On the Just and on the Unjust...

New Zealand Listener, Volume 35, Issue 900, 2 November 1956, Page 22

On the Just and on the Unjust...

by

SUNDOWNER

OCTOBER 8

HEN something like two inches of water fell the other day on Canterbury, freeing us from all anxiety for the rest of the year, one enthusiastic farmer told the newspapers that it was a rain direct from God, But God is not so simple as that. He sends the rain in His own time end in His own

way, and both are mysteries. As for the directness. the rain

that fell on Canterbury may have travelled hundreds, or thousands, of miles before it reached us, The sun may have lifted it from our own lakes or from Lake Eyre in South Australia; it may have come from the coast of Queensland or from the Indian Ocean, and fallen and risen again half a dozen times on its way to the thirsting flowers of ‘Banks Peninsula. At present we must credit God with the direction as well as with the rain itself. But on the day on which this Canterbury farmer saw God just above him, the Admiral commanding the American expedition to the South Pole was explaining to an audience in Wellington how the work to be done down there during the geophysical year will save God from the necessity of worrying about where the rain falls, and, in fact, take the task out of His hands. In a few years, the newspapers made the Admiral say, science will stop rain from falling uselessly on the sea and divert it all to the thirsty areas of the earth’s land masses, filling the desert with roses and pumpkins. I don’t expect to live long

enough to see the farmer laughing and the Admiral eating his words; but if I do I will not see it as a direct sign from God. I will see a sign as vague, faint and mysterious as predestination leaves on the brows of the elect.

OCTOBER 10

bo % ** Y the kindness of a Dunedin reader I have now some further information about my Metasequoia glyptostroboides; most of it encouraging. A contributor to Gardeners’ Chronicle, a London journal that seems to me to speak with some authority, says, after watching a specimen for five years, given to him’ as mine was given to me, and no more impressive than mine was when

it arrived, that it has grown already into a "most grace-

ful pyramid" twelve feet high; that the branches, "most symmetrically placed," curve outwards and then sharply upwards; that one of the most pleasing features is the bark, especially in early spring, when the outer layer is sloughed off and the new growth is pale chestnut; but that the tree’s chief glory is its "spectacular transformation" in autumn, within a few days, from green to rich salmon-pink. Though the contributor does not say where he lives in England, he says that "the climatic conditions are far from being those of favourable districts," and that he was not sufficiently interested when his specimen arrived in a pot to choose a good site for it. He adds that

fe last two winters in Britain have been disastrous for plants with thin skins and soft hearts. That is encouraging enough. But better follows in an article supplied by another contributor, who says that the chief reason why this fossil-age survival has found its way round the world in eight years is "the ease with which it can be propagated vegetatively." Though plants have not yet become political, it would appear that the supply of seeds from China ceased early in 1949, and the seeds received in 1948 have not yet produced trees old enough to yield fertile seeds of their own. But it has been discovered that cuttings will grow whether they are the soft wood of spring or tougher pieces collected in summer. Perhaps it would be safer to say that cuttings have been grown by gardeners with the knowledge, patience and skill called for to grow cuttings of any kind. That unfortunately does not include me, or other blunderers as careless as I am, and with as long a record of failures. Directly, the information is important for those gardeners only who can thrust a _ walking-stick into the ground today and tomorrow, or after a sufficient number of morrows, gather flowers or figs. Indirectly, however, it is a message of hope for those who can do nothing with trees but sit in their shade, and I confess that I find it mildly exciting.

OCTOBER 12

bd Ld OMEONE, I read recently, but have already forgotten who- Cobden or Bright or Beaconsfield or Burke-said that every man who reaches 70 with an unsatisfied ambition becomes a desperado. Women, I think, become dangerous sooner than that, but not from such unworthy frustrations. Even in the animal world, however, age, without any disappointments of which the creature is

conscious, is usually marked by crustiness. A rogue ele-

phant is not simply a rutting elephant, but a rutting o/d elephant without a mate. An old bull develops a worse temper than a young bull if you tie him all day to a stake, and if he is not more dangerous than a young bull that

is because he is not so agile; never because age has mellowed and sweetened him. Old dogs are notoriously irritable, and almost invariably jealous. My roosters seldom become rancorous during their first year. On the contrary, they will jump on my knee and eat out of my hand. During their second year they are quite likely to peck my hand instead of the wheat; to do it by accident at first, then by design, then (if I don’t check them) by malicious, savage, and utterly hostile design. Roosters, of course, have two ambitions only; but in youth they show a shadowy sense of chivalry in the pursuit of these, and lose it when age makes the pursuit more difficult. It is a miserable trick of nature to implant desires and ambitions without implanting at the same time tolerances that grow stronger and faster. After all, who has satisfied ambitions? Not sinners, who always want one thing more. Not saints, who sigh for one last victory over weakness and can never accept it as the last. Not scholars, who feel till they die that they have not sufficiently harrowed all their ground. Not ' philosophers, who never_ cease knowing that they don’t know. Not artists or poets or musicians or seers, who hardly begin to express themselves before they are aware of the things inside that they can’t drag out. Not statesmen or politicians, who live on public recognition, and never feel that they have. had enough. The teddy-boy who smashes a window or a policeman’s face; the woman who ulcerates her stomach with daily doses of hate for her prettier, richer, or more popular neighbour; the man who kicks his dog when his neighbour gets an O.B.E.; the team that disintegrates when its rivals win a shield; the stag that leaves the mountains when the hinds admire another voice; the grapes that turn sour when they have to share the sun with the gooseberrieswhat are these but the helpless victims of unsatisfied ambitions? What is a murderer but a man entangled in someone else’ entrails and hating them? What is a desperado but the helpless hater of other men who get in his way until they drive him mad? (To be continued) -- 1