THE SKETCHER

Otago Witness, Issue 3972, 29 April 1930, Page 63

THE SKETCHER

OLD AUTUMN. Is this old Autumn standing here, Where wind-blown fruits decay; ■Dressed up in limp, bedraggled Howers That Summer cast away? whose mist no dewdrops shine, And grass, once green, goes yellow; For whom no bird will sing or chirp, On either ash or willow? If this is his poor, pelted face, With dead leaves soaked in rain, Pome, Winter, with your kindly frost That’s almost cruelly sane; Take him, with his unwanted life, • To his last sleep and end— Like the cat that cannot find a home, And the dog that has no friend. • —W. H. Davies, in the Spectator. THE LISTENER. The hounds of autumn nose the rustling leaves And chase the wind. . . He hears a

distant cry That echoing down the mountain side

deceives His heart. Beauty herself goes riding byBeauty goes hunting down a magic

hollow And trails her hounds across a trackless meadow; Fleet as the frosty wind, they follow, follow A golden stag, elusive as a shadow. He would be Beauty’s hound, swiftest of foot, In all her pack the keenest and the first Behind the golden quarry, and lead pursuit Till in his side the labouring heart should burst. But he stands listening to a distant cal), And whence it comes he does not know at all. —Marjorie Allen Seiffert, in the King With Three Faces. MURRAY RIVER. A new epoch in the history of Australia was introduced a century ago with the discovery by Captain Charles Sturt, of the thirty-ninth Regiment, of the Murray, the principal river of the continent, picturesquely described at different times as the “ Nile of Australia ” and the “ Mississippi of Australia.” Sixteen hundred miles long, the river drains 270,000 square miles of country, and tlie opening up of this vast territory for settlement and development was the main factor in the establishment of South Australia.

The centenary is being observed by the unveiling of memorials at historic spots, and a granite column forty feet high has been erected at Hindmarsh Island to commemorate the place at ■which Sturt landed after his adventurous whaleboat journey down the river. The whole story of the discovery is one of matchless courage and determination, and heroic endurance amidst the most terrible hardships. Before Sturt’s journey, the belief prevailed that a great inland sea existed west of the Blue Mountains. Sturt found the popular speculations on the subject extremely fascinating and when the first proposal of an expedition into the interior was mooted he volunteered his services.

Sir Ralph Darling, then GovernorGeneral of New South Wales, gave him the leadership of the expedition, and he was accompanied by Hume, who had already won a reputation as an explorer, and a party of eight men.

Following the tracks of Oxley to the great marshes, where two or three years previously all traces of the Macquarie River had been lost. Sturt found the country cracked and scorched by the blistering and relentless suns of two entirely rainless years.

He himself describes it as “waterless, hopeless, relentless, and accursed.” “ In the creeks,” he says, “ weeds had grown and withered and grown again; and young saplings were now rising in their beds nourished by the moisture that still remained; but the large forest trees were drooping, and many were dead. The emus, with outstretched necks, gasping for breath, searched the channels of the river for water in vain; and the native dog, so thin that he could hardly walk, seemed to implore some merciful hand to dispatch him.” - In spite of all difficulties Sturt penetrated deep into the marshes. Then he decided to divide his party. Hume, with two men, struck north, while Sturt and two other men started with a boat on what looked like a branch of the river. Sturt’s progress was speedily checked. He was carried into a cul-de-sac where the water course he was following vanished, and he was compelled to return io camp.

Hume was more successful. He found a serpentine sheet of water which he

considered might be the channel of the river. The camp was accordingly shifted to the neighbourhood of this channel, but again disappointment resulted, for when exploration was attempted the supposed river was soon lost in reeds and shallows.

Other creeks were found and examined. Hume travelled separately on various courses about 70 miles N.N.W., but could find no indication of the missing Macquarie. Finally, just when the explorers were beginning to despair, it was decided to try a creek leading north to Oxley’s table-land, and this led them to a magnificent river, which was named the Darling, after the Governor-General. The sight of the broad stream filled the thirsty travellers with surprise and delight. Here, they thought, was a reward for all their exertions and sufferings. Their joy, however, was short-lived, for when they tried to drink the water they found it strongly impregnated with salt, and absolutely unusable. The first impression was that the trouble was due to the mixture of sea and fresh water, hut subsequent investigation showed that the phenomenon was caused by the prolonged drought, which had lowered the river to such an extent that the brine springs on the banks preponderated over the fresh water.

Want of drinking water compelled the premature abandonment of the expedition. To such desperate straits were the travellers reduced that more than once, on finding a little mud, Sturt squeezed it through his handkerchief to moisten his lips. Sturt found a measure of compensation for his temporary defeat in the discovery that the Darling received from the Blue Mountains, the Macquarie, Castlereagh, and Bogan Rivers, whose destination had not previously been determined.

He lost little time in taking up the threads again at the point at which they had been dropped. By November, 1829, he was leading another expedition with orders to trace the unknown Murrumbidgee, or its tributaries, whence it was hoped to regain the Darling and complete investigations of its course. This time he had George Macleay (afterwards Sir George) in place of Hume. Twenty-four days out from Sydney the last outpost of civilisation was left behind. Sturt led the expedition through many dangers right into the heart of vast reed beds which apparently presented an altogether insuperable barrier. But he had brought with him a whale boat and a smaller boat in sections, and these he now launched.

Early in 1830 he started along a likely looking channel, and made good progress until the second day, when the skiff struck a log and sunk in 12 feet of water. It took two days to retrieve the valuable cargo, and while thus employed blacks robbed their camp of many articles. On resuming the journey Sturt noticed that the country was changing. “ Then on a sudden the river took a generally southern direction; but in its tortuous course swept round to every point of the compass with the greatest irregularity. Wo were carried at a fearful rate down its gloomy and contracted banks . . . Hopkinson called out that we were approaching a junction, and in less than a minute afterwards we were hurried into a broad and noble river.”

“ It is impossible,” he adds, “to describe the effect of so instantaneous a change upon us. The boats were allowed to drift along at pleasure, and such was the force with which we had been shot out of the Murrumbidgee that we were carried nearly to the bank opposite its embouchure whilst we continued to gaze in silent astonishment on the capacious channel we had entered; and when we looked for that by which we had been led into it we could hardly believe that the insignificant gap that presented itself to us was indeed the termination of the powerful and noble stream whose course we had thus successfully followed.” The newly-discovered river was named the Murray, after Sir George Murray, then Colonial Secretary. The expedition traced the course of the river for 33 days, passing tlie now famous “ Great Bend ” at an early’ stage, and carefully examining the lake Alexandria, in which the stream terminated. It was hoped to find an outlet to the sea on the southern shore of the lake, but their expectations in this respect were disappointed. The shortage of provisions rendered further exploration of the country round about impossible.

As it was, supplies for the return journey had been reduced to a dangerously narrow margin. Each man had to subsist on a pound of flour daily, and a quarter of a pound of tea weekly.

The hardships of that voyage up stream, with every hour of privation and peril; a strong adverse current neces-

sitating toil at the oars from dawn to midnight daily; dangerous rapids to negotiate, and the constant menace of hostile natives, have been vividly related by Sturt. The travellers reached their depot late in April, 1830, when the last ounce of flour had been served. They were all in a pitifully weak state, and Sturt himself was nearly blind. The expedition travelled 2000 miles in 88 days. Sturt, when he discovered the Muri ay, found also the key to the entire river system of the south-east portion of the Australian Continent, and he effectually disposed of a whole string of popular fallacies and erroneous theories. Incidentally, he contributed one of the most moving and thrilling chanters to .Australian history.—T. B. F., in the Weekly Scotsman. AUTUMN. I love to see, when leaves depart, The clean anatomy arrive, Winter, the paragon of art, That kills all forms of life and feeling Save what is pure and will survive. Already now the clanging chains Of geese are. harnessed to the moon. Stripped are the great sun-clouding planes, And the black pines, their own revealing. Let in the needles of the noon.

Strained by the gale the olives whiten Like hoary wrestlers spent with toil And, with the vines, their branches lighten do brim our vats where summer lingers In the red froth and golden oil

Some on oui hearth’s reviving pyre Their rooted stems will cruml.de up And like a ruby panting fire The grape will redden on your fingers Through the lit crystal of'the cup' —Roy Campbell, in the New Statesman. HARVEST HOME. Hoacky is brought Home with Hallowin’; Boys with plumb-cake, The cart following. It was of a time-honoured old festit al, known as “ Harvest Home,” that “ Poor Robin ” wrote in the “ Almanac ” of 1676, and one can still picture the uproarious and merry rejoicings which were then in vogue (writes M. E. Jamieson in an exchange). Many were the quaint customs and observances whose record still remains to us. For then would the last ears of corn be bound into what was known as a “knack,” otherwise the effigy of some one known or unknown. This, being placed in the midst of the party, everyone present cried out three times in succession, “ A knack! A knack! A knack!” while he who supported the corn would angwer: Well cut! Well bound ! t Well shocked ! Well saved from the ground.” A “whoop!” would then be given, in which all tlie party joined, keeping up the merry din as long as posible. Over the festal board the “ knack ” would then fittingly, and let us trust, securely, be suspended, till such time as the “ knack ” of the following year came to supersede it. Otherwise, or if it was for any reason removed, misfortune tinI speakable would be the lot of the dwellers in the house. So, with the unwieldy “ knack ” dangling overhead, the company sat down to the ample fare provided which, however ample, was evidently incomplete without that “ piece de resistance ” of the merry feast, the goose. For all his good feasting, Yet art thou not loose, Till Ploughman thou givest, His Harvest Home goose. “O! ’tis the merry time,” writes another of those old diarists of this thrice happy festival, so long looked forward to by the rustic population. “ The fermenty-pot welcomes home the harvest cart, and the garland of flowers crowns the captain of the reapers. The pipe and tabor are now busily set at work, and the lad and lass will have no lead on their heels. O! ’tis the merry time, wherein honest neighbours make good cheer, and God is glorified in His blessings on the earth.” For endless were the narrations of this memorable time, when the song of the reapers rose joyously into the still evening air, in the old song which has been handed down from generation to generation.

We have ploughed, we have sowed, We have reaped, we have mowed. We have brought home every load, Hip ! hip ! hip ! Harvest home !

A “ gill ” or “ harvest dame ” was a feature of the occasion, and was chosen by universal vote. But the king of the evening was undoubtedly he who, throwing his sickle, should cut the knot of the “ marc,” otherwise the last blades of corn, which, tied together, assumed this name. This was by no manner of

means so easy as it looked, and it was often a considerable time before the triumphant cry, “I have her! I have her! I have her!” announced the victory. “ What have you ?” came the question, also repeated three times, the invariable answer- being, “A mare! A mare! A mare!” Whether the prize awarded was the “ gill ” aforementioned or not is not stated; but no doubt every Jack upon that auspicious occasion had his own “Jill,” so everyone was pleased. Grant harvest-lord more, by a penny or

two, To call on his fellowes the better to doo ; Give gloves to thy reapers, a Large to crie, And daily to loiterers have a good eie.

AN OLD AUTUMNAL STORY. My heart should not be troubled by this thing: When will it learn that maples gone to flame Are hut the sequel to another spring, ’The final syllable or summer’s name? And what the old beech scatters through the grass Is not of gold, though it appear to be: My heart should not know that what has come to pass Is but the autumn stripping of a tree.

But always, still, I make too much of these—Old tales of beeches and of maples burning That have another telling in the trees Of every autumn —and the heart goes learning Over again its own autumnal story. From these slow griefs and this brief golden glory. —David Morton, in the Herald Tribune. AUTUMN FLOWERS. During the coldest and darkest of the autumn months, when most we need flowers to brighten our rooms and thoughts, it generally happens that blooms, even of the most ordinary kind, .ire at their most expensive. Indeed, they are often so expensive that even at the risk of chasing brightness from our lives we do not feel justified in buying them. “They last such a little while and cost so much,” we say, and so prepare to face empty vases with brave, if gloomy, hearts.

Yet those vases need not remain so lepressingly empty if we learn by experience and spend judiciously. There •ire, for instance, flowers that last much ’onger than others. There are hardy flowers more capable than others of withstanding cold and lack of sun. Some of these hardy flowers are expensive, but ome are cheap. Sometimes, of course, it is greater economy to buy, with the little money you have to spend, a few more expensive blooms rather than a bunch of Indifferent blooms which will not last as ’ong. Of the hardy flowers the marigold ranks, perhaps, first and foremost. At one time regarded as little more than a weed, it is now looked upon with more appreciative eyes. It is cultivated extensively in France, and over here it is allowed to run riot in most gardens where its capacity for spreading was once regarded with apprehension. It is a cheerful flower and that may be one reason for its popularity. It has also vivid and beautiful colouring, its foliage being, in its different way, as bright and as hardy as its blooms. More, it is the flower most right of all for the more modern type of pottery. Bought fresh and kept supplied with fresh water, these flowers last well.

Another hardy little flower is the multi coloured anemone. A tiny bunch of these bought in bud looks practically nothing, and', indeed, looks very little but a small ring of buds for the first few days. But after a few days the blooms will open out, and the lovely colours and dark centres of the flowers disclose themselves. These will last, with suitable care, nearly a fortnight. Anemones, like marigolds, seldom cost more than 9d a bunch.

Turning to the more expensive flowers, chrysanthemums costing 6d or 8d each will usually last more than a fortnight, so that three of these prove better value than a bunch of smaller blooms. In buying hothouse flowers—which one does sometimes for special occasions—always choose carnations in preference to roses. Fresh blooms usually last well over a week. Roses seldom last more than a few days. Hardier than any flowers, however, and more satisfactory for the small purse are some of the little plants in pots. There is a tiny tree, complete with little orange and red berries —not the stuck-on variety —called Salanium, which lasts almost indefinitely, and which has been on the market for a shilling and sixpence a pot. The little pots of purple and white heather are other good lasters. The purple heather particularly goes on looking pretty, even after it is seemingly dead. Pots of daffodils and hyancinths last well, too, but these are more expensive.

Maidenhair fern looks pretty in vases even when unaccompanied by flowers. It lasts for weeks, and should never be thrown away just because the flowers that were given with it have died.

THE FIR TREE. Willows release their leafy feathers, Oaks ungreen to the nipping air, Elm leaves tug at their ageing tethers, Eager to leap and be off somewhere. But the needled lungs of the sombre firtree

Cling with a firmer, lonelier hold: Winter has sealed this tree as her tree, Unintennittent to the cruellest cold. ’ Willows in spring are a golden burning. Oaks are rosy lacy mist, Elms robed black with a russet yearning, All seeking green summer’s tryst. But the needled lungs of the sombre firtree Hardly alter, hardlv fade:

For life has badged this tree as her tree, With a thin persisting accolade.

Spring is a rainbow softly greening, Summer a lush and emerald noon, Autumn a fire, leaping and leaning Against blue sky and low red moon*. But the needled lungs of the sombre firtree Know the far-off hour they keep: For death has crowned this tree as her tree, And death is a long quiet sleep. Clement Wood, in Bozart and Com temporary Verse. PLOWMAN. I sink my plow in the bare brown earth Mith the guide-rope round my hand; The rich loam ripples behind the share Like a dark wave on a strand. My sweating horse strains straight ahead While the trace-chains fret his sideAnd sightless slugs of the under dark ’ From the shining plowshare slide. mouse runs from his trampled nest, A lark sings in the sky, While sun and wind in the furrow meet And there like lovers lie.

A man, a horse, and a plow are we, I-ar from the grinding din; Opening the womb of Mother Earth I hat the seed may enter in. —Edwin Carlile Litsey, in Poetry. SECOND LOVES ARE BEST. You’re broken-hearted. You’ve never loved before, you’ll never love again. Never! Sighing, you think of all the poets who have sung of the beauty of first love, the “ first, fine careless rapture ” that will never be yours again. Those poets knew a thing or two. At 18 your heart is broken, your very first love affair gone awry.

Personally, I don t believe the poets did know. I prefer to trust the truth of a plain, prose statement to the effect that:

“First loves, what are they? Merely the shots to get the range. A good gunner is supposed to attain it in three.”

But Cupid is admittedly a blind gunner, and though you won’t believe it, the man you loved so madly at 18, is very often not the man you’d choose at 28.

Love’s young dream can so easily become a nightmare, and the fairy prince over whom you sobbed yourself to sleep at 1!) ma j’ look like a'double order of nothing to the more discriminating eyes of 29.

, Has it ever occurred to you, in the midst of your unhappiness that the reason why your first love affair went wrong was simply because it was your first? You did not know enough about men, you probably did not even know enough about yourself to make it a success, but you will have learnt wisdom, acquired poise, for “ next time.” Remember, we all have to cut our emotional teeth to gain experience, to find our range, so don’t be too heartbroken if your first love doesn’t prove your last love after all. First loves frequently lack the rosy rapture, or come to the happy ending that poets sing of. First love may have all the fragrance of lilac in spring, but second love often possesses the more lasting sweetness of summer roses.

Ask any happily-married woman if she has ever loved anyone before her husband, and she will probably tell you, if she’s honest: x “ Yes, I thought at the time it was love; but I suppose it wasn’t, really.” There are a few lucky people whose first choice is also their last, but they are few and far between.

This isn’t cynical, or disillusioning, or unromantie. It’s just common sense, really.

Most people will admit that a girl is more capable of choosing a hat to suit her at the age of 26 than at 16, say; yet the same people who agree to this are reluctant to apply the argument to choosing a man.

“Dreadfully unromantic,” you cry indignantly, yet remember that the world’s most romantic lover, Romeo, was in love with Rosaline before he met Juliet. Nobody has ever suggested that their romance was the less splendid and glamorous because of it. So don’t be downhearted if your first love has gone wrong, for so often, second loves, like second thoughts, are best!—• Women’s Weekly.