IN THE KITCHEN GARDEN.

Auckland Star, Volume LIV, Issue 299, 15 December 1923, Page 22

IN THE KITCHEN GARDEN.

"I know I am only a common Cabbage, but I do have my own thoughts," said the Cabbage in the Kitchen Garden. "I grow strong and well and need no interference." "Interference," cried the Carrot hotly; "it's worse, it's just pampering and coddling. I should be ashamed if I could not face sun, wind and rain alike, in and out of season." "I think—" began the timid Parsley. "You never do think, so be quiet," interrupted the turbulent Cabbage; "but, to resume my conversation, if I was gardener here, I should knock down that silly glass-house and throw every man-jack of a grape-vine out of it into the rubbish patch!" "And who is to be thrown on the rubbish patch?" inquired the Turnip, in his deep, placid voice, as he lifted himself out of the earth. "Oh, we're talking about those rubbishy grape-vines," answered the Carrot. "They get more fuss and care than the whole lot of ns put together." "They don't harm mc," said the Turnip. "On the contrary, I think they add tone to an otherwise somewhat ordinary market-garden." "Poof!" cried the Cabbage. They have to be locked up at night. We apparently are not considered worth so much care." "If they are locked up, that only shows they cannot be trusted at large," rejoined the Turnip. "I hardly consider theirs an enviable lot. Why, they have that dreadful glass between them and the sun, and I know what that means; for, when I was but a young thing, a small fragment of glass was carelessly left to lie on my tender green shoot, and I can tell you I rejoiced when 1 wa» freed by the hoe"! But, hallo! Hush! Here comes the gardener and another man!" "I shall do away with the lot," he was saying. "Glass doesn't pay. It's too much trouble." "You do well with your vegetables, though," came the other voice, and the footsteps died away. "There!" cried the Cabbage. "I have a master mind!" and he spread out his leaves and chuckled to think how greatly he was beloved by his kind master. FAIRTI_-Jn>. Oh, grown-ups cannot understand And grown-ups never will. How short's the way to fairyland Across the purple bill. They smile—their smile is very bland— Their eyes are wise and chill; And yet—at-Just a child's command Tho world's an Kden still. I wonder If you've ever dreamed In summer's noonday sleep. Of what the thyme and heather seemed To ladybirds that creep Like little crimson shimmering gems Between the tiny twisted stems Of fairy forests deep; And what tt looks like as they pass Through Jungles of the golden grass? IfiTou conld suddenly, become As small a thing as they, A midget-child, a new Tom Thumb A little gauze-winged fay, 9.*' 2-ft_. M thro "Sh the mighty shades or wild thyme woods and violet glades • Yon groped your forest way, f l au ,S ht , ea „ h fragrant bough would be With dark, o'erhanging mystery. How-high the forest aisles would loom. What wondrous wings would beat Through gloamings loaded with perfume In many a rich retreat; While trees, like purple censers, bowed And swung beneath a swooning cloud Mysteriously sweet; BuXrhlTor^of^d^r 81 CUme wFd A Tfy R m E e/' ta " Th<S *•»* ° f

THE FIRE. See the fir« flicker and flare! Like wares heaped high they toss and tear roe flames, The flames that blaze and blare.

Hear the fire crackle and roar. Like the sea that beats on the rocky shore . Like spray that splashes a"ure. In sparkles and flashes. The flames of fire leap ana soar.

Watch the fire, ebbing low. Like the tide at eundown In ontward flow Like the pebbly beach all rnddy glow Gleam the embers a-blowzy-blowf I —KABGARET LI/)TD.