The Harvest:

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXV, Issue 23073, 25 June 1938, Page 8 (Supplement)

The Harvest:

COLIN was sad. With his hands in his pockets, he dismally surveyed the conglomeration of household articles that littered the usually neat verandah. He and his mother were moving, moving from that small, unpretentious house which had been Colin's home for as many of his nine years as he could remember. That the house was antiquated, in dire need of a coat of paint, and that its only view was another backyard did not matter to him. He had learned to love the place; it was his home. So for once the freckle-peppered face was doleful, the brown hair unbrushed, and the blue eyes perilously close to tears. Yet the sentimental associations of the building were not the sole reasons for Colin's unhappiness. In front of the

Grown by Me 1 have a little garden plot, In which I've grown such a lot Of spinach, peas, and curly cress, Of which I'm proud, I must confess. Two rows of beans, both high and green, That I can easily Walk between, Reach up nearly to the sky— Or so it seems to my proud eye I I'tie learned to dig and rake and hoe, And water the plants to make them grow. I'll gather some now to haoe for tea, And let everyone k nou) they've been grown by me! —By Colin De Luca (II).

liouse was sufficient space for a very small garden. Of the few gardens in Wimple Street number twenty-two's was easily the most impressive. The cobbled pathway from the gate divided the ground into two portions. To the left was a vegetable patch—neatly pegged rows of carrots, beetroot, peas, and one or two lettuce; in their midst, pipe in mouth, spectacles on nose, stood a scarecrow. The part 011 the right of the path was grassed, except for two flower beds: one, which was bordered by a large tyre to form a full moon, contained stock; the other, pricked-out by shells into a star shape, grew violets. In the centre of each bed was a small rosebush". Colin was very proud of his roses. Proud, too, was he of his latest invention —a fountain. "Have you seen my magic fountain?" he would ask visitors. Then he'd

disappear mysteriously round the corner, and presently an innocent-look-ing china frog would spout forth water. Of course, the secret of this phenomenon was a hidden piece of hose, which connected the frog to a tap. Such was the little boy's miniature K.den, cultivated by inanv golden hours of labour. Here, for some years, he had sowed seeds, which, although they looked like tiny commonplace marbles, produced a harvest of beauty and utility. Consequently, it was with sad reluctance that he climbed up beside tiis mother on the lorry which was to take them to a now abode. He was saying farewell to home and garden. Three weeks alter when they had settled down, Colin thought he would like to have a peep at number twentytwo again. Having obtained permission, ho set off, and was soon pressing his face between the bars of the gate

Prize Story by K. G. Brookfield (18)

he knew so well. Inside, the fountain was splashing merrily, spilling its crystal liquid over flowers, lawn, and, incidentally, a chubby sparrow, which flirted with the delicious coolness. An elderly woman who had just picked a Hugh Dickson, was carrying the rose, spray-laden, to the opened window where a little girl lay sick. "Oh, how beautiful!" the child exclaimed. "Yes." agreed her mother, "and it's the first bloom, too." "But. what scent!" As the girl took a deep breath of the fragrance, her wan cheeks swam with colour, her eyes shone, as though the rose had imparted to her some of the red of its petals and some of the sparkle of its moisture. Both mother and child were so engrossed in the flower that they failed to notice the stocky figure at the gateway —Colin was happy, very happy indeed.