THE YOUNG IDEA

Southland Times, Issue 20172, 7 May 1927, Page 13 (Supplement)

THE YOUNG IDEA

AUTUMN LEAVES

(By

Susan Lee.

I'm absolutely convinced that half the people who write pretty nothings about Autumn Leaves have never walked home alone at about 2 a.m. on a morning like yesterday. They’d sing a different tale it they had, which would have nothing to do with mellow-lipped goddesses and fullthroated dryads. At 2 a.m. the gold-dust in one’s eyes has the same effect as coal-dust, and there Is a suspiciously ungilded effect about the whole thing that isn’t exactly exhilarating. Autumnal ecstasies may be all right in their place; but their place is most assuredly ’mongst the soft-waving corn, where, if there isn’t already enough colour supplied by the browns and golds, you can scatter a few scarlet poppies about, and wear an orange coloured frock yourself. Of course, the sky will be blue as. the eyes of a young writer s first heroine, and especially if you wear a hat with cornflowers and marguerites on it there’ll be a riot of colour that will stir a thousand versists into action, and if your locality happens to be sufficiently boosted, you’ll be mobbed with realists, idealists and ecstatic sighs. Which is all as it should be, and has absolutely nothing to do with walking home in the dark on a morning like yesterday, with no moon hanging around and no lights to mark one’s progress. It’s nally quite a Horrible Sensation, quite different from the thrills of scenic railways and shoots, and quite, quite different from the thrills of ghost stories told when the lights are low and everything is pleasantly • atmospheric. The thrills of walking home ; with only the autumn leaves for company are really not thrills at all, unless sticky, ! eristic bands somewhere about the vicinity ; of one’s heart, which tug at frequent inter--1 vals, can be called a new variety of thrill, i I’d rather not be the intrepid discoverer of them, anyway. It's ail very well when you’ve got good, strong soles to walk on. The noise of them clamping along the foot-path can be very comforting and reassuring, let me tell you, and if you happen to be carrying a good, hefty stick, you can alternate the I noise it makes at its falls, with your own j s.ops, in that way making quite a worthy j noise under cover of which you can slink i home. But, I warn you, don’t be caught i as I was in golf shoes with soft crepe rubber shoes which creep along as stealthily as the leaves themselves. Trying to be cheerful then is about, easy as giving an exhibition of dancing when you know per fectly well that your stocking is coming down. The only thing for it is to shut your eyes tight and barge ahead, and, whatever you do, don’t let your steps stray near the wandering Puni. It’s particularly vindictive and alluring at night, and wet feet nearly always end up in a bad cold in the chest—the cold, 1 mean, not the feet. Open your eyes at street-crossings, for safety’s sake, and when you are going round corners look first in the direction you are going, be- : fore you look behind you, or to the side, j I find that’s the safest way, and one must try to keep practical even at 2 o'clock in I the morning. It’s a good idea to be planning new frocks, even if you know that plans can never clothe you—not in the prudish eyes of the world, anyway—and that you know no earthly reason that they could ever be more than plans. It's quite an intriguing pastime, and with minutes hanging on your hands like hours you must have something to do. It’s useless trying to compose verses at that hour. You’ll find that neither time nor place is sympathetic, and one’s sympathy with oneself must, be in direct ratio with one’s sympathy with one's surroundings, to cultivate the muse. Lines Written amongst Autumn Leaves After Midnight would be inclined to have sepulchral, abysmal intonations. I'm afraid, so don’t do it. Dismantled of the deceptive colours which are so shockingly over-rated by the poets and other extremists, leaves are apt to lose their individuality. In the day-time they float gracefully about on the breeze, exhibiting their elusive airiness and colour like shrewd showmen. And old, old ladies, and ladies, oh! not nearly so old, and young, young children, too, stop on their way through the gardens and make many exclamations of “Ohs!” and “Ahs!” and “Oos!”, quite forgetful of the fact that it was exactly the same last year, exactly the

same the year before that, exactly the same all those years to which they do not. confess—except in the-case of the young, young children. But then they are still trailing the clouds of glory which are entangled in their childhood, and a little colour more or less doesn’t make very much difference in their scheme of things. make their little exclamations in the same way that they take deep-breathing exercises in the morning, and drink fruit salts in the spring. They will continue to do so, I suppose, until somebody discovers that the breathing exercises are all wrong, that fruit, salts are the very worst thing one can take, and that Autumn tints have quite a demoralising effect on the constitution. Then they will pass through the gardens with averted eyes, and when a stray leaf dances coquettishly into their face, and brushes seductively against their cheek, they will blush with guilty consciousness, and hasten- on. Crepe rubber soles would be quite a good investment then. But at night there’s nothing seductive about the creepy things. I only wish there was. They'd be much easier to manage. They cower Tow in the darkness, and never rise higher than a few inches from the ground, so weighted they seem with nasty, spiteful malice. And now and again they hiss with ill-concealed venom, and crawl and crawl and crawl, the dull noise rising and falling and crackling ominously. Isn't there a song entitled “When Autumn Leaves are Falling?” I wonder if the second line is “I’d rather be in bed”—it seems to fit, somehow I’ve just discovered that it isn’t, so I’m thinking of patenting the line myself. And I’ll compose the rest of it the next time 1 have to go home alone—that’s if the leaves haven’t all fallen. But something tells me they will have entirely disappeared by then.