ORIGINAL VERSE

Southland Times, Issue 20002, 16 October 1926, Page 22 (Supplement)

ORIGINAL VERSE

Even the poems this week were a little above the average, my dears, despite the fact that I did not receive as many as usual. I think the Spring fairy must have taken refuge amongst my Little Southlanders while the wet weather threatens to come down from the north! “The Deserted Homestead,” “Thoughts,” and “A Puzzle of Childhood” certainly number amongst their authors’ best work, and neither of the three girls has ever written any other thing that has given me greater pleasure. Millicent is losing that stiffness nf expression that characterised her earlier work, and a great deal of her florid verbosity, and are, in consequence, doing much improved work. There is some very effective imagery in Annie’s poem, which while not being as extravagant as her wont, are nearer “striking home,” and bear more dignity and truth. I'm not quite sure whether the two lines at the end improve it or not —their presence certainly concludes the poem decisively; but does their context, their sense, quite do justice to the poem itself? The question is open to doubt. Millicent’s work is assuming a dignity all its own, and I feel in her lines added confidence in her ability to express herself, which is having a most desirable effect. There is some very fine phrasing in this latest poem of hers, apt expression based on knowledge. Little Peggy Playfair has made an excellent beginning with her “Winter Time,” which is quite worthy of an older and more experienced hand. If she continues as she has begun, she should find it no difficult task to follow in the footsteps of her big sister. Cousin Daphne’s “Beyond” is very dainty, and cleverly expressed in its quaint five-lined verses. 1 think it could have been improved by a longer fifth line. THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD. There where clematis o’er the trellis winds. Regardless of its bounds and rights, one finds A smothered porch, and there a crumbling wall; And further in the low old-fashioned hall. The ivy grows entangled round the sills Of windows, once my gallery of the hills Where gaily woke I to applaud the morn Or hear the carols when the year was born. Deserted now! No merry laugh within, No cock to wake the morn with boisterous din, No welcome for the weary at that door. No, no, those sounds are gone for evermore; Yet may I wander lone around and view With eyes of memory the morning new, And hear the lowing herds across the lane And all the world awake to work again. There is the lawn, now overgrown and wild, Where grew the daisies of the chain I styled; There is the falling and the crumbling wall Where many a time I threw my childish ball. Or in the even ’nr.ath the willow tree I dreamed what future days would bring to me, Nor ever thought that I again would roam A stranger in the place that was my home. Deserted now! Sn must each scene upon our life’s highway Grow desolate and, all but in our memory, decay. —4 marks to Cousin Millicent Broadbent (15), 5 Compton Road, Trafalgar, Invercargill. THOUGHTS. Sweet thoughts are like a rosebud newly-born Among the healthy leaves caressed with dew; A rosebud white, with pink lights shining through As butterflies its petals to adorn. Sweet thoughts are like a quiet summer morn, When gentle breezes kiss the sky of blue, And send its pure contentment back to you Upon the music of a fairy horn. Alas' some thoughts will rise up in one’s mind, Which are not such es these sweet fancies are. These ugly thoughts that try to kill the star Of loveliness, that we will surely find To light the way and throw remorse behind, Had better be despised and flung afar. To these thought*, which are sure to leave a scar, It is no use pretending to be blind When bitter storms are raging, and you seem To be downhearted, only pause and think You see sweet fountains where you're asked to drink The rich red wino from calm contentment’s stream. Within the storm, see all this as you dream, And you will find your sadness, as one link Of black, drop off the chain, and one of pink Will fill its place and with true gladness gleam. . And all because you thought that you could see Within the storm a fount sing merrily! —4 marks to Cousin Annie Playfair (15), Gummies Bush. BEYOND. Below my window, sweetly sleeping flowers; And out beyond, a straggling line of trees Dream shadowy against the blue-deep skies; Soft stirring leaves; a fluttering fairy breeze Crooning bird lullabies. Beyond the trees, a lifeless mile of field; Beyond the field, the round breast of the hill, And there beyond the hill, the lady moon Stretching gold fingers to my window-sill Over the still lagoon. Deep silent night; deep limitless beyond; Dream future dim; deep purple shrouded peace; Wide windswept grass where moonlit shadows stray; Pale, drifting clouds, jewel-lined in silver fleece, And out beyond—the day! —4 marks to Cousin Daphne Godward (17), “Rockhaven,” 397 Elies Road, North Invercargill. WINTER TIMEL The stars are bright, And the road is white, While the snow-flakes great are falling On the little green lawn, Which was cut at dawn, Where the fairies dear are calling. The lambs are white, The ewes a sweet sight As they cuddle under, calling; In Bonniefield’s fold, On the morning cold, When the snow-flakes white are falling. —3 marks to Cousin Peggy Playfair (8), “Bonniefield,” Gummies Bush. A PUZZLE OF CHILDHOOD. In the glass I see a boy, If on my toes I stand, And if I throw a kiss at him, At me, he’ll wave his hand. Sometimes I smile and toss my curls, He’ll do the same, you see; We are the best of friends, you know, That little boy and me. I’ve tried so hard to find it out, It seems a mystery: That when I ask him what’s his name, He will not answer me. Tve asked mamma, she only smiles, And shakes her head, you see; She knows, I’m sure, though she will not toll, Why he won’t answer me. I’ve tried so hard to make him speak; At him I often shout, But he’ll only move his lips with me— I cannot make it out. When I grow up into a mafi, Then perhaps I’ll know. Things then won’t be a mystery, That now puzzle me so. —3 marks to Cousin Elsie Amos (13), Mabel Bush. Cousin Gladys Stimpson has some good ideas sometimes with which she could do much more if she only practised verse-making more. There is nothing very out of the ordinary in her “Fairy Artists.” I would like Elsie to endeavour to make up new phrases —they would give her work considerably more weight. THE FAIRY ARTISTS. The fairy artists paint the sky, At sunset and at davn; All golden are the clouds at eve; And rosy in the morn. They paint the flowers in Spring-time, too, The snowdrops dazzling white, The violets all a dainty blue, The daffodils so bright. ' They tint the leaves in Autumn-time, And the noon-tide sky all blue; And oh! they have such lovely fun, I wish I were one of them, too! —2 marks to Cousin Gladys Stimpson (15), 20 Sydney street, North Invercargill. I am glad Cousin May Harvey is persevering with her verse-making, and I can see a decided improvement in “The Wind.” What a funny little Cousin to think of a frying-pan in that connection! , THE WIND. The wind is blowing as hard as can be, It blows outside in our little tree; It’s very cold when we go out to play, For the wind is blowing all the day. I think Mr Wind is a naughty man, For he rattles the house like a frying-pan. He never seems to be tired at all. For he runs up the trees so straight and tall. —2 marks to Cousin May Harvey (10), 144 Lewis street, Gladstone,