bending over seedlings, with a prayer.
I might wonder on for ever of their lives—here comes my train!
With the others who have gathered, I am hurried off again.
Yet as onward we are moving, still my mind's eye seems to see,
That coquettish little garden breathing messages to me.
When my trip is but a memory I shall savour yet again
One bright spot—a rain-washed garden,
as I waited for the train.

—Ruth M. Johnson.

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