FROM OUT THE GREY.

Otago Witness, Issue 3196, 16 June 1915, Page 73

FROM OUT THE GREY.

By Gladys Harvey

The greyness came creeping over the hilltops and up the valley. It veiled the big, gaunt gums in a silvery mist, until they stood as grim sentinels swathed in shadowy grey. The blue had gone from tire sky—the sun had hidden behind those dun clouds which portended so much. 1 fell to musing. The western wind began to stir the leaves of the stately gumtrees; it whispered in the quivering oaks; and, nearer still, it rustled the leaves of the plantains.

The harmony of Nature lulled one to sleep—to sleep and rest. I forgot my sorrow —I forgot my stress. The- soothing influence carried me far, and my dreamthoughts floated to things not now of this earth. * '

I saw the dear old home of my childhood with its rough bush comfort and picturesque inelegance. Its windows w’ere latticed with sweet briar and framed with malmaison roses, and all was fair around. Our old playroom came to my mind. Its table was ink-stained and nicked and marred in many ways; its bookcase was a vision of topsy-turveydora, and the chairs had their veneer knocked off; the carpet was dulled by the patter of little feet. It had been the scene of many a childish peace, mischief, and sport. A Dresden shepherdess smiled down at one with one side of her hat knocked off and ihei' crook snapped from out her hand : she had come through a rough time. A bust of the soldier’s hero, “ Bobs,” had had his white marble uniform painted a vivid yellow and green, and his favourite white charger was painted a shining black. I also recall a valuable globe which our father had brought home for us. One day a fencing contest ended in it coming into contact with thb hearthstone. The outcome was that a big slice of India had chipped out. There was a fearful consultation of little folk, when each one volunteered some advice. The sense of guilt was lifted when one small voice proclaimed that it did not matter, as India was big enough to spare it.

Oth., those happy days when happy childhood shouted their gladness and sang their joyousness ! They have gone far those brothers and sisters of olden times. The boys are men now, each serving his country to the best of his ability. One is on duty in a far-off outpost, one takes his ships into far-away waters, and one has taken his place in the worlds greatest centre and is using his brains for the betterment of mankind. Good men and brave, they have sped far from the playground of their youth. God guard and keep them honourable, with never a stain on their fair name nor a smirch on their escutcheon. My thoughts linger long over my two fair sisters. I think of them in childhood, girlhood, and motherhood; but their sweetness and happiness fades away with a rush of love. My heart takes in but one thought, my mind focuses but one picture. My mother stands before me—her comforting arms enfold me. She bids me restrain my rebellious heart, curb my wilful moods. She soothes me with hopeful words and soft embraces, and then glides away. I cry aloud for her presence. I stretch out my arms—alas! but to a phantom. I am alone, and my thoughts stab me with cruel intensity, as I realise that my burden is with me —that where my heart would go I may not go.

I awake to find a golden radiance that almost bewilders me—a glory untrammelled and unimagined. The grey has gone—the sun is sinking. The mountain tops are ablaze with golden lights, which play on its white cliffs. They linger, like a shower of gold on the quivering treetops. The golden shafts cleft the dark valley and carried their radiance across my threshold. It seemed to me an omen that to me will come a peace I have never known before. I have drifted on the tide of ambition, and it has loft me on a pinnacle that the world calls fame.

But my lonely heart is calling for those loved ones. I have ached in. my loneliness for a touch of those vanished hands, I have cried aloud for a word from those silent lips, and, by some strange magic, which He alone understands, my cry has been heard. Perhaps it is only through the medium of memory or the influence of a dream, but my lips have thrilled to the touch of a- mother’s kiss, my brow has been touched by her soft, cool hands. She has bidden me throw back my ambition, my wayward dreams. She has begged me to smother..my aspirations and check my wilfulness, and to myself I know that I have promised, and my word is my bond. Memories ! Oh, memories ! Let me find my own .salvation through the medium of those memories. They stir one, they spur one. Forgotten promises are recalled from the great pot pourri of thoughts, wishes, and hopes. This evening I have renewed a promise to a dead mother, and peace has come to a perturbed mind.

The golden light has faded. The radiance born of the sunset has diffused, and while I look it trails back into the twilight grey —dusk of a summer eve. I watch until the stars show out in a sea of steely blue. Big white clouds float across and link together in fantastic shapes. It recalls -to my mind a northern sea studded with icebergs and icefloes. I lean on my window sill until the grey has merged into black. Surely I have been vouchsafed a great and wonderful blessing. Nature has spoken to me in her silent language, and I have listened. Memory has charged my brain with a -vivid understanding, and I see as one who has keen blind. As the last cluster of stars shows out I rise refreshed. Good night, dear readers. Good night.