NATURE AND MAN

Nelson Evening Mail, Volume LXXII, 16 July 1938, Page 12

NATURE AND MAN

FATAL ILLUSION OF GOLD DESTRUCTION OF FARM-LANDS (Edited by Leo. Fanning) - - f Again gold is in the dock, charged ( as the primary cause of destruction £ of large areas of farming country on Y the West Coast of the South Island. f This evil, which has persisted for many c years, was memorably impressed on r members of the West Coast Farmers’ Union by Mr F. A. Kitchingman, Mayor t of Greymouth. “For all time,” he said. 1 j "our national heritage, the land, is be- , ing destroyed by these gold mining z operations (dredging and sluicing). As c a citizen. I think you farmers should t give the matter weighty thought.” \ Well, the farmers did appreciate that { strong reminder of an irreplaceable r national loss —the exchange of a per- \ petual producer of food, clothing and ( shelter for a metal which does not meet i a single human need. Could human c lolly go further? c This stupidity is particularly deplor- ( able in the case of the West Coast f which has only a comparatively narrow belt of land suitable for pasture and agriculture. Unless gold-mining is firmly restricted to localities where it* imposes no penalty on this generation 1 and posterity, and unless the native 1 i forests on the slopes of the mountains 1 are treated as natural assets, the peo- 1 pie of the West Coast, in the years to 1 come, will have to be moved to oth- ‘ er parts of New Zealand, except a few ' hundred who will be able to make a 1 living from the tourist traffic. Central Otago has also been sorely ‘ smitten by the destructive operations 1 of gold-seekers. Here is a sad picture t presented by a contributor to the “New ’ Zealand Fishing and Shooting Gazette” ' —"Hundreds of millions of tons of good ~ arable, grazing and producing soil * sluiced and dredged, turned over and washed until nothing remains but square miles of bare tailings and ghastly livid sores are left on the face of Na- . ture. Have you ever seen St. Bathans and Naseby and lots of other place’s? Some of the finest waterways of the t country have been, are, and probably 1 will be for years to come anything but . pleasant to look upon, as they ought to f be. They are sludge channels, noth- { ing more nor less, unfit for domestic j use, unfit for cattle, unfit to bathe in ( and, lastly, unfit for profitable pleas- s urable sport and exercise. Even relatively little of it is used for irrigation r purposes.” j CHARM OF WOODLANDS 1 Perhaps there is a man somewhere * who feels no thrill in a beautiful woodland, but even such a pitiable per- 1 son would have had some joy of trees ' in boyhood. It is hard to imagine a J young boy or girl without a sense of 1 romance, a perception of fairyland in « ’ forest. "Woodland Moments” is the title of a 1 delightful article by John Lindsay 1 Blackford in “Nature Magazine":— 1 “Woodland moments—golden moments, ' haunting us forever after with their ‘ fadeless beauty; ecstatic moments, poig- I nant with incomparable song; expectant moments, athrill with the disclosure of wild-wood secrets; elemental mo- ! ments that stir the emotions as does 1 some cry from the primordial wilder- ; ness. Woodland moments, they come, but never go,” he writes. “These moments are the elixir of full living for all who know kinship 1 with the habitants of the wild. Our 1 questing steps seek such meetings in ■ trackless fir thickets, carry us explor- 1 ing on snowy heights, trace for us endless marshy margins, lead us wandering through sunny cottonwood groves that shade shallow, leaf-lined pools, and return us late across the moon-daubed darkness of the forest floor. Count too, we must, those times of reflection and communion when we rest beneath the vaulted boughs of 1 some dim, gigantic grove, or dream beside a silent stream. With each joyous return to forest, field, and wood we feel our ancient kinship with the wild and know that truly we have come home. “Such moments as these from life outdoors enter into the filaments of

one’s being. Incidents they are that become the incentives to deeper study; experiences that lead to a completer understanding. Ever in our association with Nature we feel that we are touching the true wave-length of pur existence, sense instinctively that here we shall find that harmony with things about us that we are always seeking. “I had crossed a meadowland that stretches away for some distance from the northern shore of a well-populat-ed pond. Beyond the farthest green wall of cat-tails and border growth rose forested slopes. With each step the moist soil was fast becoming oozy. To the left, however, instead of sinking away beneath several inches of brown water and changing to the quaking morass where cat-tails flourished, the land lifted, dried itself of the algaeluden, half-stagnant water and, forming a dry > narrow, and stony ridge, ran parallel thus, close by the pond, for , a hundred yards. Between this little ridge and the open water aquatic plants crowded together in dense ranks, lush and green. A distant flotilla of ducks i rode -the surface while other waterfowls had sought inlets in the irregular shore. Waterweeds rising from the black bottom through the dark water attracted to their mergent tips masses of brown algae scum. There happy mudhens dabbled. Elsewhere pads of the yellow pond lily floated idly. Blending with the witching song of the western yellow throat I heard, as I neared the ridge, the jolly, mellow o-ka-lee-o , of the doughty redwing.” , “Well, New Zealanders, no other : country has better woodlands than your i native forests for peaceful golden moIments. Guard those sylvan cloisters where worried modern man can save his soul. EARTH LOVER i! The dark trees tower above me j With friendly boughs and still .. . '' Lie quiet, my heart, in the shadow, [ Quiet as the resting hill.

Now, when the day is over, Now, when the last sounds cease, I would be one with the earth-world Whose greatest gift is peace. Night has a shawl of silver, Fine as the angels spin, And feather-soft as a cirrus cloud, To fold my slumbers in f Moss that is warm as velvet, Dreams that are new and deep. And overhead in turquoise sky A star to light my sleep. Then tower dark trees above me, Where life broods wing on wing . . 1 shall be cne with your cradled calm As the slow hours swing. Winifred Tennant in “The New Zealand Railways Magazine.”