THE END OF A PHASE

New Zealand Listener, Volume 2, Issue 46, 10 May 1940, Page 43

THE END OF A PHASE

Written for "The Listener" by

PHYLLIS

McDONAGH

It was the end of six months of national celebration and rejoicing. It was the end, too, of a phase. Something that our forefathers made possible, and which it has been our privilege to commemorate. Our children, yet unborn, will make the next Centennial Anniversary. But we shall not be here. We shall have played our part. Already in the grounds, when i saw them last week, dissolution was approaching. In a few days, I thought, great white courts and quadrangles that, for six months now have been scenes of historic splendour, would tumble into dust. The Gothic columns and carved frescoes would tremble and collapse. The valiant standards would furl their flags. The fountain’s play would cease. The coloured lights, the reflected gleam of rose and amber and gold, would dim and pale into darkness. . . And by now, the machinery‘s throb has stopped at the touch of an unseen switch. The patient sheep and cattle on the moulded hills and valleys of the Dominion Court have deserted their evergreen pastures. On the miniature harbours of Dominion ports, ships have sought a final harbourage. In the Glow Worm Cave darkness has fallen where once was quivering light. In the Pioneer Huts the erect figures in their sprigged waistcoats and hooped gowns have relaxed from their long week, the Exhibition closed.

vigil. The spinning wheel, the old "go ashore" cooking pot, the family Bible, the baby’s wooden cradle, are laid aside. Old treasures, with the bloom of years on them, have vdnished into the shadows from which they came. Oils and painted miniatures that for six months now have gazed down on the crowding throngs, have retired, it may be, for another century. The Royal Jewels no longer dazzle our gaze, the Port of London no longer sounds its call. From the Australian Court, the fruit and the wheat, the play of surf, and sky and wind, have gone back to the land that gave them. The long procession of show cars have made a final entourage through the northern gates. The pas and war canoes are emptied. From the General Exhibits Hall comes a crash of scaffolding as the stalls are dismantled and laid aside. Their occupants have vanished with their wares. In Playland, the last spruiker’s cry has ceased. From the Crazy House, the sailor has sounded his last guffaw. The swift rushes and descents of the Roller Coaster have been made, the Cyclone and Jack and Jill have slowed-and stopped. The side-shows, the race and card games, all the fun and glitter of Carnival Land have vanished as if they had never been. There is a sadness and a finality in it all. It is not time that flies, but we, the children of time.