Back on the Farm “You had better make a better job of stacking that wood,” Dad said one day to nine-year-old son; “You've got a younger brother now, to set example to from now on, and you won't want him stacking wood in a sloppy heap like that.” Young nine-year-old looked amazed! Did having a younger brother really mean that he'd have to watch his p's and q's? Boy! That was an angle that he had not taken into consideration.

At the Nursing Home Just across the ward from me slept my newfound friend. She had been in before me, but was still waiting for the arrival of her little infant—for two weeks now—and her heavy breathing came to me across the ward, and I whispered a prayer for her, for I knew only too well how she must feel, to be so long away from her family; but because of the remoteness of her home, and the terrible road that she would have to traverse, her Doctor had sent her in early, for she had not made it with the last baby and neither had Doctor, but after a long dusty drive, had arrived there—too late. So this time—the eleventh time—they were taking no chances. I marvelled at her courage and fortitude, and her solicitude for me, when she herself was in such an unenviable position. She was so bright and cheerful, in spite of it all, and each morning when she awoke upon my asking “How are you?” would say, “Oh I'm well thanks, too well in fact; I only wish I weren't so well,” and I knew the anxiety beneath her cheerfulness, for her little ones at home, being cared for by an older daughter who had had to be recalled from boarding school.

Back on the Farm Everything was agog. Jobs were being done with gusto. Voices were loud and happy in proud anticipation of having a new baby in the family. Dad was the only quiet one, going around as though conscious of his added responsibility. He had taken shares in a Building Society and would be increasing the herd. Everything was in readiness for the arrival of the new baby at the farm—the name had been chosen, and the two cows were now recovering; everything was fine.

At the Nursing Home I had lots of time now to just think, and I often was oblivious to things around as I looked back over the years. How the time had passed by, and I had not even noticed it; the family was fast growing up, and following their own interests. I let my mind run back over the years—when the older ones were but youngsters, one day we were sitting on a seat on the lawn of our town, when my son drew my attention to a fine tall Hindu striding up the street complete with cream silk turban. “Mum, look at that silly Maori with that dirty rag round his head!” “Why,” I said, “that is not a Maori, but Mr. —–, a Hindu, and that is not a dirty rag, but a turban, which is their head wear denoting his rank,” and I went on to say, “that is what they wear in his country—India.”