While the Log Burns

New Zealand Journal of Agriculture, Volume 64, Issue 2, 16 February 1942, Page 150

While the Log Burns

The Story of J.M.B.

By

Denis Mackail.

WHAT are we going to read today? I have just finished a delightful book which I am sure all lovers of those' immortal favourites, Peter Pan and Wendy, will enjoy. It is quite a recent book, and you may not have been lucky enough to have come across it yet. But you will enjoy it,. I know, especially if you are a lover of the works of that great \ writer, J. M. Barrie. . Denis Mackail has given us here a true story of the life of J. M. Barrie, telling of his successes and his failures, letting us share with him all the in- ; cidents in the life of this writer of recent times. The book is a biography, but you will find it as absorbing as any book of fiction. It begins in the year 1860, when J. M. Barrie was born in Scotland, and from then on traces the story, of his life until he died in 1937. Through its pages we can trace the -genius of the man whose works will live down the years, long after he has been forgotten for himself. Barrie was a genius—of that there is no doubt. Plays, stories, novels all flowed with ease from his facile pen. Who, after having read it, will forget “The Little Minister,” one of the most fascinating books ever written? Who will forget the delightful play, “Quality Street?” ' - It is useless to try and quote passages of this book. The story of this writer’s life covers seven hundred pages you are a writer you will enjoy every word

of his successes, if you are not a writer, you will enjoy every word of how he lived his long life. /•>> /.'; :' ■ •

We all of us remember the delightful story of “Peter Pan and Wendy,” and because of this great book which J. M. Barrie gave to the world, his name will become immortal. Do you remember the piece where he told the beginning of fairies? “When the first baby laughed for the first time, his laugh broke into a million pieces, and they all went skipping about; That was the beginning of fairies. They look tremendously busy, you know, as if they had not a moment to spare, but if you were to ask them what they are doing, they could not tell you in the least.” The immortal J. M. Barrie—like his famous character, Peter Pan, he was a man who never grew up. We are only as young as we feel—perhaps we could all remain Peter Pan’s all our lives if we were like J. M. Barrie.

"The Window Box"

IT was a bright spring morning, the sort of morning that makes you want to leave the dishes, and dash out to the rain-sodden garden. I had come to town, and there I wandered, ■ gazing at goods beyond my purse, till I came to the shop at the corner. I had been there —who hadn’t? Always there was a hand outstretched

to catch the passerby. Today the hand was a bowl of frail violets, and there were “fingers” of pale golden, with

lemon centres. “The Window Box,” the shop was named, and certainly the crowd hovered round like bees on the first plum blossoms. . They • were all there—the different types. Madam was buying. the best shrub the shop had — Back Street was envious,' but then happy as she j hurried away with her shilling lily. The matron with , the shopping bag bought several packets of - seeds (you couldn’t see the snow on the hills from the city) . . Two nuns entered beautiful sheaf of white lilies was awaiting them;; A school girl' stopped at the violet bowl. She had threepence, and wanted a - spray for her mother. And the farmer had an order made up for himshelter trees, seeds, and—but this was not in the order, surely? Hard, busy man that he was, the flowering shrub at the door had taken his eye.

A present for someone, no doubt. A car drew up, and in came a young girl. A murmur went round as she passed through again—a bridal bouquet! And so the shop assistant, came forward to me. '“Certainly, madam,” and he handed me two bundles, one of lettuce and one of cabbage. Ah, well! The matron gave me a sympathetic lookbut it takes all sorts to make a world, and besides, I have my own garden full of choice flowers at home. —M., Feilding.