THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.

Auckland Star, Volume LXIV, Issue 88, 15 April 1933, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.

(By Jean Cnmmings, BS, Mangere Koad, Otahuhu, 5.E.7. Age 16.)

Slowly the sun sank down towards the wee tern horizon; slowly it turned a rich, golden red, sending its beams far over th© countryside until they danced upon the cottage windows and made them appear to be on fire. On a window-seat in one of the cottages was seated a tall, stately, middleaged woman, whose dark, grey-streaked hair glowed brightly in the rays of the setting sun, whose almost black eyes gazed far away with a dreamy, sad expression, and whose lips quivered with emotion. Her hands lay clasped on her knee and, as she watched dreamily the fleecy white cloudlets turning a pale pink, edged with gold, and, the fiery ball sinking below the distant purple hills, ■she slowly raised one hand and passed it wearily over her brow. From a nearby cottage drifted the long, sweet strainer of a violin, playing a sad, sweet melody. The woman's eyes dimmed with, tears as she heard once more the tunc she knew so -well. "Was it not that beautiful dancing melody her boy used to play before he—" The tears blinded her eyes as she turned iier head away with a sob. "Yes, he had gone," she thought. "He had left her for the friends he 'wished to be with. He had given Tip his home and a mother's love to "go his own way," as he expressed it, and seek for the pleasure of life. He wanted fame, and he determined to get it at all costs. A sigh escaped her lips as the familiar notes drifted in through the open window. "What I would give to see and hear him play to me once again in this room," she whispered. She wondered where he was now and what he was doing. Was he playing his violin and smilingly bowing to a vast, applauding audience, as he said-he would some day be doing? Was he laughing and joking as he &o often did with his light-hearted friends? Was he a lonely outcast with no money and very little food; too proud to return to the home he had left so thoughtlessly ? Was he perhaps thinking of her ? All these questions flashed through her mind as she sat in the gathering twilight. How thoughtless he had been I He had not stopped to think of how much she would miss him. All he could think of was music and gaiety, jolly company, gay friends, freedom from the home he thought so dull. Oh, if she could but see him once. Know he was well and in, good company. Hear his voice and the music he made with his skilful fingers.

The last trembling note fe.ded away, and with a fcist gaze at the, darkening day the woman drew down the blinds and turned -way. * * * *

In a shabby living-room of a cheap boarding house irt the.heart of the city, though* f iHy gazing into a fading fire, his hands thrust deeply into the pockets'of his .well-worn jacket, stood a young man —almost a boy. On a small table nearby lay an ■' pen violin case, while beside it lay a violin and bow. The boy crossed the room and, taking the instrument from the table, he sank down on to a ricketty chair and began to play a sad, sweet melody. Softly and clearly the .notes rose and fell, swelling and fading, and when the laot had died away in a thin tremor he leaned forward with the violin still in his hands and gazed dreamily into the tiny, dancing, flickering flames which arose from tlie few dying embers in the grate. In. the creeping shadows he could see the sad, yearning face of his beautiful mother, who seemed to be billing him to go back to her: "Com© back, Laurie," she seemed to be saying, "and I will forgive you." She was reaching out her trembling white hands—her eyes were pleading —he dropped the instrument and buried his face in his hands. What had he done? Sacrificed a mother's love for false friends. Yes, were they not false? Had they not clung to him in prosperity and deserted him in poverty? Had they not cheated him of fame and happiness? For them he had sacrificed a mother's love.

All these things raced through his brain as he sat with bowed head; a picture of hopeless despair. Then suddenly he rose and, clenching his fists- so that his finger nails dug into his palms, and his knuckles grew white, he cried passionately, "Yes, I will! I will go and ask her forgiveness, although I know I don't deserve it!"

A few hours later he was walking briskly up the pleasant country road which led to the cottage. High up in the azure sky a lark was bursting its little heart with joyous, song, a blackbird was whistling merrily in a nearby hedge, lambs frisked about in an adjacent, daisy-flecked ' paddock, while sweetscented flowers bloomed on either eide of the dusty, yellow road. In the distance he could see the red roof of his home behind a belt of trees, a thin coil of smoke ascending from the chimney. His heart felt light and glad as he stepped towards the little white gate, opened it and walked up the garden path.

As he neared the steps a figure rushed towards him crying, "Is it Laurie? My own dear boy ?" and sobbing, she clasped his hands and kissed him again and again. "Mother," he said brokenly with toowed head, "can you really forgive me? Please —please forgive me." "Laurie, of course I forgive you," she said, and crying for joy she led him into the cottage.

Later, as they sat together on the window-seat, watching the sun setting in all its majesty, the mother said softly, "Let me hear you play that old piece again, Laurie," and, raising the violin to his chin, he played once more the beloved melody while the sun sank behind the hills, and a silver moon rose slowly into the heavens and shone brightly over the peaceful countryside.