THE GARLAND.

Otago Witness, Issue 3860, 6 March 1928, Page 68

THE GARLAND.

FOR THE QUIET HOUR.

B,

No. 757.

Duncan Wright,

Dunedin.

(Fob the Otago Witness.) Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck thee out of the crannies I hold you here, root and all, in my hand Little, flower—but if I could understand What you are, rcot and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is. —Tennyson. * * ft He who hunts for flowers will find flowers; and he who loves weeds may find weeds.—Beecher. « * * The flowers are Nature’s jewels with whose wealth She decks her summer beauty, primrose sweet, With blossoms of pure gold enchanting rose That, like a virgin queen, salutes the suu, Dew diadem’d. * * . ft THE STORY OF A ROSE. On a railway train approaching one of the Western cities a company of happy girls in holiday attire observed a des-perate-looking man in charge of an officer. Some of them looked on him with scorn. Some of them spoke of him as a “gaolbird.” One at least looked with pitying eyes, and said, “ Poor fellow! ” Selecting one of the most beautiful of a bunch of roses that she was carrying to a favourite aunt she crossed over to his seat, and, with a smile, dropped the flower upon his knee. Tears came to his eyes, and, taking the rose in the handcuffed fingers, he said in a husky voice: “God bless you, miss, for your kindness to a poor castaway. May you never know what it is to be friendless. It is many a day since I heard a word of cheer from human lips.” An aged man who witnessed the scene told the girls that the prisoner had been a soldier, and, as such, learned to drink, and had become a castoff because of his habits, and was then on the way to the State prison to serve a five years’ sentence.

Tears dropped from the eyes of the poor fellow upon the rose, and he carried it with him to the cell, and pressed it between the leaves of his Bible. Through grace he became a Christian, and when he left the prison he carried with him testimonies from the police authorities as to his changed life. With a new hope and a new spirit he began to work humbly among the lowly, and became the means of leading many friendless, homeless men and women into better, purer ways of living.

ft ft » Listen to a gifted woman who sings about the rose: °

How much of memory dwells amidst thv bloom, Rose! ever wearing beauty for thy dower! The bridal day, the festival, the tomb, Thou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest flowei; Therefore with thy soft breath come floating by. A thousand images of love and grief, Dreams, fill’d with tokens of mortality. Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and brief.

Not such thy spells o’er those that hail'd thee first In the clear light of Eden’s golden day; Then thy rich leaves to crimson glory burst, Link’d with no dim remembrance of decay. Rose! for the banquet gather’d, and the bier, Rose! coloured now by human hope or pain; Surely when death is not, no change, nor fear, Yet may we to thee, joy’s own flower again!

Did not He Whom great multitudes designate reverently' Saviour, Lord and King, say: “ Consider the lilies, how they grow; they toil not, they spin not; and yet I say unto you that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.” Sweetly emphatic are the words, I say unto you.”

* ft * O Father, Lord, The all-beneficent! I bless Thy name, That Thou hast mantled the green earth with flowers, Linking our hearts -to Nature. Receive Thanks, blessings, love to thee, Thy lavish boons, And most of all, their heavenward influences, O Thou that givst us flowers!

New Zealanders (all such), but specifically those who have travelled, are justly proud of their sunny isles, with their towering titanic Alps, snowy mountains, their castellated and pineclad hills, the ever-rippling, restless sea, the countless rushing crystal streams merrily dancing to the ocean, the fertile, plains, the charming bush, the endless dales and dusky dells, broad acres of yellow waving corn, orchards of surpassing beauty and fertility, well-cared-for nurseries, and flowers that dazzle the eye and flood the air with sweetest aroma.

Through years of travel in the north as far as the Bay of Islands, and Stewart Island in the extreme south, the writer of this message may surely be. allowed to state what ho has seep..,and what he /knows from personal observation. And who shall blame or censure our rosy, romping, young people in the wellequipped State schools if they sing- with gusto, “ God Save New Zealand. ”7

>' ■ ■■. ft . -.-J ft -ft . ; Flowers! when* the Saviour’s calm benignantey* I Fell ou your gentle beauty ; when from you

That heavenly lesson for all hearts He drew, Eternal, universal as the sky; Then in the bosom of your purity, A voice He set, as in a temple shrine, That life’s quick travellers ne’er might pass you by Unwarn’d of that sweet oracle divine. And tho’ too oft its low, celestial sound By the harsh notes of workday care is drown’d. And the loud stops of vain, unlist’ning haste; Yet the great lesson hath no tone of power Mightier to reach the soul in thoughts hush'd hour Than yours, meek lilies, chosen thus, and graced.

An unknown writer has a suggestive message to all who love flowers: “ The cultivation of flowers is, of all the amusements of mankind, the one to be selected and approved as the most innocent in itself, and most perfectly d--'oid of injury or annoyance to others. The employment is not only conducive to health and peace of mind, but probably more goodwill has arisen and friendships been formed by the intercourse and communication connected with this pursuit than from any other whatsoever. “ The pleasures, the ecstasies of the horticulturist are harmless and pure. A streak, a shade, a tint becomes his triumph, which, though often obtained by chance, is secured alone by morning care, by evening caution, and the vigilance of days—an employ which in various grades excludes neither the opulent nor the indigent, and, teeming with boundless variety, affords an unceasing excitement to emulation, without contention or ill-will.” ft ft * John Ruskin speaks: “ Flowers seem intended for the solace of ordinary humanity. Children love them; quiet, contented, tender, ordinary people love them as they grow; luxurious and disorderly people rejoice in them gathered. They are the cottage’s treasure; and in the crowded town, as with a little, broken fragment of rainbow, the windows of the workers, in whose heart rests the covenant of peace. Passionate or religious minds contemplate them with fond, feverish intensity. To the child and the girl, the peasant and the manufacturing operative, to the grisette and the nun, the lover and the monk, they are precious always.” He continues: “Perhaps it may be thought, if we understood flowers better, we might love them less. We do not love them much as it is. Few (?) people care for flowers; many, indeed, are fond of finding a new shape of blossom, caring for it as a child cares about a kaleidoscope. Many, also, like a fair service of flowers in the greenhouse, as a fair service of (silver) plate on the table. Some are scientifically interested in them, even though these in the nomenclature rather than the flowers themselves.”

In the judgment of the present writer it appears a poor and paltry thing if those who love and care for flowers, and carefully cultivate the same (and the name of such is surely legion), forget or ignore the infinitely wise and beneficent Creator Who, in a thousand ways, is merciful and mighty far beyond human ken. Just for a moment try to imagine what the world would be without flowers. It would be a sepulchral place without a smile. Are not flowers the stars of the earth; and are not the stars the flowers of heaven ? They are surely the emblems of God’s illimitable love to the world, and the means and ministrations of man’s love to his fellow-creatures. * * * ft the field, how meet ye seem Man s frailty to portray, Blooming so fair in morning’s beam Passing at eve away; Teach this, and oh; tho’ brief your rei"n Sweet flowers ye shall not live in vain. ° Go. form a monitory wreath For youth's unthinking brow; Go. and to busy mankind breathe IV hat most he fears to know; Go, strew the path where age doth tread And. tell him of th e silent dead. But whilst to thoughtless ones and gay, -Ye breathe these truths severe, To those who droop in pale decay, -Have ye no words of cheer? Oil yes! ye weave a double spell, And life and death betoken well. Go then, where wrapt in fear and gloom, Fond hearts and true are sighing, And deck with emblematic bloom The pillow of the dying; And softly speak, nor speak in vain, Of the long sleep and broken chain. And say that He who from the dust Recalls the slumbering flower Will surely visit those who trust His mercy and His power; Will mark where sleeps their peaceful clay. And roll, ere long, the stone away. —Blackwood’s Magazine.