Greenfield Republican, Greenfield, Hancock County, 11 April 1895 — Page 7

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EASTER LILIES.

In purple and crimson glory The Easter sunlight poured A flood through the chancol windows

In the temple of our Lord.

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Its waves passed over the altar To bathe the cross with their glow

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And stain the lilies with crimson. Like sunset over the snow.

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Till every fragrant chalice Seemed filled to the brim v.-ith wine, Distilling there into vapor

And rising in clouds divine. Farther and farther the incense Its delicate perfume spread,

Like loving thoughts sent earthward By souls of our happy dead.

With prayers from our hearts uprising, Which mingled an seemed to reach Through the space 'twixt earth and heaven,

So blending them each with each. That my sua! could feel the presence. The smile and the tender -yos Of one who gathers the lilies

In gardens of paradise. -El. F. Blodgett.

AN EASTER FLO WEE,.

BY BENJAMIN NOKTIIRUP.

^Copyright, 1895, by American Press Association.

Jnst out of the city there is a long winding road which takes you over the low hills to the sands on the beach.

A brackish stream of tide water crosses the road, which is spanned by a stone bridge. No one now living was born when this bridge was built. It is cracked with age, stained and moss covered, and in the crevices grass, flowers and tiny shrubs grow. On some of the stones a wandering missionary has painted signs praising God and calling upon the wicked to repent before it is too late.

Over the widest crevice this is painted: "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

Under this in a little grotto some blue violets had grown, snugly sheltered from the sun and storm.

It was late in May or early in June when she came over the cracked stone bridge on her way to the beach. She had never been in the country before. She had been in the park once, but that was when she was a very small child, and she had forgotten almost how^ it looked.

Under the shades of the old bridge the children of the Fresh Air fund stopped for luncheon, and she and the other little girls took oft' their shoes and stockings and paddled in the creek. After the sandwiches and apples, doughnuts and cakes, she found the violets and dug them out. She had never seen anything 80 beautiful before. They were prettier than all the Easter flowers in the oast .iSide shop windows, and they smelled

BWeeter. Besides that, she herself had found them, and they were her own. All afternoon, while the Other children played in the sands, she played with her violets, picking the soft black earth from their roots to see how small and pink they were, and opening and closing the half blown buds to see the fresh blue hid under the green shells. If some older girl who knew all about the country and wild flowers, this being her second summer in the Fund, if this experienced girl had not told her that violets cannot stand such prying treatment, they never would have lived to reach tho town.

It is not far from down Rye way at the stone bridge to down Battery way at tho sea wall. Two hours. That is all if you tako a fast train, and violets will livo a long timo when you bury their roots in moistened earth and let the blossoms alone. Therefore, when she reached her home in Battle Court, the flowers wero as almost fresh and sweet as they were in their grotto in the bridge.

A cracked stone pitcher became their new home, and on pleasant days they ip stood outside on the kitchen window sill sand looked down on the stone flagged

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SHE FOl'ND THE VIOLETS.

courtyard. Long before midsummer came they had seen more of life than they and all the other violets along the Rye *oad could ever have dreamed of, giving violets imaginations equal even to their fragrance.

They saw Blind Flaherty, the beggar man, beat liia lame boy over by the sink Until the police came in, and after them an ambulance- One awful afternoon they saw the wife of Micky Donovan, the prizefighter, .jump from the fifth

story window of her room and fall on tho pavement in a sprawling heapwhite, black and red—and she did not even moan when she was picked up.

They also saw Paddy McKeever, him that drives the baker's cart, meet Sally just outside the gate in the shadow the night before they ran away and were married. They liked this, and they also liked tho hand organ man who sometimes played in the street outside the court while the children danced to its strains. These things reminded them of the country road, and they were better for seeing and hearing them. It is a great mistake to think that wild flowers forget their country homes when they are planted in town pots. If you do not believe this, just take your spring flowers back to the brook meadows and see how quickly they will revive at one whiff of the fresh, soft air.

In stormy weather she took them inside the room, and when tho weather grew cold they stood on a shelf facing the window beside the stove, where it was always warm.

That is the way the violets lived from early in May or late in Juno until tho winter had gone and Easter had almost

Up town there is a great church. It is rich and beautiful. Tho sunlight that streams through tho stained windows is purple, blue and golden, and sometimes the figure of a saint wondrously colored is cast across the chancel floor.

Tho little girl who picked the violets used to go to this great church, and she was welcomed here because it is a great church.

Good Friday, with its seven services, had passed, and the Lenten trappings of gloom were being taken away to make place for the Easter flowbrs. There were lilies, roses, orchids, violets, palms and flowering shrubs. There were great wreaths of greens hung from the pulpit, and the baptismal fount was all white and pink. Rare and common, hothouse and wild flowers were massed together. They were all love offerings, and this is the reason that a simple bunch of blue wild violets found a place in one corner of the altar almost hidden by a splendid display of roses. Only one person saw them, except the young women of the Altar guild, who, laboring for love, arrange the flowers for Easter and other feast days.

She sat in one of the front pews, and she was dressed in plain black, very plain and common black, such as other washerwomen wear when their children die. She saw the violets, and her one wish was that the little girl who had brought them to town from the old stone bridge and had cared for them all year for this very Easter altar were only alive to see them too.

It was a great congregation befitting a great church and a still greater feast day. From tho doors to the chancel rail

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IIE I'llESSED THEM TO HIS LIPS.

every pew was filled, and there were chairs in tho aisles. These were filled, too, and back of them all men and women stood. The front pews in this church are given up on Easter day to tho poor of the parish. The children fr_ :ii tho orphanage and the caped and bonneted women from the Aged One's homo filled several rows on the right, and on the left were tho men and women and children who on ordinary Sundays sit far back under tho gallery over tho vestibule. They teach that God's Son roso from the dead on Easter day for rich and poor alike in this great church.

Tho chimes in the belfry had finished their song, the big A bell had given the last of its three taps, and the suborganist in the choirroom had taken his note from it. "Onward, Christian Soldiers," was tho hymn, and tho great congregation outside heard it sung behind closed doors. Thon came the "Amen," ^)uder than the melody, richer and fuller.

Tho choirroom doors opened, and tho choristers, robed in white and black, marched cut. The great organ in the chancel caught up tho air and led the singers. First came tho trebles, sweet and high. Then the altos, they camo next, and made a second in the harmony. After them came the tenors, and last of all the bassos. Then the harmony was complete: Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war, With the cross of Jesus going on before.

That is the refrain. That is what tho whole choir sang as they faced each other from the opposite sides of the chancel, and its mighty strains rang through the church like the strain of a band marching at the head of an army into battle.

After the service came the sermon. The preacher was an old man, with White, silken hair. You have seen a skein of silk on a cold day. Tho threads stand out, one apart from the other. That is the way his fine white hair stood out from his hoad. It was like a nimbus frosted. His voice was low and soft and sweet. Ho had sung as a treble in that shoir 50 years before. Then he was a tenor, and now for more than(..80 years be had been the rector, "I am going to say something to you "today that I have said to you every Easier day for 80 long years."

That is tho way the sermon began. "Christ, m£ children, rose troih tho dead on Easter c(ay, but before he rose ae died. ,8oino,.dar we may rise and

join him in everlasting glory in paradise, but before we shall rise from tho dead we must die. We all must.die, but when? Shall we be prepared when our summons comes? Are we prepared to die now? Yes, now. Why not? Wo know not when our time shall come. Every Easter day for one long generation I have repeated this warning as I do today. And among those who heard me there were many who were not alive to hear moon the following year. Some of you must die before next Easter day. When death comes to you, will you be unprepared? Shall tho blood 5f him who died that we might live al'way be shed in vain in even one sinlge instance? This —is—for—you—alone—to—say.

Even the choir listened to this. Tho boys stopped fidgeting, and the men sat very still. Tho woman in blackjooked at the bunch of violets on thie altar, and tears fell upon her gloves.

That was what he said, although he used more words then I have dono and took a longer time to say it, and after he left the pulpit and joined the assistant ministers back of the chancel rail there were more wet eyes than the washerwoman's in that great church, and there were many promises made for the coming year that the makers will not live to keep.

Early Easter Monday tho ladies of the Altar guild were again at work. The flowers which had been lent for the festival were returned to their owners. The chancel stairs were thronged with serving men and maids waiting to carry thom home. The other flowers—the cut stalks from the florists, the bouquets from the hothousos and the little bunch of wild violets—were taken away in a wagon to a hospital. The sick have their Easter on Monday.

It was in a long white floored ward. Near the end of it stood an iron cot by a window. This was Jim's cot. Jim was a newsboy before a street car had cut off one of his legs. Before that he had been in the Fresh Air fund, and he loved the country with a love that the real country boy never dreams of until ho has grown to be a city man.

They carried down this long ward these fine flowers from the Easter altar —roses, orchfds, lilies and still more roses. Their fragrance made the air heavy, and tho lame boy turned his faco toward ,tho window.

After all had been distributed a nurse brought to him a spray of wild violets. They wore all that was left. He took them in his hands and pressed them to his lips. Then he said something about the country so low that the nurse couldn't catch it and fell asleep.

A Famous Egg Dance.

There is a pretty account of the marriage of Marguerite of Austria with Philibert, tho handsome duke of Savoy. It is called "Marriage aux oeufs. She had come to the castle of Brae, in tho charming district of Bresse, lying on the western slopes of the Alps. Here the rich princess kept open house, and Philibert, who was hunting in the neighborhood, came to pay his court to her.

It was Easter Monday, and high and low danced together on the green. A hundred eggs were scattered in a level space, covered with sand, and a lad and lass, holding each other by the hand, came forward to execute a dance of the country. According to tho ancient custom, if they succeeded in finishing tho brauje without breaking a single egg they became affianced.

Then Philibert, radiant with youth and happiness, appeared upon the scene. Ho bent his knees bofore the noble chatelaine and besought her hospitality. He proposed to her to try the egg fortune. She accepted. Their grace and beauty charmed the onlookers, and they succeeded, without a single crash, in threading tho perilous maze. "Savoy and Austria!" shouted the crowd. And she said, "Let us adopt the custom of Bresse."

They were married and enjoyed a few years of exquisite happiness. Then the beloved husband died. Marguerite survived ivirn long, but never forgot !r ii.

GREENFIELD RKPCBL1QAN, THURSDAY APRIL 11, 1895.

CURIOUS RUSSIAN OBSERVANCES.

Easter Is the Muscovite Cleaning Day. Making tire Holy Chrism Oil.

Easter is the greatest national religious festival of Russia. Holy week ushers in a constant season of prayer and somberness. The clubs are closed and street musicians forbidden to ply their trade. Easter is the timo for giving presents, just as Christmas is with us, and every one puts on a new suit of clothes on Easter morning. The shopkeepers' fever only rages during the latter half of the week, for on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of Holy week all commerce is suspended.

Another great feature of Russian Eastertjde is tho housecleaning. The floors 'of the' principalJapartments are turned into what a stranger might suppose was a skating rink, but is actually the effect produced by two or three men skimming over the boards with brushes fastened to the soles of their feet and sometimes accompanying the motion with song. At Easter timo in Russia cleanliness, instead of being the next thing to, actually is, godliness, and in observance of this maxiiii "there ensues one groat universal Muscovite wash. The public baths are crowded, and he who neglects to bathe "early and often" is regarded as a pariah.

A celebration which takes place about once in three years is tho making of the holy chrism, a ceremony performed invariably either at Moscow or Kiev. The chrism oil is used for baptismal purposes, for the consecration of the metropolitan and the coronation of the czar. The making of tho myro, as the oil is called, begins on the Monday morning of Passion week. Tho metropolitan attends at the sacristy of the patriarchs in Moscow, lights a fire, pours in a gallon and reads the gospel, and after this the oil is kept boiling for three days and nights, while inonks stand over and stir it with silver ladles.

The final ceremony takes place when the oil is put into two silver caldrons upon a porcelain stove and stirred with silver ladles by six deacons in vestments of black and silver. In the center of the room is a large silver vase, the gift of Empress Catherine II, and into this the chrism is poured to receive the benediction. At the side are placed a number of smaller silver vases in which the oil is eventually sent away. People attend in crowds to dip bits of cotton wool in the holy mixture. On Holy Thursday there is a procession from the sacristy to the Cathedral of the Assumption with the oil vases, and mass is said by the metropolitan. In the intervening years, when there is no' making of the myro, that ceremony is replaced by the washing of the feet of tho poor.

Bad Keg's Kevenge.

How to ICtch Eggs.

There are many ways of coloring and ornamenting Easter eggs. A simple way is to sew them up in highly colored prints before boiling. There is one way to engrave eggshells. Take an egg that has been blown and stop up the ends with wax. Then write or draw any delign desired with varnish or taWovv. Then drop the pgg into a weak acid like vinegar. In a little while the acid will ilecompose the lime ill the shell, except where the lines are marked by the varnish or tallow, and the latter will stand

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boltf relief.

WITHIN CLOISTERS.

Solemn Services of Holy Week Behind Convent Walls.

The world is very wide awake and noisy in the spring of Easter week. On the street the boys sell huge bouquets, crying their blooming wares with hoarse voices. In the shops the tired saleswomen work early and late. In the churches there are crowds of chattering people who make wreaths and talk in garrulous fashion. There are rooms where tho gaslight burns far into the spring morning. That is where the weary dressmaker is hurrying her work.

The orchestras are rehearsing new music, the actresses are planning new dresses, the florists are haggling about the price of a rose, the choir leaders are nervous and anxious, the new clergymen are wondering if their Easter service will be a success, and there are still jealousy and heartache among the women over their Easter bonnets.

In the convent garden it is very quiet and different, says the San Francisco Examiner. The lilac tree near the wall is in bloom, and the little altar of tho Blessed Virgin in the arbor is draped with the yellow sprays of the blossoming currant. There is no one in the garden except a bent little sister, with a sweet, worn face. She is watering a little bed of pansies, but inside the big brick convent there is a sound of many feet. The sewing class is just over, and the girls are filing out into the study hall to put away their workboxes—the big, cool, clean study hall, with its shining floor and very straight clean chairs.

As the girls enter they drop a deep courtesy to a tall figure robed in black, which sits upon the platform. Then each girl, after she puts away her box, walks quietly to one of the chairs. The tall nun at the desk shuts a little signal box she holds in her hand, there is a sudden rap, and all tho girls are seated. "Children," says tho religieuse, "we are entering upon a season of great joy. Let us prepare ourselves. Tonight the rGtreat will begin."

She makes a pretty, gentle little address and urges every child to put away all worldly thoughts and make herself worthy to celebrate the glorious Easter. She calls thom children, yet there are girls of 18 or 20 among the crowd. In a convent every one is a child.

The refectory is big and bare and set round with long tables. There is a reading desk in the middle, but no one reads tonight. The retreat has begun. Silent sisters efrter noiselessly and pass the food to the silent girls. When the meal is done, there is a.big dish of warm water passed. Each girl thrusts in her spoon, her knife and her fork and wipes them.

It is warm in tho garden yet, and the girls go out there. They walk in little groups of three and five. A fesv of them, walk alone. All of thom aro telling their beads, with a murmur as of humming bees. The big bell rings. It's timo for evening prayers. There is a snap of the signal box every ono rises. Another snap they form in line. Another snap they turn and walk from tho room, their footsteps echoing on tho hard floors. At the door they turn and courtesy.

It is 7:30 o'clock—bedtime at the convent. There is a glimmer of light in the west yet, but the blinds are closely drawn. Up stairs in the dormitory there are rows and rows of white beds, hung with snowy curtains. In the middle of the room is a table with a slate on it. If any one wants a collar or a handkerchief, she writes upon the slate and signs her number. In tho morning the article she asked for will be there, folded upon her neat pile of clothing.

In a few minutes the rustling behind the white curtains ceases. A velvet footed religieuse walks from bed to bed to see that all are quiet. Then her low voice sounds distinctly through the room: "Sacred heart of Jesus, immaculate heart of Mary/'

From behind the curtain comes the answer, "I givo you my heart. Up in the chapel the nuns are praying—praying that the coming retreat may be full of blessings to the "children of the Sacred Heart.

Before 6 o'clock the next morning there is a long line of veiled figures filing into the chapel. They are all plainly clad and dressed in black. Each one carries a prayer book and her beads. The candles on the altar twinkle bright, yet far away. The incense swingers swing their burden monotonously. The breath of the lilac comes in at the window, and the day is begun. There are services in the chapel many times that day.

On Good Friday morning the very small children are just a little frightened when they see the chapel. The golden draperies aro gone from the altar, the flowers have vanished, and all the twinkling lights are gone. It is gloomy and grewsome in the chapel when the altar lights are gone.

In front of the altar a row of nuns kneel with their arms out like a cross. Some of the larger girls are allowed to kneel there, too, and many of them are sobbing. One of them stays so long that she is borne out fainting. To the younger children the gentle sisters tell the old, old story of the dreadful day when Christ was crucified. It is so quiet aud so dark in tho chapel and the face of the pictured Christ is so sad that the little ones are frightened.

When the evening prayers are said, the girlish voices pour in the gloomy grandeur of the "Stabat Mater.

Long after the lights in tho dormitory are out the nuns kneel before the altar with outstretched arms, aud the little children dream that night of tears.

The next day there are prayers and vespers again. The children hope. Their sins begin to seem less hopeless. In the evening there is confession.

Then comes the glad Easter morning. The girls put on snowy veils. The chapel is a blossom with flowers. There is a burst of ecstatic music. "Kyrie Eleison—Christi Eleison."

The nuns' faces are alight with a glorious radiance. The lilac tree swings her purple and white branches like a censer.

Christ is risen,

Huts i«8i indeed.

AT EASTER.

When Easter comes, the church bells

round of cunning pranks.

But that's like a man..

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loudly

ring out notes of joy and thanks. When Easter comes, the busy Cupid starts

his

EASTER ETCHINGS.

A Few Loose Leaves From a Notebook of Life.

What a bonnet it was! The Very bandbox that it came in seemed to appreciate tho value and magnificence it contained —such a substantial, well varnished, responsible bandbox. Up the steps the messenger carried it and rang tho bell. Her husband felt a chill como such as that we experience when, according to the old gossip, somebody walks over our future grave.

It was Easter, and if one can't have a new bonnet after the Lenten deprivation and abstinence, when is one entitled to one anyway?

Mrs. Frontpew tried it on in the parlor and said her husband was a duck. Never was there a husband so good and kind and with such taste.

The doorbell rang again. Another messenger boy camo up. "This is Mrs. Frontpaw's bonnet," said the messenger. 'The other ono was left by mistake. It should have gone to Mrs. Slyly, next door.

With a blanched I'aco she gave back tho bonnet and looked at her own. Bird for bird, feather for feather, flower for flower—it was the same as the other.

That is why Mrs. Frontpew was not in church on Easter and why .Frontpew has been taking supper down town and looks liko a man upon whom great woe is fallen.

How could he tell? The milliner merely showed him a pretty headdress", and ho ordered one made up liko it.

"The Destruction of the Poor Is Tlietr Poverty."

A little: pot of mignonette stood in the wiiido'.v of a crowded tenement. A poor woman bend over it and tenderly plucked a withered leaf from its fresh green crown. Tho sun shone gayly on the bluo bay, and tho woxSan stood watching tho littie glint of dancing water she could just see between the houses.

She put a tiny sprig of tho faded mignonette in her faded dress and took down her shabby bonnet. Then she walked as far as she could to get a good breath of fresh air. She passed a church door standing open and heard a burst of music. So she wandored timidly in and sat humbly down in a quiet corner.

The altar was fair with flowers. The woman drew a deep breath of delight when she saw tho lilies.

A man took hold of her arm. "You're in somo one's pew, he said roughly. Tho woman rose nervously. "I'm sorry, she stammered. "Where are the free seats?" "There ain't no free seats in this church," sneered the man.

Tho woman hurried out. She put her thin hands upon the bunch of mignonette. The clergyman was announcing his text. She just heard it as she passed through the swinging doors: "He was despised, rejected, a man of sorrow and acquainted with grief.."

Toil Not Nor Spin.

A very untidy and reprehensible person hurried up the steps of a big house early Sunday morning. Her hair was untidy, and her shoes were run down at tho heel. She talked to herself, too—a disgraceful habit. "Hot coffee and two eggs. Yes, the two eggs for Easter," she whispered as she rang the bell. Her eyes shone. A plump little rosebud of a girl opened the door. The woman smiled eagerly. "I've finished it," she gasped "Well, it's about time," scolded Miss Rosebud. "You had no business to keep me in such suspense. I've worried my»v self almost sick."

She took tho bundle and hurried up stairs. "Please," faltered the reprehensible person, "please, the money. 1 worked all night"— "Come some other time," said Miss Rosebud over her shoulder "Don't bother me now."

The untidy woman went down the steps. Her lips trombled, but Miss Rosebud had the loveliest dress of all the lovely new dresses in the big church on the avenue that morning. At least that's what one young man in the congrega« tion said, and he ought to have known.

Easter Card.

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