GARDEN OF OLIVES.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVI, Issue 224, 21 September 1935, Page 2 (Supplement)

GARDEN OF OLIVES.

(Book prize to Monica Naughton, Taiimarunui; age 10.) It was sunset when I found it; a sunset filled with azure and purple and gold. Up on the hillside the vine growers sang as they wandered homewards—sang in soft, liquid notes that fell like fairy music upon the evening air. Their homes were built round the harbour—quaint little' cottages with latticed windows and orange trees at the doors. The music died away in the distance; a golden afterglow bathed the land in shimmering light—and then it was that 1 found the garden of olives! It was hidden away in a leafy grove and a streamlet sparkled through • it. Flowers grew here and there and a clump of azalea pushed its way through the undergrowth; but the main features of the garden were the olive trees. Small and big, round and tliin they grew, with white stones between them that had come from the shore; and a little path wound in and out by the stream. It was a pleasant scene to stumble upon, but a strange one, too. Why should anyone want to grow the trees so carefully when they grew in profusion on every bank and hill? Perhaps it belonged to some child with a love for gardening or an invalid who required rest and solitude. Dusk had fallen as I turned to go. The fishing boats had just returned and the village fosk had rushed down to the harbour to meet them. I could see the red and brown sails growing silver in the moonlight and the laden caskets of fish being hauled ashore. Then suddenly an uproar arose in the street. A group of children had gathered about a fisher lad and were pelting him with pebbles.

"Oh ho," they cried derisively, "Your mother is a witch and you are a heathen." The boy was dressed oddly and tears glinted in his mournful Southern eyes. I knew him by sight—it did not take long to know everyone in the village by sight —and his name was David. Ho lived with his mother at the edge of tho town and already I had heard somo strange tales about them. It was reported that David was a thief—that ho crept out at night and stole the fish from the nets and the grapes from the hillside. Aud it was reported, also, that his mother was a witch who held discourse with evil spirits and set David to carry out their designs. ■ "Heathen!" cried the children. "Infidel! Go home to your old mother and eat your stolen food." With melancholy hiien the hoy walked away and the children turned to me. "David is wicked," they said. "Everyone says so. The good padre never visits them because they ijave 110 faith." For a little while they danced and played in the street,. then broke into happy, laughing groups and ran home through the vine-scented higlit. Next evening I went across to the garden on tho hill. Softly I stopped by the trees and peered inside. David was there, telling his beads devoutly, while his sad eyes gazed far out across the sea. He did not see me and I crept gently away. So that was the purpose of the sccret retreat; that was why the trees were carefully planted and tended. And suddenly I remembered that there was such a garden once before. It was late when 1 reached the village and the church bells were sending their message through the warm night air. I saw the people hurrying to answer the call, the fisher folk and the vine growers hastening from far and near. But David was Tiot there. No! He was an infidel. The good padre had said so and, assuredly, lie was always right.