 Our next reading is from an article that was written in the Plymouth Society News, Remembering Cyrus Dallin by Dorothy Kelso. And it gives me great pleasure to have you welcome Geraldine Jerry Trimbley, founder along with me and president of the board of directors of the Cyrus Dallin Art Museum and former Latin teacher of Arlington High School to read it for us. Does every Pilgrim Hall docent have a favorite artifact? Mine is a small statue of Massasoit, the miniature version of the towering cold-scale landmark. The little museum figure touches me for its grace, its lithe youthfulness, and something more. When I stand before it, I'm transported to an ice blue studio and a magical afternoon with Cyrus Dallin, the sculptor. The Dallins lived in Arlington Heights, Massachusetts, just a few doors from my mother's family. The parents were friends, the kids all scuffled downhill to school together. One October in the early 1930s, my mother and I were in Arlington visiting my grandparents. The Dallins, being especially fond of my mother, asked us to tea. Mrs. Dallin greeted us at the door, a chilly lady, cold roast Boston, dressed in the style of Queen Mary with a collar of filigree lace. She ushered us into a room full of antiques, spindly chairs, frail tables, a shell china, a minefield for a clumsy, nearsighted child struggling to unstrap the red buttons on my brown leather gloves. I could only hope for invisibility. On the far side of the room, a man rose from a rocking chair. This, I know, was Arthur Dallin, my mother's particular childhood pal. Arthur had been an ambulance driver in France in World War I and still suffered from badly frozen feet. He hobbles, my grandmother cautioned. Don't stare, Ducky. Between the tea ceremony and grown-up talk, Arthur, a distinguished stained glass artist, was talking about his latest project. I sneaked a peek at his shoes. They were definitely awed, deeply cracked, laced high over his ankles, but polished to a fierce gloss. Just then, the poly door opened. Intruded a small man, neat little pointed beard, rimless glasses. So ordinary, I was quite disappointed. He didn't look at all like an artist, let alone somebody who'd been born in a long cabin in Utah when it was Indian country. As soon as he recognized my mother, his face lit up. The moment he was over, he swept us away from the parlor, down a long back corridor to his studio. At the door, he paused to dawn a smock and a beret, and so became in a wink the artist. Inside the studio, cavernous, blue in the October dusk, smelling of wet clay, another transformation, this time to wizard. He pranced around, waving his hands over swathed shapes, bodyless heads with blank eyes, and chunks of white marble. I was invited to touch, but the deathly chill made me recoil with a shudder. The sculptor gave me a reassuring pat and asked if I ever played with clay. He explained he did because he had to practice before doing statues in marble. He then unwrapped several heads, mainly children, but I think accidentally revealed a male Native American's face. So tortured and tragic, I see it to this day in my dreams. Gradually, the spookiness of the place were off. I could see the high work tables were filled with tools. This was a shop, not really so different from my inventor fathers. As I wandered about, my mother asked Mr. Dallen if he remembered a long ago family picnic. It was a story I knew and loved. The party was arranged by Mrs. Dallen in honor of three Native Americans in the cast of the Buffalo Bill Wild West show, then touring Boston. All the children were invited. My mother and her four siblings brought the strawberry ice cream, which in those days had to be hand turned. Hard work with a few fights over the dasher, but eventually everybody got a lick. At the party, the strawberry ice cream was a hit. However, Mr. Dallen's eyes fixed on Native Americans, let his melt in the dish. The children were very shocked. How the little sculptured cow with laughter, he told us that one of the Indians later modeled for him. Someone, perhaps author Dallen, took photographs that summer day. I remember them as lovely, soft focus with silvery grasses on the hillside and the three visitors in native dress. They were such beautiful people, my mother said softly. By now the light had faded and it was time to go. Once again, I wrestled with the red button gloves and worried whether the occasion called for saying goodbye with a curtsy or a handshake. Cyrus Dallen solved the problem by gently taking my hand in both of his wrestling through the oak leaves on the dock walk to my grandparents house. Somehow I lost a glove, the left one. Never mind, said my grandmother. It is the other one that touched the hand of a famous artist. For many decades, I kept that right glove. A decade later, things were sadly changed for the Dallans. The sculptor's work fell out of fashion. The gifted beloved son died fighting in France with the foreign legion in World War II. The heartbroken father did not long survive him. In 1945, the ice blue studio was destroyed by fire. Yet out of so many losses, so long a neglect, another transformation. The works of Cyrus Dallen from Indian country are reaching a new generation. What he glimpsed of the Native American triumph and tragedy is a truth whose time has come.