The Mourning Garden

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIII, Issue 22350, 22 February 1936, Page 30 (Supplement)

The Mourning Garden

IT was sweet and warm in the garden. The mid-day sun beat down, golden and clear, and the flower faces lifted gratefully, opening their petals of scarlet and flame and pink, breathing sweet perfumes, nodding and swaying in the gentle breeze that whispered down the crazy paths. Ah, it was splendid to be a flower, to be so beautiful, to lift one's crimson ■head above the coolness of green leaves and hear voices, glad happy voices, saying, "How lovely." It was sweet to bathe in the warmth of summer sunshine, to watch the hovering of wasps, the busy fussiness of bumble-bees and the curiosity of grasshoppers. The little crey warbler" sang a special song from his swaying perch in the ruddy depths of a Persian Plum-tree, and the soft cooing of the white pigeons, softly floating, proudly strutting on the lawns, wove a lulling background to the "Aren't we happy?" whispered the dancing Polyanthus Rose to a big spicy-scented pink Stock. " Isn't summer lovely?" . , The Stock smiled._ " It is. And. the sun and rain and wind are warm and kind." . " Yes, yes," the big dark-red Antirrhinum cried. " And the grey warbler sings so beautifully." They smiled and bowed and clapped their hands, while the pigeons strutted and whispered compliments to the fiery Nasturtiums, who trailed their long green arms down the grassy banks. Summer days were happy days in the garden. But the sweetness and peace were shattered. Thrush flew down with a swoop of wings. " Friends . . . friends. A terrible thing has happened in the Big World. A sad, sad thing." He bent his head and a large tear fell to the ground. The flowers swayed. " What , . . tell us what has happened," they whispered. Thrush lifted his head. " The bell is tolling. The great King of All the People is dead." Ah! It was so sad. Their heads moved sorrowfully, tears, crystal clear, dropped to the brown earth. " Oh, dear," Polyanthus Rose sighed. " I do feel wretched, saying how happy I was just a moment ago. . . " Never mind," Stock comforted her. " You didn't know." The little grey warbler threw back his head and whistled mournfully. " Hush," the flowers called. "Be silent." The great King of All the People had died. He had. been so kind and good, so true, so trusting. . . . "How can we show our sorrow?" they asked Thrush, but he shook his head. " You see," he told them, " you all look so gay." This horrified the garden. They looked gay whdn their hearts were heavy! "What can we do? Oh, what can we do?" The Iceland Poppies, dancing flames, beat their hands, and the great crimson Rose sorrowfully shook her head. " "We can't help looking gay. Just see our colours." They looked around, and such a glow of brilliant hues met their eyes that they were astonished. Oh, dear, it was all so terrible. The sun crept lower in the heavens, shadows lengthened in the garden, the birds, homeward bound, whistled their last subdued notes of sorrow. The day was closing, the tragic sorrowful day, but still the garden blazed with colour, glaring, brilliant, dancing colour. Persian Plum looked down on the flower beds. Surely he could think of

By A. B. GLOVER

something that could be done. Of course, someone could pick all their flowers, but then that would not do. Later, when the New King of All the People came, it would be foolish to have a garden without blossoms . . . and the King who was dead had loved flowers ... he would never have asked for this sacrifice. But darkness came and still Persian Plum had not decided what was to be done. It was the white pigeons who had the idea. They told their friends the Nasturtiums, and the Nasturtiums clapped their hands.

" Yes, yes. Tell Persian Plum, and he will advise us." So the white pigeons told Persian Plum theiK. plan. He nodded and nodded. Yes, w%a a splendid idea. He looked downNm the anxious-eyed flowers. » " You are to show: your sorrow for the passing of the great King of All the People in_ mourning ... in hiding your glowing colours beneath your leaves. Grey warbler and Thrush and the pigeons will help you. If your leaves are too small, they will bring you bigger ones. Rangiora will help us out. His leaves are large, and you must cover your colours • completely with them. Let us start at once." Such a busy morning it was. To and fro flew Thrush, grev warbler and the white pigeons, carrying the big, whitebacked leaves of Rangiora to the anxious flowers. Slowly the colours disappeared, the yellows and oranges and pinks and scarlets; only the white and purples were left in the summer garden —misty purple stocks and velvet pansies, antirrhinums, white and regal, and the tall full blooms of the Canterbury Bells. A garden of mourning. " What more can we do?'' they asked the Persian Plum from beneath their covering of leaves. But tears were in Persian Plum's eyes. " The garden is so sorrowful," he said. " All its gaiety and happiness has gone." " But we are sorrowful," they cried. " We don't feel gay. The King of All the People loved us and we are sad at his passing. Tell us what more we can do." The white pigeons thought and thought. " Let us have a service. Let us call all the birds, and they shall sing their sorrow." " Yes, yes," the flowers cried. So the birds came, blackbirds, thrushes, grey warblers, tuis and even the humble sparrows. They filled the surrounding trees, and when the white pigeons motioned to them all their tiny throats trembled with an aching melody of sorrow . . . upward, upward, piercingly sweet, went the trembling notes, plaintively mourning the death of the great King. . _ " Ah, it is sad,' sad," sighed Polyanthus Rose. " Sad, but very, very beautiful." _ Then the birds were silent. The dark beauty of the Poroporo stood forth, green, with her purple rosettes of mourning. Her voice was clear, and carried far to the listening birds. " Thank you, best of friends . . . your singing is very lovely. You, too, are sorrowing for the great King . . . but you can sing and tell of your sad* ness. We are dumb ... we look so gay, and all the time our hearts are weeping. . . ' The flowers nodded. They understood. Then the bells, the sweet-toned Canterbury Bells, tolled forth. .. . Dong . . dong. . . . The great King is dead. The little breezes ceased whispering, and all the flowers of the garden bowed their heads.