FROM AN INKWELL

Southland Times, Issue 20771, 11 May 1929, Page 13

FROM AN INKWELL

IT WAS THE AUTUMN

(By

Brunnhilde.)

It was a charming tree, shaken every now and then with gusts of laughter, as if from its central position in the group, and the affectionate leaning of the others toward it, it were the ringleader those jolly autumn days. Hanging over the footpath like an indulgent older sister, it had already covered the worn places in the asphalt with its own gay leaves, and as if considerate to the last detail, had woven a careless, graceful pattern like the lacy ineanderings of a huge autumn-blooded spider over the shabby surface. But red hair means fiery temper and sometimes the lazy turn of the leaves became quick, sharp movements like an angry colt chafing under the bit. The slim lines of its

body would sway with a passion whose very nearness set the others trembling. What was the origin of this sudden change perhaps they, with the instinct of trees, knew; but a general impression suggested some deep inward force that was never divulged. Yesterday became to-day; soon to-day was overtaken by to-morrow. There seemed no end to the long, thick stream of the sun’s benign approval, and the leaves waved and glistened as if receiving their inspiration from the sunset. Experimenting in colour they made breathless new discoveries, and the sophisticated autumn winds tip-toed as they approached, attaining a personal responsibility which seemed to soften and silence them. The leaves balanced in a kind of ecstatic detachment, each day discovering them a new glory. Almost motionless, they dropped. Children dawdling home from school caught them like brilliant butterflies, crying out aloud at their gaudy glory.. Some took them home and pressed them in their favourite story books, and sadly wondered what change had drained their withered bodies. Small boys clutched at them in greedy handfuls, dropping a molten shower into the creek where they writhed like so many reflected stars. Days later they would be found, still with the flush of life intensifying them, huddled round the concrete dam at few chains further on, like well-dressed flappers clustering round the stage door in answer to an advertisement. Occasionally one would shudder in the wind, as if underneath that stylish exterior was insufficient warmth. At times they would spread out, covering yards of the sluggish surface with a carpet surety fit for the feet of a Princess from the Arabian Nights, and only when the water became fitful, petulant that so much beauty could be created above it, would it make huge, ugly gaps in the carpet to show the impracticability of trusting to the eye alone. Poor, pretty carpet, retying on fancy for its existence. Better a moment of beauty than a lifetime of usefulness.

Gay fleeting Autumn days, lived in friendly humour and harmless practical joking. An old woman picking her way through the reserve, musing barrenly on the long, long waiting, did not know that in the ugly black bonnet that has been designed for old ladies, there was a jaunty little flag waving red and yellow and gold and brown. Impudent little flag, saying as plainly as lips can say that life was good and smooth and sweet, and age relative only to the state of one’s thoughts. Yet all the time she was stepping over the bright clusters marking her way, she saw in them only mockery and defeat: Will I survive another autumn ? All things wither and die.

Lovers, pleading with minutes, lingered under the leaves, marvelling at the glory in each other’s eyes, and did not see the leaves whose reflection it was. As they passed on, the leaves would fall behind them like so many' golden thoughts they had left unsaid. To the listener thinking of such things, the sound of their dropping was a soft, stealthy footfall —announcing whom ?

The future dwindled into the past, and the wind, impotent to rescue the yesterdays, blustered and stormed to hide its longings. And those leaves which still clung with filial devotion to the tree, daily withstood its ravishments, and daily paled and hardened. Soft curves changed to the brittle virginity of unloved old maids. Such colour as was left them glittered as blatantly as badly-applied rouge on withered cheeks. After the wind’s onslaught they gasped and wheezed in raucous agony, creaking as with the lacing of tight corsets no. longer required. There were some that still clung on the death grip binding them tighter than ever life could do; fingers locked in death over a last hope, hoping. During the last days there was no practical joking, and long before the old woman, - the tree had ceased its waiting. The footfall after the young lovers? Could that have been—death ?