A DAILY MESSAGE

Hokitika Guardian, 17 November 1928, Page 1

A DAILY MESSAGE

THE CROAKER

Tr liiis boon said that “ it takes all sorts to make’ a world.” I wonder if this is true.' Would not the world and all of tis jiot along hotter without the croakers, "hose evil words, weaving evilly as they go, travel faster than the birds: ■A human croaker called on me today—ugh ! W hat a baleful, malevolent influence! Croak—croak—croak. Something sad to say about everything and everybody. I combated her hideous philosophy with every power I possessed ; but, oh ! she nearly spoiled my day. I'irst we spoke of a mutual friend "'ho had lost husband and home, and "ho had, unaided, put up a grand struggle lor her children. “ Oh, I don’t give her much credit tor that, my dear. Alter all. what we call goodness is only selfishness. She wouldn’t be happy if she hadn’t struggled for them. So you see she was only doing find which brought herself the greatest happiness. All goodness is only selfishness,” she croaked, ‘‘only selfishness.” Next, we spoke of a girl friend, recently married, who bad made a very beautiful bride. ‘‘Oil, yes,” site croaked, ‘‘‘sl l o is pretty enough—but beatify soon passes. See her in ten years’ time, and you won’t know her, my dear. They look all right in their veils and orange blossoms, and all the rest oil it. but that doesn’t last ; beauty soon fades. Oil, yes—soon lades.” she croaked. I then referred to the almost incredible diflieulties through which her own nephew had passed in realizing bis ambition as Oxford. “ Oil, yes. no doubt be did :l all himself. Rut is it worth while? Me is onlv chasing a phantom lie will strive after it all his life—-and. even il that does not* prove a phantom, what’s the use? It is all forgotten when be dies —all (forgotten when be dies,” site croaked. Somehow we drilled on to Cobliam and bis Might. “ I have no patience with such men. Olory, indeed !” she sneered; “all they gel in the end is six feet of ground.” “Where is Ross Smith now?”- she croaked. “in bis grave, where all the other famous ones are, too. Not long lasts—nothing lasts,” she said, triumphantly, “except death. Nothing lasts except death.” she croaked. When she left me. the Mowers on my table scented shrivelled up. *he things around me looked like weeds willows —cypresses. The day seemed suddenly to have draped itself in endless trappings of mournful crape. What a biiglit a croaker leaves in her trail! I simply had to go out; and it was there that I saw the sun—the blue s-kies —the Mowers in the florist’s window—the young mother bustling over the road with three youngsters and earning a baby in her arms, and I knew that life is worth living—every hour every minute rtf it every struggle, every trial of it—every day. hi grey—notwithstanding all the croakers in this world. _M PRESTON STANLEY.