USA > California > Alameda County > Oakland > Silver jubilee memorial Convent of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, Oakland, Cal., 1868-1893 > Part 9
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Echoes of the Past ; how harmoniously they blend with the realities of the Present1 Looking back through the vista of years, a quaint but hallowed picture meets our enraptured gaze, in the sim- ple, zealous Padre, the untutored Indian, the quiet grazing flocks-
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THE FIRST RELIGIOUS FESTIVAL IN RAMONA
all making a strange contrast with this busy, progressive age of ours. Yet, the grand Catholic principle, the yearnings of dear Mother Church for the salvation of souls, underlie all this rustic simplicity.
To-day we ascend to a higher plane. Forms have become more refined, culture more sought after ; still we cling to the teachings of the old faith, that Religion and morals are the basis of the social fabric, without which education is a mere sham, and without which, woman, who has such a grand part to play in the regenerating of society and in the raising of the moral standard, utterly fails in the task which has been allotted her by Divine Providence.
We trust, therefore, to realize this ideal, in the young ladies who go from beyond the portals of this Institution.
We thank your Lordship most heartily for the high solemnity you have lent to this festival. We thank the generous donors who have contributed to the building of this Institution ; the Rev. Clergy, friends and acquaintances, who have enhanced the impor- tance of this occasion by their kind and friendly encouragement. We thank one and all for this lovely day on Convent Hill, which will ever be " a thing of beauty " in our reminiscences, and there- fore, in the words of the poet, "a joy forever."
1 Read by MISS EDITH SHORB,
On the occasion of the Dedication of the Ramona Convent.
I Wonder *
Pray tell me, philosopher dreaming, Or scientist learned and wise, ·What is the wonderful beauty That shines in the baby's eyes?
We all love the little darlings, And none of us know just why, I fear you lovers of learning Are too wordly to guess if you try.
And rocking the tiny cradle With a lullaby soft and low The answer came like a whisper To the secret I longed to know.
The depths of the wee eyes vision A glimmer of turquoise blue- A patch of heavenly brightness Dipped in heavenly dew.
The baby's smile is surely, A beam of the sunshine of love, Caught in its wings as it fluttered To earth from its cradle above.
The meaningless lisp of the baby, Is all it remembers quite, Of that story of peaceful promise It sang the first Christmas night.
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I know now why these spirits Of wonderful baby-land, Creep into our hearts and boldly Their tenderest love demand.
You are dear little cherubs of Paradise, Lost in a world of sin ; And our truest peep of God's glory, Is the glimmer that you bring in. LUCILE EDWARDS.
Convent of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, Oakland, Cal.
Behold the mother surrounded by her children, these golden links in the chain of Love that bind her to the earth, but the fetters are pleasant and not again for wealth untold would she be free. As she and her little ones watch the dusky shadows of night falling upon the earth, I mark that the mother keeps the thoughtful eyes of the maiden and the happy smile of childhood's bright day. As they gaze upon the stars that come forth one by one and she tells them of that Home beyond the skies, the little eyes are filled with wonder and the little hearts with awe. Later with unutterable ten- derness and a silent prayer for her darlings, she bends over them as they lie in the slumbers of innocence, then kneeling, how fervent is her prayer! Self is forgotten-her only cry is for her children. How steadfast, how tender, is a mother's love. Truly has it been said "it is like no other love." How patient with us in sickness, how true in misfortune's dark hour! Her heart is our asylum in our troubles, her counsel is as balm to the heart seared and scorched by passion's stormy breath. O ye Mothers, shall your Children ever know the tears that you have shed for them, the pains you have endured for them, or the swords of sorrow they have plunged into your hearts! Ah, never! God alone knows and to Him your suffer- ings are as pearls beyond price .- Mamie Lafferty.
piders
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When Summer comes, and the days are warm and dreamy, perhaps you will decide to go to the arbor and be lazy. You acknowledge that you have an especial fondness for this arbor so shady and quiet, and apparently the Spiders are fond of it, too; for there are thousands of them there, with whole villages of their webby homes stretched in the foliage around you.
There happens to swing amid the shadows of this peaceful arbor, quite the dreamiest of hammocks, and, as you lie entangled in it, looking like an entrapped butterfly in a colossal spider-web, you slowly, half unconsciously begin a mute friendship with those queer, black, ugly things that everyone abhors-the Spiders. Soon you begin to " weave a web of similes "about them, and in that web they grow like so many things, and take so many forms, that you almost doubt whether they will ever appear to you again the plain, old, ugly things that you went through childhood fearing.
Now and then you feel quite compassionate toward Spiders, _ and think them abused and ill-treated far oftener than they deserve, though you acknowledge that at times, they certainly look and are most villainous. You are even quite prejudiced against a certain class that live in those irregularly pitched, dusty, cat-a- cornered webs, for these Spiders always seem to be making eyes at passing flys, and plotting murderous assaults upon them; or plan- ning schemes for kidnapping young and innocent insects. To this despicable set, also belong what you call Witchspiders, for there are some that look wonderfully like witches, as they sit at the door of their little round cells, with their weird fingers stretched out over their webs, in which you think they must weave strange stories, fates and fortunes, which they spread out to tempt the un- wary winged traveler to pause and read. Alas for him if he does, for he will never go forth again to reveal them!
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But the other Spiders! those that build fine skeleton webs, round in shape, which they generally weave over open spaces. This class you are sure must be of higher instinct. You love to watch their lovely webs so patiently, skillfully and beautifully woven. You look upand see them now stretched over bits of light that seem to be condensed as they pass through the thick foliage, and grow brighter. so bright, that they seem to your fancy, miniature suns in a sky of green ; and the Spiders like mimic transits, as they move in their webby orbits over the suns among the leaves. You certainly take great pleasure in watching these spider-transits, and you are always calling these leg-radiating stars, "queer things." You have just turned and made yourself quite uncomfortable in your hammock, to get a better look at one of the "queer things," that is languidly strolling over the woven floor of a web quite close to you. What mute enjoyment he seems to be taking in the gauzy perfection of his " web-spun castle in the air." You feel quite sad when you think of some thoughtless wind, or heedless hand ever destroying it ; and yet how many webs just as beautiful, seem ever doomed for destruction : but soon the patient Spider will weave a new web over the ruins of the old. Ah, this is a long, long thought for you, so long, that though the shadows have begun to lengthen, they fall upon you unheeded ; nor do you see them weave themselves into a criss- cross web upon the ground, and in that web they play with your shadow image entangled there. Still you look as if you felt the influence of some binding charm, you are so quiet, so thoughtful.
You may have finished your long, long thought, perhaps only to begin another. O bewildering Spiders! they are a puzzle of legs and webs, but you are determined to solve it. But not now, for the twilight has come and is quickly putting away the webs and shadows into the dark, and your thoughts about to finish their ram- ble, have come home like tired birds from their fancy flight among the webs and Spiders, weary, silent. Ah, they will be wiser birds to-morrow and stay at home, and then perhaps they will sing you an oft repeated song of " hopes and fears" which will bring you back
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to Reality, that you may there recall that half-forgotten, half-woven web,-your life. Sacred web of thoughts and acts, is it ever to lie tangled with hopes and fears? Is there no moral Spider within you to smooth it out, no patient will to weave a better web to-morrow than the one that was woven to-day? Perhaps to-morrow will tell, but before then you will have blessed the Spiders, and slowly made the confession that they were wonderfully wise old teachers when they gave you their web for a lesson.
CONSTANCE MCKEAND.
Convent of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, Oakland, Cal. 5
Courage
Courage ! faint heart, fear not the burden That is laid on your soul to-night ; A comforting angel is near you Who will pity and make it seem light.
For with looks uplifted to Heaven, His home and yours too, you know,
He is asking the Master to strengthen The soul He is striking so low.
He hears the heart moan, and wonders That such should be thine to bear,
Ah ! the thought comes quickly after --- His Son did a thorn-crown wear.
Then, never more seek to wander, Be cheerful in sunshine and rain,
Content that the Father looks on thee, To see if His child thou'lt remain.
Courage ! then, faint heart, never despair ; Courage ! and wait for the morrow, When the dull clouds of care shall vanish away,
Thou wilt wonder what was thy sorrow .- Kate L. O'Neill.
Bridal Veil Fall, yosemite
I saw it when the moonlight kissed it With pensive beam and fair, Weaving with bright noiseless fingers Diamonds in its flowing hair. I saw it when the moonlight crowned it With a halo soft of light, While its gentle voice sang softly Love songs to the peaceful night.
I heard its voice far in the distance Murmuring tenderly and sweet, Echoing through the lonely mountains Like the tread of fairest feet.
Sweetest waters of the Valley! Is thy source far in the skies, In some cloud that crowns some mountain Rising vast before mine eyes? Ahl methinks the angels passing Drink beside thy limpid wave, And from their bright lips thou stol'st Thy love songs tender and grave. Ay! methinks their lips have taught thee The restful song thy sweet voice sings, And thy glistening, fleecy whiteness, Thou didst steal from their white wings.
JOSEPHINE HALE.
Convent of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, Oakland, Cal.
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The First gnow-Fall
Down, down comes the light-footed snow, covering a green California landscape. Nearly fifteen years have I lived on the smil- ing Pacific Coast and never yet has the soft, feathery, dove-like snow visited us. It vests our trees and shrubs in a light glimmering mantle, and completely envelops the long cypress hedge in a pure valenciennes-lace, looped up here and there by a refractory twig that has protested against this new suit of white so strange yet so inexpressibly beautiful. It is an Eastern picture causing all our thoughts to fly to the home of our youth, and making our fingers tingle for a snow-ball frolic. Eastern I say, yet not so, because the jolly snow-elves have come on a surprise-party and instead of cloth- ing bare branches, they try to hide the emerald perennial verdure that peeps out everywhere and laughs at them. The haughty ever- greens and everlastings repel such liberties and rise out of the snow carpet. Here is a patch of lovely green grass softly kissed by the fleecy crystals.
And the flowers, oh! the sweet flowers! There I spy the red- hooded nasturtiums hiding, not under the smooth coverlet, but peeping out on the world at large. Here that creamy beauty, the tea-rose, inclines its head under the great load, and the sweet little buds that had mistaken winter for spring will not believe their eyes. In every direction the trailing vines shake out their long tendrils in the snowy air. The scarlet flowers of the passion-vine on the grotto of Our Lady, lay their cheeks on the white stones. How sweet the statue of the Virgin looks in her cloak of blue 'mid those immacu- late surroundings. Every one exclaims: "Oh! I hope the snow will keep till to-morrow "! We are even afraid that some stray sun-
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beam will come and destroy our glimmering treasure. Alas! alas! it will soon disappear. I see it already losing its hold on the roofs where it lies so secure and smiling. The weather has commenced to drop tears over our disappointment. Thus with all our earthly joys-ever pleasing and ever-fleeting.
May the New Year bring us no deeper sorrow.
Oakland, Dec. 31, 1881.
Live not to yourself Alone *
Swaying in the soft gentle breath of morn, with the sunbeams glinting o'er its frail form, a blushing rose sang with the early choristers, sang in the voice of perfume : "I live not for myself alone, but even my little life has a loving mission to fulfill in God's great field of labor. I live to flood the atmosphere with my sweetest incense, and to speak and bring happiness to man's immortal soul. In the sunny tresses of the maiden I quietly nestle, and softly blush on the heaving bosom of the bride. Pale and silent I kiss the coffin-lid of the dead, or pleading at Our Lady's feet, I breathe a . prayerful incense. Into my dewy depths the fairy humming-bird dips its dainty bill and darts on its gleaming way, refreshed with the nectar of my sweets. To the toiling bee I give the cloying honey with which he delights the taste of man. My odorous beauty breathes forth bright, gentle, holy thoughts, like a wreath of sunshine on life's troubled hours. Thus ever is my mission unselfish, thus ever do my delicate petals and dewy cup speak of God's goodness and beauty ;
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and, whether born in the tender sunshine or in the sombre shadow, not for myself alone do I bud and blossom here, but to brighten this tear-dimmed earth.
High up on the bleak mountain-side, dim in the purple-blue distance, towers, lone and sad, an old oak-tree, waving its leafy banners to and fro. As it stands in the midst of desolation with nothing in this barren spot to which it can bring joy, something within you whispers that surely this tree lives to itself. "Not so," indignantly rustles the oak, " God never made me for a purpose so small. Four score and ten springs have smiled upon me, four score and ten summers have danced lightly o'er my boughs, while full as many autumns have touched my mantle with softest tints of crim- son, gold and purple, and died into the bleakness of winter. Through all these years I have stood firm and undaunted, welcoming to my heart all who sought a refuge there, and into my arms each night I gathered the noisy birds and rocked them to sleep. In the still summer days when the sun casts its fevered rays upon the parched earth, the panting flocks fly to me and fall at my feet in the grateful shade which my waving branches cast upon them. In my bosom the soaring eagle builds his lonely nest, and when wintry storms shake me to my very roots, the proud bird rests secure in the shelter of my strong arms. In the dreamy summer-time the gauzy-winged butterfly flutters through the lace-work of my leaves and floats away again like a bright-colored blossom of the air. When the angry elements have united in war against each other, thunderbolts have burst at my feet, while my bosom has been seared and pierced by the lightning stroke which otherwise would have destroyed the weary traveller. The shrieking winds wrest from me my wealth of acorns and strew them over the earth. Years roll on, and what were once those tiny cups are now countless groves of trees which claim me as their parent. When God wills that I shall stand no longer, I shall fall by the hand of man and I will go to strengthen his ship which makes him lord of the ocean. And when the howling winds moan across the dreary moor, I will crackle upon the ample
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hearth and cast a ruddy glow upon the happy faces grouped around me. Now tell me, thoughtless one, if I live for myself."
Speak to the rushing streamlet that, blithe and boisterous dances adown the slanting hill. Now sparkling in the light, now sombre in the shadow, ever it bounds on heeding naught. But its merry voice rings out on the air, and as it bubbles over rock and pebble, kissing fern and blossom, its sweet song comes to me: "Mid snow-silvered precipices I found my icy course; but tired of my useless life so far above the earth, I broke my chilly fetters and in the quiet of midnight I plunged down the snow-mantled crags. Along my winding way I scatter life and health on every side. I ripple through the grassy meads and leave them gay with flowers. I meander through the pleasant valleys and sweeten the languid air in dreamy June, while from the rustling grasses that line my margin, the lark soars to greet the rising sun. I cheer the drooping summer flowers, refresh the thirsty cattle and weary birds, and sprinkle with modest daisies the golden corn fields. The sun loves me and draws me to him in waves of feathery vapor, and in the fresh spring days I float in great fleecy clouds through the blue expanse above. A chilly wind disturbs my garnered drops and lo! abrupt and loud I fall as glistening rain. I jewel the dainty blue-bell with my sparkling drops, and at sunrise, behold I have begemmed every blade of the lowly grass. Thus ever will I comfort man, and I will rise and fall, rise and fall till my loving mission is over."
Walk forth in the still calm night beneath the great dome of the sky; gaze upward upon that deep-blue expanse gleaming with color and brilliancy; see that distant star which beams tranquilly and softly upon you; whisper your question upon the midnight air, and the answer comes down the path of light: "Not for myself alone do I rise and set and sparkle in the diadem of the night. I have a wondrous work to perform-the holding together of a myriad of shining worlds. My rays beam alike on the great and the lowly, on the rich and the poor, bringing comfort to all. Many a time have I guided the poor lost sailor, from a hopeless realm of waters
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to his home and waiting mother. I am a mighty world supporting upon my bosom countless immortal beings worshipping the same Creator as you. Within my tiny zone I will ever linger, and with my bleak mountains and shadowy valleys, will ever sing my part in the harmony of the spheres. I do not merely gem the sky, but my far-off lights are a constant reminder to man of his heavenly home which waits ever ready for his coming. Upon the jetty coronet of night I write in letters of gold the power and goodness, and majesty, of Him, who formed me and my myriad sisters, for the service of man."
For Him was created every little flower that blows, every breeze that carries its sweet burden of incense over the earth, every tendril of the clinging vine, every dewdrop glistening in the blue-bell cup: and the lesson they teach is one of unselfishness and duty.
Ah! man, " thou who art earth's honored priest," thou the chief guest at love's ungrudging feast of beauty, canst thou live blindly to thyself alone? Spurn self, put it aside, and live only to God and thy neighbor.
NELLIE WHITE, ZOE CHADWICK.
Convent of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, Oakland, Cal.
The Gift of a Smile
Have you ever known what it was to feel the influence of a smile? Surely you have ; and not knowing the workings of your young, tender heart, could not guess exactly what it was that gave such happiness. Yes ; smiles are truly as the breath of heaven, when given to some sorrow or care-worn heart. In school, dear children, has not your teacher's smile of approval sent a thrill
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through your soul more precious than all rewards, and have you not gone home with a heart full of content and peaceful joy ? Let me tell you a little incident of recent occurrence. Death had touched the brow of a young girl of some thirteen years. Into the crowded room where the dead child lay, came a girl of about the same age ; her face bore the look of those who carry sorrow even in the heart of their youth. She handed a little bouquet to one present, saying, "I am sorry I could not give her more ; although we never spoke, yet she always smiled at me so kindly that I brought her this ; I am so sorry she is dead;" and left as quietly as she entered. If you could know how much this " gift of a smile" cheers a heart, you would be more generous with your smiles, particularly to the poor and unfortunate. Let not riches buy your smiles, but remem- ber Jesus smiled on the unfortunate. You do it in His imitation.
MARY J. DOLAN.
Convent of the Holy Names, San Francisco, Cal.
The Lost Chord
Somewhere in the vast expanse between heaven's blue and the chaos of earth, there is a chord trembling and lone; it is in vain we search for it, we hear the faint tones murmuring through the long crystal corridors of space, but it is only an echo, and then the melody is gone. The great harp of the universe, whose strings were once tuned in perfect harmony, now gives forth only un- finished melodies, since the rude hand of Sin broke the chord of obedience to the Creator; but far away in remote space, that one lost chord ever faintly murmurs its repinings for its golden sister strings.
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Every day, and in every stage of life, from the rosy-tinted dawn of childhood, to the heavy-clouded mid-day of manhood, and still farther on to the days colored by the last mellow rays of the setting sun of life, poor mortals search in vain for this lost chord which would render complete the harmony of their life. In infancy, the soul's young harp, twined with Purity's fairest flowers, vibrates with the music of innocence, but some careless hand snaps one of the delicate strings, and, alas ! the harmony is broken and the chord is lost. Yet despair not, fair child, some day when the harp of life is silent, back from its mystic wanderings will come that absent string and the soul will vibrate with heavenly music.
In the happy circle that lingers round the fireside, we miss a tone from the sweet song of happiness, one tone which is wanting to complete the rich harmony. The vacant chair murmurs in sad, minor notes of one who has crossed over the silver bridge which spans the dark waters of Eternity, to the heavenly shore from which, through the azure corridor lighted by the glittering gems, comes the faint echo of the missing chord. It is in vain we try to catch it, it is gone like the shadow of an angel's wing, and we only know that some day our harp will be completed.
Later on we meet a seeker for the missing link to the chain of harmony, in the silver-haired man, whose harp is now bathed in the rays of light from the heavenly shore, as his bark gently glides down the ebbing stream, but from among its golden strings one is missing. Soon, ah! soon, will angel hands replace the missing chord, and tune again the soul's rich harp to breathe newer, rarer, sweeter tones.
Sometimes when from the dusky hand of night, the shadows of Twilight are softly falling, and the heart's secret cares and sorrows are wooed to rest by the mystic voice of Peace, as the blossoms are caressed into slumber by the evening breeze and all Nature seems in one sweet dream, strains of music greet our ear, and our spirit soars away on Fancy's wing to seek the lost string which breaks the
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PARLORS CONVENT OF OUR LADY OF THE SACRED HEART, OAKLAND, CAL.
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harmony. In rapturous dreams we find seraphic beings, bearing from the realms of bliss the missing chord ; but it is only a phan- tasy, and we wake to find, as before, the soul's secret harp murmur- ing for the missing link of harmony.
How beautiful is the idea of the "Music of the Spheres!" Imagine each of the gems that appear as mere glittering points, giving forth melody of divinest nature, and all blending in harmony. That is a concert fit only for the pure ears of angels, it is far too heavenly for the gross ear of man. Yet here too, one tone of har- mony is gone, for the rude touch of Sin on our earth has broken the chord which should render perfect the music, and not till it be restored by the all-powerful, all-merciful hand of God, will the melody, which now sinks of its own heaviness, rise through the azure curtain in purest praises to the Eternal Throne.
Some day when all earth's weary wanderers shall stand with their broken harps on the brink of Eternity, they will see gleaming through the opening portals, the lost chord which has rendered the harmony of their lives incomplete, and when the past years float like a dreamy panorama before their eyes, they will then know that
" It may be that Death's bright angel, Will speak in that chord again, It may be that only in Heaven, They shall hear that grand AMEN! "
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