The Two Trees

John had planted the two trees down in the corner of the old garden on the day the twins were born—to commemorate the great event. As he dug two holes in the rich, damp soil, into which he would place the trees, John thought joyfully of the two little lives up at the house—his to guide and protect—a justification for his somewhat aimless existence. He patted the earth thoughtfully and, in some mysterious way, felt that the lives of his children were to be connected very intimately with the growth and development of the two trees. It sounds an absurd and fantastical notion, but John was an absurd and fantastical man—as he is the hero of this story his ideas are of some importance.

The twins were duly christened Desmond and Mark—after much consultation and argument—and gradually emerged from the nondescript ugliness to admirable and vigorous specimens of babyhood. John and his wife regarded them with pride, interest, and some misgiving, as they progressed through the usual period of turbulent infancy—and down in the sheltered corner of the garden the two little trees shot up side by side—green, slender and graceful—beautiful and silent symbols of Desmond and Mark.

To John it seemed an incredibly short interval before he conducted his offspring to school. He felt extreme reluctance at handing over his “belongings” to alien hands, but Desmond and Mark—sturdy and beautiful—stood bravely, hand in hand, on the threshold of their new life. They were not thinking of him, and he realised with a pang that he could not enter into their lives—he was just an onlooker. He went home that morning and pulled up one or two weeds growing at the foot of his trees, wishing he could do likewise with the unknown dangers which, even then, he felt gathering about the lives of his twins.

Their early school days were much the same as those of all children, except that they were unusually brilliant—one at games, the other at lessons—and had been absolutely inseparable. All their nefarious and dark schemes were planned together—work prepared, enterprises undertaken, friends and enemies made, fights and hobbies. For the first ten years they were one—indistinguishable and united. Then they went off to a boarding-school, and disappeared from John's life, except for the breathless rush of their annual holidays, when they reappeared, bringing the inevitable atmosphere of a large school, full of strange slang—somewhat reserved and shy, no longer his babies, but two independent and determined young things.

It was about then that John began to notice a difference between them, and he will often tell you how one morning he noticed that one of the trees looked decidedly stronger, greener, and fresher than the other, which seemed to droop almost imperceptibly as the other flourished. The next day came a letter from Desmond—a typical schoolboy scrawl—saying in a casual P.S. that “Old Mark had made an utter ass of himself” by fainting on the Rugger field, and that the school doctor, “an indescribable idiot,” had forbidden him to play again that year. Later, Mark wrote a furious and miserable epistle, and John's heart ached for the boy who had to watch his page 58 page 59 brother rushing up the field, the glory and leader of the team. Life was going to be difficult for Mark, he felt. He could not be Desmond, but had to develop an individual and positive self, isolated from his stronger brother. The frailer tree seemed to flourish once again, and John was happy. By that time he regarded the two trees as infallible indications of the welfare of his children.

In the Southland District.
Members of the Invercargill and District Railways Picnic Committee, 1930.

At eighteen, Desmond and Mark left school, determined to pursue the same career—that of the Flying Corps. “You see, Dad,” said Desmond, “we have always done things together, haven't we, old chap?” “Rather,” answered the loyal Mark. But John noticed a certain quietness in the boy—a tendency to dream—quite foreign to the lusty Desmond, who, at school, had always relied on his brother's assistance in matters intellectual. The headmaster advised a University career for Mark, and predicted great things for him in the literary world, but Mark had absolutely declined to go up to Oxford without Desmond, who had set his heart on the glory of a flying career. “If you like I'll come up with you to that stuffy hole,” he said, “but think how jolly it would be to rush through the air, the world literally at your feet!” Imaginative Mark pictured the blue atmosphere, rushing winds, the poetry of the whole thing, and gave up his dreams of romantic old Oxford, not however without a pang. “We must stick together of course,” he said to John (who failed altogether to see the necessity), on the morning they went up for their examination to enter the Flying Corps.

The two trees were now tall and strong. To the casual observer they were identical, but John detected a difference. One, it seemed to him, was always the more vigorous and perfect, the other leaning slightly towards it as if seeking protection from the wind. “Poor old Mark,” John used to think “Life is not going to be too easy for him,” and he viciously uprooted a persistent weed at the foot of Mark's tree.

“Home came the boys, gay and confident, from the examination, which Mark pronounced “awfully simple.” Then followed a severe and gruelling medical test, thoroughly enjoyed by Desmond, who knew himself to be as perfect as a Greek hero. The interval of waiting for results was spent rushing about town with John—“talkies,” dances, tennis and lazy afternoons in the garden.

“By Jove, Mark,” said Desmond one day, “your tree's not looking too good—a bit liverish, don't you think?” Mark laughed in a somewhat constrained way, and John wondered if he was conscious of the fundamental and essential gulf between himself and his twin. “It's alright,” he said. “Probably finds the sun a bit hot. Your's is taking all the good soil; greedy brute, aren't you?” with an affectionate punch. John leant back in his chair and watched them lying on the grass eating apples in the afternoon sunshine. His “baby twins” were now strapping young men, good to look upon, eager for experience; so confident and gay, sublimely untroubled and careless.

Then came the results of the examination. John experienced a pang of fear, and found himself secretly hoping that Mark had been turned down. He knew that the boy was not strong enough for the strenuous life of the air, and that his heart really lay within the peaceful

On Auckland Harbour.
The Otahuhu Workshops apprentices' picnic party setting off for their first annual picnic at Oneroa Beach, Auckland Harbour.

grey walls of Oxford. Not so, however. The official blue envelopes were rent open by eager hands, and contained the information that both page 60 page 61 had been accepted for training. Desmond just scraping through the academic exam., and Mark being warned by the doctor to avoid unnecessary strain. Wild with delight, they rushed off to impart the glad tidings to their friends, leaving John alone and desolate, with a great misgiving in his heart. He could say nothing to them, because he knew it was useless; but he watched Mark's tree bending in the wind, while Desmond's stood erect and proud. This John of ours had become a fatalist.

At first, all went well with them. They were away at a training camp, and rushed home now and then, full of enthusiasm—inseparable as ever. Mark had become very lean—almost gaunt. John thought—but seemed well and happy, and as for Desmond, he had grown more than ever like a Greek god. They called him “Hermes” at camp. John, of course, was terribly proud of his boys, and began to feel that he had been mistaken, and that their destiny lay together. Later, they were engaged simultaneously, and talked of a “double wedding.” “Always stick together, old chap,” said Desmond; and, as usual, Mark agreed.

One night, John leant from the window, and stared thoughtfully out into the storm—up into the dark chaos of space—thinking that somewhere, perhaps, Mark and Desmond were alone with the elements—driven by great winds, lashed by stinging rain. A sudden flash showed him, for a moment, the wreck of his garden—drenched and beaten by the storm. Desmond's tree stood alone.

Regardless of the rain, the old man rushed out into the night, and stood motionless by the fallen tree, which he had planted twenty years ago, on the day of Mark's birth. Across the path it lay, violently uprooted by the wind—ruined and broken—while its companion towered there, seeming to exult in the fury of the storm—stretching out its great arms to the winds—standing firm, defiant and unconquerable.

Next day came a wire from Desmond. “Mark seriously ill; pneumonia.” John had known it—it was predestined from the moment when he had placed the two identical little seeds in the same soil, down in the corner of his garden. That night, as the moon rose over the city, and shone on the rain drenched leaves, the soul of Mark journeyed back to its Maker—its destiny fulfilled.

Desmond's tree still stands there in John's garden—splendid and arrogant in its sublime beauty. There is no trace of the other tree.

Smiling Competitors in an interesting race.
The Thread-the-needle Race at the recent Railways picnic at Marton Junction, North Island.

Care of the Hands

Modern poets find greater subjects for their efforts than mere “hands”—yet these have been immortalized by the Greeks and Egyptians, who realized that a “thing of beauty is a joy for ever,” and that the human hand—that eminently useful portion of our anatomy—can lay claim to very real aesthetic value.

Beautiful hands often redeem an otherwise ugly woman, while ugly, ill kept hands can make us forget that a woman is really pretty. I have often heard people say. “Of course she is quite plain, but have you ever noticed what wonderful hands she's got?”

I am afraid that nowadays beautiful hands and arms are extremely rare. They are left to their own devices, while every wrinkle on the face is studied with anxious care—and while the figure occupies the prominent place in the world feminine. Have you ever noticed glaringly polished, sharply pointed, and vulgarly coloured nails, upon a hand which is obviously page 62 neglected? Where, oh where, has thy sense of proportion gone, oh, daughters of Eve?

Most of us are devoted to outdoor games. We live during the reign of Diana the huntress, the swift of foot and clear of eye, and it is well for us that we do. But this is no excuse for neglecting our hands; they will swing a golf club and drive a tennis ball equally well if they are beautiful. In New Zealand we live in a servantless land for the most part, and our hands suffer accordingly; they become the “hoary palms of toil.” Why not wear thin rubber gloves for that plunge into the greasy washing-up water? They are cheap, and last a long time—two undeniable attributes. Another invaluable aid to beauty—to remove grease and dirt—is vaseline, rubbed well in and rinsed off in warm, soft water and really good soap. Don't economise here.

After a tennis match or a day in the sun, use glycerine and rose water, mixed in equal proportions; you will be surprised at the result. Use a little of the time you spend upon your ill-used face, to glance at your hands. Cut a lemon in half; rub one half over your hands and arms, and use the other half to soften the water in which you wash. You need not bother with exercises, etc., life is too short, although I believe our grandmothers found time to soak their elbows in hot water for ten minutes, and massage them for another ten! As for leaning them on the table, that was never done.

However, gone are those days, with the wasp-waists and fans. File your nails every day, it will become a habit soon, and will repay you—no claw-like points, but a symmetrical oval.

Don't under-estimate the value of beautiful hands. You are proverbially supposed to be able to hold the great clever male in the “hollow of your little hand,” and to twist him round your finger; let it be a pretty one.

The first lesson to learn is that there are other people in the world beside yourself.—Hazlitt.

faery
There are strange fields that lie
Under gum trees,
Where the laughter of the magpie
And the murmur of the gadfly.
Mingle with the breeze.
There are black pines that sway
Over orchids,
Where the fragrance of the thicket,
And the chatter of the cricket,
Intoxicate the day.
There has the wind forgot
To shriek in misery,
And there has the sun forgot
His scorching cruelty;
Only the moon is wont
To spread her wizardry.
There are long roads twisting
Under thick gloom,
Where the quiver of a mystery
And the shiver of an ecstasy
Foretell a rushing doom,
And weave a faery loom
For thee—Oh, unbeliever—
A faery loom—
A rushing doom—
For thee. —S.G.M.

Egg and Sardine Savoury

It is so hard to think of something new in the savoury line for lunches, and most people do not want meat more than once a day. Here is a tasty and easily made savoury dish, which contains vitamins A and D, so important in our diet. Mash up contents of half a small tin of sardines, with yolks of two hard-boiled eggs. Add 1 1/2 teaspoonsful of finely chopped parsley, pepper and salt. Mix all together with Worcester or tomato sauce and serve on half a tomato placed on one or two lettuce leaves.