FROM MY WINDOW.

Shannon News, 15 December 1922, Page 4

FROM MY WINDOW.

No. XXIX— DAYBREAK. ‘"' (By “ETERA.”) ' “Listen to the exhortation of the Dawn— 1 , Look to this (lav! E<>r it is Liie, The very Lite of Life!”

The day is breaking, and oh! what a clatter it does make, to be sure. It is nearly as bad as china falling off a shelf. ’ It reminds me of a time when I had placed a dozen special dinner plates away on N a high shelf, to be used only'’ on state occasions. But this shelf was, in close proximity .to a door that hanged loudly and oft, and every time it banged, the plates (unknown to in el wore shoved nearer the danger zone at the edge, until at last on one windy day before I had time to say “Are you there?” they weren’t; and in place of a doeen pieces of china on the shelf, there were forty-eight and a'-half on the door. ... It is ihe birds who are making such a clatter, for they are commencing to springclean to-day, as it will soon be Christinas, and they do not like - to be considered behindhand in their nestkeeping. I hear them telling their sleepy youngsters where ihe best shower baths may be found this morning, but the baby birds only snuggle down more tightly in the nests and yawn voluminously, as if to infer, “Early worms interest us more,” not one being polite) enough to place bis band before his mouth—partly, I suspect, because they haven’t hands. They are ever ready to extend their practical knowledge of. calories, and throw hygiene, like physics, to the dogs. At all events. 11ip little fishes can have all of the bathing as far as they are concerned, but: “When will breakfast be ready?”

It is all the fault of tile sun that they are awakened thus early, for he takes it into his head to rise a little earlier every day, and when he wakes up, like a baby in the human home, he sees to it that everyo/ie else does. But he cannot be blamed for commencing early in the springtime, when you consider the day’s work he has to get through. Why, he works even harder than a motor-lorry 1 . . . The sun is a born organiser, for be looks on and makes the other fellow do most of the work. He only needs -to end a shaft of light across a paddock, and innumerable little wild daisies will hold up their faces to be kissed. They know he won’t be able to resist their overtures after their early baths of dew. Plants and all living things on this fresh morning add to yesterday’s development, and the early fruit is ripening under the sun’s warm encouragement. It is good to he alive. '

The clouds had a race along the mountain range a clay or two ago, but they were not “playing the game,” for they all started from, “scratch”— big ones, little ones, dark ones, fluffy white ones, ancient ones, and ones born the previous night. In protest J called out, “How’s that, Umpire?” But only the unsatisfactory reply came: “61 not out.” “Good gracious,” I said; “I thought I could see to-day every kind of cloud that is made. What ere the other sixty-one like?” But the umpire did not trouble io explain; I think he had lost interest in the game, for his head was busy being sat upon, and bis jaw broken because his umpiring was slightly different from the decision arrived at by some of his friends. Anyhow, he is giving up umpiring now, and thinks of going to Spain to learn the gentle art of toreador-ing. tr »

***** Some big fat clouds fell on ihe ; mountain in their hurry to be first, and a few of 11tem subsided into tears. They had not provided themselves for this contingency, having left home without handkerchiefs; and I regret to say that they used corners of the snowy tablecloth that they found covering the highest peaks, as tear-mops. Now, -you know that this is not allowed in polite society, and they were setting the young clouds a very poor example. That is to- say, the emample was there, but 1 am quite glad to he aide to chronicle that the baby clouds were nol. They had been left behind long ago, and had turned the race into a game of "hide and seek, some of the clouds snuggling in fhe interstices of Ibe bills, while the others tumbled over each other in their efforts to be the first to The sun, going to bed after this strenuous working day, felt quite refreshed at their innocent gambols, and paid them such charming compliments that they all flushed a delicate pink with d°light at his nraise. Now, this morning T find tlm lazv little clouds still fast asleen *'n ,11'hills, but wait until the sun is nronerlv awake—he will soon send them about their business. Av\ and with smiling faces and glad hearts, too. unless he turns his face

away from them, and then there will be tears. But there is indication of smiles predominating..

Down a distant street some sheep and lambs/are being driven to ♦he yards in time for saleday. The mothers, have lost their babies and great is the crying—Rachel weeping for her children The babies are having a bleat, too, in the delusive hope that their respective mothers will recognise their voices. Out of her depth of woe, Mother “A” sheep turns to Mother “B” sheep, although in ordinary circumstances they do not speak, as Mrs A’s pedigree is a little the longer of the two. “Have you seen my Ethelberta, Mrs B?” “No, but how shall I know her if I do?” “Oh, she is Hie most beautiful lamb here, and says Ma’ in a glorious high falsetto voice.” Mrs B’s bead goes up and her wool curls stiffly as she replies. “Excuse me, Mrs A, hut you are describing mv Eileen Alannah!” And off she goes in high dudgeon. Tin's hubbub reminds me of a time once when a popular theatrical comnniiy was playing in ihe Dominion. \ father, mother and daughter bad not reserved seats, but were waiting for the doors to open to secure accommodation. While the father and daughter were enjoying the jostling, the mother, being of gentler disposition, had allowed herself to be thrust away in the background'; and at the auspicious moment could not be found. “Where’s your mother, where’s your mother?” asked the father anxiously; and a wit in the crowd drawled: “Somebo-ody’s lost bis ind-other!” f # * -X* * * *

When the sun goes to bed at night, leaving the sea in the care of a strong wind, the water acquires a sinister appearance, and becomes an insatiable monster seeking whom it may devour. But the next day, when the sun sends the wind elsewhere, and shines on the face of the sea, it breaks up into innocent tittle wavelets that rush up and down the beach in an ecstasy of joy. You try to pocket one or two as they come dancing along in their game of catch-a&-catch-oan, and have nearly succeeded when they retire chuckling over the pebbles. “Silly mortals,” they say to one afiother. “Why don’t they try and collect sunbeams for a change?” This witticism causes wholesale laughter amongst the wavelets. But you are not as witty as you imagine, wavelets; forwe ba v e already managed .to catch some sunbeams; only we wisely used j our hearts instead of our bands in j the collecting of them, so there! i

But daybreak is not all noise and chatter: it has a deeper meaning for us in the renewal of all things; the turning to a clean page of the book of life. As Sir .lolin Lubbock says: “Each day is a little life.” It there-

fore rests wittTus whether we do better to-day than yesterday, or otherwise. What is our writing like on to-day’s page; is it in' our .“best round hand,” with i’s dotted and t’s crossed, upstanding and clear? Or is it away from the straight lines, smudged, blotted and full of needful erasures? We cannot teal' out the page: it must remain; and for some of'us there may not be -a to-morrow to try again.

“Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any ..fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait.”