PATCHWORK PIECES

Otago Witness, Issue 3870, 15 May 1928, Page 10

PATCHWORK PIECES

By

Eileen Service.

(Special for the Otago Witness.) L.—“SING ‘WILLOW, WILLOW.”’ No sound. Quietude heavy and tense upon the world. Silence like sleep. In such a calm, the willow seemed scarcely to breathe. The air pressed upon her too closely. The weight of it was appalling. She stood motionless, her branches faint with fatigue. Not a leaf stirred.

Life was no longer beautiful. She marvelled that she had ever thought it so. And yet, in those first days—How could she have helped but love it then? She had been dainty as the darling of an old-world court. She had been radiant with youth. The creamy buds outlined upon her boughs; the delicacy of her shape; the tender freshness of" her leaves turned green; the glory of her as she faced the morning sun! Yes, she had been like a lady in frailly-fashioned draperies. Iler skirts had "rustled as she moved. Her swaying had been graceful as a poem. That was when the girl had first come. She had stood in amazement when she found her there in the orchard, and exclaimed for delight that a tree could be so lovely. Then that night, she had stolen out to dance to her, and had pretended that she was a priestess and the willow a goddess of the spring. She had made an offering of primroses, and knelt and leaped and curved in the moonlight. A magic night, that, unforgettable. Yes, life had been beautiful then. And afterwards, in the early summer, it had been beautiful too. The willow had rejoiced continually in those days, no matter what the weather, and, proud in her superb vitality, had been ever full of praise. The wind" had been a madcap to rouse her from her dreaming and set her tossing in the midst of her riotous leaves. The rain had been a spirit to soothe her with coolness and refresh and cleanse her by purity of touch. She had been not so shy then, as eager and vital, and the knowledge of her splendour gave her confidence, so that she laughed exultantly. The girl had adored her 1 Every morning she had come singing and skipping to the place where she grew, and the two had exchanged curtseys happily, roguishly. She had put her arms round the slim trunk and hugged it for pleasure, and had shaken out her hair that it might be mingled with the leaves. Yes, life had been beautiful then. The willow had loved it. But now, now! At the end of the summer the girl had returned after months of absence. She. had approached running, calling words of greeting as she came; but, at the sight of the tree she had stood still, astonishment and distress dawning in her eyes. A lady of an old-time court, dainty, sensitive? No, a slattern, down at heel and frowsy, a tree with darkgreen, shabby leaves, dusty and faded and old. Here was something the youth of which had long since vanished—a tired, ugly willow at the end of a toolong summer.

The girl had nearly wept with disappointment. She had not known that a willow could ever be anything but inspiring, and here was one so affected by the season as to be distasteful,

tawdry. She had turned on her heel and gone away without saying a word. The willow had wilted with shame. In her frenzy to lure the girl back again, she had changed her leaves to mottled yellow to hide their dustiness, and had let. some of them fall around her so that she looked thinner, more spirituelle. She bad imagined the girl dancing for joy when she found her so colourful, anil spinning round in excitement when the breeze blew the leaves in her face. But the girl had not come back. All she could remember was the willow that had been, and this stranger impressed her only as unnatural. She had not wished to see her. And yet—to some eyes—the autumn tree might have looked more like a lady than ever with her airv movements and her hair of flaming "gold. The willow hung her head lower. This awful stillness! This dumbness! She felt she was dying. Then from somewhere came a low sound, a whine momentarily "rowing louder and shriller. Another pursued it, and yet another. The willow was suddenly wrenched back to life. The wind had come.

In the storm that followed she was beaten from side’ to side. She strove frantically to hold herself in check for the sake of the last leaves that still remained with her. She fought to retain them until the girl should come again. But she was helpless. 'The wind she had played with "had become a malicious fury; the rain that had soothed her was a tyrant, merciless. Her leaves were torn from her, hundreds at a time, and whirled away in grotesque speed. She stretched out" her branches in terror towards them. She implored them to stay with her. But they left her, left her, until she was destitute of even the smallest.

After the storm, the night- grew cold. It began to freeze. The clouds blew away from the black sky and the moon swam out. It was uncannily still and bright.

In the morning the girl came down to the orchard.

The willow waited. Everything was white with frost, and the air was like a blade in its keenness of touch. And she—she was naked. Froiu trunk to tip she was stripped of her gold, and her every line was seen against the sky. In her humiliation she bowed herself forward. Her last hope was gone. What would the girl say now? ilow would she express her scorn? But the girl stood still, at the sight that met her gaze. A lady? No' a statue from the splendid days of Greece. All that had been superfluous was shorn away, and beauty so unadorned as to be pure was left in its entirety. And this was the tree that she had called a slattern!

A thrill of wonder passed through the willow, making her branches tremble. Was it possible? Could it be really so? For, there in the frozen grass, her arms outstretched, was the girl, kneeling to her and asking that she would understand and forgive. Awe was in her voice, and in her eyes reverence and worship for this perfect thing.