The Voice of the Veldt

THE VOICE OF THE VELDT By Kenneth C. Woodruff The sun beats down on the barren veldt; — as far as the human eye can follow the road, a rough, rutty track through the stones and brush lies unsheltered. Its dust is stirred at times into dense, spiral columns, it seems, by the devil's own hand. On each side, stretching away towards the horizon, is the bare, brown earth, the endless monotony of it broken only by undulating hills, as bare as they are brown, and occasionally by a flat, jagged rock — a table mountain in miniature. True, there are some ant heaps, baked hard by the pitiless sun, dotted about at random; but they are brown, too, and hardly large enough to show against the sky. A flock of sheep gnaw hopelessly at sapless stalks. A stray battalion of locusts flap angrily through the air, in search of something green. The only happy creature in existence, apparently, is a brightly colored, bold lizard, which basks comfortably in the awful glare and heat, winking vindictively at the space about him. The veldt is wide, desolate, hungry. The bigness of it all, and its blank waste, falls upon one's spirit and almost crushes it. In its sight, man and man's affairs are little, inconsequent. Heaven is far away, behind the hard, high blue; and God — God seems far away, too. Thus urges the Voice of the Veldt, borne on a wind like the breath of an oven. It is a voice that stifles all upward strivings; that stings hope into a thing half desperate and half callous, leaving behind it droughty hearts in a land of drought. But at last comes evening! The dust devils, far into the distance behind the cart track, have danced their last dance of wild, weird horror. No stir of life can be heard for miles around. The wonder- ful stillness that belongs alone to vast expanses at the close of day broods

724 IMPROVEMENT ERA over the seemingly limitless' veldt. But its greatness no longer crushes one. It is as wide, true, but its very breadth and length, and the great sky-covering above, wrap the earth with a tenderness indescribable. From that embrace man rises flushed and smiling, loved into a new en- thusiasm, calmed into such peacefulness as is almost awe. Behind the hill lies the gorgeous after-glow of a South African sunset. Great, blending strokes of red and gold — colors more clear and harmonious than even an "angel painter" could produce. Slow- ly, reluctantly, they deepen into purple; into grey; deepen, deepen still, until, finally, the dying day puts on a shroud of inky blackness and disappears. Soon the moon shines out; myriad stars twinkle through the darkness; and, lo! the Spirit of the Veldt is again abroad. Then does man bow in adoration before its second voice. The mystery and magni- tude almost overpower him. But the whisper on the cool night air is a word of life, hope, encouragement, assurance, — "God is great, and God is good;" — and, through the mighty stillness1, it cleaves for itself a foot-hold in the human heart. Kimberley, South Africa. Heart's Gold List' while I tell you a tale, dear, 'Tis a tale that's often been told, 'Tis a story as old as the hills, And as rich as a Garden of Gold; A story that's told in the dusk, When the moon sheds light o'er the world, When flowers *fold their petals in sleep, And the flag at the mast-head is furled. When lovers stroll in the moonlight, With a love arrow Gupid wakes, When the rest of the world is asleep, Then to you my story I take. But the story I'll tell to you, My lips ne'er before have told, And I hope that to you 'twill be, A story that ne'er will grow old. A treasure I've kept in my heart, A treasure of silver and gold, That only your Loveship can bear; To another it ne'er shall be told. Oh! If you accept my heart, dear, My life and soul shall be yours, For my treasure of gold is my heart, In return I'd like to have yours. Cascade, Montana. LUCY BINGHAM