AN AVIAN ALLEGORY

Taranaki Daily News, 5 July 1930, Page 17 (Supplement)

AN AVIAN ALLEGORY

OTHER DAYS: OTHER SONGS

(By

“Scrutator.”)

Qualls avis, talis cantus; quails vir ialis or'atio.—Latin proverb. The other day I read in a newspaper something that reminded me of a story I heard a long time ago. Far, far away from New Zealand there was a land covered by a great wood. On every side, as far as the eye could see, the trees spread a fretwork of shadow through which a genial sun splashed the earth with golden warmth. Birds in countless number made thia their kingdom, and as they flitted among the branches and flew from limb to limb the air vibrated with their sweet carillons. In the centre of the wood there grew a magnificent oak upon which for centuries the birds had looked as the home of inspiration and leadership. Ono of its gnarled and knotted branches was reserved for the acknowledged High Cantor. At the period of this story this exalted position was occupied with great credit by a Blackbird. He followed a long line of Nightingales, Thrushes and Blackbirds and other fine songsters. Always faultlessly groomed in his sleek black coat, the Blackbird for many years held the rapt attention of the other birds by the beauty of his song. Day after day his arias floated on the air. His roulades, trills and flourishes were the essence of restraint, polish and good breeding. One day a black, ugly cloud overspread the sky. Trees were split by lightning, thunder crashed and boomed, and there was a pestilence abroad. Thou-, sands of birds died from injuries and sickness, but through it all the Blackbird sang an even tenor, unflurried and restrained. Nevertheless his notes could not pierce the gloom and when the clqud failed to disperse there were those who thought the cantor was too old. He sang pianissimo when fortissimo'' was needed.

For some time a midget among the choristers always fluttering about tho oak tree had be'en attracting attention. He was so original. He would puff out his little red breast, shake his tail feathers, raise - his little beak and sing the most amazing songs, all worth listening to. “He is no chorister,” said his admirers. “He is essentially a soloist.’ And so it came to pass that Cock Robin became High Cantor. Irrepressible, vivacious, magnetic, yet astute, Cock Robin held popular court - from his oak branch. His recitals never lacked a feathery •'audience, There was ever the element of surprise in his vigorous songs. No one knew just what delightful turn his notes would take next. Puffing od.t his little red-breast he piped on through a blaze of popularity, . and presently the black cloud lifted and the sun shone again. Of course, Cock Robin had enemies; even birds can be fickle. The kingdom and its feathered tribes had weakened under the strain, of thd recent ordeal. Discontent grew apace and one morning the poor little chap was found underneath the oak tree, his little toes turned towards heaven and in his little eyes a glassy little stare. Then— 7 All the birds of the ait fell a sighing and a sobbing when the/ heard of. the death of poor Cock Robin. “Who killed Cock Robin?” “I,” said the Sparrow, “with my little arrow. I killed Cock Robin.” And later on the Sparrow flew on to the oak tree and took the title of High Cantor. Being an industrious little bird, he made his voice heard. Certainly it was not very sweet after the brilliant arias that had become a tradition with the cantors. But he chattered away in an amazing fashion and soon his recitative convinced most of the ..birds that they must peck to live. ,He was not very romantic and his plain folksongs never reached the perilous, quavering heights of the lyrics. Unfortunately, however, the Sparro'w s arrow was blunt. Being a tough little bird, Cock Robin had been stunned only. He quickly recovered and commenced ■ once more to sing his very original notes to his avian friends. But though ho was .'Still tho irrepressible, vivacious, magnetic little fellow' of yore, his. recent injury appeared to have deprived him of power of leadership. Like 'all robins, he was entirely unruffled by ordinary noise, but the complacent chatter of the Sparrow certainly did incense him. Once having been a soloist, he refused to return to the common chorus and he- conceived the idea of drowning tho new favourite’s notes in the sturdy sounds of a war song. So far did ho succeed, that the Sparrow had to come down from' his perch and compromise. And the result of that compromise w the enthronement of a Dove as High Cantor to coo his songs of love. Nothing daunted by thcii failures in vocal music, Cock Robin - and the Sparrow each selected a tree in the vicinity of the oak and continued to sing their songs of hate against one another. It was after attending the most recent of these recitals that a family of Crows was gathered together to, discuss the latest operatic successes. Though generally admitted to be very wise birds, the Crows were debarred from tho cantorship owing to their croaking voices. “Perfectly thrilling,”. said a young thing not long into feathers. “Such expression and feeling in their notes. „ “Rather crude in places, I thought, said an older Crow. “At times they croaked almost as badly as wo■ do. J iu3 raucous, modern, jazz stuff. Still, there were some really brilliant, full-toned passages and it might be that we shall again hear the polished, splendid arias of the old days when nightingales am blackbirds sang.” • Quoth the Raven:' 'Never moie. .» # * *

I had almost forgotten to mentioni the new* items that recalled tins stoiyThey were passages from by former Prime Ministers of England.

Wh Tlevd George: “Mr. Baldwin’s language was 'not merely offlaislve but coarse and v/“./ n. h«, «!»»• “I"™ 4 3 •• ““ /■. fluences o£ the Rothennere-Beavorbrook I refeh. "Mr. Lloyd George’s candidates at Uw I < election smelt of these and will stint-