An Open Air Page

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 238, 28 December 1927, Page 6

An Open Air Page

For Big Girls and Boys

THE OLD YEAR ‘•'j'HE old year is passing into the sunset, Flying Cloud, and for--1 getfulness is already in his eyes.” “Yet he carries his weight of days like a crown, Redfeather, and is well fitted to meet his brothers in the Happy Hunting Grounds.” “But we can only watch him go with regret, for, during his reign, we have built the "Wigwam and erected the Totem Pole proudly against the sky. He has brought us friendships that will outlast the passage of time and hover near our brightly burning fires where each week we have held council. He has beard the songs of the Children and listened to tales of the chase. A proud little army of artists, poets and story-writers has taken shape under his vigilant eyes.” “And he has seen the fidelity of the Children, Redfeather. We should be well content.” “Then let us all gather at the brink of the Lake, and speed Turn with singing, for he has given us much and taken little. Then we shall turn our thoughts to the year that lies before us. . . . ‘A landscape whose wide border lies In silent shade, ’neatli silent skies; A wondrous fountain yet unsealed; A casket with its gifts concealed— This is the year that for you waits Beyond To-morrow’s mystic gates.’ Hay it bring many newcomers down the friendly trail and joy and prosperity to every Child of the Wigwam.” REDFEATHER.

GAMES THAT INDIANS PLAY HIDDEN-BALL According to the legend told by the Indian tribes, the game of hidden-ball is one of the oldest of all sports, for it ■was played in the under-world while the first men and the first animals were waiting for the earth to dry off and become a habitable place for them to live in. The night animals, like the

bear, the panther, and the owl, wanted the world to b© always covered with darkness, tvhile the daytime animals and the men would have the sun shine perpetually. Finally, they decided to play a game, the winners to have the privilege of deciding how much light there would be in the sky. And so, according to the Indians, was played the first game of hidden-ball. It is one of the games of pure chance that so delight the Indian sense of humour and is therefore a very simple sport. First a group of people divide into two contending sides, not necessarily equal in number. They moisten a pebble or blacken a chip with charcoal, and toss this up in the air to determine which party shall have the first play, just as wo would flip a penny. Four

moccasins are laid in a row about six inches apart with their soles turned upward before the group to whom the falling pebble gives the first play. An Indian, chosen for this part, lifts these moccasins by the heel with his left hand, one after the other, and slips his right hand beneath them, depositing a small pebble or bean under one of them. He then goes up and down the row of moccasins this way a number of times, swaying his body, shaking his head and waving his arms as though performing an incantation. Meanwhile

the other members of his band are singing a lusty chorus, keeping time to it by beating the ground with their clenched fists or by standing and dancing from foot to foot. This song is supposed to confuse the eyesight of their opponents and also to distract the attention of any gods of ill-luck that may chance to be hovering about. The song and dancing stop immediately when their leader holds up both hands, palms open and fingers spread, as a sign that the ball is hidden. The opposing side now gather their heads together and consult as to where the pebble is concealed, the final decision lying with their leader, who at last turns over one of the moccasins with a long pointed stick to see if the stone lies beneath it. If the stone is hidden there, his side wins one of the ten counters that lie on the ground between the two rows of players. If he has made a mistake in his choice, he is allowed a second trial and, strange to say, should he now select the right moccasin, he wins two counters for his party. Thus it is better to win on the second trial than on the first. When a successful “lift” is made the moccasins and the pebble are passed across to the winners. After the ten counters have been divided between the two parties, one side draws its winnings from the counters of the opponents until all of them are held by one row. This is a splendid game to play with sand-shoes, round the camp-fire or after a swim, the players taking it in turn to be leader, but, in this case, it is better to have an equal number of players on each side.

ST. BARNABAS SCOUTS About 20 boys of St. Barnabas Troop, under Scoutmaster Peek, and Assistant Scoutmasters Robinson and Croft, will be camping at Deep Creek until January 5. Their breaking-up evening took the form of a pound night, and was held on December 16, the St. Barnabas Guides being present at the function. The Kiwi Patrol won the Competition Cup. Singing Arrow (Bryan Bell) and Supple Bow (Kenneth Bell), two brother Wigwam Chiefs, are now First-class Scouts.

HEARD BY A BRAVE When last the moon was silver, I hurried to the Wigwam, but, as I crossed the Brook of "Whispering Voices, 1 heard it telling a new story. Entranced, I stopped to listen, and this is the tale, told to the whisper of the wind in the birches, which fell on the ear of Silver Heel. "Long ago, in the Valley of Lone Water, dwelt Hawk Eye, an unscrupulous chief, and his tribe. Now Hawk Eye had a daughter called Wind of Eve, who was more beautiful than the children of the Sun God, and who was deeply loved by Baring Moccasin, a brave of the tribe. Each time the moon was silver, and Hawk Eye went into council, these two would meet, and, in the cool solitude of the birch forest! discuss their future. "But one night, the old chief heard of their meetings and in a rage he caused a huge forest to grow up round the brave. Then, with a loud laugh, ho told Baring Moccasin that when he had reduced every tree to logs he could claim Wind of Eve as his squaw. “Night after night, day after day, the young brave worked until there came a time when his task was finished. But, alas. Wind of Eve had long since given up her lover as lost and was now the squaw of another brave. "When Baring Moccasin received this news he was stricken with an overwhelming sorrow and, when that night the moon appeared and tinted the blue waves of Many Waters with silver crescents, he launched his canoe, and paddled into the middle of the lake. "Gazing down on the brave's sorrow the moon turned pale with sympathy and sent some of her rays to comfort him. Swiftly they carried him to the moon and there he may be seen cutting wood to keep the stars alight.” —SILVEfi HEEL. ON A SINKING SHIP Long ago, in the days of sailing ships, a little boy named Lidgett went to sea. A terrible storm arose, and it seemed certain that the vessel must sink. Young Lidgett was not panicstricken at the thought of drowning but he did think it a pity that the captain s apple pie, waiting on the supper table, should be wasted. Like most stailors of his day, young Lidgett had tasted nothing but coarse food for weeks, and his mouth had watered at the sight of the apple pie on the table in the catpains’ cabin. “He will never live to eat it ” thought Master Lidgett, "so why shouldn’t I? If I must die, I will have a good meal first.” So, with true British coolness, he sat down in the sinking ship and enjoyed the apple pie. Then came a tragedy indeed. The ship was not wrecked. A cold, wet. weary captain came down from the bridge demanding his supper, and very soon Master Lidgett was wishing with all his heart that the ship had gone down. This delightfully human boy lived to be first a sea captain and then a successful shipowner. AN ANCIENT CASTLE It a calm summer afternoon, and all Vitre, its crooked streets, its antique timbered houses, its sturdy Breton inhabitants, seems to doze in the shadow of its great castle towering on the hill. Proudly the pointed towers rise from the city walls and fling a defiant line across the quiet landscape. They have resisted sieges and the battering of armies. Time is not worthy of being called an adversary.

Since the middle of the thirteenth century, noble and warlike men have commanded the chateau, the de Montfort, the de Rieux, de Coligny, and de la Tremoille. Its earliest lords claimed descent from Hoel the First, king of Northern Brittany, the very nephew of King Arthur. And one can readily imagine the fierce countenances of the knights of the famous Roupd Table framed in these loop-hole windows, as they gazed eagerly forth upon the world, in search of possible combat or adventure. The great feudal castle is intact today, its massive walls, deep moat, and enclosed quarters still strong and ample for not only the feudal lord, but his garrison. The dining-halls, sleeping apartments, store-rooms, defence chambers, prisons, stretch out one after another, connected by narrow stone stairways and winding passages. It is as remote and as sombre as its history, as fundamental as the earth from which it seems to grow. Hanging thus over the valley of the silvery Vilaine, the medieaval city huddled beneath It, but adds to the majesty of the whole. One wanders through the arcaded streets, where the upper storeys of the houses, warped and sagged out of line, project over the pavements, leaning heavily on their carved pillars. Through the half-open doors one catches glimpses of the stone courtyards, and beyond them a tangled mass of galleries and stafrs. They stand as they stood five centuries ago. Vitre as the capital of an arrondissement of Northern France would attract but little notice from the traveller. But the whole town, the inhabitants, the quiet river, seem to lie enchanted beneath the spell of the chateau itself. Immovable, impregnable, unimpressed it stands. Moving listlessly at its feet are the people of Vitre; life of their own they may possess, thoughts, aims, but the chateau takes no cognisance of them. They appear to serve it, look up to it. They seem its vassals, its slaves, almost as truly as in those earlier generations when the owner of the chateau itself was feudal lord of the town and the outlying country. And indeed the ancient castle has a very definite personality. It is really almost human in its absolute self-as-surance. It seems to laugh at change and decay, still retaining, in general, its twelfth-century appearance, in spite of repairs and improvements added during the years. Impregnated with traditions of the past and filled with contempt for the future, it completely dominates everyone and everything that comes within the magic circle of its power.

A LOST ISLAND An island with trees and flowers complete has been missing since the spring, and now the United States Hydrographic Survey has announced that the name of the island is to be removed from nautical charts. The island was thrown up by a Japanese earthquake. It was about nine miles from Round Island (Great Catwick), in the South China seas, between Manila and Hong-Kong, and it was 97 feet high. A notorious Malay pirate named Mala Dahlak is said to have made it his kingdom and to have kept slaves there. Perhaps that is why the indignant sea took back its misused gift. But men of science give another reason; they say the island has disappeared because there has been another ear til quake.

MARK TWAIN HUMORIST AND ADVENTURER No other American author is so widely known, so generally read, or so greatly beloved as Mark Twain, whose real name was Samuel Langhorne Clemens. Ho was born on November 30, 1835, in a three-room house, in the village of Florida, in Eastern Missouri, whither his parents had recently drifted from Tennessee. His father, John Marshall Clemens, ■was a lawyer, who never had a paying practice, who earned with difficulty only a bare living, and whose imagination was fired with magnificent dreams of great wealth. John Clemens married Jane Lampton of Kentucky. Samuel was the fifth child in a family of six. With some help from his prosperous brother - In- law, John Quarles, the elder Clemens opened a little store in Florida village; but it was not a paying venture, and after five years he removed his family to the larger and more promising town of Hannibal, on the Mississippi River. Here he started another little store. Hero Sam Clemens passed a happy, adventurous boyhood amid scenes and with the playmates described so vividly in those two enchanting books, “Tom Sawyer” and “Huckleberry Finn.” He hated the village school, but he loved the woods and Bear Creek and the great Mississippi that flowed by, and his uncle John Quarles’s farm, where he spent his summers. He was an intelligent, tender-hearted mischievous boy, fond of fun and adventure. Before he was 13 years old his father died, and he was apprenticed to a printer in Hannibal. His real education began in the printingoffice—and it continued until the day of his death. He developed a taste for reading, and his mind and imagination expanded. At the age of 14 he was working as a journeyman printer for his brother Orion, who had bo jht “The Hannibal Journal.” Three years later, when this paper failed, Sam Clemens, then 17, ventured forth into great world on his own account. Soon he had an alluring dream of going to the “upper Amazon” to make his fortune. But first he worked some months at his trade in Cincinnati to earn money for the great venture. When at last he was on his way In a Mississippi boat for New Orleans, he gave up his dream of South American wealth, and returned to his old ambition of becoming a Mississippi pilot. Horace Bixby, of the Paul Jones, agreed to teach him the difficult art. Four years he spent on the great river as apprentice and pilot. His “Life on the Mississippi,” one of the best books he ever wrote, tells the tale of these years. The Civil War put a sudden end to piloting on the Mississippi. Samuel Clemens was a southerner, and served a brief term of enlistment as a Confederate soldier. His brother Orion, having been appointed territorial governor of Nevada, then asked Samuel to accompany him as his private secretary. In the summer of 1861, they journeyed by overland stage coach from St. Louis to Carson City, Nevada, in 19 days. Five years and a-half Samuel Clemens spent in Nevada and California as pioneer, miner and wandering journalist. The record of these eventful and adventurous years he has set down with sufficient fullness In “Roughing It,” written five years later. His newspaper articles in Nevada and California had given him a reputation as a humorist. He had adopted the name of Mark Twain, by which the world was henceforth to know him. In 1901, the University of Missouri, his native State, conferred on him the degree of LL.D. Six years later he went to England to receive a similar honour from Oxford. He died at Redding, Connecticut, April 21, 1910. The men who take life too seriously have held a poor opinion of Mark Twain, regarding him as a mere joker and clown. His abounding fun and pleasantries have prevented some sucii men from seeing his real greatness. But after the lapse of a decade or more, his countrymen have come to appreciate him as a man of rare genius and personality. Truly, the world may never see his like again. The secret of his great charm, both as a writer and as a man, lies in the fact that he delighted in making people happy. He loved fun and all the good things of life—good books, good pictures, good music, good men and women. He was loved by a host of great men and women who knew him intimately as a friend; but he was equally loved by millions who had never looked upon his face. His books and sayings have helped to brighten the dullness of life and to lighten its cares and sorrows. His humour, it has been said, was typically American; yet, since his books have had a wonderful vogue both in England and on the Continent, it is fair to assume that there must be something universal in their appeal.

ROAD MAKERS There are many famous roads in the world, but perhaps the most wonderful of all is one few of us have heard about. It has not made history like the Appian Way or Fleet Street, it does not lead to a romantic city like Bagdad, and it is not a beautiful road winding under the trees. Yet it has a touching story. In Hyderabad there are many missionaries of the Methodist Church working as teachers, nurses, and doctors, and one daj T it became known among the natives that the mission was in debt. The people whom the missionaries had helped determined to help the missionaries. A road was being made at Dichpali, and a large group of leper women asked the contractor to employ them on it. They got the work, made a good road, and gave all their wages to the mission. When we think of these poor lepers toiling in the blazing Indian sunlight, we shall agree that there are few' roads quite like the road at DichpalL

THE LAMPLIGHTER Here to the leisured side of life, Remote from traffic, free from strife, A cul-de-sac, a sanctuary Where old quaint customs creep to die And only ancient memories stir. At evening comes the lamplighter With measured steps, without a sound, I-Ie treads the unalterable round; Soundlessly touching one by one The waiting posts that stand to take The faint blue bubbles in his wake; And when the night begins to wane, He comes to take them back again Before the chilly dawn can blight The delicate frail buds of light. ' Seumas O’Sullivan. BENKEI AND THE BELL Benkei was not only the strongest man m Japan, but, except for lferHe w° sto^ s % st in “’e whole world. WaS at flrst a monk, though he was not much suited for a relioious life. Indeed, he used to go to a narrow gorge, put on black ™ OUr - an <l challenge all comers to light. He kept the swords of those he vanquished, and had nearly a thousand when one day the hero roshisune came and defeated him. y-* llat Benkei became the hero’s faithful squire, and followed him round the land doing knightly deeds. But let us ro back to Benkei’s early days, when he was a young monk. Not far away stood the temple of Aliidera, which possessed a very fine and large bronze bell. One night Benkei set off over hill and dale to Miidera, broke into the belfry unobserved, and lifted down the bell. He next took down the cross-beam, hung the huge bell on o- end and his paper lantern on the other, and marched back to his own monastery. When he had hung up the bell he woke his fellow monks, and proudly showed them the new possession. They were delighted. One of them pulled the bell-rope, and the bell moaned: “I want to go back to Miidera!’* Benkei’s jaw dropped. However, the other monks were as dishonest as he was, and even when they knew the bell was stolen they determined to keep it. “Soon it will get used to its new home,” they said hopefully. They used to praise it loudly, and only pull the rope gently; but it always sobbed out: “I want to go f back to Miidera!” At last Benkei lost patience. He seized a bar of iron and dealt the bell a huge blow, meaning to shatter it. The bell only roared out, so that it could be heard for miles: “I want to go back to Miidera!” Then Benkei unhooked the bell and carried it to the door of the monastery, which stood on a hill. There Benkei gave it a tremendous kick. Off it bounded, chattering and ringing, bounding up hill and rolling down dale, till at last it reached the temple gates of Miidera. There it was warmly welcomed, and hung in its own belfry, where it never spoke anything but bell-language for the rest of its days.

A TIROLESE HERO In the warfare which the French made upon the Tirolese, people living in the north-east of Italy, the French soldiers attacked a village on the bank of the River Ard. The village could only be reached by crossing a swiftly-flowing river rushing along the bottom of a deep ravine. Across the ravine lay the huge trunk of a tree, which had been cut down on the bank and allowed to fall so that its trunk rested on the farther side, and the tree, therefore, formed a bridge. Three hundred Tirolese men and a boy guarded the bridge. The boy was Albert Speckbacher. As the French advanced the Tirolese began to hew down the bridge with axes, but the bullets from the rifles of the French soldiers fell thick and fast, and one after another the brave men fell. Among the dead was Albert’s, father. The brave boy took his father’s place. The bridge was nearly down; a few more strokes of the axe and there would be no way for the French to bacher faced the fire from the French guns, and hewed the tree at the peril cross. Seizing an axe, Albert Speckof his life. He cut it all but through —there was only a thin piece of wood holding the bridge together. At that moment Albert Speckbacher gave up his life for his people. He threw down his axe and jumped on the tree with such force that his weigh snapped the thin piece still holding it in its place, and the bridge and the boy fell together into the swift river below. The French were stirred by this act of bravery, and they buried the boy’s body with honour, and set up a monument to tell how nobly he died.

As I walked by myself. And talked to myself, Myself said unto me: v Look to thyself, Take care of thyself, For nobody cares for thee. I answered myself, And said to myself, In the self-same repartee; Look to thyself, Or not look to thyself, The self-same tiling will be.

About 20 years ago a ship steamed into Southampton Water from Argentina. Some seeds of rice grass were blown from her decks into the water. They settled down in the mud and germinated. The spiky stems they threw up caught seaweed and other matter from the water, and so they began to build land, where tides had ever run.

THE SEA-NYMPH The Cyclops were supposed to be a race of giants who lived in mountain caves, guarding flocks of sheep and goats. They were very queer creatures, with voices like thunder and only one eye which gleamed like lightning in the middle of their foreheads. Quantities of shaggy hair hung about their heads. One day Polyphemus, a mighty Cyclops saw Galatea, the most beautiful of the 50 daughters of the sea-god, step out of the waves, and run over the golden sand toward the woods. She was so very lovely that Polvphemus fell in love with her, but the little seanymph was frightened of the terrible giant, and hid in her cave under the water. All day long Polyphemus sang to her. and his voice caused Galatea's cave to shake as he told her of his wealth, and the wonderful things he would give her if she married him, and the glories of the earth which he would show her. But the sea-nymph was fond of a poor mortal, a young shepherd called Acis, and she would not listen to the giant with the gleaming eye. One day, when she thought Polyphemus was safely out of the wav, she ventured from the sea, and ran to the woods where the young Acis tended his sheep. But Polyphemus was watching all the time, and picking up a great rock, he flung it at Acis, who was crushed under its weight. Galatea fled back to her cave, and her grief was so great that the god changed Acis into a pure stream, which flower down to the sea and into Galatea’s cave, so that she might know that Acis was always with her. FINDING AN HONEST MAN A Sultan wanted to find an honest man to collect the taxes of his realm, and a wise counsellor advised him to publish abroad his need, and invite all the applicants to his palace. “I will show you the honest officer when you ask them to dance,” said he. The applicants arrived, and were told to advance to the Sultan, one at a time, through a dark and empty corridor. As soon as they were all assembled before the throne, the Sultan said: ‘‘Gentlemen, I should very much like to see you dance.” But all the applicants refused, with many blushes, except one man, who danced cheerfully and well. “That is the honest man,” said the sage, pointing to the dancer.

In the dark corridor the wise man had placed sacks of money, and all the dishonest men had filled their pockets as they passed through to the Sultan. If they had danced, their pockets would have sounded like money-boxes being shaken, and so they had refused.

The Cuscus, which is about the size of a large cat, is a dull, sleepy creature during the day, but becomes more active at night. It lives in trees, and feeds upon leaves, fruit, birds and small animals. It moves about in trees like a squirrel, sometimes using its tail to swing from branch to branch The several species of the Cuscus are found in the islands of the Indo-JTalay region, North Australia and New Guinea.

The All-Green Parakeet is an inhabitant of Eastern Brazil. It may be seen flying in large flocks from grove to grove, or ravaging rice and maize fields. It is about ten inches in length and can he distinguished from other members of its family by the long tail and green plumage. Its cry is a short, sharp scream.

The New Zealand Government has planted 100,000 acres with trees in six years, and last year sold five million trees to private growers.