RAIN IN CAMP

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIII, Issue 22320, 18 January 1936, Page 1 (Supplement)

RAIN IN CAMP

BY BART SUTHERLAND

MAKING THE BEST OF IT.

The utmost limits of the awakening consciousness are bounded by a drowsy, unceasing sound. Allied to the surge of the sea, in lighter tone assisting its majestic music; allied to the sough of the winds tormenting the hair of the trees; but a more filling, comprehensive sound. Yes, flashes the awakening mind, it is raining. It is light—the mournful dawn of a rainy day, but no ono in the camp is yet stirring. The spirits of the children, like those of the birds, are dampened and shrink from greeting and using the melancholy hours. And the spirits of older people, jadbd with greeting even sun-heralded days, slumber again after an abortive awakening, only too glad for an excuse to quail at facing the day. .But-, moved at last by the spiritual need of appraising the day, a few hazy sleepers peep out to view the full reality. The tents of the motor-campers look like candle snuffers over an extinguished world; and, as if that were not desolate enough, the trees overshadowing the camp-site wave a dirge over lost men in a sombre, disheartening rhythm. It is very pleasant, by contrast, to see the forceful activity of the line of white breakers out to sea, and to watch the advance and splendour of their assault on the rock fortresses. Unwonted Energy Each day has its message and its use, and this was a day sent for rest. It would be best to attune oneself to its spirit and acquiesce, but, with that perverse outlook which persists in regarding rain as a minor catastrophe, I impulsively* decide that it had better be faced in the true British spirit—in full dress. So raincoat over pyjamas, and to the tap for a basin of water. While I am dressing my heart sinks at the idea that this unwonted energy will probably mean that I have disturbed the rota of work and let myself in for lighting the communal fire —a task to be treated with misgiving, for I am distinctly of the pre-Boy Scout era. However, with my clothes, I have put on the " onward, let us do or die " spirit, and, barefooted, slacks rolled up in undignified caution, I go to explore the outdoor kitcheu. Here, the incongruity of the scene, contrasted with a nice comfortable, deserted home, moves me to a fatal laughter. The lake-dweller of old could have dwelt in no more primeval discomfort than this: to reach the stove one must wade more than ankle deep. But 1 see, with a sense of inward cheer, that things are not quite so bad as they seem; some chivalrous (or perhaps restless) man has actually got the fire element to triumph over the flood; through the chinks of the stove door the flames are twinkling merrily. But I am by no means out of tlifc wood; that laugh was a challenge to the gods. 1' or the head of ono of my party is suddenly thrust out of a bach window, brightly alert with an idea. " Hey," she says, " while you have your raincoat od you might fill the kettle; we forgot to put it on the stove last night." That, of course, is easy; no one would expect more than tea and bread and jam on such a morning; and my heart swells with gride in the knowledge that L am th 9 member of the party noble and valiant enough to provide the necessary sustenance. At the "tap 1 barge into a strange lunatic who has been fishing o'ernight. Into my vacant hand he thrusts a plateful of fillets, and asks me proudly if I would mind giving them to Miss Blank (the lady of the bright idea). Murmuring hypocritical wonder at his catch, I go to do his bidding. If only he had given them to me I would have hidden them in the safe till the flood had ceased; but camp etiquette and conscience alike require that I immediately inform Miss Blank of this bountv.

As I plank the kettle down on the fire I feel quite psychic; I know just what is going to happen. Miss B. is still in her pyjamas, and spends little time in astonished delight. In fact, she does not receive the fish at all, but thrusts the frying pan into that foolishly vacant hand: "Just the thing for a morning like this—while you have your raincoat on . . Elation and Repose Later, in exploratory mood, she would tempt me to action, but I am adamant, for elation at the fact that I have done my cookhouse duties for the day leads to a repose of soul, and I subside on to someone else's bed. She, attired in a bathing suit and hat, and winding a groundsheei, round her shoulders, announces her intention of visiting the store, to see if she can dig up a paper. Too bad, such a prosaic avowal, for she looks rather like Viola out of " Twelfth Night." A pity t can't send her to woo my cause with a prince of the world. So I idly discourse to more passive members of our party, but at last, sweetly overcome by the beauty of the rain making a faery cloak over the bush-clad hills, 1 sink into a sort of half dream, that strange state in which life is completely worth while. Vaguely I listen to satisfactory noises that tell me that life is still going on around me—a choral background to musing. Men appear at the doors of various little baches and tents, smoking idly and calling out, pretending to bo violently displeased with the weather; but in my dream-state I know that they care nothing for this splendid hiatus to activity.

All around there are thumping sounds and delighted shrieks, which mean that the children, with God-given intuition, have found out how to use even this day. And from the dance hall, not far away, someone at tho piano, by a not-unnatural reversal of feeling, is praising the beautiful isle of Capri, and I can hear the swish of feet that have been challenged to movement bv tho somnolent world of rain. Relief from Melancholy I could have been pleasantly content for hours if 1 had not seen greencapped Viola sauntering along tho little wharf to meet the launch from town, which even now is bravely flaunting through tho white waves, soon to bob up and down nauseatingly at. berth. Viola, of course, will bo insufferable, for she has .added to her unnecessary excursion by joining the aristocracy of those who toil; she is helping tho men to unload—a picturesque watcrsider.

1 have grown melancholy, gazing at tho fearful aspens, and the willows, with their hoar-like waving locks that remind me of Druids and death, and poor Ophelia. I, too, must do something active. I shall tidy the bach, so that I shall have plenty of time for sunbathing to-morrow.

Broom under bed. What's this? A vellow-and-red paper-back: "A Good Man's Sin." Now, I would have you know that I don't read this sort of thing. I've spent several days trying to read volume one of Anna Karenina. But I believe in investigating the tastes of other people. Melodrama, and not rest, will make suitablo attuning for this constricting day. I'm a person of resource, you sec; I can quite easily stand one wet day. But when Viola brings the paper in I shall read the weather report. I draw the line at a three-day affair.