Seeds of Pine

by Emily F. Murphy

And, sometimes, sight and sound become blended into one, and the sound is the sobbing urge of the pines ... the people as they rise and fall to the floor are the trees swayed by the wind. The cross they are lifting is wondrous heavy, so that it takes four strong fellows. It is built of oak beams and the figure of the Nazarene is of bronze. As the lights fall from the windows on the outstretched body, with its pierced hands and thorn-stung brow, it seems as though the tragedy of Golgotha is being re-enacted before my very eyes, here on this far-away edge of the world. The thing is ghastly in its awful realism, so that I am crushed and confounded. It falls like flakes of fire on my brain, till my mind's ear catches again and again that most horrifying cry of the ages, "My God! My God! why hast Thou forsaken me?"

But I cannot tell you more of this story of the Lord Christ who was crucified, except that in some way it has become a personal thing to these worshippers, and, maybe, a joyful one. It must be joyful, for, at last, they hang a garland of flowers over the upright beams of the cross and from it draw long, long ribbons of scarlet and white and blue; which the women carry to the ends of the church like floating streams of light, and between which the men and children stand to sing Alleluia and Alleluia.

I know not why the priest stoops to the ground and touches it with fingers or his lips. Sometime the little sister from Mon'real will tell me.

Henry Ryecroft, in his Secret Papers, recounts how he used to do this same thing. "Amid things eternal," he says, "I touch the familiar and kindly earth." It was in the silent solitude of the night when he walked through the heart of the land he loved.

I have always desired to see the mysterious sacrifice known as the elevation of the host, but, now that I am an arm's stretch from the altar, I do not look but cover my face with my hands. Only I see that a dull red flames behind the man's ear when he takes the white wafer, and the veins of his neck swell as if they hurt.

But I look into the faces of the women and the men in the front line who receive the sacred essence from the golden cup and golden spoon, and almost I can hear what their eyes are saying. What odds about low foreheads, thick lips, and necks brown like the brown earth when each has the god within? The Ruthenians—or Galicians, if you like the name better—may be a sullen folk of unstable and misanthropical temper; they may be uncouth of manner, and uncleanly of morals, but I shall always think of them, as on this day, when I saw the strange glamour on their faces that cannot be described except that it came from a marvellous song hidden in their hearts.

There are no seats in the church, and while the sermon is being preached the people stand—all except the mothers with babies, who sit on the floor. These babies have pressed their mouths to the sacred ikon the same as the older folk, and, doubtless, some gracious kindly angel will guard them ever hereafter. Indeed, I hope so, and that she will give unto them those things I most crave for myself.

Father Kryzanowski delivers the sermon in the Ruthenian language. I am glad, for I am tired of hearing I should be a different person. I don't want to be, except to have hands of healing and a heart that is always young. Yes! these are the things I most crave for myself.

.... Good gentlefolk! will you be pleased to stay and eat brown bread with us at the wagons, and cheese and hard-cooked eggs? We shall not give you meat, for we would discourage the beef-trust, and, besides, this is fast day.... But you shall eat your food off flaxen towels which we spun and wove with our own hands. Yes! and we have wrought northern flowers and prairie roses into them.

And further, believe us, Sirs and Mesdames, we sent five towels like unto these to Mary, the English Queen, that she might know that we are now Canadians and no Ruthenians.