In Verseland.

Auckland Star, Volume LXIX, Issue 66, 19 March 1938, Page 2 (Supplement)

In Verseland.

THE HUNT.

(By Altaon Jecks, #, Haramt Arwoe, Epsom.) The sound of a horn and the rush of the wind. The clatter of hoofs and the pant of the hare, Herald the hunt, the glorious hunt. And the echoes swell on the air. First comes the hare on fleetest foot. With eyes dilated and panting breath. Seeking cover with sharp, keen eves. Trying to vanquish the touch of death. J The greedy dogs with eager scent, Follow the tracks of the hare. Then come the horses, some proud, fine hunters, And many a filly and mare. High-stepping and prancing, with wellarched head, They canter by and are fine to see, But, oh! in spite of the glorious'sport, I wish that the hare was free. * ♦ ♦ ♦ TO AN AEROPLANE. (By Erica McNmnnra, 170, No. 3 Une, Wanganui.) Silver sky-bird winging your way, Out of the dawning eastern blue, What is the precious freight you bear, Pride of the air, you hasten through? Oh! do you bear tidings of joy or sorrow, News of our loved ones, from far away, A child perhaps, or a sleeping baby, Filled with hopes for a new-born day? Tell me, o, tell me, White-Wings, swift one, What is the message you bring to this land, Tales of the warfare 'midst distant peoples, Of treaties of peace from the Nation's Band ? Nearer still cornea the drone of your engines, Onwards—a flash, and then you are gone. But you leave in your wake a trail of wonder. And joy at yonr beauty, silver one.

MY GARDEN

(By Dorothy Shaw.) My garden is a pretty spot, With rxianr a different hue, 'Tis there grows the forget-me-not, Bluebells, and lilies, too. And in tho stream that balrtiles by, The water brightly gleams, And when the sun goes down at last, It catches the moonbeams. In autumn days when leaves fall down And cover all the ground, The red and yellow an<l the brown, I rake into a mound. But v. hen the snow is on the ground And all without is white, ~ I leave my garden to be found, BJ old Jack Frost at night. ♦ * ♦ * SHIPS. (By Eleanor McKinnon, Mount Eden.) The little tug, Goes chug, chug. And puffs across the stream, The liner wide. Is seen to glide. With rails that shine at: ' '••.nil. The elumsy barge, Is bi<r and large, Straight by the bank she goes, While the cargo boat, With a dirty coat, A piercing whistle blows. * ♦ * ♦ THE WILLOWS. (By Pat Burbage, 0. S-tanwell Street. Parnell.) I know a little pussy, Her coat is silver-grey, She lives down in the valley, Not very far away. But though she is a pussv, She'll never be a cat, 'Cause she's a pussy willow, Kow, what do you think of that?