Freedom

Northern Advocate, 31 October 1936, Page 6 (Supplement)

Freedom

Slowly the grey dimness brightened. A breeze stole among the trees, rustling their leaves gently. Above the eastern horizon old Phoebus cocked an eye to smile across the earth; once again the breeze stole among the trees, gently rocking the branches until their leaves rustled; and then from the midst of leafy nooks came soft Sufferings and sleepy cheepings and twitterings as the feathered folk awoke, to stretch their wings and to preen their feathers drowsily. Suddenly, from a blackberry bush came the shrill laugh of a blackbird, while high up in the pale heavens a lark warbled sweetly. Almost immediately the air was filled with song. Starlings on their lofty pine-top perches wheezed and clucked and whistled; a fantail, his small sharp eye searching an apple tree for some unwary aphis, twittered sibilantly; from the leaf-mould beneath the hedges, where the worms were sluggishly returning to their earthy homes, came the triumphant, throaty chuckles of thrushes; in the pea-crop a group of squabbling sparrows aroused a clamour; but, sweetest of all, came a silvery trilling from some manuka scrub across the stream.

Sad, sweet and pitiful was that song; sad, as if the heart of the little songster were almost broken, and as if in awe for those notes so superior to their own, the other birds became silent. It was the song of a little grey warbler. Once he had been one of a merry

family of five. His parents had built a strong cosy nest, such as grey warblers alone can build, and in it they had reared their family from scraggy naked babes into strong young. warblers. They had fed them with sweet berries from the nearby cabbage trees and with fat, juicy frog aphides that swarmed among the flax clumps. They had trained them to trill their weak quavering voices into sweetly warbled songs that echoed across the stream into the orchards; and lastly they had taught them to fly. But the youngest bird never flew. He would at each lesson hop confidently from the nest, carefully work his way from Twig to twig and just at the critical moment, pitifully hide his head beneath trembling wings. Spring passed and one by one the young brothers and sisters flew from the nest, out into the world across the stream. For many' days longer the faithful parents remained with their troublesome son, but finally they, too, left him, despairing of his ever learning to fly. At times a brother or sister, smitten with memories upon seeing the old nest, would bring him a choice titbit, and as he hungrily swallowed it would tell him of the fascinating world beyond the creek. It happened one day that the nest, already with half its straw scattered along the river bank, fell to pieces in a scampering breeze. Headlong into a thick sward of grass bordering the stream tumbled the bird, to lie there crouching in dread and fear. Thus it was that a boy, idly fishing by the stream, found him and not ungently

thrust him into a pocket, the top of which was pinned together. The day was hot and the boy, dreamily gazing into the limpid depths, dozed. Inside the small, stifling prison the scared bird, his heart palpitating violently with fear, gasped pitifully for air. At last he dared to thrust his beak between the folds of cloth. To his nostrils came the smell of the free, open world: Buttercups, earth, manuka blossoms, fern, water weed and air. Above he could see a small patch of sunny blue sky, and gently he pushed his head out. Sight brought him a maze of colour: The green of leaves, the brown of tree trunks, and the drops of red and gold and purple splashed against that green world across the stream. Suddenly a tremor thrilled through his body. Looking at that cherished land he felt his heart swelling: all his senses and instincts arose and cried out for freedom; new courage throbbed with the blood through his wings; he heard a voice whispering that he must fly. Just then a young blackbird swooped past, happy, alive, free. The warbler no longer hesitated. A scramble and his wings were free. Another scramble and one leg was out; another scramble, a pause, a thrust, and With a cry of dismay, the awakened

idler grabbed at the fleeing form, but he clutched emptiness. A mad hope smote the boy and he groped in his pocket, only to miss the feel of the soft warm body with the hard, sharp beak. But from the world across the stream he heard a song. It was the silvery trilling of a little grey warbler.