THE DREAM FADETH

Auckland Star, Volume LXVIII, Issue 13, 16 January 1937, Page 7 (Supplement)

THE DREAM FADETH

i By MARY KITCHING. j I E

ANNE reined in her'horse tightly, and silhouetted against the deepening blue of the evening sky, caught her breath in wonder. The beauty of it all! Just hills, and flats, and more hills —while away in the purple distance the lights of the township twinkled brightly. But there was a droop in the corner of Anne's mouth—and a wistful look in the grey eyes of the 10-j'ear-old. This was Christmas Eve, and away in the distance was the town, where j folks were making merry—balloons would be everywhere, toys flaunting j their joys in the shops, boys and girls with streamers, and bugles, and—o! everything that made life a paradise for the night. And to-morrow was Christmas morning—Anne wondered bitterly what the other town people would be doing when she was out milking the cows in the grey dimness. . . . Imagine the joy of pulling out of a stocking all the toys she and her little sister had never had. Why did other folk have all they I wanted—and all they had here was the cows? Cow—just cows—that had to be milked whether it was Christmas Eve or Christmas morning— cows that stared solidly in front, of them, not caring that in other places there were quiet churches, and joyful voices raised in song. Cows— yes, just cows.

It was no good pining, thought' the girl. There would come better days, and mummie would have all the pretty clothes she wanted, and Sis would be able to have her toys,, and Jeamiie—well, all Jeannie wanted was a holiday away from the farm, with no cows to hem in her daily existence. With, all .the growing pains of youth, she wanted life—and life, for her, was spelt in the magic letters of town.

The 'mood of discontent passed— and the girl stroked the head of the chestntit mare thoughtfully. The evening was beautiful—and here on the hill top was a peace that stole into her heart, and soothed away the pain. . This would be a happier Christmas than last—slic had read in the papers that trade was doing •well, and dad had been quite cheerful over the price of butterfat. "Come on, Stella," she whispered to the mare, and under her light touch the horse cantered off. Gently down the slopes of the hill through the misty blossoms of the white manuka they went, across the flat where cows were sleeping lazily, across the stream that was running silver in the pale light, and up the track that led to home. Stella pricked up her ears as a horse will at an unaccustomed sound, and Anne's heart almost missed a beat as she recognised the sound of auntie's voice. Auntie again! Before

her eyes floated visions of the last time she had come in her hig car, full cf toys, balloons, and candies. That had been years ago, and auntie had gone to England—but here she was back again—the joy of it!

"Hurry, Stella," she encouraged, and in a second they were home.

She was right, for there was auntie waiting to greet her, auntie, who had certainly made magic in the faded home. Streamers and balloons were suspended in gay profusion in the bare kitchen, and the tinsel and colour seemed to set the house alive with their beauty, ilummie looked happy, even dad had lost a little of his seriousness, and after the greetings auntie let out her secret.

"I'm going to take you off with me right now, Anne," she said—and the grey eyes widened in surprise.

"Yes," she continued, "come a-long —quickly. Never mind about clothes or anything—just bring yourself."

So it was that in less than ten minutes Anne found herself in auntie's car being borne away on wings of speed to the town.

It was all too much like the tales in a fairy book, Anne thought afterwards, to be true. There was a visit to a big' store where she was fitted out with new clothes, and after that came buying, and buying, and buying. Auntie's purse never seemed to be empty, no matter what she bought. And late that night, later than ever she had been up before in all licr 15 years, Anne found herself in the hotel bedroom with arms full of parcels, and balloons, and even a bugle tucked away somewhere for Sis.-

But the bed was hard—and strange; and the silkiness of the new singlet, and the unaccustomed feel of pyjamas made the night a sleepless one for the girl. Her bed at home was narrow, but it had a real feather mattress, and it was soft. Here there were hard, strange noises, and from down below there floated up the sound of a. wireless I that certainly never seemed to stop the whole night through. So, when | the grey light of dawn stole through the high window, it found Anne with her face buried in the pillow, sobbing. ... •

Slowly the grey light turned to morning, the sun came peeping in, and ages seemed to elapse—but no one came near, and Anne .could bear it no longer. Slipping out of bed, she scratched around in the parcels, and at last managed to find the one with all her old clothes. She would go back home again—-back to mummie, back to the cows, back to forget this nightmare. It was lovely of auntie wanting to give her a good time —but she hadn't imagined the city would be as big as this, and as noisy. Something in her seemed to

snap, and she knew it was because of all the strange sounds around that were shutting peace out of her heart.

Clad again in her rough riding breeches, and the worn flannel shirt that was patched at the .elbows, a tired and red-eyed girl set about escape. Escape! The very word was sweet in her ears, and she longed to get away from these hard -pavements—back to the springiness of the meadows beneath lier feet.

But the day was hot, and the way # seemed longer than it had been when slie had slid by in auntie's, car, and somehow she was so sleepy.

There was an old ivy-covered church on the side of the road, and here it was that Anne found peace. The massed flowers al white on the aitar filled with fragrance the . dim shadows, and the crib with the baby reminded her of her own little sister! asleep.

Anne lingered long in the haven of this resting place, and . when the people came for the afternoon service they found her asleep on the seat. The minister was a kindly man and after the service he took her back with him to his home where happy kiddies were all looking forward to their Christmas tree. Wl;at a sight! Had she not been so hungry Anne would have clapped her hands, and laughed with dtOight; but the minister had a wife who was a mother, and she took the tired girl away, and under the magic of her influence the girl told of the past night. Home was 20 miles away, but the minister's car soon licked up the miles, and never was Anne so glad as when she saw the stream that meant home was near. "This will do," she said, and the minister was so taken by the sincerity in her voice, and the new light that had come into her eyes that lie had not the heart to go further. "Thank you so much for bringing me here," she whispered, and then the glad tears sprang into her eyes. It was all so beautiful, this country that was her home—the cows chewing the cud in the warmth of the afternoon sun, the smile and chatter of the friendly stream, and the comforting curl of smoke that came from the chimney of the farm house. Glad! why she had never been so glad about anything in all her life as she was over this homecoming .... She waved the minister out of sight, and returning, ran gaily up the track that led to home. There would be explanations to follow, and scoldings she knew, but this was home . . .

here were her loved ones . . . to-day, was Christmas Day, the time for rejoicing—and how could one rejoice in the cramped heart of the city, when here were open spaces, and sunlight, and. the joy and. delight of freedom. > • .. . .

Across the fields in the distance she'saw her father bringing in the cows to be milked—cows came to the milking whether or not it was Christmas Day—and with a glad cry Anne freed her heart from its longing, and flew across the paddock to open the gate and let the cows come home.