From a Garden

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

From a Garden

QNE really did not notice the violets when one stepped into the garden. The daffodils and anemones immediately attracted attention. Their daintiness and glorious colours amid the delicate greens of spring held one spell-bound. It was only a week or two since the garden was so bare. But certainly that rich scout was not the daffodils' tribute to the scene. And then one saw them, clustering richly purple among the dark green of their leaves. Aha! my shy little friends; no sweetness is lost. It is wafted on the air and makes the picture complete. A last stray chrysanthemum drooped her tawny head. The were all dancing so gaily, and with their golden bells they rang a melody. The world is filled with beauty, the world is filled with beauty. No sadness here shall live. Our thoughts are filled with beauty; to dance nur only duly. And tho good wo have to givo. The chrysanthemum looked a little weary. "You know little about the world, my friends," sho said. "I have heard much and I have found that in the world there is much that is not beautiful. There is hate and jealousy, petty sayings and thoughts, There is seeking after power and warfare. There is murder and crime."

By PEARL HERBERT (Honours Member),

The daffodils stopped their dancing in shocked silence. The anemone shook her head.

"That cannot be," she said. "Feel how clear and the air; how warm the sun upon our faces. See how delicate the new green leaves; how bright our dresses. Are they all for nought? Hear the birds how they sing. Who could dare defy all Nature and defile this beauty?" But the chrysanthemum only sighed. "Man heeds it not," she answered. "He thinks tho sun and air are but his rights, and for the flowers and fresh green leaves he thinks but little, and would tread us under foot in his march to greater fame upon the earth. And the songs of the birds are drowned by the noise of bickering and strife." Tho daffodils could dance no more that day, and the tender violets wept for the folly of man, so that they who passed said,' "See the dew is still wet on tho violets." One by one the tawny petals of the chrysanthemum dropped to the ground. Her gift of beauty was passed and no one had noticed it. But yet the song will live, the sun will shine, and the flowers will bloom and die, and bloom again. For hope and love and beauty will live on for ever, when all the doubt and hate and strife have been forgotten.