AUTUMN IN WAIKATO.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLII, Issue 12859, 6 May 1905, Page 1 (Supplement)

AUTUMN IN WAIKATO.

[in: HILDA ke-ane.]

You reproach us you British-born, with having nothing in our flora to remind yon of the season's flight. You tell us our woods are not woods i.-, you know '''them. They are simply New Zealand bush, dark, sombre, monotonous iii colouring. At spring they are green 'tis true, but of a green that dues not comparo*witli the pale delicacy of your home trees. At autumn they are green, the dingy green of leaves bearing a summer's dust. Winter sees no change to a bare trunk and a multitude of naked twigs. In all of which there is much truth. We know, we despised natives, that there are tints and shades and transformations iu this forest whose dark wall forbids you. Wo know where to find tendrils uncurling, grasping towards tht> summer light; we cam show you bowers of fern, opening buds of bloom; we find soft beds of moss for our autumn siesta. But you cannot know them. Therefore must we let you ramble on with panegyrics of older lauds. But—if truly you wish a glimpse, only a glimpse, of you? past memories, there are spots eveu in this land of forest where loving hands have made the bush break into an English laudscape. There was sentiment iu our pioneers, and if yon travel now by way of Waikalo you may find places where the old-time trees thrive. They came: by slips and seeds, they travelled miles of ocean, and the men and women who tore themselves from their old lives brought with them what were to malo for their children, even to the last generation, a British environment. And who shall say that in the blending of the Southern and the Northern inhabitants of the forest, the result is not on© of charm?

You look at serried ridges of manuka, It has not escaped the fire and it shows a wall of rusty red, which, lit by the sun, flames to vermilion. .Softly it merges into the tawny green of coining leaf, and behind it rise line, alter line of that indescribable half-tone of green or brown. There is a space of blackened ground before you, and even as you notice it there peep green spikes, greener "and greener, till they are the yellow and orange and red of the swamp rush. Suddenly, amidst this richness, leaps a star of emerald from the lycopod that sends its umbel-spreading fronds to the air. And against it all is that forbidding wall of bush. Its frown is only for contemptuous ones. For us, us Maorilauders, we may close our lips when we condemn, but—we know, and we love.

Here is an area, of it felled, a homestead is making, and where the giants lie bleeding their sap an English willow runs tall and graceful. We are not your lovers, oh, willow, for our hearts are with our own. But in your way you have beauty. The bush breaks again to swamp, the -swamp to road, the road to paddock, the paddock to river— great broad stretch of water, and its shores are massed with drooping green. Water attracts the senses, and when the colours deepen and the willows beneath are tho prototypes of those above, so that between tree and shadow, water and air, there is no dividing line, we forgive the intruders. They may choke our streams; but the eye loves colour, and masses of it.

Set in the heart of a. paddock and surely rejoicing the souls of the lingering cattle .9. group of aspen poplars gleam as jewels. A breeze, and the fluttering yellow gems whirl and spin, and stillness coming the trees* glow dee]) gold. The sky above gives them a) field azure. Their trunks grow resentful of the wealth they cany and sway again to lose it. And now is a row of willow, caught by the frost and turning slowly to yellow ; with them—a curious blending —are lines of firs, green to blackness. If they were ours, you Britishers, you would exclaim of (heir sombre hue. Bui we are generous, and we can see ■■•' set of day the sun stealing into a grove of these giants and turning the darkness into a. rich velvet loveliness of green, a green that (suggests mossy depths, soft to luxury; and to those iv'ho see only sticky spines and gum-stained trunks the sight of this unnamed shade is denied.

There is no daintiet scene in all England than one I know on Waikato's banks. A road runs steep to it from one side and one can only gaze and come again to drink iu the colour. Here a bridge, overhanging a smooth stream, and beyond it a grove, absolutely a small grove' of tall, straight, autumn-tinted poplars'—slim and frail alone, together they are a jvealth of lemon, gold, and orange," A little apart from the mass, one, still more charming demands the attention; but again the eyes rivet themselves on the group of shaded yellows. Past them, on the further bridge, one. looks down into the main stream and shudders. _ It eddies and swirls and sucks itself into treacherous pools. Where a rock opposes, it churns, swing* round, scorning, casts a fringe of foam, and rushes on. The river is dark here and cold and swift -it suggests cruelty and death, aud one rejoices that a genius saved things by planting that first poplar. Down the (gorge comes a. wind. Over sunny waters it would be a breeze; but the sun is all among the poplar leaves, and the wind is chill. The tail of it tips and tilts the dancing twigs aud they throw after if. hahdfuls of whirling leaves, that float scarce a second before they arc. drawn to their death in the currents beneath.

Along the streets of a. town ate the sycamore, the ash, and tho birch. Dare you say, Britisher, that, you left all your beauty behind you'.' That ash that stands at yon corner is a. reproof in autumn tones. Over he wall is, an arbour flaming crimson with Virginian creeper. A broad, shrivelling sycamore casts a. trophy at my feet and the oaks shake themselves in defiance of your judgment; and from the garden comes a shower of reddening- peach leaves. The depth of the sky colour may hide the tints a little, but they are hen- if you will only sec

But. of them all, if a Maorilander must love your loves, the silver birch takes pride of place. It stands there, solitary, awhile, and again in clusters of prettiness. 11 rises (all against a faint-Hushed sunset, (sky. lis slender trunk gleams to > liver, and the spray of .stent aud leaf shines gold. Tomorrow it is less profuse of leaf. There are gups where the night winds have stolen spoil. In a week the gold will have gone; there will be whitened trunk and branch and stem, but for leaf onlv scarce discernible bud. liven then it will not be. without charm.

There are more than these, though one must leave them. For are nob one's own children cryiug l for recognition? But a Ma'orilander must be fair aud just. One's own trees one knows about. How many days are counted since or*e watched the first uncurling of the ponga frond'.' And you, you group of cabbage palms that stand behind a held of ripened maize stalks, you are not, neglected. We know your round lops and your bouquet of bloom. Nikau, stiffly unfolding, we see you, too. And puriri, with your ripened red berries; but you are wandering from us. You are going with the kauri and the pohutukawa, with the lotura aud the ririin. with the swaying, rustling ilax Wades. An 1 soon you will be foreign "specimens'' to those who lounge in city gardens. You are too humble, unassertive. You are so prodigal that you have earned the wages of those who are' unappreciated. If you were scarcerthen the axo and the fire mightspare you a. little. Then avenues and bowers of your kind might rise into recognition; and your shade in summer, your shelter in winter might lie heard of. But, now, well. puiiri and rewarewa', lawa and mottled kauri—you make very pretty veneer for dressing-tables and writing desks. Are you content? No? What, then, of kauri? .Surely the demand for timber is of more account to a nation than beauty! You do not think 60 Ah, well, you must- ask the. Britisher how he preserved bis oaks and his elms, his beeches and bis poplars, and perhaps ho will tell you the secret of long life and honour.