ALONG THE ROAD.

Waikato Times, Volume 96, Issue 15359, 6 October 1923, Page 11 (Supplement)

ALONG THE ROAD.

AN OCCASIONAL ARTICLE. (By “The Swagger.”) A breath has passed over the face of the old earth and Spring has come. There is a new tint in the grass, and, when the sun shines on the cultivated spurs in this valley, after rain, they seem to glow, the colouring is so vivid. This morning I had to go a few yards up a side road to clear away the spoil from the foot of a crumbling bank. It was a grey morning, and the clouds were very low. But, suddenly, the waves ’ of light found a small rift in the cloudy covering, an*d a few rays darted .through, striking a hillside paddock. It was a magnificent sight’. That round patch of brilliant green seemed alone. The colour appeared to leap from the very ground to meet the light. I had to stop for a moment or two and admire the scene. Two Shorthorn cows wandered into the sunny circle, and, although they must have been a good mile away, one could see every detail of them. But, before I had gone far, that window of the sky had been closed and all was grey again. As I walked along, a lino from an almost forgotten poem came into my mind. I don’t know who wrote it. The poet was setting down the things that he should like to sec and have beyond the grave, and among them, I remember, was this:

I shall be glad 11 there should come to pass Each year the same swift miracle of grass. That is what I have been watching during the past few days, the “swift miracle of grass.” I like to think that tlie writer of those lines was of my company of the open road, for he wrote:

I shall want little paths, and woods and walking, And those same friends at evening and

their talking Under dim lamps, in queer, quaint smoky places.

A very human wish, but very fine. Fancy being able to drop in, towards evening, and chat with those wc love best, to know that the joy would go on and on. There would be no fear of monotony; there never is among true friends. Fancy being forever free to follow the. call of little paths, and to be able

Some summer afternoon

To climb a hill and wait there for the moon That I could never wait ror, and then go, Unhurried, back to certain friends X know.

No Lotus Land, you understand, where it is “always afternoon,” but a dream country where Spring comes. It is all very marvellous. Here are trees bursting into bud and flower. The willows and poplars are beginning to show little points of leaf. Sap is running in a thousand trees, bulbs are pushing through tlie surface, millions of leaves of grass arc springing, and all noiselessly. A miracle before our very eyes, and all without noise; without apparent effort. It occurs to me sometimes that the seed, in the ground, might say that it was fortunate to lie in the warm earth, sheltered and protected. It might not like the idea of its tiny shoot leaving it for that unknown upper life, in the ait'. And, perhaps, wc arc but tlie seeds of life, and flowering time for us may be in the great unknown that follows this stage. Why not? It may be so. I work and walk among this beauty of earth, sometimes quite in a sort of trance. ; I feel that there i s something strange, something uplifting in one, that wants to greet the day, that revels in the beauty of it all, that watches the sunset with a quiet content, and welcomes night, “with her great gift of stars.” But I cannot find words to express the joy of the day. I watch the aeronautic competitions of the fantails and laugh aloud. Calves kicking their heels in the air from sheer zest of life amuse me. When I see the first lambs I shall probably raise my hat and say “Cheerio,” or something like that. If I can gain the confidence of a foal sufficiently to be allowed to rub his nose I shall be delighted. Anything of mine that the birds want for nests they’re welcome to. I’m going to a birthday party to-morrow and I hope to play rounders with the most virile boys and girls. It gets into one’s blood; makes one lighthearted. And the explanation is—lt's Spring!