IF I WERE A TREE

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 243, 4 January 1928, Page 7

IF I WERE A TREE

If I were a tree In a shady place. An elm I would be With leaves like lace, Daintily green Against the sky Singing to the wind As it went by. If I were a willow In a garden close. I’d fold my branches Over the rose; I would droop so softly And shelter there — Violet, pansy. And maidenhair. If I were a tree On a hilltop high, I’d fling my boughs To the windy sky, I’d be a pine tree Tall and strong And I’d sing a lullaby All day long. THOUGHTS The little old woman was wearily bending over her work. For years she had been toiling, toiling, ami now her work was nearly done; but she did not know it. She was tired —oh, so tired!—tuis little old woman, and the toil of her years was still unfinished. “Oh, for strength to finish my work!” she murmured; and her busy brain weaved poetic fancies, while her nerveless fingers refused to write them down. Lately the little old woman had met a friend, and his messages of sympathy and encouragement had done much to cheer her on her way as she trod, over and over again, the paths of disappointment. He was thinking of her now—miles between them—and wondering how best to help her. He could see it all —how plainly!—the life begun in hope,, the striving, the despair when disappointments came, the sinking only to rise again when Hope sang once more, and the pressing on and on to a goal which seemed out of reach. “What can I do,” said the friend, “to help the poor little soul?” And presently, as he sat thinking, shadows came forth from nowhere, wavered about his head, wavered and took shape, flitted about the room, and were gone. They were the kind thoughts of the kind friend, and they had flown to give the help he could not give himself. The little old woman was sitting with drooping head. She did not see the shadows moving gently about her as they gradually took on beautiful forms. But the kind thoughts of the friend were busy. They held softly the hand which grasped the pen, till the little old woman thought that new strength had come to her, and the pages were quickly covered. Then she looked up, and knew them. “Blessings,” she cried, “blessings be on you, kind thoughts, for aye!” Then once more her head drooped, and her eyes closed. She could rest now, for her work was done. The little old woman was at peace. The kind thoughts, aftei* touching softly’ the grey head and smoothing the lines of the careworn face, flitted back to the friend, carrying with them the blessings of the little old woman. And the blessings entered into The house of the friend, and remained with him and his for ever.

DESERT POLICE In the desert wastes of the Kalahari there is a strange force—the South African Police Camel Patrol. They are lonely men like the mounted police of the Canadian snows, but they like the life. Their “beat” includes nearly six thousand square miles of sandy, sundried country. They are policemen, wearing blue uniforms and carrying revolvers; yet arresting criminals forms the smallest part of their duty in the l Kalahari. They have to collect native taxes, inspect cattle to detect the dreaded rinderpest, report invading swarms of locusts, dip sheep, make meteorological observations, and compile voters’ rolls in the isolated villages of the territory. But beyond an occasional stock theft there is little crime indeed. Long and dangerous treks across the sand dunes of the Kalahari take up much of their time. Waterholes are hard to find in that sun-scorched land. A small desert melon called tsama grows after the rains, but there is no other fruit. So each man setting out to a distant native village loads his camel with waterbags to last for fourteen days. He carries a rifle, not only to shoot game, but because there are still little bands of wild Bushmen with poisoned arrows who occasionally attack a white man. Blankets and a heavy overcoat are necessary, for the hot sand of the daytime becomes ice-cold at night. Meat and mealie meal, tea, milk, sugar, and a small stove complete the desert policeman’s outfit. For days he sits on his camel, plodding across the glaring yellow sand with his eyes and ears full of grit, without the slightest relief from the all-pervading heat. There are no trees, rivers, or pools in the Kalahari. But there is always the possibility of lying down on a scorpion at night. The policeman may have to travel for a week to reach a single white man at some lonely outpost just because the Census Department requires a form to be filled in. Camels used in the Kalahari come from the Sudan. The police are expected to cover forty miles a day in normal times. When great locust hordes are threatening to leave their breeding places in the Kalahari and descend on the rich farming districts of the Union the men of the camel patrol sometimes cover eighty miles of desert in twenty-four hours to bring the news to the nearest telegraph office. A LONG TREK To-morrow, December 29, I am leaving by boat for New Plymouth, where I am camping after a 20-mile trek. Then with a friend, I intend to go on a long tour —New Plymouth, National Park, Taupo, Rotorua, the Hast Coast, then back to Auckland. We intend to camp on the way, and fully enjoy the thermal and scenic regions. —Beaver Hunter.

THE MERRY MONTH Highroads, by-roads. All the roads there be. This merry month of holidays, Lead toward the sea. In and out they wind about, By riverbank and lea, Beyond the town, across the down, Toward the sunny sea. Big loads, small loads. Loads of every kind. This merry month of holidays Along the roads you’ll find. The highroads, the by-roads, All the roads that be, They leave the town and climb the down To seek the jolly sea. THE SEA Mother of ships—thou whose eternal songs Do ring about the immeasurable shore— What mighty secret to thy soul belongs, What tears have made thee salt for evermore? When tempests moan beyond the harbour* bars. Swifter than driven snow thy spindrift flies, The storm out-blots the wonder of the stars— And thousand-tongued—thou leapest to the skies: Kingdoms are thine—than earthly realms more vast. Still heights with curious bloom and verdure drest, Like some far phantom region of the Past With dim, untravelled pastures full of rest . . . And thou, oh Mother ... in th* encircling deep Folding the dead—like children fast asleep . . . —M. E. Mason. GLIMPSED FROM A TRAIN It was a glorious night and I had my window open all the time. It was quite light w r hen we passed the snowcapped mountains and Ngauruhoe had a thin plume of steam trailing from its summit against the grey sky. When the country became more level we passed huge stretches covered with exquisite cream -petalled daisies and wide fields of orange and yellow buttercups. The cabbage trees were sending up feathery, perfumed blossoms from their spiky hearts, and on the hillsides the bracken was uncurling its golden-brown fronds to the morning sun. —Dew of June.