TREES IN THE WIND

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 134, 27 August 1927, Page 27

TREES IN THE WIND

The paths were strewn with leaves, red gold and brown. The wind blew round the tree-tops, whispering, and luring the leaves from the boughs which had sheltered them. “Oh. must we leave you, old mother tree?” they cried: but the relentless wind laughed and tore them from the branches to which they clung. • “Come, little leaves,” sai the wind one day, “Come, little leaves,” said the wind and play, All in your bonnets of red and gold— Winter has come and the world is cold.” When night came and I lay in bed, the wind unmercifully tossed the trees, making them creak and groan. The bare branches, as they swung in the wind, made a noise like the lapping of waves on the shore, but, tug as he might, he could not uproot those mother trees . . . In the morning, looking skywards, I beheld a rainbow, its translucent colours of pink, gold and * green glorifying the sombre grey clouds, a fairy dome to frame a singing bird. •—Marion Mead (aged 13). A SUNSET STUDY I sat on a hill overlooking the harbour at sunset. All the swift, exultant glory of eventide was dying away, save one great golden swathe, like an angel’s wing, outspread over the slopes of far away hills. Looking down, I saw the sea. You have seen a field of green barley, ruffled by wind!; I ;st so I could see the ocean swept by the balmy breeze. The sun was rapidly sinking, and the songs of the waves on the rocks filled the air with their lullabies, rising and falling like whisperings heard in a shell. Breaker after breaker, marbled with spray, dashed itself to death under the sun’s last rainbowed rays. Shades of delicate amethyst and grey hid part of the hadbour, and laid gossamer veils on the majestic peaks of Rangitoto that lifted dark points to the softly-hued dome of sky. Stealing up the tranquil waters of Waitemata came a scow with sails set, dove-grey and brown, like a moth skimming the surface with spread wings. The light in the west faded, the afterglow painted the sea in mauve and amber, delicate pastel tints of mysterious beauty. And still I sat listening to the ceaseless murmuring. —Felice Lytton, St. Ileliers Bav (aged 15).