THE OLD SCHOOL.

Auckland Star, Volume LXIV, Issue 261, 4 November 1933, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE OLD SCHOOL.

SERENE RECTITUDE A BTTRAIf. STTTDY. (By M.A.R.) We had not seen him for about fifteen years. The very idea of hia coming brought up childhood's memories and revived something of the excitement wa used to feel long ago at holiday time when his old white horse pulled up at the gate and he climbed down from his gig to see if the children would like "to

come out to the farm for a few days." "What a blissful drive it was, perched up beside him on the high gig seat -with one's feet dangling towards the floor, behind the horse's steady jog-trot and with the wheels rattling over the rough metal road. The gig was usually well piled with parcels for the family, and so one sat tightly clutching tie small drees basket that contained one's best starched white frock, a couple of prints, and plenty of "pinnies," for. this was before the era of the übiquitous suitcase. The carpet bag has vanished in the mists of history, but those of us who are ever so slightly pre-war can remember the days of the dress basket, which had this much in its favour, that, however many or bulgy were the extra possessions one acquired on holiday, they presented no problem when packing time came. Sincerity and Simplicity. He had not changed. Just as he made (rave conversation as one's small self sat beside him in days gone by, so he talked gravely and kindly now. And one's cheaper forms of wit, all flippancy, cynicism and asperity withered on one's lips; sincerity and simplicity were the only coin current with this friend. We spoke a little of old friends and of bygone days, but in his presence they seemed as yesterday, and the child that was oneself those years ago might appear at any moment round the corner. He drank several cups of tea —almost his only weakness of the flesh was a fondness for quantities of very weak tea—patted the children on the head, said a few words, and was gone. "One of the old school," someone remarked, when the door had closed on him. "Yes," returned another, who also had known him since childhood, "that is a good man. None of his sons will be the man his father was." And so we fell to talking about him and his like. ■

The child or pioneer parents, his early days were frugal. By the time the twentieth century dawned, by dint of hard work and saving his money he had bought a farm. A few years after this he was helped hy a timely legacy from his father. It consisted of a small property in another part of the country. He decided to eell it. A buyer came to see it, talked it over, said he would take it. at such-and-such a price. Very welL They parted. The next morning an agent arrived with another purchaser willing to pay a much higher price. Our friend said the place was sold. The agent expostulated. Was any agreement signed, had any money passed? No, but nevertheless the place was sold. The agent "pished" and "pshawed" in vain. That was the rock on which all our friend's dealings were founded —his word was his bond through all his life.

One scarcely knew how he prospered, yet it eo happened that in worldly wealth he made a moderate and solid success. Folk said that he was slow, that he was easy going, not enterprising, not progressive; nevertheless in his own quiet way he prospered. He embodied the lines:

Be not the first by whom the new Is tried, Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. A Family Man. He was not higotedly set upon old ways, but he would never get carried away by new-fangled ideas just because everybody else was adopting them. In spite of tie enthusiasm of his eons for rotational grazing and the top-dresser, he always maintained that no farm can remain healthily productive for long periods wi.th.out the use of the plough also, and he also steadfastly refused to carry more cows than they could be certain of wintering comfortably. He has many sons. One remembers him sitting quietly each evening in an old rocking-chair at his self-appointed task of putting the baby to sleep (these were pre-Pmnket days), for this quiet man was "good with children"—and he is still "good" with his eons. Now that they are grown to manhood there is no tale' of bitterness to mar their relationship. He gave them such education as they could profit by, and left them free to choose, and when they chose to stick to the laxd, he paid them what wages he could afford, and encouraged them to save and helped each of them on to his feet in turn. Not for any of his eons that not uncommon lot when after years of unpaid labour the farmer's son is forced to shift for himself or wait in uneasy dependence for his father's shoes.

• I said that he had not changed, and iii one thing is that lack of change most marked. His faith is firmly grounded in the old-time religion. Amid the troubled waters of doubt and all the questing of our modern age he is untroubled and unaware. He has never swerved from the ancient paths, and still on the Sabbath morning, while not far away hundreds of motor cars are tearing along the highway and hasting restless folk are thronging everywhere, the: Sabbath peace descends upon hie homestead as of old. Here the shoes are still cleaned on Saturday night. No unnecessary work is done on Sunday. The family all go to church. No one ever heard him talk about religion. He is a man of few words, and of deep reticences, but he lives his religion in the sight of all men.

The Straight Path. . And now he is old. His form is not enfeebled, his back bent', nor his eye dim. We feel his age in his serenity. I hold it meet that we shake hands and part, Tou as your business and- desire shall call you, For every man hath business and desire. He seems no longer to have "business and desire," but to be conscious that his work in the world is finished. When he and his like are gone, we will all be the poorer. Memory clings to them as to rocks in a troubled sea—these men who walked straightly in the simple path of duty, untroubled by the whys and wherefores with which we torment ourselves, who listened to the voice of conscience and brought everything to the simple measuring standard of right and wrong. They are passing, and an age is passing with them.