Under the Totem-Pole

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 53, 25 May 1927, Page 14

Under the Totem-Pole

Chiefs and Braves

Letters to Redfeather are answered as under:

Smoke Plume: I was so glad to hear from you and to receive your excellent list of pen-names which will be allotted to new Chiefs and Braves. I wonder if you and Silver Ripple call each other by your Wigwam names?

Blue Moon: Very many thanks for your fine letter. Your essay has placed you very high in the list and I must congratulate you on a well-handled and thoroughly meritorious piece of work. Yes, the scouting article by Beaver Hunter made interesting reading. Silver Wing: Your excellent list of pen-names has come first equal in the competition. They are all most suitable Congratulations and best wishes.. Morning Star: I was delighted to have your newsy letter with the interesting diagram at the conclusion. Your name suits you exactly. Do you remember when first Nou joined how I mistook you for a Chief and gave you a most fearsome pen-name? You are a very plucky Brave to have gone rat-catching, but that is one of the joys of living on a farm. Flying Cloud: Heartiest congratulations on your prize-winning essay, and my best thanks for your very interesting and colourful letter. The “Memory Box’’ holds many treasures and I felt greatly honoured when you granted me that peep into its shining interior. Sighing Moon: I was so glad to hear again from this Whangarei GuideBrave. Thank you also for your very useful collection of pen-names, which has placed you in the Highly Commended list.

Laughing Cascade: Many thanks for your clever list of pen-names. There is much talent among my young Chiefs and Braves. Don’t you like your own pen-name, by the way? Blue Morning: I thoroughly enjoyed reading those pen-names, complete with the Indian meanings. They have placed you very high in the list. Hawkeye: Many thanks for your cheery letter and the competition entry. I hope you will write me an essay next time. No, I am not using the true Indian names, only the English meanings. The Wigwam and Happy Town are two distinct clubs —the one appears on Wednesday, the other on Saturday.

INSECTS AND ANIMALS

THEIR POWER OF REASONING The habits and the thoughts of mankind are intimately associated with his morals. And so, science argues, the habits and thoughts of the animals around us are worth studying for the purpose of discovering what degree of moral character may be assigned to our household animals, the cattle in the barn and the wild creatures in the forest.

What does a dog think about when he lays his head on his paws in front of the fire and gazes at the dancing flames?

What is a cow considering as she sits in the cool shade under the tree, peering off across the landscape and calmly chewing her cud? What is a horse thinking about when he stands beside the kerb, switching an occasional fly with his tail and watching motors, and now and then seeing another horse tugging a heavy load in a truck?

It is certain that these animals do more or less thinking—the dog the best and most intelligent thinking of them all. But do they ever think of right and wrong? Do they have moral instincts of even a crude quality.

The great French naturalist, Henri Fabre, has pointed out the appalling lack of morals of the female spider. It is the female who not only lays the eggs and brings up the children, but spins the web, catches and kills the flies, does the fighting and all other labour. When she has eaten all she can, she allows the poor, little, helpless father of her children to have what is left, if there is any. If not he can starve, for all she cares.

Under no circumstances will a spider go to the assistance of a sister spider, even of her own species. If she happens to find one injured or caught in some way the very best that can be hoped from her is that she will refrain from killing and eating the helpless one.

The ant, however, exhibits all the morals of the good Samaritan in the highest degree. She lives in big nests that are really populous cities which force upon their inhabitants a long string of musts and must nots. The ant will abandon a valuable bit of treasure and go to almost any lengths of risk and effort to aid and comfort another member of her nest. She will cheerfully carry a crippled ant for tremendous distances to their home. If an ant is trapped under a pebble or twig, the next ant that comes that way will strain her tiny muscles to lift the weight. When that fails, she acts just as a human being, goes back to town and organises a rescue party. The honey bee, belonging to a tribe, has also a code of morals, slaving for the interests of others, dying for them and obeying complicated rules of behaviour. However, in her ten commandments there is nothing against murdering the males of her own swarm, as soon as she sees that lazy nuisances won’t be needed any more that season, and murder them she does. In the bee’s situation it is a duty and moral act.

Crows have a system of morals too deep for man to understand. Apparently these sleek rascals have to hold conventions every little while to thresh out certain fine points. It is said that at the end of some of these noisy conclaves certain members are seen to be punished or driven off by others. From this it is not right to suppose that even these highly intelli-

Star Dust: I am delighted to give this Guide-Brave the hand of greeting under the Totem-Pole and hope- you will keep me posted with the Company news. Tou have a very responsible position. Could you please let me have your private address when next you write ?

Glistening Water: Many thanks for your charming letter, extracts from which I have used in the Guides’ Corner. I can see that you are going to be one of my very loyal Braves. Moon Trail: I am delighted to have you for one of my Braves and trust your membership seal has reached you. I shall be anxious to hear all about you in your next letter.

Great White Bear: A warm welcome to this new Chief. I shall always be glad to have news of you. Has your membership seal reached you? Listening Moose: Very many thanks for your cheery note of greeting. I am very glad to meet you again under the Totem-Pole.

Singing Heart: Tour delightful letter has reached me safely. May happiness ever keep you in the shelter of her pinion. Great Pearl Feather: Many thanks for your letter my good Scout-Chief. It is a pleasure to welcome you into the Wigwam. You certainly deserve to be a Patrol Leader and I am sure this honour will be conferred on you soon. Silver Ripple: Many thanks for your letter and heartiest congratulations on winning that coveted badge. That must have been a pleasant dream. Did you see the Wigwam and the towering Totem-Pole? And was there a mighty gathering of Chiefs and Braves on the brink of the Lake of Many Waters?

Silent Warrior: Many thanks for your contribution. You will see that your list of pen-names has come first equal in the competition. Congratulations and best wishes.

Little Buffalo: So football is now the order of the day? I hope you will have much success on the field. Where are you playing—in the forwards or in your old place as half? Eagle Feather: Many thanks for your letter. I was most interested in that wood-cutting expedition. It was a splendid outing.

gent birds argue the matter in language that the others understand. What happens seems to be this. The rights or interests of one crow or group have come in conflict with those of others, and the quarrel has been going on long enough so that most all the black-feathered ladies and gentlemen in the vicinity have taken notice of the problem and have formed an opinion. At the convention they take sides and caw at one another. There are certain strong personalities who lead, and weaker ones who change their vote, until finally there is an overwhelming majority and the matter is settled without a war.

Domesticated animals, particularly the dog, cat and horse, have had morals thrust on them mostly in the way of taboos by their masters, but they also have a code of their own. Canine morals are higher than feline, though the dog’s more active, inquisitive, boisterous character gets him into more breaches of the peace and other violations of the law than does the cautious, furtive cat.

Few people recognise the morality of the patient horse, who knows that he is big and strong enough to kill the smaller animal that rides, drives and occasionally whips him. His natural inclination is to trample him to death on occasions. The reasons he restrains himself are the same that keeps us from assaulting our fellow-man when he does us an injustice. This morality never existed when the horse was wild, because there was no need for it.

There are a great number of recorded cases where a horse has accepted abuse without any signs of rebellion and then, the next time he saw his master, killed him without provocation, or attempted to. In the interval as he chewed his oats it would seem that the animal searched his heart and decided that the master had gone so far that he was no longer exempted by the moral code of that particular horse.

Horses and dogs have long memories, and they do sudden and unexpected things which may be the result of long hours of some sort of mental process. When your dog lies on the hearth gazing in the fire he may be thinking you over and judging you, and so may your horse as. he -watches you walk through his pasture.

CAVALIER

All the merry kettle-drums are thudding into rhyme. Dust is swimming dizzily down the village street, The scabbards are clattering, the feathers nodding time, To the clink of many horses’ shoes, a tramp of many feet. Seven score of cavaliers fighting for the King, Trolling lusty stirrup-songs, clamouring for wine, Riding with a loose rein, marching with a swing, Beneath the blue bannerol of Rupert of the Rhine. Hey the merry company—the loud fifes playing— Blue scarves and bright steel and Blossoms of the May, Roses in the feathered hats, the long plumes swaying, A king’s son of them showing them the way. — o uhn Masefield.

A Scotsman, visiting America, beheld a moose for the first time and exclaimed in wonder: “So that’s a moose. And what are the rats like in this country?”

MODERN ENGLISH POETRY

PRIZE-WINNING ESSAY What is it that makes a poem great? It is not uninteresting to ask this question at a time of such poetic activity as we see to-day. Among the hundreds 01 poems published in books, journals and newspapers one or two are certain to communicate the spirit of power.

There seem to be three elements present in a great poem. They are Goodness. Truth, and Beauty. Values, or qualities, which, when combined, produce a single effect of harmony and stir, as well as delight, the admiration of the reader.

By Goodness is meant the inspired thought and the recognition of a Creator Who is behind everything. Truth in a poem or in relation to poetry means the scientific treatment of subjects without regard to their romantic or moral significance. Beauty is the “inward and spiritual grace of objects that are outward and visible.” A poem that has beauty has grasped the meaning of sights and sounds which are conveyed by the senses; complete realisation of beauty brings understanding. It is doubtful if a poem, worthy of the name, could be written and be lacking in beauty, this being the quality that delights us. In W. B. Teat’s poems there is an abundance of beauty. The descriptions and phrases are haunting and romantic, but he does not attempt to answer the profound questions of life and death, and arrive at a philosophy of life as the master poets, Lucretius, Dante, Milton and Wordsworth were able to do.

Truth, by which is meant the treatment of the subject for its own sake, is found in the works of J. C. Squire. Perhaps, too, the war has left its stamp on the writing—the dreadful realities, the morbid endings seem to creep in. Siegfried Sassoon in “Blighters” and “Base Details,” shows the sordid and bitter truth of war life —but where is the light of beauty? In Goodness, perhaps Francis Thompson, Davies or Binyen rank first. Rupert Brooke should be included since he was able to find God in Nature. Thompson in his poems,

“The Hound of Heaven” and “To a Snowflake,” links the gold chain that many modern poets have neglected. Thomas Hardy, although considered a Victorian, is the grandfather of the Georgians. His work reveals a deep melancholy as though he considers God indifferent to those He has placed on earth, but his tenderness and pity, and his grasp of truth and beauty set him in the front of all other modern poets. The keen enjoyment of life, a delicate sense of beauty and humour, and a knowledge of ordinary things, are necessary for any true poet. Art and Science are hand in hand to-day, but religion will not join them, for although the quarrel between the clergyman and the scientist is dead and buried the poet and the clergyman do not yet agree. If only a poet of today would take a lesson in goodness from the clergyman, and the clergyman take a lesson in beauty from the poet, the chance that the twentieth century would produce a great man would be vastly improved.

Goodness is the moral element in a poem; Truth is the element of science, of knowledge for its own sake and Beauty is the colour of feeling—the perception of a thought “too deep for tears” in the most familiar things.

These lines, taken from Rupert Brooke’s poem, “The Hill,” are, in a sense, an allegory of the strength and weakness of modern poetry: “Life is our cry, ‘We have kept faith!’ we said; ‘We shall go down with unre*luctant tread, Rose-crowned into the darkness’. . . .

Proud we were, And laughed, that had such brave true

things to say. —And then you suddenly cried—and turned away.” —Flying Cloud (Lesley du Faur. Aged 16), Howick.

BIRD LIFE IN NEW ZEALAND

New Zealanders who are justly proud of their world-famous scenery, splendid shooting and fishing, are perhaps just a little inclined to under-rate the value of their birds. The majority of people might even think that were all the feathered denizens of the bush to disappear, it would make no difference Without their presence, however, our forests would be non-existent, as 54 per cent, of the forest seeds are scattered by birds, besides the grubs and insects they devour. These birds are New Zealand’s greatest asset. In her galleries and museums she cannot attempt to rival the wonderful art treasures to be found at the Louvre in Paris, or the British Museum in London, but she can attract visitors from all parts of the world to see her incomparable birds. On the cultivated pasture-land, who has not seen the brown skylark soaring high with liquid song, rising still higher until a mere speck in the vast sky, but still pouring out his wonderful melody of joyous strains, until his throat must surely burst with swelling exuberance and exultation? Like the blackbird, the olive-brown songthrush, digging for worms on the lawn is a common sight, while his Drother, the North Island thrush, with his trilling song, is very nearly extinct. The famous liquid notes of the bell-bird can be heard in any country garden, and the brilliant shining cuckoo joins him between the months of December and April. With aerial darts and evolutions, the inquiring pied fantail hunts for flies, his clear whistle of two notes vieing with the noisy twittering of the linnets in the orchard.

A brightly coloured bird is the kingfisher, w'ho sits motionless on a bough watching with sharp eye the water, then suddenly darts down, a blue streak, and seizes his prey, battering it before eating.

Where the foam dashes against the cliffs hordes of seagulls are found. Above the stormy waves they wheel, never by any chance uttering a merry note, but always a discordant scream. Then when the spray and mist lies cleared, the soft white gull is seen resting, too, on the heaving water.

These are but few of the New Zealand birds, but could we look into the future, would we see them still with

“Where, where will be the birds that sing a hundred years to come?” Do we see the long arm of Progress stretching into our country, installing vast smoking cities, where now birds sing in unmolested freedom; destroying the virgin forest in its rapid course 7 Ah, no! Let us see a prosperous country with protected bird and forest, and new trees planted by a far-seeing nation.

Happy New Zealand then, if with the re-establishment of her glorious woods, a race of nature loving people arises, a population not composed, as in the great cities, of automatons, who press buttons for their daily needs, and who hardly know of bird and tree but on the arid cinema. In forests yet to be, the coming generation will listen to the song of the woods and hear as it was heard and recorded by Captain Cook a hundred years ago. —BLUE MOON (Peggy Wilson).

THE COLT

One appreciates freedom only after having lost it. Of this a young colt was unaware. He lived in the prairie of Canada, that limitless prairie, where he found food and drink, where he could gallop, roll on the ground, sleep, walk, run. While the summer lasted all went well with him, but the first winter was hard. He suffered from the intense cold; the thick snow hid the grass; the rivers were frozen over. The colt felt very unhappy. In a spirit of independence he had left his mother, and now he wandered, generally alone, sometimes in the company of other wild colts. One day the young animal came across a horse tied to a shrub. Surprised, he looked at him curiously, and noticed that he carried on his back an extraordinary-looking object. “What have you got on your back?” he asked the stranger. “A saddle. My master sits on it and I carry him wherever he wishes to go.” “What is a master?” “It is a two-legged creature, very powerful, who feeds me and houses me in exchange for my services.” The young colt let himself be tempted. He followed the horse and its master to the stable. There they gave him food, they made room for him in a warm corner; the colt was very pleased. But when spring came, when the snow disappeared, his master saddled him and forced him to obey. The colt then regretted his freedom. He had a kind master, fortunately, but what was that in comparison with freedom?

WONDER

If we had never looked before on the earth, but suddenly came to it men and women grown, set down in the midst of a summer mead, would it not seem to us a radiant vision? The hues, the shapes, the song and life of birds, above all, the sunlight, the breath of heaven resting on it, the mind would be filled with its glory, unable to grasp it, hardly believing that such things could be mere matter and no more. Like a dream of some spirit-land it would appear, scarce fit to be touched lest it should fall to pieces, too beautiful to be long watched lest it should fade away.

DARK-SKINNED HEROES

From Queensland comes a fine story of the great floods there. A lugger with a small mixed crew was wrecked. The natives could swim, but the two white men on board could not. They were four miles from the coast, and there was a gale whipping the furious sea. The swimmers might easily have said, “Every man for himself!” but the natives risked their own lives and spent their energy in getting the helpless white men ashore. It must have been a tremendous effort, requiring every ounce they possessed of endurance, skill, and pluck, and we rejoice in their splendid success. Another native swam for miles through the flood waters to get help for a white man and his family who had been cut off and were in danger of being drowned. Truly, Australia must be proud of her dark-skinned heroes. A first failure is often a blessing.

HOBBIES

To my mind, one of the most interesting pastimes is the studying of the hobbies of different people. No matter where he may be, a person is sure to have some particular occupation with which to while away many hours which might otherwise prove to be somewhat tedious.

However many pastimes there may be, there is always one subject, th«* interest of which is so absorbing that all else is forgotten in the desire to carry it out to its fullest extent. This one thing upon which our whole being is temporarily centred is what we may term a hobby. Every person has his particular hobby, and in nearly all branches of education and sport there is something for us to choose from. Six hobbies which I think are most in evidence at the present time are sports, the collecting of books, curios, leaves End stamps, and gardening.

Many people choose sports for their hobby, because the clean outdoor life makes them fit and active both physically and intellectually, and gives them the feeling that it is good to be alive. Swimming, tennis, netball and cricket are foremost among the sports in which an enthusiastic sports-hobbyist revels. Then again some have book-collect-ing as a hobby. Some very ardent book-lover hears of a certain collect!* n of famous articles by equally famois authors, and he immediately starts out to procure them. If he is a very persistent fellow, he eventually obtains his beloved books, and then he has then& beautifully bound and placed in a bookcase to be admired by himself and other people in general. We next come to the collection of curios and stamps. In some cases one person adopts both subjects, and he usually has many interesting stories to tell as to their origin. Curios axe collected mostly by antique-sellers and people who do extensive travelling, while stamp-collecting is taken up by the younger people. For those who are special lovers ot nature we have gardening as a hobbyThese people watch the growth of the flowers carefully, grafting the seeds of one bulb with those of another, and creating a new seedling. They lay out flower-beds, and delight in watching the glorious riot of colour appear when spring comes. These are only a few of the very interesting hobbies chosen by differ® 0 * people according to their tastes. —Little Feather (Doris Bint.’

OWL

Owl in the hollow tree, How came you there? How do you fare? Owl, pray tell me. Deep wreaths of snow All things enfold; Bitterly cold The icy winds blow. Defying all weathers— tBegrudging the light. Awaiting the night With wind-ruffled feathers. No bluster, no prating; In the bole of the tree, Immovable he Sits cogitating. In the fast fading light I can just see him now Far out on a bough Preparing for flight. As darkness comes down The elm-branch is bare No bird is there, My owl has flown! Whence he comes, where ne » Under the moon. In the owl’s high noon. Nobody knows. But that owl for sure To-morrow will be In the bole of the tree Sitting, demure. Owl in the hollow tree. From whence and to where Owl, do you fare? Owl pray tell me. The owl in the hollow tree, Silent is sitting! His quest and his flitting A secret which he * ol *l, Never discloses to mortal o But sits in his tree, Blinking at me, O wL A—

The day is done; and the scene the stooping sun bac* his spent shafts, and puts tn

into his golden « ulver -_ L<?n g£elloW-