THE PROMISE OF SPRING.

Otago Witness, Issue 3111, 29 October 1913, Page 73

THE PROMISE OF SPRING.

By tte Rev. W. H. E Abbey.

We are getting impatient with winter's cold and rain In the country the roads are abominable —mere stretches of mudfilled ruts. In the city our goloshes are wearing through, and the water overflowing channels is filling our boots. Neither hopefulness nor leather is impervious to Otago weather. The most confirmed optimist, who is careful to remind his fellows that spring is coming, inwardly yearns for a rising temperature and a decreasing rainfall. We all miss the song of the bird, the fragrance of flowers, and the music of harvest. How those gaunt, bare trees, flinging their leafless arms into bleak space, get on our nerves! Now and then a linnet or a wax-eye does perch on a wind-swept branch, but generally these birds are seeking more w r eloome shelter in sheds or under evergreen hedges. Every night three sparrows, forsaking their summer residences m the trees near by, steal under the verandah of the house and there sleep while snow and frost do their worst. So our heart’s desire is for an early spring and a speedy return of summer. Happily the local weather prophets predict an ejjrly spring. .God bless our amateur met-erolo-gists! .Students of Nature are they; observers of animal habits and exponents of weather vagaries. Where is the community that does not possess at least one? Wo ail know him of the verbose tongue. It is he, familiar, talkative, omniscient, who tells us to-day that spring is near. It was somewhat reluctantly that we said good-bye to last summer. Wo prayed it to linger yet a while on the slopes of the hills But we remember a bright May day —just one of those days when wo feel that cummer is past —that there appeared in the trees above the house an active little fantail. Its white plumage showed between the yellow autumn leaves for a moment —and the bird was gone. Whence it came and whither it went wo have not learnt. Strange that summer should have sent such an unusual visitor to say farewell 1 We have had other visitors since that day. The snow-capped' hills provided little food for th ■ pretty wax-eyes, and during the winter months they have come in to pick up the crumbs at our back door. We have counted dozens of them hopping about, not the least bit afraid of our presence. Throughout the district on© hears the “click,” “click” of the pruning scissors. The fruit trees lift up their bleeding limbs for the gentle healing touch of Nature’s balm. Here and there are the fires that burn up the fallen branches, win o the thick smoko, like a pail of death, hangs heavy over the orchards. Yet they say spring is coming. And so she is. Already the scent of her garments is in the air. The fields arc bestirring themselves to greet the goddess they .’ovo. Many years ago an early settler planted a few dry sticks on the hillside boundary of his property. Why he did so must ever remain a mystery. To-day those sticks form a row of the finest weeping willows in Central Otago. They arc far up from the banks of the Molyneux, but their roots penetrate deeply, and many a Huge buried boulder is hold in their fast embrace. Not many weeks since the last seared leaf foil, leaving long trailers suspended in weeping solitude. The summer time glory had gone, and, like a deserted lover, the trees drooped and repined. In poetic fancy the weeping willow has been accepted as an emblem of disappointed love, reminding one of that which was loved and is lost. Mrs Hemans sings : “ Willow, in thy breezy moan, I can hear a deeper tone; Through thy leaves come whispering low. Faint sweet sounds of long ago— Willow, sighing willow!” And nothing could be more drearily desolate than that row of willows during the past few weeks, with their- long stems sweeping the ground to the dirge of mournful winds. But now mourning is turned into rejoicing. One can see the trees tipped with green. The tender leaves are bursting their winter prison, coming forth to sing of their emancipation—the jubilee of spring. On a rise of the road, overlooking disordered heaps of tailings, there stands an old stone house —a relic of the Stone Ago in Otago, when timber and bricks were too expensive for building purposes. Hard by this old house one may see two wattle trees. It is no stretch of imagination to believe that some old digger carried in his swag across the Tasman Sea two tiny acacia roots which now spend their sweetness on a foreign air. Prior to the stone age in New Zealand was the wattle age in Australia, when men built their huts of hurdles, or wattles as they were known in the Did Land. These slat and mud houses were constructed of acacia saplings, hence the application of the term wattle to the trees. And now Nature is encoring the strange acacia in a strange land. They are repeating last spring’s beauty. As the traveller passes by he catches the scent and beholds the yellow of blossom, that once more fulfils the eastern promise of warmth, bud, and flower. “ Light leaved acacias, by the door Stand up in balmy air; Clusters of blossomed moonlight bare And breathe a perfume rare.” Perhaps one of the surest signs of approaching spring is the white blossom of the almond tree showing above the bald branches. Across the way a rustic specimen may be seen—tall, and having a tufty, unkempt appearance at the top. Still, its mission is being fulfilled, for it is, as Edwin Arnold says : “ Almond blossom sent to teach us That the spring days soon will reach us.” Passing from trees to birds, it may be possible to discover some varieties in their habits suggestive of a change of season. Selecting the river terns one may see any day large numbers skimming the waters of the Molyneux. Their migratory instincts seem to be aroused, and once again summer haunts are being sought after. These summer visitors are the heralds of spring. Old residents assure us that there are unusual indications among these aquatic birds of an early and consistent spring. Only yesterday we had a pleasant half-hour listening to the lusty song of a. happy little bird sang to its heart’s content. There was summer in ihat song. One could feel th© warmth entering his own heart. Over the Hills the last rays of the c it ng sun lingered, but w & kno’7 that to-morrow’s sun would rise warmer still. The thrush told us that winter is past and spring-time coming. Against the buggy shed is an old blucgum stump, standing like a grim sentinel keeping watch. As if for very shame's

sake a thick growth of saplings has sprung up to hide its bareness. Wherever possible suckers have shot forth, wrapping the stump in garments of green. These leaves never, fall, and in the bleakest winter they afford welcome shelter. Accepting the hospitality thus provided, numerous small birds, with tneir merry twitter and chirping, make the tree alive with melody. Yesterday the sun shone brightly, bathing the earth with genial warmth. On the old stump the birds caught the infection of spring and the air became resonant with music. The hearing ear could detect the love-song of some songster wooing his mate. High up on an outspread branch was a deserted nest —a monument of industry and forgotten labour. Yet in the light of yesterday’s promise that nest became prophetic with renewed labour and life.

Leaving the birds, and concluding our observations in the flower garden, we found a few pleasant surprises awaiting us. For quite a month the primroses have been in evidence. Their testimony to the nearness of summer is unmistakable, for they bloom on the grave of w'inter. Just behind a row of primroses there is a bed ■'of narcissi. Already daffodils are far out of the earth seeking their first baptism of summer sun. To our joy we saw, quietly tucked in amongst the leaves, not a few yellow-green buds, full and ready to burst into rich colour. At the risk of sacrilege we picked the fullest bud to open out more perfectly on the dining room mantelpiece. There it is as we write, the early prophet, if not the high priest, of the Goddess of Spring. There is a fascination about spring flowers that is strangely irresistible. The most prosaic mortal comes under the spell. After the decay and death of winter, who is there that loves not the resurrected glory of spring? And heaven is spring translated into eternity. Flowers will bloom there without the interruption of winter. Songs and fragrance will load the atmosphere with everlasting sweetness. So cheer up, discouraged soul! Spring is coming, and after that the eternal summer.