THE CALL OF SUMMER.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXIV, Issue 19792, 12 November 1927, Page 6 (Supplement)

THE CALL OF SUMMER.

BY KATHERJUE CARE.

A REBEL !N THE GARDEN.

'At long last dull winter has left ns. IWe still shiver a little indoors and on the shady side of the street and yearn for unrestricted freedom to lie in the sunshine and bask and slumber to our hearts' content. But such indulgence is not for the busy mortal in this helterskelter age. " Business is looking up again, thank Heaven! " says the business man, and he goes his .feverish way in pursuit of the elusive banknote. "My dear," says his wife, "do you realise that it is almost Christmas-time again, and I haven't finished my spring-cleaning, nor even started my Christmas sewing! " And so the worthy ones bustle along and do the dull things that life requires of them, seriously, willingly, and without demur. Exemplary souls! I would that 1 could do likewise, but a restlessness takes possession of my soul. I know full well that I should clean all the windows and polish the silver, and search out stray cob-webs and chase around with the inop. 'But it is cold inside the bouse and the sunshine beckons. Out there, green things are growing and birds are winging. Seedlings are quivering with new life on the warm surface-soil, and the weeds flourish and riot under one's very nose. Impudent blackbirds gorge themselves on fat, wriggling grubs and plunder the vegetable patch for " green leaf" for their salads. The cats—a trifle overfed perhaps, but dreamily content—sprawl unheeding in the sunshine while the fat sparrows feast, fearlessly before their eyes. The garden teems with life and activity —and here, sursly, is work that I can do and delight in. So, with hoe and rake, I wage war on the weeds and ladle out rations of grey, smelly manure to each beloved flower-seedling. With the glee of a witch I mix poisonous potions to isave my, rosebuds from the depredations ■of the aphis, and lay snares for the wily slug who would rob me of my delphiniums. But stay thy ruthless hand, Mother Witch! Those bulgy little aphides and grey, slimy slugs are destructive and objectionable in all conscience—yet hast never a gleam of compassion for them ? What strange thing is this life of ours that even in a garden of sunshine one must torture and slay? There are so many seemingly useless creatures in the kingdom of the lowly—so many creepy and crawly things that we shudder at and slay without mercy. By what right? Only that we have the power and take unto ourselves the authority.

But this is only one of the numberless things in the Divine plan which pass our comprehension. A whistle sounds in the distance.. 1 have only an hour to finish the necessary tasks of every day, and devise, manufacture and hasten on a luncheon. Ke-

lucfantly I leave the garden, knowing full well that I shall still be chasing 'the dust out of my house while the wise ones are taking their daily rest and recreation. This is the penalty of the lawless, but I have stolen an hour of sunshine from the best part of the day, and feel as joyful in my delinquency as a schoolboy who has robbed an orchard and got safeiy away with his plunder.