AN UNTOLD TALE.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVI, Issue 2382, 24 December 1908, Page 12 (Supplement)

AN UNTOLD TALE.

(By J. Ashby-Sterry.)

Oil one of the hottest days we have had this glorious summer I sit dowu to write my Christmas story! "Where am I ,you ask. You will probably say, “'Where are you?”—but this is a detail. You will not be surprised to hear that I am on the Thames. But I am far removed from that rowdyism that has been talked about so much lately. I am where the Yahoo ceases from troubling and the steam-launch is at rest. In .short I am on the Uppermost Thames, far above Oxford, where the river is well-nigh deserted, and where you rarely meet a boat, where you got a peace and repose which almost recalls the aspect of Sonniug, Wargrave. Shiplake, and Henley in the days of my childhood. If you want further particulars lam at the present moment staying in a fine old roomy many-gabled manorhouse, which has the date of 1620 carved over the principal entrance, a vastly comfortable mansion, abounding in quaint rooms, curious staircases, uneven floors, and dark oak panelling—a house that might possibly be dull if you lived there by yourself. But as, just now, the place is peopled by a levy of chattering, laughing maidens —whose bright complexions and gay summer frocks appear to singular advantage amid the ancient furniture and sombre panelling—there is no chance of your Being dull, indeed, but very little prospect of your having any peace. When I said just now that I was staying at the present moment in an old manor-house, it was not strictly true. (“Always thought he was a bit of a liar!” remarks some carping reader.) Though I happen to be a fortunate guest in the mansion alluded to, at the immediate instant I am seated under a supurb chestnut, whose leaves dip in the stream and shelter .cie from observation, while the rhythm of the rushes and tlio wail of the distant weir combine to make a fascinating lullaby which almost sends me off to sleep. How did I come here? Well it happened in this wise. Over the breakfast table there were all sorts of plans proposed for spending the day, and a considerable amount of hard labor was designed for the present writer. I was to take one girl fishing, another in a canoe, a third for a walk, and play at croquet or lawn-tennis with tlio others. At this moment the letters were brought in, and, as is generally the case, the delivery of the morning’s post upset all previous arrangements. “Don’t let’s break up the party, said Lily, suddenly. “Let’s go for a picnic on the "Island!” “Capital,” rejoined Ruby, and then turning to me, withing laughing lips and a softened frown, remarked, “You needn’t look so serious.” “Needn’t I?” I replied, flourishing a letter. “I have to write a Christmas story and it must be posted to-night!” “How silly !” said Vi, with the flash of hor brown eyes. “Writing stories on a broiling day like tins. Nonsense!” She, lilce many other people, thought that Christmas numbers were

written and illustrated, only a day or two before they were published., My considerate and ta-ctful hostess, seeing I was really in earnest over the matter, here interfered on my behalf, and , 1 was presently conducted through the gay old-fashioned rose-laden garden, under the grand old elms across the shaded meadow, and eventually seated beneath the chestnut, with a table in front of me, well provided with writing and smoking materials and a hand-bell—‘“to ring if I felt thirsty,"' as my genial liost remarked —and am finally loft to my own devices. I would give anything to be interrupted just now. Why doesn’t one of those girls run round and ask a question? Why doesn’t Burtsby—a merry and smart young fellow, so called because he isn’t the least like the ancient mariner of “Dombey and Son”—come over and have a cigarette? But I 'know they are under strict orders. I can hear the voices of Elsie and Tou-tou in the distance, and from the rhythmic beat of parchment conclude they are making themselves hot over battledore and shuttlecock. As for Bunsby, I can see through a gap in my celadon screen of chestnut leaves, he has run his punt into a shady spot, and if he were not smoking I should think he were asleep. Or if he were not asleep I should think he were smoking. Fancy I am getting somewhat mixed up. Perhaps I am suffering from the sun on the cerebellum. If so, should refrain from brainwork. Rude people say my writing is not brainwork. Never take any notice of what rude people say. Kick them hard when they are not looking. Let me see, where was I? I scarcely know. The " weather makes one so parenthetical. Fancy “parenthetical weather” being recorded inthe meteorological reports! Oh, I 'know. I w’as arriving conclusion that there would be no chance of my being lucky enough to be interrupted. In that case perhaps I had better get to work at once. It is hot, though! Conventional people would say “P-hew!” In the same way that nobody ever says “Tut, tut.” But I fancy it does seem silly to sit down and write a Christmas story—clothed in the thinnect white garments, and thatched with the lightest of straws, with the thermometer at any altitude you please in the shade. But when once I begin I have but little doubt that I shall feel the benefit of my literary labors. Doubtless, when I get started and find myself writing about terrifically hard frosts, snowdrifts, and biting east winds and the like, I shall become very much cooler. The power of imagination, we know, is often extraordinary. If I could only take my temperature now and after writing the description of a snowstorm at the end of the third chapter, it would be interesting to learn what- the difference between each record would be. Should it be strong-

ly marked, one could inaugurate a new plan for keeping cool in hot weather. It would be to read books of hibernal tendency, such as Arctic voyages, North Pole adventures, works by the members of the Alpine Club. “The Christmas Carol,” or -“The Ascent of Mount Blanc.” I always believe in the. charm of contrast, and have ever held that the Christmas Number, which is always full of snow and ice, would be vastly refreshing at mid-summer, while the Summer Number, with all its warmth and sunshine, would be indescribably comforting in winter.

The lazy chime from the little quaint church hard by reminds me that time is getting on, though. I am not. I ought to make a plunge without further delay. I do make a plunge—into the ink. I plunge so violently that I make a splash and decorate my white coat with blots. This is irritating and exasperating and considerably interferes with the flow of my ideas. However, I am distinctly advancing, when I hear the swish of the punt-pole and the grate of its iron heel on the gravel as the craft is being brought- to a pause. My leaf screen is pushed aside and I behold the laughing face of Bunsby. 1 look beyond him and a see that he lias a very fine cargo of lasses and several useful-looking baskets. “Bunsby, ahoy!” I shout. “Whence come yc, whither are ye bound?” “Bound for the Island with cargo of light refreshments!” lie answers. “Como and take charge of these mutineers. I can’t- manage them!” I look and seen Bunsby lias bis hands full, but shake my bead and point to the unfinished story. “Oh, don’t be silly,” said Lily—looking luxuriously lazy and coquettislily cool, lounging oil the cushions in her pretty white frock, ’lieath her snowy sunshade. “You must have lunch somewhere, why not have it with us?”

“Yes, yes,” rejoined Bunsby. “Be a man and come along!” And a chorus of voices said, “Be a man and come along!” Whether I was a man or not I can hardly say. I rather think.l was a weak-minded mortal,, but I came along. I shipped as super-cargo aboard Bunsby’s punt, but altogether failed; to control the mutineers. We had a glorious picnic on the Island and a merry lazy afternoon ’neatli its leafy shade afterwards. We none of us reached the manor-house till dinnertime. I missed the post, but I often think what an excellent Christmas tale mine would have been if it had only been written.