THE OLD HOME.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLIX, Issue 15169, 7 December 1912, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE OLD HOME.

BT BESSIE NIKA WATTY. It is there still—tlie loWj rambling house, ■with its turrets and , gables, the lowbeamed ceilings, the quaint corners, the broad, dark-panelled hall; and I•', know that at this hour' the house is full of shadows and of fragrance. Not always is it good to dream too much of anything, but less is it to look back too much upon the past. or oh, so often are there memories that are bitter sweet, yet that with all the., pain '; we would not lose for a single moment throughout the remainder of our little life:- ■■-■ •." ■'.■■':.;..; *";: ; ;v '. "To-day.'seems to be one of those rare days that are full of homesickness and regret. Yet even broken dreams, shattered ambitions, and dead hopes have their heart-charm, which after all comes very near to- happiness. • I can see the garden of that old home, radiant with summer blooms, the high hedges of clipped macrccarpas, the broad paths between the prim borders of marigold and lavender. How fair to-day it must have looked if the same sunset as here had covered it. The dim, mauve lights glimmering through the big trees, sending long, dark shadows over the highway of the road. , The yellow, purple mists stealing up from the sunset-tinted ocean, .and the little tremulous breezes stirring the cherry and almond trees; Such delicacy of colour! Such radiance of blossom, and over all the charm' and glory of the early twilight hour. In a corner of the garden old there is a weather-beaten sundial, around which the pansies and heartsease have elected to live and bloom and die. And at this time they will be in full bloom, making bright spots of colour, maybe for careless feet to trample on. On the sundial itself are many letters rudely cut, which tell of past hours when lovers spent, much time in carving out their own and their loves' initials. Some have been busy and patient enough to enclose them with a heart or a diamond, while one tarried . long enough to carve an anchor, placing the letters at each side. All must have been done quite a generation ago, for the sundial had been brought • to New Zealand from an old, chateau by the person who built the house, which must be quite forty years ago. - • Then there is, too, the rosery, where every bloom will in full sunshine have been quivering bits of colour, patches of amber and of scarlet, rose-pink and snowdrift white, while at the left, like soldiers at attention, is a long, stiff row. of sunflowers. ■■.•'-■''■ '■.;',;-,■•■.;".■/.:.;;.,_ And now up from the eucalyptus plantation that lies where the garden dips down deeply to' the right, comes, .I know, the pungent, strange odour, peculiar to this tree, and the perfume of the rose and the hundred other, blooms that make ■ of this, garden so rare and odorous a place will seem 7 to lose their strength, yet which, mixed with the eucalyptus, make of it something peculiarly beautiful that partly intoxicates and is wholly delightful. • Now the shadows will be "lengthening,, the birds will have ceased. their song and their gentle calling. Afar,.right above the old , oak, perhaps the evening * star is quivering with many> points of blue and silver light, the sky faintly grey and pink, slashed and barred with/broken-opalescent hues: ■: •'■ : . ' '" ~\ '".". '".,-..''.■:. .The perfume. of the almond blossoms will be fainter now, and very low.the tender cooing of the' young -birds in the thickets; and I know that down the narrow border, which skirts the garden big, the, glow-worms will have set it all aquiver with a hundred little lanterns red, the little, narrow border where so often I with others dear have trod. Strangely enough, there comes to me the I memory of a day that was ending coolly, sweetly, as all such hot, still summer days should end, the air just cool and velvet-soft enough to recompense for the heat that tried one during the long day. I was tying up some straggling creepers when, the clow, weary tread of a man came to iris. •• Such a tired, life-weary face it was that my eyes beheld. Such lines and furrows, such sunken eyes and cheeks! How soiled his clothes; how worn and dust-begrimed his whole person. 0, Fate! He asked for food, permission to lay his weary body amongst; the .soft, sweet grasses in the garden 'fair. And so in the brightly-lit kitchen., a little later, hft ate of the wholesome food before him;, drank of the cider that cooled and refreshed, and then with his faded blankets repaired to a corner of the garden where it was all deep grass and clover grown. i,'; ~ Next morning I was astir early, when the sun was yet but faint in- the greywhite, sky, when not even a bird was moving in the green boughs, for I had much to do in my gaiden, so many tender things to care for 2 yet I spied the figure of the sundowner retracing; his steps towards the entrance-way. ~:„..:. . . . "So early?" I called, a little timidly. He came towards me, cap in' hand, his face a little less weary than the night before, his form a shade more upright. " I have a long road to travel, madam. I want to get far before the day becomes too hot." " You must have some refreshment first," I said. " Wait here until I bring you food." Presently I offered him milk, and meat and bread, and a little packet containing food that would be all that ho Vwould require, until the next haven should' be reached. - " Do you want work?" I asked. ' "I am on my way to a farm where I expect to get work for some little time." "And then " Ah, madam, then I shall make for the road again. The road that calls, and beckons, the road that we sundowners love, though it is a way of hard endurance, of weariness and heartbreak. It has a fascination, the road that leads on and on nearly always, to wo know not where." "Strange," I replied, "one would imagine you would long for some settled place of abode, a place that you could call home." V How wearily he smiled ! " Every sundowner feels like that sometimes, madam, but it passes. Hardly ever does a man take to the road unless" some sorrow, some blow has shattered ambition, hope, and j pride !" Ho thanked me in an old-fashioned way, raised his poor, worn cap, and with his bundle passed through the fairness of my garden, out upon the highway and the roughway of the road. • : That 13 a long time ago. I wonder whether the old sundowner, who once unmistakably was a gentleman, has found a haven where all is hush and calm, where the hot sun frets not his tired heart, nor the long, long; road tires the weary, illshod feet. I wonder ! And so,- though I may not walk those garden paths again nor move from room'to room of that old homo dear, yet I would not have the memory of those' joyous, wholesome, love-lit years grow dim, though the hot, salt tears blind my longing ,cyes. i Tho golden day is nearly ended. It rose gently and fairly for me. The, morning star in the faint pink eastern sky is j long gone, as. too, the dew upon the leaves, the golden light that glittered on 1 the ocean deep, and the laughter of ; the murmuring "breeze in the tall tree-tops' has been stilled quite a Jittlo.thue'ance- '? - Yet, though yesterday '"wasP fair may not to-morrow be fairer stilj ? I wonder, 0, I wonder! • •:• - •",'.-'