SOME MUSINGS IN HOSPITAL.

Putaruru Press, Volume IV, Issue 155, 21 October 1926, Page 4

SOME MUSINGS IN HOSPITAL.

(By M.M.A.). The first morning bird-note thrills the wattle-perfumed air, the first dawn breezes stir softly through the pines, the little fleecy clouds change from their virgin white to a warm delicate pink and in the rosy east the great golden sun slowly rises—a new day is born-—and what a day. I lie still for a moment; and then I turn afid rub and rub my sleepy eyes, yawn and stretch myself luxuriously; then, sitting up, I drink in the delicious air. I gaze on a panorama of blue, green and yellow. The pale opalescent sky gradually changes to a radiant sapphire, the sea green willows mingle with the fluffy wattle, and bend down to meet the sparkling emerald of the dew-crowned lawn. For a few minutes X lazily lie making a thousand and one plans for this wonderful spring day. I make them quickly and joyfully. Who would miss a moment. Then I, too, like the birds, sing a few notes of Cyril Scott’s “ Blackbird Song,” to announce my awakening. One more lazy contemplation of the view from my balcony, then all sleepiness vanishes. I sit up with a spring, throw' back the bed clothes, put one foot to the ground and Suddenly I stop and look around. Who is that softtooted, white-clad creature who has just flitted byz I gaze around. This is not my bed, my' balcony, rny own familiar view. Then the truth bursts on me like a thunderstorm. All the joie-de-vivre vanishes; all the beauty of the day fades away. I slowly put j m >' t°°t back into my bed, and cover .. myself quickly before that white- | robed form can see me. I realise now i where X am—not at home —a joyous I vagabond, but a prisoner in an isolaS " ,ar d in a country town hospital, chained by invisible fetters, stronger j than the steel handcuffs that bind the j desperate criminals. } 0h! the iron y of it. A few days previously I had awakened in my own i bed and bitterly bewailed the fate that made me arise early _ and start my ( day’s work. Now, I would give all I possessed to., be out in the brilliant sunshine walking - briskly over the rough metal road, that each day last n mc mth I grumbled and growled about, j Oh, well, the day is so glorious j. in a few minutes my' darkest ' feelings have vanished, and. I look upon the position in as philosophical manner as 1 am able. - It might have been worse. I am chained here for a comparatively few days while to my- left are two cheery little souls who have been In six weeks already, . while away in the next building'i know of many who for months, and even y'ears, may not know, or see, or feel, the glory of the ripening spring or the dawdling summer, save from from their indoor beds. What tragedy, and yet they meet each day with renewed hope, and patience that I may never hope to acquire. They' have learned to seek for and find marvellous beauty in things much more minute than a spring day. I divide my time between reading and musing. The welcome breaks are meal times. Although I am no cormorant, I spend a quarter of an hour in guessing what I will have for dinner. From this it will be divined that I am not a desperately ill patient. 1 have lately' been reading an articile in a magazine which dwelt on the meals described in some of Diclcen’s books—what marvellous confections they were. Surely Dickens was an epicure of the first order. To read of one is a great appetiser, while to have them served up one after the other is refined torture. You remember Bob Cratchett’s modest Christmas dinner, or David Copperfield’s famous repast with the talkative waiter, or one breakfast with Mr. Pickwick and party. So now I plan for nwself a simple one, for I am an invalid. ’ A little lamb and mint sauce, sweet green peas and new potatoes, delicately flavoured with rich gravy'. After that perhaps a few slices of juicy pineapple. Nothing unreasonable in this, j surely. I am aroused from my medi- j tations by the distant sound of the , dinner-gong; so I sit up anxiously' I waiting for my lamb! At last! Oh! I gasp and look at j my plate. Where is my' lamb ? Where is my lamb ? “ Very' sorry',” says my keeper; “no meat for you. Doctor’s orders.” j Puff; my bubble has burst. Mash- | ed potatoes, which I loathe, a little j cauliflower, minus sauce, without which I cannot endure the vegetable. I dutifully wade through it. Oliver j Twist’s meal would have been preferable. Still my thoughts on the pineapple and then—baked sago. Shades of Dickens, why do invalids have to partake of good, wholesome, nourishing milk pudding’ —was there any- ! third': so awful. However, I manage to finish it, and thank my luckv stars

I was born an optimist and also with a good imagination, for in ten minuses ' have forgotten that such thing-s exist, as I gaze fascinated into Joseph Conrad’s “Mirror of the Sea.” Was there ever such a .writer as Conrad? Were there ever such poignant descriptions of the sea in all its varying moods. I never tire of the “ Mirror of the Sea.” If I am unhappy or feeling at war _ with the world I turn to one of his wild storms and I am tossed and buffeted in an old windjammer, thrown up to heaven by one turbulent wave, and flung down to Hades in the trough of the nexc. If lam happy and lighthearted, I wander in a light-winged schooner among crystal, in seas with the wealth of the sunlight tropical world before me. Ihe day draws to a close. I leave my books and gaze into the darkening- twilight in a contemplative mood. Now thinking of the calm scene before me, now my thoughts are far away in the past, and now I am away in the future, making for the next year plans that probably will never eventuate. Gradually the twi-light deepens, one by one the green trees assume dark, gd.o ; h forms, around which I weave mnnj fanc-ful tales; the last blackbird comes home to nest, and the first owl wails forth its eerie cry. Eight-thirty, lights out, and I dreamily close my eyes. The last thing I remember is hearing faintly the glorious “ Kyrie Eleison ” of “In. a Monastery Garden.”