The Sun 42 WYNDHAM STREET, AUCKLAND SATURDAY, OCTOBER 6, 1928. AUCKLAND’S SPRINGTIME

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 478, 6 October 1928, Page 8

The Sun 42 WYNDHAM STREET, AUCKLAND SATURDAY, OCTOBER 6, 1928. AUCKLAND’S SPRINGTIME

A X ‘‘lmmigrant” and a “Cosmopolitan” have been airing in The ta Sun s correspondence columns their alien views on Auckland s weather. The first of the strange pair appeared to sigh in exile for the drenched and dripping beauty of Greenock, while the other had become happy enough in Auckland to prefer its climate to that of his own Mediterranean country, or the wet monsoonal belt of India. Let them have their prejudices and preferences. Auckland will survive the grief of the one and the joy of the other, and probably, in its own smiling way, will dismiss the philosophy of them both as foreign foolishness. Rain, after all, is the touchstone of -Auckland’s wealth. It is the farmer’s best friend, as it is the best ally of the City Council, which, for once in half a century, has a fountain-head so full in the hills that there is at last no fear of hose restrictions and ruined roses. As a New Zealand Prime Minister once assured an Imperial Conference and could not understand the guffaw of its polite delegates, “Why, New Zealand is the dairy farm of the Empire. Look at its reliable rainfall!” So with Auckland; it enjoys a reliable rainfall. Not that the copions and usually dependable annual downpour is seriously abused. Judging by police court records, drought-stricken countries are more notorious than Auckland for the dairy practice of putting water in milk. Most of the generous moisture goes into grass and later into thick, rich butter-fat, the basis of Auckland’s prosperity.

In reality a wet day in the Auckland district is a rich day, though the whine of the pessimist suggests poverty. There have been occasions, of course, when most of the people would prefer a drier kind of riches. But why linger over sodden days? Winter has gone, and spring marches everywhere with banners flying, green as the Prophet’s banner. The voice of the turtle is not heard in the land, hut who cares? Soon everybody will hear the voice of the tortoise masquerading as a politician, friend of all the people, a splendid fellow, kind, competent, divinely inspired as the “saviour of society.” For one day at least let none of us spoil the beauty of springtime with the brazen ugliness of politics. Already, the greater part of a week of generous sunshine (to say nothing at all about Auckland’s splendid moon, which, “rising once again,” beamed so ardently that a suburban fire brigade was hoaxed into chasing a “conflagration”) has gifted the community with that joyous belief that “Time is still at the morning of the world,” that the season and symbols of resurrection are still the best part of an ancient heritage. “Life is sweet, brother. There’s day and night, brother, both sweet tilings; sun, moon, and stars, air sweet things; there’s likewise a wind on the heath . . . Who would wish, to die?”

And the dance of life is about to begin in this gay place. Sturdy men from Dunedin weeks ago have been pioneers in the surf along our indented coasts, wondering at the shivering timidity of Aucklanders, grateful for a tide free of Antarctica’s chill. Soon, the sea will call to us all, and those who may not go down to it will know the tranquillity of “the green retreat of their gardens.” As an English essayist has looked upon the unwearying dance of life when the world is robed in spring and summer splendours, “It matters nothing that our reflections about it are not without a tinge of melancholy . . . There is far more to make us grateful than there is to make us sober. We share in the dance; let us be content.”

Of course, politics must intrude in spite of the noblest intentions to thrust politics out of the springtime festival. And sure enough,, most of the wrong kind of politicians will again go back to Parliament. But they eannot meddle with the weather, or ehange the- colour of the hills and pastures; and they cannot bieak the rhythm of the tide running under sunshine over beaches. Thank heaven the pageant of spring is still beyond political interference!