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Shannon News, 3 January 1923, Page 4

A CHRISTMAS DAY IN EAfiLY

WAIRARAPA.

(Specially written for Shannon News.)

Early dwellers in the Wairarapa Valley, when wishing to cross the Bimutaka, would often elect to do so hy night, thereby avoiding the fierce gales that rage on the mountain and render the journey unpleasant and even dangerous.

In those days the shriek of a train whistle, the hoot of a motor, had not been heard in the Valley. For travel the farmer depended on his horses. But should the traveller encounter a mountain wind-storm in its strength, his horse might stanchly breast the •furious onset, but nigs, cushions, seats—everything that was movable in a vehicle, would be whipped out and sent kying over the precipice, or quite possibly, even the vehicle might be overturned. A gale that rose with sunrise and had raged with unabated violence during the day, would usually sink to a calm at night; and the wise settler would ‘'slip over the hill” while Aeolus slept in his cave. The event of a night ride over that moonlit, mountain road could not be forgotten. Only the faintest sign of a breeze was heard. Only the weird cry of a mopoke, or the call of a weka, far down in the dim depths of forest-filled glens and gullies, broke (he stillness of awe-inspiring solitude. A canter in the glorious summer morning would bring us to the boundary of a settler’s homestead "in the clearing.” The scrub is beautiful with wild concolvulus, where we halt a moment for the inevitable “letting down the bars.”

As we look around the gold of early sunlight is touching the bold spurs of forest-covered hills; in the ravines there is soft, blue shadow; above the hill-tops a summer cloudlet floats—

“As though an angel, in his upward flight, Had left his mantle floating in mid' air.”

In the far-away distance, almost lost in the blue, a. snowy peak gives a glimpse of the dreamlike beauty of distant snow. In the happy twittering of birds we hear the cheerful trill of the dear little grey warbler, and the musical notes of tuis that flit, about in numbers. But now we are recalled to more

mundane things by homely farmyard sounds, vet, so mpllowed in the still air that even the lowing of a calf is nor discordant, nor the chattering of hens, that prate saucily of hidden nests, nor the barking of a fine collie, that bounds to investigate, but recognising bis master’s guests, he makes his apology and wags a welcoming tail. The master follows, and a bluff voice cries, “A merry Christmas to you!” and with merry jest and laughing repartee, we are convoyed to the door, where the darkeves of the hostess beam as glad, though a quieter welcome. Unsophisticated welcome! The memory ties warm and sweet about the heart when long years intervene. A curl of blue smoke rises from an outdoor fire, whereon the Christmas pudding is bubbling, and where such dainty dishes are prepared as only the settler’s wife, versed in the manipulation of the camp oven, could achieve. Those who have not eaten of New Zealand game, so cooked in a camp oven, have missed something In life!

As the shadows shorten, the air quivers with midsummer heat. But the bush is nearby, and invites to a ferny, mossy, cool retreat, where the rugged tree-trunks lift their coronals, and* underfoot is a wealth of ferns and mosses. Here are tree-ferns and nikau palms, and trailing creepers, and depths of green, fragrant shade—sweetest of all fragrance, the scent of the bush! The lovely blossoms of the karewa are over, but later the vines will be bright with the scarlet berries that the wild pigeon loves. A little stream of limpid water flows gently here, and with softest whisper seems to woo the ferns that bend from its margin; there it tosses them petulantly, and breaks into silver against mossy obstructions. Further on there are dark pools where tuna hide under the banks, and where the wild duck settles. Kendall voiced the aspiration of other bush-lovers when he sung:—

“Longing for power and the sweetness to fashion Lyrics with beats like the heart-beats of passion; Songs interwoven of lights and of laughters, Borrowed from bellbirds in far forest rafters; So I might keep in the city and alleys The beauty and strength of the dark mountain valleys. With glimpses of creeks and a vision of mosses.” The bush of which I dream has disappeared—Beauty fled before the face

of Utility. But the settler’s first rude structure amid the stumps and logs of “the clearing” has disappeared also; and in its place, in a setting of pleasant grounds, there stands a commodious dwelling. Trees are there—beautiful trees— but they are exiles from other lands. The stream no longer trifles with its ferns; it flows starkly unshaded through grassy fields, and babbles of those crimson-tipped fronds, and all the fair greenery that erstwhile clothed its banks. Yet, it hurries on to add its “bit” to the power that will chain the lightning and make it Ihe servant of man. “Silent years roll on, IBs babes are men. His ant-heap dwelling grows Too narrow, for his hand hath gotten wealth. He builds a goodly mansion, but it stands Unblessed by trees. • 'With anxious care He castc-th acorns in the earth, and woos Sunbeam and rain; he planteth the young shoot, And props it from the storm; but neither he, Nor yet his children’s children shall behold What he hath swept a way.”