ALONG THE ROAD.

Waikato Times, Volume 96, Issue 15353, 29 September 1923, Page 11 (Supplement)

ALONG THE ROAD.

AN OCCASIONAL ARTICLE. I (By “The Swagger.") Sometimes I notice in odd papers reports of public libraries. The figures they give are wonderful. One learns that, in a single month, the subscribers to some library took out thousands of books—mostly fiction. I suppose there must be something pleasurable m living in a realm of romance, if only for an hour; to forget the petty affairs of this world in following the stirring career of some hero, or the wooing and winning of some fair maid. I have known people to read two, three and even more books a -week, and that, week after week. It is amazing. Sometimes, it appears to me, they get too deeply interested in this world of imagination. They will almost weep over the trials and tribulations of the heroine, in a book, but the actual -sufferings of a poor family in the same street, or village, or town doesn't move them in the slightest. What really set me thinking along these lines was the realisation that I am a poor reader. I laughed about it as I went down the road to my work this morning. A farmer who passed along yesterday tossed me out a bundle containing three substantial reviews and shouted that Mrs —,the wife of a farmer down the road, had asked him to pass them on to me. There was no writing on the brown paper wrapping, so I opened the parcel and there was a card with a brief message: “With best wishes to the guide of our enjoyable ramble in Paris.” The reviews were from those young lady teachers who had had a mid-day meal with me a while back, down by the new culvert. With all the pleasure of a schoolboy, off for a dip in the old swimming hole, 1 carried my parcel back to the whare in the evening. Although the weather was mild, I should have a good fire, fill my pipe, get the candle at the right angle and make a thorough evening of it. Tea over I made preparations —not hurriedly, you understand, Indeed, leisurely. The pleasure of anticipation was very real. As always, the beauty of the western sky kept me out of doors until the grey hosts had won the recurring battle, and then I went In. It was a good evening. Let that be admitted, but not because I read much. However, it is good to know one’s own weaknesses, and one of mine, is inability to resist little paths, both physically and mentally With all good intent I picked up that first number, and I was nearly at the end of the first article when I struck a most alluring little track. Before I realised it I was off along It and the review was forgotten.

Going down the road this morning I wondered what had set me off to smoke and dream right through an evening. And, at last, I got to the signpost that led to the entrance path. The writer of the article had said: “So let us try to keep the music of the pilgrim.” I wonder if he realised what he was saying when he wrote that? The music of the pilgrim I I seemed to see, in my mind’s eye, the mighty army of all the peoples of the world, marching, marching, always marching. The noise they made seemed often but weary cries, bitter complaints, hard words, but, occasionally, it seemed to me, there broke on the ear a great chorus—the music of the pilgrims. Each kindly act, as someone helped some lame soul over a difficulty; each friendly word, each gentle thought; the smile that gladdened; the love that forgave; all seemed to add to the majesty, harmony. And, if, some- , times, a note of marvellous beauty seemed to lead that pleasing sound, it was the love of some mother as she sang her little one to sleep. They •seemed to file past me, the unending stream of earth’s pilgrims; all bound towards that dark valley on the far horizon. There was sometimes the sound of warring nations; of angry communities; of personal hatred, but they could not drown the music of the pilgrims who loved and served. I seemed to come back with a start. The review had fallen to the floor; the fire was just a few red embers, my pipe was out. It .was quite late, and I had read very little. “Yes,” I said, as I got up, “I’m a poor reader." But, stilt, I’m thankful. From the little I had read I had learned a lot, and I had a new determination—to keep the music of the pilgrim. To journey on with cheer; to add a note of happiness to the grand swell of the majestic chorus. For the kind act, the sympathy that is sincere are undoubtedly “the music sent up to God by the lover and the band” Enough that He heard it once. We shall hear it by and bye."