AFTER CHRISTMAS.

Shannon News, 12 January 1923, Page 4

AFTER CHRISTMAS.

- (By "RAPOTINL") (Specially, .written for Shannon News.)

¥es, Christmas is overl With smile and hand-clasp we speed the partingguest. But as I turn from the gate I sigh the words, "Christmas is over." In the days that precede Christmas, wa breathe an atmosphere of anticipation; there are such thoughtful plans, such busy preparations for a time that flies so quickly past, that, when it is gone, and we say, "Well, Christmas is over," it is with the feeling that one more chapter in life's story is written, and the manuscript tucked away in memory's recess. Loved ones, widely scattered, were' restored for the little space of Christmastime; and their presence made holiday. But the farewell so quickly has followed the greeting that impressions have mixed. I. question whether has predominated the pleasure or the pleasure the pain, and muse—

"As one Who sits and gazes on a faded fire, When all the goodlier guests are passed away."

and Memory holds high carnival. In fancy I see faces that have long been hidden; I hear again the tones of a voice that in the time-honoured greeting would fall on childish ears in the days when "Christmas" was synonym for hliss unalloyed. * * * * . *

During the last unhappy "Maori War" there was much apprehension of an outbreak at Wairarapa—perhaps more especially at Greytown and surrounding district; and many of the settlers sent their families away to Wellington for greater safety. Their fear was not unreasonable, for the settlers were unarmed, and the Maoris had declared that should the white men arm there would be fighting. But they themselves were armed, and were making warlike demonstrations by drilling, and armed marchings through the .township—which the settlers witnessed by peeping from" behind cloS'Svd doors, that they might avoid any possibility of provocation. The Maoris also had a large meetingplace, where they assembled at night to listen to eJxcited speeches by some of their memjbers.

I At that acute stage the late Dr. I Featherston, who was then Provincial Superintendent, arrived on the scene. He went unarmed to their meeting—though at one end of the building numbers of shining rifles were stacked—and reclining on the floor, as did the rest of the audience, he listened to an incendiary speech. Then calmly and firmly he made reply, warning the man that such words as he had spoken were likely to hang him. That same night arms w£re secretly conveyed over the Rimutakas, and the next morning the Volunteers were summoned, "and every man received his rifle. Happily there was no fighting in the Wairarapa. It was generally conceded that immunity was due to Dr. Featherston's courage, firmness and promptitude. *****

At a Ta,uherenikau homestead, in the

'sixties, a young wife awaited the evening return of her husband from a distant sheep mustering. It was not without nervous strain that she listened £or the hoof-heats that trould tell of his returning; for the fear of j Avar had not yet been dispelled; and i much was told of frightful happenings jin other parts. The evening was one !of wild, fitful gusts of wind, that would swoop down upon the house, cause uncanny creakings, rattle the windows and rumble in the chimneys. As, twilight deepened and the watcher's ear was strained to catch" the '• wished-foir sound, another sound was | borne on the wind. A sound that was , like a shriek—then another, and an- ' other. The woman's heart stood still '•lor.a moment, then every pulse raced j madly, and the home-coming husJ band found a trembling bit of liuniafnity that greeted him with the words, "Oh, John! I'm glad you are come! I have been so frightened! I thought I heard screaming!" "I am sorry you have been scared, dear," replied the man. "As I passed ' Gooding's place 1 heard the pigs j squealing as they quarrelled over the straw. That would be the sound you ! heard, dear." \ Then followed a few tears, a little ! raillery, some comforting then smiles, a cheerful meal, with all thought of danger thrust aside; and night dropped her mantle over the quiet homestead. . * « * * *

j Memory lias been compared to the • Aeolian harp, from which the passing ' breeze will waken music, sweet or plaintive. Such trivial things as the ! pft'rfume of a flower, the trill of a bird, an old song, may have power to j stir the chords of memory and thrill I with sweet sadness.

While youth is ours, with its "affluence of love and-time," we love this sweet-sad music, love to set the fiords vibrating; but when "the .v&iit-e down from time's wing" eeltl.es on fee brow, and the retrospect is

more comprehensive, then it is that the sadness may be too intensely thrilling, and we are fain to hush the music. Phrenologists say that "love of the past" is a faculty of the brain that is more characteristic of some individuals than of others. Of field flowers Campbell wrote:— "I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams." And:— "Even now what affections the violet awakeS: What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes, Can the wild water-lily restore: What landscapes I read in the primrose's look, And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brook, In the vetches that tangled their shore."

The trait enlarges capacity for the self-companionship which is the resource of many shut-in lives in lonely dwelling places. Yet, sensitive souls know of the "shadow-ways," where at times they find the waters of Marah, as they remember failures and mistakes that can never be retrieved. But to linger there is not wise. It is better to recall those spirit-bracing words of St. Paul: "Forgetting the things which are behind, and stretching forward to the things which are before, I press on." That forgetting the past and stretching forward to the future involves the best use of the present—the steadfast, willing discharge of present duty. To the question, "What is my duty?" Goethe answers, "The exigency of the day."