Reflections of Havergal: 1994-2019

Appendices

What the Apple Tree Saw Ludemus , 1919 By A. H., Matric 1

It stands in a very central place, this old gnarled apple tree, be between Coverley and the School-house, where teachers and girls pass to and fro all through the day. Sometimes they hurry across, clutching at sweaters and wraps, shivering and complaining in the wind, while the old tree sways and sways and catches the wind in its branches. But sometimes when the day is warm they pause in their run across, and stop, and stand, and look, and wish that all days might be like this one, and all days holidays; slowly they enter the school door with a lingering look at the blue sky, and the old tree watches, and waits, and wonders what it is like indoors, where the sky and wind and rain are shut out. On the other side it watches the playgrounds. In the spring when the warm sap rises through its roots into the hardened old limbs, the glory time of the apple tree comes. Its withered arms tingle with new life and slowly the little pink buds burst through their brown wrappings and open to the warm light; and the apple tree glows with pride, for it is the loveliest thing in all the garden, and is proud to be there. Nor does it complain when eager fingers rob it of its blossoms. It is a properly trained old tree, brought up in the element of school life; it realizes that the “apple waxing mellow” is not for it; it would probably be heartbroken at the thought of desertion if a ripe apple grew among its leaves. It is entirely the girls’ tree. Even the birds that flutter twittering onto its branches, and try excitedly to draw out a leaf for one very small nest—even these it rustles faithfully. Deep in its roots it feels a twinge of longing for birds to nest in its branches, but it is the girls’ tree; the birds are welcome to make love upon it, but for their houses they must find a more secluded retreat. In early summer there are many pleasant sights for the old tree; girls in white middies swinging racquets with strong, supple arms, cricket, basketball, running, jumping, all the outdoor sports that girls love. And later in the season, under its shade come girls weary and laden with books and learning, murmuring of “‘exams” and “matric.” And the tree holds out its motherly old arms for them to climb into, and throws its cooling shade about

them rustling little leafy sounds of sympathy, for it has learned from long experience, that these are the girls who do not always return. And by and by when they wander round for a last look at everything, the old apple tree is not left out, and it watches them out of sight and waves good-bye. Many a secret is whispered under the apple tree’s safe branches, it witnesses many a resolution, many a struggle, many a victory, part of the storm and calm, cloud and sunshine of every girl’s life. It watches and listens and understands and sympathizes, but it never tells. In winter when the wandering snowflakes have wrapped its bare brown arms out of sight, comes the old tree’s time of reflection. It remembers back to the time when children, who have since grown tall and travelled far, climbed and swung among its boughs, for it keeps a record of every pair of hands that once clung to it. Sometimes, when a small, new girl comes and gazes at the tree with solemn eyes, and lays her hand on it prepared to climb, the old tree stiffens, it always is a trifle stiff with new girls, and then suddenly it unbends a little; there is something strangely familiar about that touch! Many years back, just such a little hand was laid upon it, and the old tree bends its arms in welcome, for it recognizes that this is one of the school grandchildren. Then there are the winds, the news carriers and messengers of all flowers and ferns and trees. Sometimes they foregather at the old apple tree and carry its messages near and far, north, south, east, and west. Far away in some arid district where the hot air stifles and wearies, someone notices a sudden familiar cooling feeling, and pauses in her work with a remembering look, a look that is seeing girls in cool, white middies, green grass, white clouds, and an old gnarled tree. And the wind racing back to the garden, whispers to the old apple tree how a woman had smiled.

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190  HAVERGAL COLLEGE