Travelogue.

I love to hear you talk about
The different places where you've
been,
You show such homely little things,
Your snap-shots acting as a screen
Which like a jig saw puzzle fits
Some pieces sombre, others gay.
A picnic by Ben Lomond's banks,
Culloden Field at close of day,
Clovelly's quaint and cobbled streets,
Dwarf broom, pink thrift, along the
cliffs
Where Land's End the Atlantic greets.
Fair Somerset, York's Minster grey,
Queen Mary's wicked little stair
At Holyrood, the Cotswolds' charm
And London drab and debonair.
Thus like the Lady of Shallott
I view the whole entrancing scene.
My heart aches when you talk about
The vividness of England's green.

—Ruth M. Johnson.

* * *

Rain On Lake Wanaka.

In some dark secret armoury of the
mountains
A keen bright blade of wind escapes
its sheath,
Slashes a swollen cloud that rests on
the ranges,
And hurls a barrage of rain at the
lake beneath.
That smooth surface suddenly quivers
and spurts with silver,
Pierced and torn by a shower of glit-
tering spikes
That batter the water so fiercely I
almost fancy
I hear the chime and clash as each
volley strikes.
But by and by when the cloud has fled
over the mountains,
Sunshine anoints and heals the wounds
of the rain,
And smoothes with kisses those silver
scars, wind-inflicted,
Till a clear sky finds its turquoise
mirror again.

—Katherine O'Brien.

The Road To Erewhon.

There is a winding road I know
By which the swaggers often go,
And station cooks lay down the law
And then fill tucker bags some more;
A road with banks to rest upon,
A road that leads to Erewhon.
Up that old route across the range
I've met with swaggers quaint and
strange,
And with them up the pinches toiled,
And sat by creeks while billies boiled;
And yarned until the sun had gone,
Along the road to Erewhon.
But now by Boyd's and Ngamatea
Soon swaggers may no more appear,
For I have heard a roadman say
That Bob's to build a new highway,
A road for cars to speed upon
And scoot and hoot past Erewhon.
Though Erewhon may read nowhere,
And swagger men get old and rare,
Yet still I know I'll often pine
To see a swagger's secret sign;
And logs and banks I've rested on
Along that road to Erewhon.

—L. M.

* * *

Highways And Byways.

The highways wind triumphant over
saddle, spur and crest,
The country's crowded commerce to
convey:
And the traffic is the measure of the
gear that men love best,
Of fat profits and prosperity to-day.
But there's dust and heat and turmoil,
there's the sweat that buys success:
Discomfort in the clamour of the
crowd.
There's a heart-break in the faces of
the folk who closely press
In pursuit of futile wealth with
shoulders bowed.
Seek the loveliness of byways, find
their green, lush quietude,
Dawdling 'neath the dappled shadows
of their trees:
They have pleasances with varied joys
to suit your changing mood
Where you may quaff your ale and
take your ease.
Though Success hastes down the high-
way and leaves you sitting there,
Let him go in peace (God rest his
fatted soul!)
No gift in his possession can with hap-
piness compare
And you find it in the byways as you
bide contented there,
With your nut-brown maid, the sunshine
—and your bowl.

—R. Morant.

* * *

Travellers.

Caspar had trafficked from the rocky
north,
A long and laborious way.
Melchior rode across an endless age
To join Balthazar, who had seen Cathay
And Tabrobane, where redly droops the
noon,
And skies are full … But I—I trod
Just fifty yards along a camel-track,
A little, little way to God.
Blithe shone the gold that burned in
Caspar's pouch,
For golden pence, a million glittering
pence,
And there was myrrh, full of the sweet
and longing,
And crimson drops of rarest frankin-
cense
From rooms where silkly fell the tass-
elled wind
Of India, and all the air lay still ….
I brought my country lambs when I
came down
A little path that sloped along the hill.

—Mary R. Greig.

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