Stormy Night.

The train goes clattering into the rain-dark night,
And the passengers huddle together as if in fright.
We feel alone in the midst of the roaring night,
I believe we would scream if someone put out the light.
Another train passes, with white and mysterious faces
Flashing away like ghosts to chaotic places.
The carriage shudders… I think of the long ago,
When on such a night my hands held a bowl of snow.
The radiant cup of your face; of the long ago
When I drank, like wine from a chalice of silver, the glow
And the ice of your being. I thirst for your stormy graces …
The train goes clattering on, mutters and clanks and races.

Douglas A. Stewart.

* * *

“Give Me These Gifts!”

Trees, standing still and black and straight against a saffron sky—
The croak of frogs from swampy haunts; a Morepork's lonely cry.
These things I want to see and hear, again, before I die.
The pale soft gold of Toi-toi manes, aswaying in the breeze—
The blue sky peeping through a fringe of drooping Red Pine trees;
And a pigeon floating lazily in search of sanctuaries.
I want to bask again upon the sand-hills by the sea—
And breathe the scent of lupins while a skylark sings to me.
Oh, God, before I die, give me these gifts again from Thee!

Norah M. Simpson.

Pourakino River, Southland.

The Pourakino is a silent river,
A river of dark secrets, ancient lore;
With its strange Maori legends whispered never,
Unless at midnight to the dark-washed shore.
Its waters are as black as native demons,
It twists their antics as it crawls along
With hobbling gait; it dances alien hakas,
It seems to be weighed down by some great wrong.
Yet through the seasons it is comforted
By tree-ferns telling it their greenest tale;
By rimus red, and silver beeches swaying
A rhythmic measure which should never fail.
And close beside its ears so cold with hate,
The crepe ferns voice their lyrics delicate.

S. G. August.

* * *

The Miner.

By the swift-sliding Molyneux,
Beneath the blistering sun,
The miner crouches, dish in hand,
To wrest from some drab patch of sand
Its store of wealth untold.
The captive waters swirl and toss
Within the vessel; soon the dross
Is drained, the labour done.
At last he sees the fruits of toil,
Beholds at last the splendid spoil,
Soft-gleaming grains of gold.
My heart is as a shining dish
Gorged with the dust of years;
And none can tell if that dull earth
Shall ever bring to joyous birth
A treasure rich and rare.
But when you come, as in a dream,
To lave it in love's rushing stream,
And wash it with your tears,
Who knows what precious residue,
Snatched from some desperate Molyneux,
Shall softly sparkle there?

W. Bridgman.

The Flag Station.

It was our sanctuary. Bare-foot we came,
Leaving the sluggish stream and sandy track
Shag-haunted. Rumour of the bitter sea
Was not far distant. The pellucid name
Was spelled on white in black.
“Wai” gives you water. There was melody
In that stark sign. There came the subtle breath
Of foisanage from sacks within the gloom.
The polished rails stretched like two springing snakes.
The silent track was big with life and death.
A sea-gull wheeled aloft, then in its room
Was grey sky, silent as forgotten lakes.

C. R. Allen.

* * *

Telephone Lines.

New Zealand telephone charges, says the Secretary of the P. and T. Department, are the lowest in the world.

O Maoriland, thou young and happy nation,
Beloved little country of our birth,
This is a matter for congratulation—
You have the cheapest telephones on earth!
So let us sing the praises of New Zealand,
The brightest jewel in the Southern Sea;
We don't get much for nothing in this free-land
But telephones are very nearly free!
We have a climate peerless in its glory,
And scenery as beautiful as most;
Mile upon mile of bush-clad territory
Adorn our mountain slopes from coast to coast.
The beauties of the place, in fact, are many,
But most of all it thrills us, does it not?
To think it costs us but a paltry penny,
When Englishmen put threepence in the slot.
We all indulge—there can be no denial—
In frequent telephonic eloquence,
Content in knowing that the spinning dial
Is ours to twirl—without undue expense.
And so it is the general opinion
That this is splendid (though a little strange);
Exchange rates may be high in our Dominion,
But not, ah not, the Telephone Exchange.

R.G.P.

* * *

To Shibli Bagarag.

In our May issue, Shibli Bagarag, who dwells “Among the Books,” made some cheerful comments on New Zealand's West Coast eighty-one year-old Scots poet, Hughie Smith. Here is Hughie's answer—in braid Scots.

Dear Bagarag, I'd like to lay
My belt across yer back some day,
For dootfu' praise—sae weel express'd—
Of hoo I was sae nicely dress'd
Wi' “haggis,” “sporran,” pipes an' kilt,
“Set aff” wi' heilan' fling an' lilt.
It's easy seen by ane like me
That ye were hatch'd across the sea,
Where a' yer forbears ran aboot
Wi naething but a wee bit “cloot,”
An' had, instead o' “pipes,” a “drum”
Tae rattle up when ye were “glum.”
But “Shibli,” see the trick ye play'd
An' what a mess o' things ye've made;
See what ye've been an' gone an' done,
By telling that I'm eighty-one.
Demolished a' my plans an' schemes,
An' shatter'd a' my sweetest dreams.
Where is the lass that loves the truth
Will noo believe my word o' mouth,
An' a' my young “admiring” dears
Will surely ha'e their doots an' fears;
An' some may lay their plans indeed
Tae ha'e revenge upon my heid.
Already, Mrs. Sandy Broon,
When passin' by looks up or doon,
An' Donal's dachter looks sae queer,
She never says to me—my dear.
Yer frightfu' tale of “eighty-one”
Will be my “daith”—as sure's a gun.
To be sae petted an' sae praised,
Then shun'd by a' has got me dazed;
Wee “Katie Craig” noo said tae me—
“I thocht ye were juist fifty-three.”
“Oh, weel,” I said, “I micht be mair,”
But Katie left me stan'in' there.
An' Jenny Jackson said to me—
“I hate a man that tells a lee.
I'm no sae silly or sae saft
As fash my held wi' ane that's ‘daft,’
Ye'll no dae me—why man-alive
Ye said ye were juist fifty-five.”
“Oh, dinna mind a year or twa,”
I said; but Jenny slipp'd awa'.
So, noo ye see—yer bleth'rin tricks
Has put me in fearful fix.
But, “Bagarag” man, here's my han',
For weel I ken—an' un'erstan',
The forces that compel a pen
Tae sing the praise o' mice or men.
To tell a tale that cheers a he'rt,
An' plays a noble, glorious pairt.
I would be pleased to shake the han'
That spread the tale ower a the lan';
So till we meet—an' till I dee,
My dearest hopes will be for thee;
My fondest wishes gang herewith.
Yours—young as ever—
Inangahua Junction, West Coast, S.I.

Hughie Smith.