Do You Know?

Which Is The Happiest seat in Christchurch?

The Mayoral Chair, you say?

Oh, no! The happiest seat is on one of the banks of the dear old dreaming Avon, by the Victoria Street, Bridge.

Who would not be happy there with so much passing beauty? After Spring comes the Summer with the ducks and the shaking sunshine shadows on the grass, and the dark, cool, green of the willows and soldierly-looking poplars. Then comes Autumn, with scurrying clouds and crackling leaves skipping merrily along the asphalt paths above. The winter comes; winter with the baby water-rats which come scuttling out from their water-weed homes in Old Man River, to look for crumbs at Old Seat's feet. That happy Old Seat is the page 52 only one who sees those little black mice-men. Muffled up people who pass in the clanging tram-cars over the bridge cannot see through the mists.

Wouldn't you think Old Seat would be lonely then? Not a bit of it! He is ever so busy. It is then, when he is all, all alone, that he carefully goes over his memories of the past twelve months. He sorts them all out, keeping only the ones he likes; the happy, beautiful recollections.

“I'll keep all those memories of the artists coming here to paint,” he says to himself, “especially the Spring day memory when that young girl came to me. Of course she didn't know that she herself, as she sat here under the prunus tree, made a far lovelier picture than she painted with her brush. Her scarlet jumper and beret looked so pretty against the green grass and blue sky, and the fragrant, frothy white prunus blossom kept dropping its petals over her. Yes! I'll keep that memory alright,” and Old Seat smiles. “Oh! and I'll remember that dear old lady who came and knitted here, and the tired young mother who came because it looked so peaceful.

“But I'll forget that cruel man on the bridge who beat his horse,” says Old Seat severely. These ugly memories he gives to Old Man River to drown. And so Old Seat goes on sorting and sorting.

Seven weeks it takes him to do this. Then—no sooner has he finished than he feels Spring's first finger, a golden crocus, poking at him.

“Stop dreaming, Old Seat! Wake up. I'm here again!” cries Spring.

Instantly Old Seat sits up, ever so indignant.

“Pardon me, Miss Spring, I was not dreaming. Why! I have been spring-cleaning my memory-box. Asleep, indeed!”

“You were asleep! You were asleep!” chirps a cheeky little sparrow as he hops excitedly about the pearly masses of prunus blossom overhead. “I saw you! I saw you!” he twitters.

Old Seat does not answer back this time. He just smiles, so wisely, for he knows better.

And because Old Seat spring-cleans—chases away all that is not lovely—this corner of the Garden City is always very mellow and sweet and peaceful.

So when you are along that way one day, will you call on Old Seat? He will gladly welcome you: and if you are tired he will give you rest, and happiness, too.

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