WOOD FIRES

Otago Daily Times, Issue 23529, 18 June 1938, Page 7

WOOD FIRES

RANDOM THOUGHTS BESIDE ONE By The Outdoor Lady “ Oh, it’s marvellous not having any fireplaces, lessens the housework enormously,” said Dian, as she proudly showed me over her new house, the last word in elegance and convenience. “ George misses the fire,” continued Dian, “ and says he is sorry now that we did not have a fireplace put in the living room, but I have no regrets on that score. I think the central heating is heavenly. Every room is warm, and, Jill, just think of never having any depressing ashes and cinders to sweep up.”

And as I walked home from Dian’s on that crisp, cold, winter’s evening with the golden tints of sunset still glowing in the heavens, I watched the plumes of smoke rising from the nearby houses and thought how desolate, how much more coldhearted the world would have looked if everyone had dispensed with chimneys as Dian and George had done. For did not each plume of smoke beckon to some wanderer in the cold world? Djid it not assure him that at home, warmth, cheer, companionship, awaited him?

’“Just as well George is a cheery kind of chap,” I soliloquised, as I unlocked my own rather shabby green door.

The elegance and perfection of Dian’s house had sharpened my perceptions, fully aroused me to the untidiness and shabbiness of my own living-room Chairs ranged in a semi-circle at the fireside upset the artistic balance of the room—gave it a lop-sided look. Strange I’d not realised that before! The copper tender was dinted and shiny in places, the result of having been used as a footstool. There were spatters of raddle on the panels that supported the mantelpiece. The hearth-rug was worn, the carpet bore several bad scorches. Vowing I really must do some refurnishing, I put a match to the fire, and as bright flames leapt merrily up the chimney I sank into an armchair, and in a state of utter contentment quickly forgot all about renovation schemes, and fell to musing on the character and temperament of New Zealand wood fires that I had enjoyed.

On that particular evening a novelty in firewood burned on my hearth—prunings of rosewood, several inches in diameter, cut from a dear old climber that had adorned and shaded our back verandah for the past 20 years. My rosewood burned quietly, sedately, slowly. It was beautiful to look upon, for each thorn-studded branch retained its original shape to almost the last ember.

Rosewood! A pretty word, either written or spoken. A word associated with beautiful things; the rich, lovely mellow wood used for piano cases, dainty occasional tables, fragile looking china cabinets, exquite pieces of furniture exhibited in art galleries. But where grew rose trees large enough to supply timber for all such treasures? A dictionary described rosewood as the wood of a Brazilian tree having a fragrance like that of roses. That, however, did not answer my question. Perfumed rosewood was a thing I had dreamed about but a thing I had never seen, and not even a whiff of rose scent came from my rosewood fire. “ But,” I murmured to myself, “ when the noble old climber dies I shall have a tiny table made from its boughs and all summer a witching bowl filled with roses shall stand upon it. Alas! while my mind had been playing with such charming fancies the hungry fire had consumed the last rose twig. How quickly my rosewood fire had become a memory. Bending down to the wood-box I picked up a branch or two of willow, and a branch of pine. The pine so perfectly wrapped in pale brown bark —bark patterned with fascinating knobby dots like those on hailstone muslin; and evenly spaced along the branch there were clusters of tightly " fisted ” baby cones that looked as if they had but a minute before been dipped in varnish. But life had dealt more roughly with the willow branches, stripped them of all natural beauty; charred, chipped, and scarred them long before the woodman brought them to my door When, however, I piled the boughs of willow and the bough of pine upon the rapidly dwindling rosewood embers, it was the willow that instantly flared into radian! fire It sent showers of dainty sparks racing up the chimney, shot rosy embers—embers as big as hazel-nuts —mischievously out on to the hearthrug, crackled and gurgled, and wrapped itself in dazzling gold tinsel. And in the midst of the willow's glitter and gaiety, the pine wood burnt steadily, silently but for a gentle murmur made by resin oozing from, and frosting patches on, the brown wood—resin that magnetised the flames, and filled the air with the fresh, beautiful aroma of pine. And long after all trace of the willow’s glory had vanished the fir-cones glowed on—some like lovely camellias, others like perfectly formed, gorgeously coloured dahlias lying carelessly about the fire-place. And as 1 sat gazing at the ever changing loveliness of those exquisite flowers of fire, my mind travelled back to the home of my childhood, a rambling country farmhouse, with huge open fireplaces—fireplaces on which embers so often glowed all night. Each morning the pristine splendour of the big living-room fireplace was restored with a wash made from blue clay which 1 as a child dug out of sea-washed cliffs What wonderful fires they were that burned on that old hearth! —fires built from wood gathered on the estate: great logs of rata, solid lasting, reliable; matai, colourful, easy to split, but, like her bush sister, the totara, a restless spirit, not to be trusted in a house alone. Tower and titoki were spitfires, too, right to their dying embers In open contrast with such gay sprites of the firewood world was the unostenta tlous little manuka, which burned so eagerly, so prettily. Another sweet, gentle burner on the old grey hearth was the acacia But best and dearest of all those incomparable country fires were those made of bearded maire logs—logs that stayed awake all night, warmed and comforted the sick, and burnt “ lamps of peace for them that lie forlorn.” And so, with the king of our New Zealand fire-woods, I come to the end of wood fires I have known. My mind switches back to the start of all these random thoughts Dian’s house without a fireplace. And again I say. ves. a thousand times, yes. a house without a hearth on which to kindle a fire is a house without a soul