THE SPELL OF FLOWERS.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 17853, 22 May 1926, Page 24 (Supplement)

THE SPELL OF FLOWERS.

Last evening we were wafted back By scenes of sweet wild flowers, Into our childhood’s happy haunts; And still the spell is ours. The weka’s voice was ringing out As dipt the day to night Then mother’s lips had prest to ours Her hands had tucked us tight. But now with dew drops all ablaze, And all the hills aglow, The winsome wild ways call to us; We hearken and we go. We know where ripe konini are We know where wild ducks build Where flax flowers like a forest rise With sweetest nectar filled. Of bushes by our bathing pond That bend with berries blue; And where the hotty berries spread Of just the whitest hue. Of berries red at Little Bush— The name is quite our own. In fact, we’ve names for every place That never name had known. Few children in the world before Had half so wide a range Of playground, that was nature-owned, Or filled with things so strange. There’s Sandstone Cave by Blue Gum Gate Like castle on a hill With turrets here and dungeons there When Blue Beard used to kill His wives and there Delilah too Had dipt strong Samson's hair, While waif and pretty Ridinghood And Beanstalk all came there. The bush bees have their treasure stores In holes in Coal Pit Creek Behind the Cave and when we will We know just where to seek. And there are wild pigs farther down— We’ve got a young one each. We train them into faithful pets; They are not hard to teach. A hundred hills are raised for us A hundred streamlets flow. We love the streamlets and the hill It is the world we know. But there before we’re half-way through The spell begins to break. Ploughed fields and roads and homesteads come And we are wide awake. I wish the bolt had rusted in Or that we’d lost the key To leave us locked in rapture land Where richest gifts were free. T. E. L. ROBERTS. Scargill.