THE FEAST OF ROSES
IN the little town of Greenwald there is performed each year in June an
interesting ceremony, the Feast of Roses.
The origin of it dates back to the early colonial days when wigwam fires
blazed in many clearings of this great land and Indians, fashioned after
the similitude of bronze images, stole among the stalwart trees of the
primeval forests. In those days, about the year 1762, a tract of land
containing the present site of the little town of Greenwald fell into
the hands of a German, who was so charmed by the fertility and beauty of
the fields encircled by the winding Chicques Creek that he laid out a
town and proceeded to build. The erection of those early houses entailed
much labor. Bricks were imported from England and hauled from
Philadelphia to the new town, a distance of almost one hundred miles.
Some time later the founder built a glass factory in the new town,
reputed to have been the first of its kind in America. Skilled workmen
were imported to carry on the work, and marvelously skilful they must
have been, as is proven by the articles of that glass still extant. It
is delicately colored, daintily shaped, when touched with metal it
emits a bell-like ring, and altogether merits the praise accorded it by
every connoisseur of rare and beautiful glass.
Tradition claims that the founder of that town was of noble birth, but
his right to a title is not an indisputable fact. It is known, however,
that he lived in baronial style in his new town. His red brick mansion
was a treasure house of tapestries, tiles and other beautiful
furnishings.
However, whether he was a baron or an untitled man, he merits a share of
admiration. He was founder of a glass factory, builder of a town,
founder of iron works, religious and secular instructor of his employees
and citizens, and earnest philanthropist.
The last rôle resulted in his financial embarrassment. There is an
ominous silence in the story of his life, then comes the information
that the man who had done so much for others was left at last to
languish in a debtors' jail, die unbefriended and be buried in an
unknown grave.
In the days of his prosperity he gave to the congregation of the
Lutheran Church in his town a choice plot of ground, the consideration
being the sum of five shillings and an annual rental of one red rose in
June.
Years passed, the man died, and either through forgetfulness or
negligence the annual rental of one red rose was unpaid for many years.
Then, one day a layman of the church found the old deed and the people
prepared to pay the long-neglected debt once more. Since that renewal
there is set apart each June a Sabbath day upon which the rose is paid
to the nearest descendant of the founder of the town. They give but one
red rose, but all around are roses, roses, and it seems most fitting to
call the unique occurrence the Feast of Roses.
If ever the little town puts on royal garb it is on the Feast of Roses
Sabbath. For days before the ceremony the homes of Greenwald are
beehives of industry. That day each train and trolley, every country
road, is crowded with strangers or old acquaintances coming into the
town. A heterogeneous crowd swarms through the street. The curious
visitor who comes to see, the dreamer who is attracted by the romance of
the rose, the careless youth who rubs his sleeve against some portly
judge or senator; the tawdry, the refined, the rich, the poor--all meet
in the crowd that moves to the red brick church in which the Feast of
Roses is held.
The old church of that early day has been removed and in its place a
modern one has been erected, but by some happy inspiration of the
builders the new church is devoid of the garish ornamentation that is
too often found in churches. Harmonious coloring, artistic beauty, make
it a fitting place for a Feast of Roses.
When Phoebe Metz entered the church to keep her promise to sing at the
service she found an eager crowd waiting for the opening. Every
available space was occupied; people stood in the rear aisles, others
waited in the churchyard by the open windows and hoped to catch there
some stray parts of the service.
Phoebe pushed her way gently through the crowd at the door and stood in
the aisle until an usher saw her and directed her to a seat near the
organ. The pink in her cheeks grew deeper. "I'll sing my best for
Greenwald and the Feast of Roses," she thought. "And for David! He's in
the crowd. He said he's coming to hear me sing."
At the appointed hour the pipe-organ pealed out. The June sunlight
streamed through the open windows, fell upon the banks of roses, and
gleamed upon the fountain that played in the midst of the crimson
flowers. Peace brooded over the place as the last strains of music died.
There was silence for a moment, then a prayer, a hymn of adoration, and
then the chosen speaker stood before the crowd and delivered his
message.
Phoebe listened to him until he uttered the words, "True life must be
service, true love must be giving. No man has reached true greatness
save he serves, and he who serves most faithfully is greatest in the
kingdom."
After those words she fell to thinking. Many things that had been dark
to her suddenly became light. She seemed to see Royal Lee fiddling while
the world was in travail, but beside him rose a vision of David in
sailor's blue, ready to do his whole duty for his country.
"Oh," she thought, "I've been blind, but now I see! It's David I want.
He's a man!"
She heard as in a dream the words of the one who presented the red rose
to the heir. "Once more the time has come to pay our debt of one red
rose. It is with cheerfulness and reverence we pay our rental. Amid
these bright surroundings, in the presence of the many who have come to
witness this unique ceremony, do we give to you in partial payment of
the debt we owe--ONE RED ROSE."
The heir received the flower and expressed her appreciation. Then
silence settled upon the place and Phoebe rose to sing.
As the organ sent forth the opening strains of music the people in the
church looked at each other, surprised, disappointed. Why, that was the
old tune, "Jesus, Lover of my soul." The tune they had heard sung
hundreds of times--was Phoebe going to sing that? With so many
impressive selections to choose from no soloist need sing that old hymn!
Some of the town people thought disdainfully, "Was that all she could
sing after a whole winter's study in Philadelphia!"
But Phoebe sang the old words to the old tune. She sang them with a new
power and sweetness. It touched the listeners in that rose-scented
church and revealed to them the meaning of the old hymn. The dependence
upon a divine guide, the utter impotence of mortal strength, breathed so
persuasively in the second verse that many who heard Phoebe sing it
mentally repeated the words with her.
"Other refuge have I none,
Hangs my helpless soul on Thee:
Leave, ah! leave me not alone,
Still support and comfort me;
All my trust on Thee is stayed;
All my help from Thee I bring;
Cover my defenceless head
With the shadow of Thy wing."
Then the hymn changed--hope displaced hopelessness, faith surmounted
fear.
"Plenteous grace with Thee is found,
Grace to cleanse from every sin;
Let the healing streams abound,
Make and keep me pure within;
Thou of life the fountain art,
Freely let me take of Thee:
Spring Thou up within my heart,
Rise to all eternity."
The people in that rose-scented church heard the old hymn sung as they
had never heard it sung before. A subdued hum of approval swept over the
church as the girl sat down. She felt that she had sung well; her heart
was in a tumult of happiness. She was glad when one man rose and lifted
his hands in benediction.
Again the organ throbbed with glad melodies. The eager crowd fell into
line and walked slowly to the altar to lay their roses there. Children
with half withered blossoms, maidens with bunches of crimson flowers,
here and there a stranger with gorgeous hot-house roses, older men and
women with the products of the gardens of the little town--all moved to
the spot where lay a bank of fragrant roses and placed their tributes
there.
Phoebe added her roses to the others on the altar and left the church.
Friends and acquaintances stopped to tell her how well she sang. But the
words that one short year ago would have filled her with overwhelming
pride in her own talent were soon crowded from her thoughts and there
reigned there the words of the speaker, "No man has reached true
greatness save he serves." She had learned great things at that Feast of
Roses service. She had looked deep into her own heart and on its throne
she had found David.
He was waiting for her outside the church.
"You sang fine, Phoebe," he told her as they went down the street
together.
"Yes? I'm glad you liked it."
Then they spoke of other things, of many things, but not one word of the
thoughts lying deepest in the heart of each.
Aunt Maria and Jacob were eating supper in the big kitchen when Phoebe
reached home.
"Well," greeted the aunt, "did you come once! We thought that Feast of
Roses would been out long ago. But when you didn't come for so long and
supper was made we sat down a while. Did you sing?"
"Yes," the girl said as she removed her hat and gloves and drew a chair
to the table.
"Now," cautioned the aunt, "put your apron on! That light goods in your
dress is nothin' for wear; everything shows on it so. And if you spill
red-beet juice or something on it it'll be spoiled."
"I forgot." Phoebe took a blue gingham apron from a hook behind the
kitchen door. "There, if I spoil it now you may have it for a rug."
"Well, I guess that would be housekeepin'! And everything so high since
the war!"
"Tell me about the Feast of Roses," said the father. "Was the church
full?"
"Packed! It was a beautiful service."
"Well," spoke up Aunt Maria, "I'm glad it's over and so are many people.
Of course that Feast of Roses don't do no harm, but I think it's so dumb
to have all this fuss just to give somebody a rose. If that man wanted
to give the church some land why didn't he give it and done with it?
It's no use to have this pokin' around every year to find the best red
rose to give to some man or lady that's related to him. The rose withers
right away, anyhow. And this Feast of Roses makes some people a lot of
bother. I heard one woman say in the store that she has to get ready for
a lot of company still for every person she knows, most, comes to visit
her that Sunday and she's got to cook and wash dishes all day. I guess
she's glad it's over for another year."