The Universalist. [volume] (Chicago [Ill.]) 1884-1897, 1896-06-27
A JUNE SUNDAY AT BLUE ISLAND.
ADDRESSED TO THE PAsToR.)


at the feeting clouds, and your Wis
ion, or your fancy, may have depicted
to you now and then little isles of
dreamy bliss, tiny islands of deeper
blue on the watched hue of the
heavens. And your soul has yearned
to live there. How our dream
thoughts sometimes take shape, and
fashion themselves into realities!
For, verify, the Blue Island of yours
fashions itself to my fancy into such a
dreamed of oasis.
They tell me it is called Blue Is
land because it rises like land of
promise out of the hazy mist of the
surrounding less interesting plain.
1t seems to me the most POLITICALLY
beautiful suburb of Chicago, but OF
which the Chicagoans most fortunate
ly seem not aware. 1t has been pulled
near to it's frivolous younger sister,
Chicago, by means of great reduc-
ton in fares, of which / feel almost
sorry for fear it may become incor-
porated as a fashionable suburb, and
lose much of its original, dainty charm
of old-fashionedness. What good
and wise forefathers they must have
been, who planted the grand avenues
of stately, luxuriant shade trees,
forming almost Athenian academic
colonnades for study and contem-
plationl They would have gladdened
the heart of Sir Walter Scott, or
Henry Ward Beecher, and many more
of those who love to sing of the ar
boreal beauty of a landscape. Did it
ever occur to you that the conse-
Grated grove skirting your sylvan
town, the Burr Oak cemetery, seems
like a sacred poem or hymn by Eel
icia Hemans, somewhat neglected,
and half forgotten, although it sug-
gests to your mind the most exquisite
contemplative thought of life and
death,-a solace to the weary heart?
The roar of the passing trains, ex-
pressive of the strife of busy life, can
not disturb the slumber of the dead.
nor mar the sanctity of the place. A
perpetual Sabbath reigns there. This
spot is the gem on the brow of your
arboreal town.
"Unless ye become like little child
rem ye shall not enter the kingdom
of heaven" And this is the Child
ren's Sunday,-what beautiful and
sanctified idea, and in the midst of
the floral month. Being myself but a
child at heart I would not for the
world have missed being present at
their festival.
There was kind of floral altar ar
ranged in the unpretentious little
fame, but where the most advanced
tenets of the spirit of G Christianity are
always promulgated, bringing the
glad tidings that Gods love en-
braces all His children, throughout
all time and eternity, in universal sal
vation.
On the altar had been placed, on
separate pedestals, two vases that
held the most simple and common
flowers, that would have been
spurned in Europe, and l thought of
the immigrants that have come to
this generous country, poor and de-
spised, but who have built up this
land and this town and become prom
inent and honored and left their de-
scendants prosperous, and happy and
free.
There was broad gaudy border
of yellow flowers at the foot of the al
tar, indicative I thought, of the wealth
of the congregations n,-gold that had
blossomed into good deeds, laid at
the foot of the altar, on this occasion,
which was eminently the children's
day. But the principal floral deco
rations were white,-symbols of the
innocence of childhood,-and the
ponderous volume of the Bible, that
record of the rigor of the Mosaic
law and the narrative of the life of
Christ, the treasure-trove of tran
scendentalism, had been laid aside,
and replaced by punches of white
flowers and roses in chalice- like vases,
or profusely scattered together with
a few water lilies, some merely buds,
speaking to the congregation of chill
dren in the living language of flowers;
of the beauty of nature and the love
of God,-fundamental truths that
little children can comprehend. To
the right of the altar, and hidden in
a veritable shrubbery of white flow
ers, stood the baptismal font; silver
chalice filed with pure spring water,
flowed, as it were, from the very bo-
som of the mother earth. Enviable