The Giver.

(”I have also given thee that which thou hast not asked.”—I Kings, 3.13).

Springs comes to the Enchanted Wood … the world grows young again,
As arched against the laden sky, the driving August rain,
A golden covenant of God speaks to the heart of me….
A temple in the wilderness …. a spreading wattle-tree!
And I, who bring no altar-gift save this glad heart of mine,
Take this bright living gold of bloom to lay before His shrine,
And all my being stirs with praise, for oh! it seems to me
God might have made this world without a single wattle-tree
—A world that would be lovely still, though it had never known
The flaming forth of wattle-gold in many a sylvan throne;
But for a promise of the Spring, with loving artistry,
God fashioned out of sunset light, a golden wattle-tree.

—Essie S. Summers.

“The Woods of Tane.”

Thy vast and holy woods' refrain
Was lifted up, and in my heart,
Awoke a great and joyous strain.
A fountainhead of ecstasy
Broke, sparkling, over all my mind,
And bathed me in solemnity.
I saw dim, lofty forest aisles,
Wherein the tui's sweet note rings,
The worship-bell, in the silent miles.
A shaft of the hidden sun, athwart
Green heights of trees, forever clothed
About with the shade of dreaming thought
Or, touched and pearled by the probing moon,
Would solemn shadows wake and sigh,
And listen for a faint-sung rune?
And do they still in splendour grow,
Under the sky, or can it be
They are gone with the snows of long ago?
Tane, thy dreaming woods remain,
Forever more, caught in a phrase,
In lovely notes within my brain.

—R. M. O'Brien.

The Story-Teller.

“Tell us of the banshee,” the children come a-calling,
“Tell us of the banshee that is lurking in the dim,”
Sure I wouldn't be so bold at all when dusk is nearly falling,
Lest on my homeward journey I'd be after seeing him.
“O but please,” says little Kathleen with the eyes of flax-flower blue,
And “please” pleads little Padraic who has all a dreamer's wiles;
And there am I a-telling things, no word of which is true
But God looks kindly on a heart so won by children's smiles.
“I'll tell you of a taniwha instead of Irish stories,
I'll tell you of Tutanekai and his dark-eyed colleen,”
“O no, we've heard them all before—besides, they're tales of Hori's
So you must talk of banshee and things we've never seen.”
Sure now, Hori has a silver tongue, why must you be a-seeking
For Irish tales among the hills green with New Zealand fern,
The leprechauns are biding where the shamrock flowers are peeking,
Not here within the snow-crowned hills, so lovely yet so stern.
“Hori's tales are for the firelight,” says Padraic sweetly smiling,
“But yours are for the blue dusk that is peering through the trees,”
Who could resist the words of him—so cunningly beguiling—
So I tell them tales of banshees as they cluster round my knees.

—Patrice Morant.

Scent of Manuka Smoke.

Same long for scent of maple trees,
Some for the scent of oak,
While others yearn to smell once more
Scent of manuka smoke.
That scent of hills and mountain vales
Which holds the memory
Of bridle tracks and lonely shacks
And bush fraternity.
The mi-mi in the sheltered bend,
The raupo-fringed lagoon,
The ducks that came before the dawn,
The clouds that crossed the moon.
The royal stag high on a crag,
The wild boar in the fern,
The horses on the tussock flats,
The cattle by the burn.
The misty falls and azure lakes,
The rise of trout at eve,
The men who told those yarns of old
The yarns we can't believe.
The silver of the tui's songs
Among the rata flowers,
The winding creeks and snowy peaks,
The magic gloaming hours.
The wisp of smoke that drifts along
At billy time of day,
The camp-fire gleaming through the dusk
To welcome all to stay.
The murmur of the mountain streams,
Song of the rod and reel;
To those who've smelt manuka smoke
Will all such things appeal.
To the wanderers overseas
Just send some twigs to burn,
Then gather guns and fishing rods
For soon they will return.
There's some who long for scent of gums,
Some for the scent of oak,
But for the sweetest scent of all
Give me manuka smoke.

—L. M.