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Taranaki Daily News, 23 December 1916, Page 10

was addressed to uie for thousandth time since I left •England considerably less than two years ago. I gave the answer I had so often given on such occasions. "It's a wonderful country, and the mountains " "But the people; what do you think of the people . . . .?" asked my interlocutor eagerly. I hesitated. I wished to speak truly and yet to avoid offence. ''Don't spare its," urged hit friend; "tell us plainly—you don't like us?" "On the contrary, I like vou very much, but " " "That's right; tell me all about the 'but'."

* 'Supple-jack,' 'lawyer' and •liind™WJ' ari ' not more insidious in their creeping and clinging ami stilling than is the root chat has found a place in the heart of the New Zealand people and threatens suffocation if it he left to its way," I said. "Humph! Metaphorical! What is the root?" he asked. "The love of money, of money-grab-bing—of money honestly if you can" but at all events money," I replied. We walked along silently for some time. Then he said, "Yet you will admit that we subscribe pretty freely to all kinds of charities?" "Yes, I am not inclined to deny it," I answered. "Money is an essential, you know, even in the p'ar." "It is, even in the war," I agreed. "That's a fine place," said my friend, pointing with his stick to a big house perched on the cliff, and overlooking the sea in front and the forests hehind. "The owner is a smart fellow; T can remember the day when he hadn't cighteenpence in his pockets, all told," he continued. "How did lie make his money?" "By taking advantage of opportunities that a prolonged drought gave him to buy stock from small men, at liis own price, and then travelling them. He got possession of his herds, and Hocks in this way, and, being a shrewd chap, what was the ruin of many wa9 the making of him." "And now what standing has he?" "Oh, he's 'a good deal thought of; he gave £IOOO the. other day to the Ked 1 Cross and £230 yesterday to buy com- ] forts for the soldiers. He's a splendid ' fellow, keen, manly and ehartlable." ; "Wcll( let that pass," I said. "Who i lives there?" : "That little shanty, do you mean?" i "Yes, where the damask rose and the i lavendar are blooming." ; "A man with a wooden leg. He was s very wealthy once, but he gave up his c farm and rushed off to the Boer war, 1 where he lost a leg. He docs a little painting now, and he sells plants .and i eggs and honey, and muddles along ( somehow, but he's seldom able to meet ( his rent when it's due." ) "Is his landlord good to him?" 1 "Well, he's told him to clear out scv- t eral times, but something's always come ' along in time and saved the. situation." "Is the landlord a poor man?" 1 "Poor! Not he! Why, he's just given c a thousand for a new motor-car that ; tcok his fancy. He made his money by , buying up corner sites; the 'unearned increment' did the rest." t "What is his standing?" , "He has a seat in the House, and ; we're very, proud of him; he's a line ] speaker; he tarries all before him. But ~ we've travelled away from our subject, , haven't we?" said my frend. t ' "Xot at all. We have been drawing , closer to it every moment," I said. , He laughed. "You will have noticed ] that out here we have not the class , distintcion that you have at Home?" "Yes; you have not the class distinc- , lions; you have two big divisions instead: one for those who have money, j the other for those who have none. ] You have no half-lights in New Zealand, just .as you have no twilight. You have vivid colors or blackness of ' darkness. Money gives the color; the lack of It is darkness. A rich fruit on a poor , plate is still rich fruit at home, but here it is valueless, the poor fruit on the rich plate being preferred." "And you really think that of us?" "I would sacrifice five years of my life," I said, "if by so doing I could believe otherwise." We walked along in silence for some time. The sunshine was brilliant, almost too brilliant; I longed for shade. "Here we are at last," said my friend, as he pointed with his stick to some magnificent trees on our left, and to a white gate, and above it, a little to the right, I saw a white-painted hoard, with black lettering. I stopped a moment to Tcad it. "All visitors avc very welcome," was the wording on the board. "That's hearty," I said; "it's the 'very' that appeals to me." I felt as though I had shaken friends with a long-absent friend! It was with quite a feeling of home-coming that I passed through the gate. Such a shady path lay before us, gilt by magnificent trees, all evidently well looked after. Before us we could see sloping lawns, smooth as velvet, and perfectly kept. We walked between thun until wearrived at a wonderful rosebower, the roses rioting over the specially constructed archway, and reminding lis of the loving care that is bestowed by able gardeners on the gardens at Hampton Court in the dear old Homeland. The gardens were free from visitors, as it was comparatively early in the morning. We. looked here and there and admired the beautiful grounds and luxuriant native bush. On trees, at intervals, we read now and again, "This way to the scats," a finger pointing the direction. The scats were placed in all sorts of tempting positions, always in the shade, but yet facing fine views. We sat down on one, near a cascade of leaping, sparkling water, and T asked, "Who lives in that house, there, on the knoll, beyond the trees?" "The owners of the gardens," was my friend's answer. "They are not public- grounds, then? I had the idea that they belonged to the town, or tlio Government." i "'Oh, no; they're ju a t private pro- , jierty." -| suppose the owner is rich?" "No, not 'rich.'" "Does the. public keep them in order?" "No, indeed; they arc tended by Uie ■ owner, his wife, and daughter; the three, work hard in the grounds." "Bub what do they make out of them?" "Well, we'll put that question to one ■ of the ladies. Hpre she comes—look!" I did, and saw crossing the lawn a woman in the prime of life, wearing n shady hat, and carrying on one arm a [ basket of lovely dlowers. She smiled, and said, ■,"!;' am afarid-the-Toses 'are not looking quite,,s&jwell as they have j: been." --, *'*''> v- ;

■'•Wo are fond of outdoor work, and we are all early risers," she answered simply. "But you must be warm and thirsty; will you come and sit on the verandah .while I make a cup of tea? • • . No, I assure you it's no trouble; we always have some ourselves about tin's time, and visitors are more than welcome."

Seated on the shady verandah, with the beautiful grounds stretching before us, and partaking of the delicious homemade tea and cake, we questioned our kindly hostess about the ground. Why did she and her husband and daughter spend their time from six o'clock in the morning until dusk laboring for that which could not enrich them? "I reckon, since you mention riches, that we're a great deal enriched," she said. "Why, wo feci richer when we see the real joy that folk coming into the gardens get from" them. You'd think that roses were as scarce as shipping is just now, to judge by the way the visitors gaze at them and admire them and look for their names."

"They are very fine, your roses," I said.

'•They are not really finer than many other people's roses," she replied, "but folk come to the gardens, leaving tlmir cares behind them for a time, and on the look-out for beauty. It makes a great difference in looking at a flower v.'bat a mind you bring to it, Why, my husband declares that sonic of the roses know when he is near them!" She smiled as she said this. It was Phyllis, her daughter, who said, "Well, mother, you can't prove that it isn't so! Why shouldn't (lowers be conscious of love or indifference';" Then turning to me s ! «e asked if 1 had yet seen the "Mirroi Lake."

Our morning tea finished, we accompanied the two ladies to the lake, delivering on the way a jug of hot tea to the proprietor-of the grounds, whom we found hard at work making a good road toward the lake. "It'll soon be clone," lie explained; "we. all work at it, and healthy work it is." He drank his tea and then accompanied us to the lake. •'.Stand just here, on the bridge," he suggested, "and look immediately opposite, and, then down to the bottom of tlie waters." We did, and saw a perfect and delicate forest reflected apparently to a great depth. It was a beautiful sight, and one that enabled us to sympathise with the old Greek belief that the real world is what we see by reflection, and the unreal the actual. '"At night," said Phyllis, "when the moon is shining on the waters, there is a lovely fairyland spread out below." "Leaving the "'.Mirror Lake" and its idyllic surroundings, we came to a part of the grounds in which a fernery is in course of being laid out. Phyllis and !i"V mother have charge of this and are keeping the varieties of ferns in distinct beds. "It's all new," said. Phyllis, "but presently it will be beautiful."" "J'm getting the native bush named, by degrees," said the road-maker. '"I shall put the Latin names also, as well as the Maori; it will please some of the visitors."

They were all so happy, and full of the consciousness that life is so well worth while when it affords opportunity to give such pleasure to so many. I couid not help contrasting the obvious zest in life evinced by the owner,s of the grounds with the- distaste and boredom of the poor money-grabbers, whose whole aim and end of existence is that of adding coin to coiti, deluded by the belief that money is the only desirable wealth.

"Well?" asked my friend, as we strolled homewards.

" 'All' is too compTerensive a word," I answered. "New Zealand is saved by her minority."

'lsn't it Ibsen who says that the majority is always wrong?" he asked, diffidently.

"Yes, Ibsen; and New Zealand is tho latest attestation of the truthfulness of his observation," I said. "Tho man with the wooden leg and the owners of the grounds arc ■"

"Most certainly of the minority,"' I said.