NATURE—AND MAN

Southland Times, Issue 25313, 17 June 1935, Page 3

NATURE—AND MAN

BE READY FOR “TREE DAY.” EVERYBODY CAN HELP. (Edited by Leo Fanning.) Of course, it is well known that New Zealand needs something bigger than annual “Arbor Days” to make amends for mistakes and neglect of the past. The national need is a t ree sense throughout the year to assure the welfare of this country. However, it is an advantage to have a special day when leading men and women with a thorough knowledge of the importance of tree-planting and forest-con-servation, can impart some of their wisdom and zeal into the general public, particularly the rising generation on which the hope of a commonsense policy for the future must be based. My mind goes back to boyhood when the first Arbor Day in New Zealand was honoured with plenty of enthusiastic planting. A man had a dream—a vision of bare flanks of hills and was.e fiats prettily clothed. The man was someone in the Public Service and his dream was a National Arbor Day. America had an Arbor Day, a day for men, women and children to have warm-hearted fellowship with trees and birds. Why not New Zealand? A day was marked in the calendar and the people were glad. Happy bands went out, and many an ugly patch of drabness lost its repulsive appearance. The mass of the public was moved, because somebody was exerting a force of enthusiasm. Then the mass became inert, for the force was spent. The enthusiasts had been merely temporarily intoxicated with an idea, and when the glorious fervour was over they seemed to be sorry for themselves and to be in a mood to sign the pledge not to have such a burst of zeal again. The public will always do what enthusiasts desire when the enthusiasts have the galvanism of a right cause. Arbor Day became a hollow mockery for the birds —nothing better than a lazy holiday for public servants in many parts of New Zealand—because no soulful, forceful men of might came forward for the trees. It is not a platitude that there can be no movement without movers, strong movers, persistent movers? A Revival at Last. Happily some necessary strong movers—not yet nearly enough of them —are again in the field. Last year saw some appreciable progress in the planting campaigns. This season should bring a still better response to the call for action. Now is the time for nurserymen to advertise conspicuously the kinds of trees and shrubs—particularly “natives” which yield nectar or berries for birds. They will find that the newspapers will be pleased to co-operate with them in the promotion of planting operations. Many benefits come from ■ this cult of beauty. Individual homes are brightened, and towns are made more attractive for excursionists and tourists. An inspiration for “Tree Day” was given many years ago by Lucy Larcom in these verses:— He who plants a tree Plants hope. Rootlets up through fibres blindly grope; Leaves unfold into horizon free. So man’s life must climb From the clods of time Unto heavens sublime. Can’st thou prophesy, thou little tree. What the glory of thy boughs shall be? He who plants a tree Plants a joy. Plants a comfort that will never cloy. Every day a fresh reality. Beautiful and strong. To whose shelter throng Creatures blithe with song. If thou could'st but know, thou happy tree Of the bliss that shalt inhabit thee.

He who plants a tree He plants peace. Under the green curtains jargons cease. Leaf and zephyr murmur soothingly; Shadows soft with sleep Down tired eyelids creep, Balm of slumber deep. Never has thou dreamed, thou blessed tree, Of the benediction thou be.

He who plants tree He plant? youth. Vigour won for centuries in sooth; Life of time inat hails eternity! Boughs their strength uprear, New shoots every year On old growths appear. Thou shalt teach the ages sturdy tree, Youth of soul is immortality. He who plants a tree He plants love. Tents of coolness spreading out above Wayfarers, he may not live to see. Gifts that grow are best. Hands that bless are blest; Plant; life does the rest. Heaven and earth help him who plants a tree, And his work its own reward shall be. How Not to Plant. A good few years ago I was strolling on the hilly girdle known as the Town Belt of Wellington when gangs of relief workers were busy with young trees. Many of the workers evidently knew as little about tree-planting as of skin-grafting. The unfortunate “babies” were grabbed by the “scruff of the neck,” dumped into ill-made holes and clodded with clay. The cradles proved to be graves for many of them. Later on, the survivors, struggling to hold threads of life were sorely smitten by small boys who rushed down, the slopes. They grabbed the tres to steady themselves in their wild romps, and thus some hundreds were dragged out of their uncomfortable homes. The planting and care of trees in Wellington have much improved since then, but the position to-day is still far from perfection. No doubt, a similar remark could apply to many other places.