BLACKWELL FAMILY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL SUBJECT FILE Poems by Alice S. Blackwell, PrintedPOET OF THE AIR To the Editor of the transcript: In welcoming Lindbergh, a member of the Mexican Parliament, Enrique Medina, said: "Europe called him the poet of the air. Let him know that we love poets!" This love for poets is characteristic of all the Latin-American nations. Amado Nervo, beloved wherever Spanish is spoken, was ambassador from Mexico to Argentina and Uruguay at the time of his death. Argentina and Uruguay each sent a warship to convey his body home to Mexico, and the Government of Cuba sent out a cruiser to join the escort into Vera Cruz. When aviation was yet new, Nervo have been prophetic of Lindbergh's mission. Calling it "Marvelous bird, colossal white bird," he said to the governments of the world: "Do not stain the heavenly bird with missions of war! It came into existence for messages of good will, and it sows kisses of peace among men." The same poet, well named "The Beloved", wrote another poem, very suitable for the holiday season of peace and good will. It may be thus rendered into English: If a thorn wounds me, I draw back from it; I do not hate the thorn. If, hating me, some bass hand pierces me with malice blind, silent I turn away, and go to find a pure air of love and charity. Rancor? For what? Has good e'er sprung from it? No wound it snatchers, puts no evil right. Scarce has my rose-tree time to bear its flowers; it wastes no vital stop on Thorens of spite. And if my foe should near my rose-tree pass, he shall pick from it many a fragrant bad; and if he sees in them a vivid red, the tint will be the redness of my blood- Blood drawn by his ill will of yesterday, in hatred that it seemed could never cease, and which the rose-tree now in perfume sweet returns to him, changed to a flower of peace. ALICE STONE BLACKWELL Dorchester, Dec. 21.SPRINGFIELD SUNDAY REPUBLICAN plain mold. When firm, turn out, pile ladyfingers and large berries all around, and on top put a layer of whipped cream and berries. THE RUSSIAN REVOLUTION. Poem by Alice Stone Blackwell Read Monday In Boston. At the annual meeting of the Boston uni- versify chapter of the Phi Beta Kappa, Monday afternoon, at 12 Somerst street, Prof George N. Blakeslee of Clark university spoke on the present situation in Russia, and Miss Alice Stone Blackwell read the following poem on the Russian revolution :- What lurid glow lies on the eastern horizon, And stains all the waves of the ocean to blood ? A vast conflagration, engulfing a nation ? A distant volcano that reddens the flood ? 'Tis far, far off yonder; we watch it with wonder,- A portent of good or ill, who can say? Ah, free hearts should know it, for true tokens show it The mighty red dawning of liberty's day ! Our fight lies behind us; the mists of time blind us; Like phantoms those days seem, now clouds of danger, Our youthful Republic arose like a star. We boast of the bravery that freed us from slavery, We hang out our flags on the Fourth of July, And march in procession, and make loud profession. Declaring 'tis comely for freedom to die. But there, they are dying ! Yes, thou- sands are lying In dark, stifling dungeons, in fetters and woe; Or, fate even drearier, toil in Siberia. In mines underground, amid deserts of snow. The peasants are groaning , starved babies are moaning, The smoke of burnt villages blackens the sky; Red stains earth discloses in place of June's roses; Each word that men speak is a curse or a cry. Oh, what is the reason so many a season Pale famine stalks gauntly o'er Russia's rich plains? Why there must men ever be wasted by fever. With typhus and penury sapping their veins ? If the peasant could eat of the cattle and wheat That are raised by his own ever-laboring hand. No longer starvation would curse a whole nation: 'Tis tyranny's Upas-tree darkens the land. Its shadow benighted the harvest has blighted, The rich soil grows barren, the flowing springs fail. No grain that will nourish beneath it can flourish. And fever and death from its foliage ex- hale. Beneath that dim shadow o'er mountain and meadow All other plants pale, and the sunlight is sick; But no trampling can kill it; the blood when they spill it It scattered like seed and the harvest is great. From earth's harassed bosom it springs, that strange blossom The red flower of courage heroic, that blooms Yet redder and brighter where falls some brave fighter; It wreaths the grim scaffold, it blossoms on tombs. Those flowers ruddy-shining we yet shall see twining A chaplet triumphal for Liberty's brow' For ever victorious she rises, and gloious At last, although darkness encompass her now. No tyrants can crush her, and some day vast Russia From mountains to seashore shall harbor no slave; Her fears will have vanished, while famine be banished. And o'er her wide plains the deep harvests will wave. The thought of to-morrow shall soften our sorrow- A morrow when hunger and hatred shall cease. The weak be no longer oppressed by the stronger. And Christian and Jew dwell together in peace. Then Tartar, Armenian, Esthonian, Ruthenian. The Jew and the Cossack, the Pole and the Finn, Escaped from disaster, not slaves of one master, But brothers and free, a new life shall begin. Larger freedom than ours may yet bloom in her bowers, Young Russia, new born! In her wreath will be set. Without cavil or quarrel, one bright leaf of laurel That in our own land has but budded as yet. The women there fight to bring in the new light. Amid dangers so dead that the tale takes our breath; Their hearts blood is flowing; each day they are going To chambers of torture, to exile, to death. No fighters are bolder, and shoulder to shoulder to shoulder They toil with their brothers; when past is the fray, In the new, happy nation they'll hold equal station, As women in Finland possess it to-day. They call him unlettered, this Russian, long fettered; "He is not yet fitted for freedom," they cry. He has gained deeper knowledge than men learn in college- He knows how to suffer, he knows how to die. When darkness and error, and black, haunting terror, Are banished by liberty's light, we shall see That, in spite of long trial and denial, He knows how to live, and be happy and free.GFIELD SUNDAY REPUBLICAN: JUNE 9, 1907 to the nestlings "in a small chattering voice, quite different from her ordinary tones." About this time I fancied that she was beginning to show the effect of overwork, and I was harboring hard thoughts of the irresponsible father, who sang from morning till night, over the way, quite regardless of the needs of his family, when an incident occurred which re-established him in my favor. I was gazing at the nest through my glass, when Candelita uttered a loud, piercing note of terror, which she repeated again and again. Before I could discover the reason for her alarm, there was a flash of black and orange whigs, and the careless musician of the apple trees, transformed into an avenging spirit, was by her side. Such cries and clamor from both birds! And the cause of all the trouble was an innocent cat, who had failed to find his mistress, and had followed her out to the maple tree. I picked up the intruder and carried him home, but it was some time before I was received into favor. The father soon disappeared, perhaps to look after the cat, but Candelita, uttering a sharp, suspicious note, came again and again to the porch, as if to make sure that the enemy had departed. She used this querulous note rather constantly after this. It was entirely different from her cry of terror, her talk to the young birds, or her ordinary careless ditty. But the last act of the play was rapidly approaching. There came a day when the nest was found empty. Two of the nestlings were in the home tree, clamoring for food, the third had disappeared, and I fondly hoped might be in the custody of his father over the way. The next morning there were redstart voices everywhere, and I caught an occational flash of black and orange wings, but Candelita and her nestlings were nowhere to be seen. I recall the sigh of satisfaction with which I made this last entry in my notebook. I had kept my purpose; my observations had been carefully taken and accurately recorded. I had tried to cultivate the scientific spirit, but I was inwardly full of unscientific joy over the successful issue of the business, and I could not rid myself of the feeling that I had assisted in a matter of vital importance. The days were very empty now that Candelita and her family were off my hands. i missed her companionship, and I realized that she had infused charm and character-- I use the word wittingly-- into every act of the little drama I had witnessed. The last of my notes, written with emphasis, was "The male bird does not assist in building the nest, does not bring food to his mate during the sitting, and does not help her in feeding the young birds." Another May had come. The annual visit of the migrants had been of unusual interest; and now that the last one had started on his journey north, I sat idle on the porch under the maple tree, feeling as one does after the departure of charming human visitors. A little bird flew into the woodbine over my head, with a whir of wings that stirred pleasant memories. Before I could turn to look, it had gone; but again I heard the sound, this time nearer than before; and there, balancing among the vines, was Candelita. Once more she was searching for material for a nest; but in her relations with me, she began where she had left off the year before, perfectly fearless, perfectly friendly. I brought her pieces of twine, which she took from my hand, but she was chiefly delighted with bits of white waste cotton, and she used so much of this in building her nest that it resembled a small snowball tucked away among green leaves. She chose a site not far from her old home, and again the pretty drama of the nesting season was enacted before my eyes. I spent more time with the redstart family this year than the last, but it was purely on a personal basis. My faith in statements founded on scientific observation was shaken. The one fact, of which I had felt reasonably sure, and which I had recorded in my notebook the season before was, that the male redstart does not feed his mate, nor assist her in feeding the young birds. This summer, if you please, the male bird was constantly in attendance, fed his mate during the sittings, and assisted her in feeding the young. Had he suffered a change of heart, or does it take more than one season in the bird-world to learn the duties of husband and father? However this may be, I was more than ever convinced that it is as unsafe to generalize about birds as about men. As for Candelita, she was more charming than ever. My hammock had been taken across from the apple trees and hung in the porch, and one of her favorite pastimes was to light on the hammock rope and swing back and forth with me. When the young ones were out of the nest, she brought them down to me. They were on the sidewalk, on the lawn, everywhere under foot. Clumsy little creatures they were at first, but they soon found the use of their wings, and it was not long before they left me and the old maple tree for the wider world of meadows and forests. It is easy to believe in miracles-- on a May morning. To-day, as of old, those who go "wide in the world wonders to hear," do hear wonders and see marvels. So the third coming of Candelita was no surprise to me. I had placed the bits of twine and waste cotton in the woodbine over the porch, and on the anniversary of our first meeting she arrived, dashing into the vines in her impulsive characteristic fashion, uttering the note which had come to be music in my ears. I had some long thoughts as to the probable age of wild birds as I watched her. In this, the third year of our acquaintance, she certainly showed no diminution of vital force. Of her wonderful journey over land or seas she could tell me nothing, nor what marvels from fairyland had befallen her on her way. It was enough for me that she had come. I looked upon her safe arrival as by especial favor of the gods, and upon myself as thrice blest of mortals. "I pray you hear my song of a nest, for it is not long," she sang from morning till night, as she worked, and I felt a strange stirring of the heart as I watched her. But she went about her task with all her old joy and abandon, and in due time the nest was finished, built all of white, as before. Then it happened that I was called away from home for a few days. On going out to the maple tree, on the morning of my return, I was startled to find that the nest was empty. Surely the sitting should have begun. As I lingered about, hoping to catch sight of Candelita, a bird student in the neighborhood stopped to talk. 'O, by the way," she said casually, as she left me, "I found a dead redstart on the sidewalk the day after the big storm. It was a female, and I was so glad to see it close at hand, and to be able to examine the markings." I shall always keep my notes on the feeding habits of redstarts, as reminder of the one and only time when I cultivated a scientific spirit. In memory of Candelita herself, I cherish a small white nest of its branch; of perfect workmanship, dainty, complete, ready for use. The sight of it is suggestive of many things: June sunshine, sifting through the green leaves of an old maple tree; the music of a simple refrain repeated again and again; and the companionship of one of the sweetest and bravest spirits I have ever known.Armenian Poem Cyrus Hamlin --------- BIRTHDAY VERSES Mrs. Mary A. Wood, Miss Alice Stone Blackwell's housekeeper, who has spent the past six summers at Chilmark, attained her 75th birthday on May 30. In former years, she and her husband had charge of the poor farm at Holden, and afterwards at Gardner. Mrs. Wood was much beloved by the inmates. She received the following birthday verses from Miss Blackwell: To Mrs. Mary A. Wood Dear Mrs. Wood, I seek in vain To make a birthday rhyme To celebrate in worthy style Your victory over Time. You've toiled so bravely all your life— Your parents first to aid, Then husband, children, grandchildren— Of labor ne'er afraid. And scores of the unfortunate Have known your kindly care; The blessings of the poor still cast A halo round your hair. Old-time religion shines in you, And all your deeds reflect it; We see real Christianity, And all that see respect it. You do all things as to the Lord, As valiant as can be, With rare old-fashioned faithfulness; And now you toil for me. You cook and clean, you sweep and scrub, With endless dirt you strive. You are not seventy-five years old, You're three time twenty-five! Three modern girls of twenty-five With you could scarcely cope In cleaning; and you make big blocks Of beautiful white soap. Pride of your heart is that fine soap, And all who see admire it; You give some pieces to your friends For all of them desire it. Then happy may your birthday be, Brim-full of love and laughter; And not this birthday only, but All those that follow after. --------- [STORE] OPEN --------- THIRTEEN YEARS OLD --------- Miss Katherine Barry Blackwell, who spends her summers at Chilmark, has a little dog that was thirteen years old on August 12. He received many presents,—eatables, birthday cards, and several sets of verses. One of these was as follows: TO SIR JOCK BARRY BLACKWELL August 12, 1931 Our pretty Jock attains today The age of thirteen years; And he is hale and hearty still, And has good eyes and ears. For thirteen years this dog has been His Lady's joy and pride; She loves him more, I really think, Than all the world beside. She loves his slender little nose, His brown eyes, bright and loving, His pointed ears, pricked up, alert, With each emotion moving. She loves his dainty little paws, With ardor ever new Placed on her knee, in eager quest, When biscuit time is due. She loves his thick, upstanding ruff, Where foes' attacks must fail; But more than all the rest, I think She loves his little tail. It wags with vigor and with vim, His joyous moods revealing; Also, it shows he's not pure bred, And makes him not worth stealing.* Despite his years, he has not reached The age yet of discretion; His love of walking with his Ma Is almost an obsession. When she goes out, his wild barks mark Each step of her progression; He acts as if to make a noise Were really his profession. Mature in age, he still displays The follies of a pup; He gnaws her blankets and her rugs; He chews her slippers up. He sometimes seems a small black imp, He does such naughty things; She says he is an "angel dog," And looks for sprouting wings! Small Barbara finds no fault in him; She does not rudely joke him; She likes to stand and gaze at him, And very gently stroke him. Dear little Jock, long may you live, Your Lady's heart possessing! We wish you health and happiness, And every canine blessing. --------- *The true Schipperkees have no tails. This dog is a cross between a Schipperkee and a Yorkshire Terrier.EasterOrder of Worship ORGAN PRELUDE Mrs. Langeley PROCESSIONAL English Verses 1, 2, 4 142 Armenian 135 DOXOLOGY CALL TO WORSHIP "HAYR, MER" RESPONSIVE READING Reading 646 Page 86 HYMN English 1 Armenian 12 SCRIPTURE READING John 20: 1 - 18 ANTHEM Gloria Choir PASTORAL PRAYER Rev. Mihran Keoroghlian HYMN English Verses 1, 2, 3, 4 130 Armenian 107 ANNOUNCEMENTS SOLO With Verdure Clad Mrs. Robert Stone SERMON Armenian Rev. Jacob Depoyan English Rev. Mihran Keoroghlian OFFERTORY OFFERTORY PRAYER ANTHEM Halleluah Chorus Choir EASTER GREETINGS HYMN English Verses 1, 2, 3 259 Armenian 57 BENEDICTION Rev. Jacob Depoyan POSTLUDE It is with great joy and contentment to have the First Armenian Evangelical Church and the Cilician Armenian Memorial Church together for Communion, Good Friday, and Easter Sunday Services. Though wild may be the weather, Though dark may be the skies, The Joyous bells of Easter Say to our souls "arise!" The spring, to earth returning, Fresh hope and courage brings; It bids us cast behind us All dark and wintry things. The lovely flowers of Easter; Up-sprung in radiant guise; Say Rise as we have risen, And help the world to rise! Alice Stone Blackwell If a man die, shall he live again? But as for me I know that my Redeemer livith and at least he will stand up upon the earth. And after my skin, even this body, is destroyed, then without my flesh shall I see God. The angel answered and said unto the women, Fear not ye; for I know that ye seek Jesus, who hath been crucified. He is not here; for he has risen, even as he said.A Golden Hour. 1893 BY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL. Amid a field of golden flowers she stood-- Blithe buttercups, that met the wooing breeze With nods and becks and swaying courtesies. Where the broad river flowed beside the wood, The sun made golden laughter with the flood, And airy whispers rustled from the trees, Where bees and birds and squirrels dwelt at ease; Love and the year were young, and life was good. Wild daisies in the shining fields were rife-- White-petalled daisies with rich hearts were they; And in each simple flower I could behold An image of the empress of my life, Whose beauty lent new brightness to the day-- A snow white maiden with a heart of gold. -N. O. Times-Democrat. GODDTO M. E. H. ATWOOD ---------- Mrs. Ernest Atwood, after spending the summer at Chilmark, returned on Oct. 2 to her home in Dorchester, where she and her husband celebrated their silver wedding on Oct. 4. Her birthday came on Oct. 5. Miss Alice Stone Blackwell sent the following lines for the double anniversary: Silver wedding and birthday, occurring so near, Form a glad anniversary, double and dear. I remember the wedding--- the girl full of charm, Walking into our parlor on H. B. B.'s arm, And the proud, happy bridegroom. What has she to show For the twenty-five years since that day long ago? A plump, happy husband, who thinks her a dear; A house as well as you'll find, far or near; The twins, whom their teacher (and she was no fool) Pronounced the most trustworthy girls in the school; And Helen, as brilliant as lightning that strikes, And tall, blue-eyed Robert, whom every one likes; And a host of warm friends, for her goodness and kindness Endear her to all not afflicted with blindness. No one finds any fault with her--- nobody could, Except that she's quite too unselfish and good. Her life has flowed on like a silvery stream, Cheering on its way by its music and gleam, While summer and winter, and all through the year, The flowers of kind deeds on its margin appear. Good luck to the Atwoods, and joys without end! Your friends at Cliff Cottage their blessings extend. If all our good wishes were spoons forks and knives, You'd be furnished with silver the rest of your lives. If all your good deeds changed to knives, forks and spoons, Your table would shine like a myriad moons. May you thrive and be happy, and live to behold, In twenty-five years, a glad Wedding of Gold! ----------July 30, 1919. 978 ZION'S HERALD In St. Hubert's Chapel ALICE STONE BLACKWELL "The trees in this secluded spot were chiefly beeches and elms of huge magnitude, which rose like great hills of leaves into the air. Amidst these magnificent sons of the earth there peeped out a lowly chapel. Its architecture was of the rudest and most simple kind. In a small niche over the arched doorway stood a stone image of St. Hubert, with the bugle-horn around his neck. The inside of the chapel was adorned in a manner adapted to the occupation of the saint while on earth. The richest furs of such animals as are made the objects of the chase supplied the place of tapestry and hangings around the altar, and elsewhere mingled with the heads of deer, wolves, and other animals." - Quentin Durward. In the heart of the shady beech forest, afar from the camp and the court, Lies buried the old forest chapel, where hunters no longer resort. Old trees bend their branches above it, about it dark ivy-vines cling; Of old the worn stones of its chancel were pressed by the knees of a king. Here glitter no satins or samites: the skins of the wolf and the boar Are draped for a cloth on the altar, and spread for a rug on the floor. To statelier altars men carry their offerings of jewels and gold; But every rude gift in this chapel was bought with the blood of the bold. Look round, in the glimmering twilight that shines through the dim painted pane, The fox-skins of falsehood and cunning are hung here; the boar's tawny hide, The symbol of passion and fury; the stag's lofty antlers, for pride. How many and many a hero, his name unremembered of men, Has faced the wild boar in his fury, or followed the wolf to his den! What struggles in wilds and waste places have reddened with life-blood the sod! What trophies brave hearts in all ages have brought to the altars of God! Till the greenwood is pleasant to walk in, made free from the perils of yore, And the sod, purpled only with violets, forgets the dark blood of the boar. But the old trees that looked on those conflicts wave slow their weird branches: "We know!" And the laurels that shadow the casements yet sing of them, dimly and low. Tall minsters are builded o'er heroes who fell 'mid the battle-field's flame, Who struck with the sword of the soldier, and live in the annals of fame-- Aye, bright is the fame of the soldier, a clear-shining track of renown! Yet braver, methinks, those old hunters, who ranged through the beech forest brown. Men follow where bugles are calling, and banners stream bright in the sun; They march while the music is marking a thousand strong heart-beats as one; Ah, yes! but these wrestled with monsters alone in the wilderness dread, With none to applaud if they conquered, and none to cry "Shame!" if they fled. Than all of the earth's haughty cathedrals I hold it a holier place, This dim little old forest chapel, hung round with the spoils of the chase. To-day our wild beasts are within us; they haunt the deep caves of the heart; Alone in the silence of midnight their cries make us shudder and start. Nor only within us; around us they range of their errands of ill. Stern gifts to the shrine of St. Hubert the valiant may bring if they will. If ravening beasts of darkness have vanished from the mountain and moor, Great wrongs stalk abroad in the sunlight, devouring the weak and the poor. And the horns of the hunters are sounding-- for those who can hear them they blow Clear, clear in the gray liquid twilight and clear in the dawn's ruddy glow. Imperious, piercing, appealing, they ring over mountain and plain,-- And the souls of the valiant, uprising, go forth to the hunting again.ZION'S HERALD 977 Some of the Contributors to This Number of the "Herald" Dr. John A. Rice, who writes on "The Sermon on the Mount in Religion and Industry," is a leading pastor of the Methodist Episcopal Church, South. He has served commanding pulpits in Montgomery, Ala., Fort Worth, Tex., and St. Louis, and is now pastor of Trinity Church, Sumter. He was for six years president of Columbia College. He has been a member of several General Conferences. He is regarded as one of the progressive forces in the Southern Church, and a leader in the modern interpretation of Christianity in its educational and social application. Sherwood Eddy, "Church Union in India," has for years been prominent as a Young Men's Christian Association worker. He has made several trips around the world delivering addresses before students in Japan, Korea, China, India, Russia, and the Near East. He is the author of "The Awakening of India," "The New Era in Asia," and "The Students of Asia," among other works. He is now on a trip through the Orient. He sends his contribution in the course of travel. Dr. J. Z. Moore, who writes on Japanese atrocities in Korea, is one of the superintendents of Methodist Episcopal work in that country. His article, sent us through the "underground railway," is one of the first authentic descriptions of the persecutions to reach this country. Dr. John C. Ferguson, "The Question of Shantung," is probably the leading authority on Chinese questions in the United States. He was for years adviser to the Chinese government under the old regime, and has held the same position under the republic. Alice Stone Blackwell "In St. Hubert's Chapel" is one of the leaders of the woman's movement in America. She is daughter of Lucy Stone. Contributions from her pen have appeared now and then in the Herald. Among her published works are "Armenian Poems," "Songs of Russia," and "The Little Grandmother of the Revolution." President Ozora S. Davis, who in describing the brief ministerial career of Leonard B. Fuller makes a plea for other young men to enter the ministry, is president of BRIEFLETS The Christian Guardian of Toronto, the able official organ of the Methodist Church of Canada, puts the Irish question in a nutshell when it says: "Let Ireland have home rule, but Ulster must certainly have it too." Bibles to the number of 398,501 had been placed in the hotels of the United States up to April 1 of this year by the Gideons, that alert organization of Christian traveling men. Many will be interested in the announcement that the Methodist Episcopal Discipline is being translated into Burmese. Few books have been printed in as many different languages as has the Discipline -- a convincing evidence in itself of the world nature of Methodism. The articles, "Can We Have a More Spiritual and Democratic Church?" by Prof. John Alfred Faulkner of Drew Theological Seminary, which recently appeared in the Herald, have been published in pamphlet form for general distribution. In discussing the position of Japan in the modern world, and its attitude toward China and other nations, The Christian World of London refers to the fact that the treaty between Great Britain and Japan expires in two years. It then raises the question, "What will she do then? She has always admired German efficiency, and there are leading men in Japan who have held that an alliance with Germany would be the best thing for their country." Therein lies danger. We are pleased to learn, on the au-[*Aug 5/93 W Col] A GOLDEN HOUR. BY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL. Amid a field of golden flowers she stood— Blithe buttercups, that met the wooing breeze With nods and becks and swaying courtesies. Where the broad river flowed beside the wood, The sun made golden laughter with the flood, And airy whispers rustled from the trees, Where bees and birds and squirrels dwelt at ease; Love and the year were young, and life was good. Wild daisies in the shining fields were rife— White-petalled daises with rich hearts were they; And in each simple flower I could behold An image of the empress of my life, Whose beauty lent new brightness to the day— A snow white maiden with a heart of gold. —N.O. Times-Democrat.