NATURE'S GIFTS

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXIX, Issue 21254, 6 August 1932, Page 1 (Supplement)

NATURE'S GIFTS

BY ANON

MILK AND HONEY

" Why should I be expected to ride six | miles on a peaceful Sunday morning ?" I asked. But the question was merely rhetorical ; it required no answer—least of all the clod of soft mud that struck me on tho mouth when I incautiously turned my head to deliver my grievance. With a deep and un-sabbatical exclamation I turned back, only to receive a deluge of muddy water upon my ono clean collar. This does not mean that I had come to blows with my neighbours, but merely that we were riding to church and that Barbara, having as usual started late, was now catching up. I let her overtako me and keep ahead. There are times when a woman must lead, more particularly when she is riding a skittish mare through soft clay. I rode slowly and heavily, for I was still suffering from shock. The whole thing had been so cruelly sudden. Who, seeing my wife apparently immersed in peaceful domesticity, sweeping the house in most un-Sanday-like attire, would have expected a moment later that broom to go hurtling through the open doorway, out into the golden sunshine that greeted us after two weeks of pitiless rain ? " I'm not going to work to-day," cried a violent voice, " Look at that sun!" " Quite right," I agreed sleepily. " Come and sleep in it."

But energy possessed Barbara like a demon. " No, we must go to church. I've just remembered that the archdeacon," of some' unknown missionary diocese, " is going to preach to-day." And thus passed the peace of that perfect morning. Half-an-hour later we left Paddy in solitary possession. His religion is obscure and variable. I have known it to run the whole gamut of the churches, but upon one point it is rigidly consistent—it never coincides with that of the visiting cleric. To-day, being a Mormon, Paddy was able to shut the front gate and return to a peaceful and contemplative morning. " Keep the fire going," called Barbara from the front gate, where Trinket was wheeling in playful circles. " And oh, Paddy, do try and rake up something for us all to eat." "Rake up?" I murmured, my heart sinking. " Does tha£ refer to the bread ?" It was unsportsmanlike, I admit; but, after all, I too was suffering. Meals lrom Tins! For winter's rigours are indeed upon us. Milk and cream are a thing of the past and fruit and green vegetables have vanished from the larder. To complete our discomfiture, this morning Barbara had had a brush with the bread. The engage-

ment had ended in apparent victory for | the cook. At an early hour, fondly be- j lieving herself unobserved, she had borne the flat and sullen dough forth to bury it in the garden. But when a hot sun shone unexpectedly forth the defeated enemy had its revenge. It rose from its decent but too shallow interment and sneered at Barbara's mortification. Moreover, as I had been dragged forth to church .it the moment when I might—who knows ?—have been killing a. sheep, there was not even meat in the house. It is said that scanty living quickens the brain. Certainly I found myself following the archdeacon's sermon with an almost painful interest. He had chosen for his text that reference to a land flowing with milk and honey, and, having touched briefly upon the torrid climes and Arctic wastes, in which he appeared to have alternated, he passed on to enumerate our blessings in this bountiful land, well-stocked wth Nature's gifts. Descending to a practical plane he encouraged us to make full use of our opportunities, and at the same time to pity those towndwellers who " too often must make their meals from tins—those blots upon the fair name of housewife." Furtively I nudged Barbara, whose fair name must by now have been blottcl to total obscurity. She sat unmoved and I could only hope that her conscience was secretly pricking her—for unless Paddy had managed to unearth a few blots our chance of a meal that day was poor. Duplicity If her serenity under the archdeacon's fulminations was disturbing her duplicity later was positively revolting. I found her hob-nobbing with the preachor while they exchanged congratulations upon the peace and plenty of country life. I almost hissed, for I was very hungry, but before I could violently intervene Nemesis had descended. A small child rushed up and thrust a note upon me; silently I read it, and as silently passed it to my wife. It began, " Would you mind very much having the archdeacon to lunch ?" A multitudo of excuses followed, but from the agitated child 1 eventually extracted the real reason. "She's lost her two front teeth again. She thinks the ducks have got them this time, but dad's killed three and no luck yet. So she's gone to bed." No arguing against that blow of Fate. Even Barbara, who was looking distinctly chastened, accepted the inevitable, and

with it the archdeacon. We both knew the lady; in bed she would remain until the right duck had been slaughtered, and had perchance yielded up its treasure—or, more likely, until they had been run to earth in an obscure corner of the bookshelf. Ours, however, not to reason why; ours to set spurs to our horses and race for home, praying the while that the buggy and stout pair in which the visitor must negotiate the roads might delay a little. As we rode I heard Barbara groan, " A land of plenty! Oh, thank heaven for tins!" And then, presently. "Milk and honey! How he harped on them. Honey." There followed a thoughtful pause, and then, in a tone that set all my nerves tingling with apprehension, she said musingly, " I've got a tin of honey, but it's ever so much more impressive and homemade in the comb. Do you think you could get a little from that hive ?" I pulled in my horse at once. I may be a weak man, but at mention of bees I become as Mussolini. " If you don't drop that idea now," I warned, " I'll take to the bush and leave you to it." " Delightful 1" Bees, indeed, represent a short but unsavoury episode of our married life. Suffice it to say that the strife began with Barbara's importation of a hive of " pure Italians " and ended—very nearly in a divorce—with my attempt secretly to snapshot my wife when she returned from securing her one and only square of honey. It was only hor face that I attempted to photograph, nor, indeed, would any one film have accommodated more, for Barbara swells instantaneously. However, since that day the bees have been left to their own devices, and we have had recourse to blots. "A delightful repast, if I may say so," saici the archdeacon as he rose from the table and peered short-sightedlv out of the window at a view of healthy fern, robust wine-berry and grey and scanty grass. "A land of plenty, indeed." A moment I was grateful to his nearness of vision—a moment only. For the next he had taken the wrong turning and had plunged into the kitchen. Before him, recklessly and all too plainly displayed upon tli© bare table, stood a damning array of tins, hurriedly opened and carelessly discarded. For a minute the visitor gazed silently at a tin of honey which jostled one of peaches, at one of brawn that stood shamelessly shoulder to shoulder with another of green peas. And then? Then a peal of laughter shook the very roof as our monitor exclaimed, " Biota* madam —delightful blots."