THE WEEK.

Otago Witness, Issue 3383, 15 January 1919, Page 50

THE WEEK.

If in looking through a newspaper at the present time you found an article headed "The Devastators/' you would naturally conclude that it referred to the doings of our late enemies, and would settle down to read yet another account of Hunnish atrocities in France. The particular article 1 hay>e in mind, however, is on quite other lineS, and the "devastation" to which it refers is a kind of which only too many people in this country are often guilty. It is written by an English officer in France, and begins by describing the countryside in spring at the place where he was billetted.

"The low herbage under the trees only a yard or two from some gun emplacement was as if sparsely sprinkled with snowflakes, so thick were the snowdrops, while other patches were positively blue with violets, or golden yellow with celandine. It was the snowdrops the soldiers admired most. As I looked at them one morning, waiting for a breakfast signal, one of the mess orderlies paused and looked also. 'Ah, sir! ain't it beautiful now! Why can't we have that sort of thing in English woods?' . 'You come from Birmingham, don't you?' 'Yes, sir.' 'Well, you know Sutton Coldfield?' 'Of course ' 'Then you probably remember what the Birmingham children do every spring and in the early summer—and not only the children, but the grown-up people—pounce on every flower they see, dig it up by the roots, and try to replant it in some town garden or backyard, where it is sure to die in a few weeks.' 'Well, sir, I am afraid they do ' "Amongst the many impressions I brought back with me from visits to the war zone and to camps v outside it was the intense pleasure the soldiers took in the floral beauty of France, especially the vivid displays of wild flowers in spring, summer, and autumn. Yet, as I ventured to say to some of them, we might have just as much beauty in our English countryside as. they have on the European continent, but for the devastators." The writer goes on to -speak of the ruin wrought by this craze for "collecting" wild flowers and ferns, especially on the part of many children from the towns, who, owing to air-raids and other war dislocations, have been let loose in many lovely parts of England just when the spring flowers are <at their best. It is, he admits, a genuine though misdirected passion for beauty in Nature, and he laments that they have not yet come to the higher stage when you so appreciate the beauty of flowers and ferns in a landscape that you would not for any 'inducement spoil the picture. But apart from this misdirected appreciation there is also to be found in many people a sheer love of destruction which tempts them to destroy or damage what thev cannot carry away, and unfortunately one or two people of this kind can make havoc in a very short time amongst beauties that the restraint of hundreds mav have left untouched. I have often wondered just exactly what was in the minds of people whose progress on a day's outing may often be traced by a trail of withered flowers and broken branches of pretty native shrubs, and now I know. It is either misguided appreciation, or love of destruction, or sometimes a curious mixture of both. The native clematis, when it is in flower, seems to have a fatal fascination for such people, and here, I think, a sheer desire of possession comes in. The clematis is lovely to look at, and it grows high, so that to the instinctive thought, "There is a flower—let us pick it! in the mind of the tripper is added the desire to attain the unattainable. And when it is attained, it lasts for only a brief, while before it withers away, carried in hot hands, and is oast down by the roadside and tramped underfoot, when it might have been left to be a joy to many other eyes. Some day, perhaps, we will all acquire that higher appreciation that will leave a thing of beauty in the rightful setting, putting aside all idea of personal possession. Sometimes it seems as if we were making j>rogress in that direction. One does not see quite so many people as one used to do returning from picnics laden with baskets of ferns—though that probably, is because there are practically no ferns left to dig up! The spread of the Boy Scout movement, with the constructive rather than destructive ideas that it presents to the youthful mind, must have some effect on the coming generation, and so must the encouragement given to school gardening. When you know something of the trouble a plant takes to grow into full beauty you are not so much inclined to disc it up by the roots merely for your passing pleasure. There is still another point in this article in question which might be driven home to our holiday-makers as well as English ones. Do you, when you go for a picnic, leave remnants of papers and other rubbish all over the place? If you do, listen to the diatribe by' this writer, who, by

the way, is Sir Harry Johnston, the wellknown African explorer. One can understand how, coming fresh from the wilds where Nature is seen at her grandest, it should rouse his ire to find her in. his native land so defiled and desecrated by thoughtless and irresponsible humans. Just listen to him :

"Seemingly no child can go to school and play truant, no trinper can pass two hours in the wilds, »no youth or maiden can go out blackberry-picking without an enormous supply of paper —paper bags for greasy provisions, newspapers to read and to sit on, brown paper to line the baskets, and be accidentally left behind. There are miles and miles of green walks between bramble clumps on the Sussex downs strewn with huge flakes of white paper, entire newspapers, picture papers, confectioners' bags, as though a paperchase of giants had been taking place. Commons are more noteworthy for paper than for gorse or heather, yet we are told there is a shortage of paper. Lies! If there were, paper would first of all have been refused to the confectioner, every newspaper would compulsorily bear a notice on it, "Don't Throw Me Away," and a voluntary paper nolice would be formed for following up* these devastators and desecrators, clubbing them with their own thrown-down empty bottles, collecting the tons of paper they waste, and sending it to be pulped."' I rather like the touch about the empty bottles, for if there is one thing worse than dirty paper it is empty bottles lying about, and the only thing worse than that is empty tins. Devastators, see the feeling you are arousing, and be warned in time, and you preservators, who are doing your best to care for our beautiful country, go on as you are doing, and more power to you! ELIZABETH.