OURSELVES AND OUR NEIGHBOURS.

Auckland Star, Volume LXI, Issue 65, 18 March 1930, Page 6

OURSELVES AND OUR NEIGHBOURS.

Some time is no time, and this applies particularly to our correspondence. Someone genets us a gift, a packet of seeds, or some such trie, and We express our delight to our household an resolve to write a note offhand. But niet we stroll into the garden and work happily in tle sunshine. Then someone calls, or the telephone rings, or we . feed the dog, and our intention is forgotten. We put off writing till the evening. But wo have a new book, or the fire makes us sleepy, and we resolve to send a line next morning. Between sunset and sunrise our ardour has cooled, and the thought of settling down to write has become a nightmare. We defer again and again, and the chances are ten to one that the letter will never be written, or that, if we do write, it Will be a tepid, forced effusion, not worth sending. Letters, like songs, should be served up piping hot, especially letters of thanks, which are of no, value unless they are spontaneous. It seems sometimes that there is no one so delightful as the person who returns thanks gracefully. A wanderer at our door the other evening charmed us by leaving in his empty cup a slip of paper inscribed with the words, "Many thanks," in an old-fashioned, sloping hand. It touched us to imagine him pencilling his acknowledgment in the dusk, and set us speculating who he was. and what his station in life had been before he fell upon unhappy times. However, it must be admitted that the individual who is too punctilious is apt to become a nuisance, the friend who will never take precedence when we enter & room, who will not express a preference lest it clash with our wishes, who constantly takes the back seat, and rejects the last sandwich. Such exaggerated expressions of courtesy make one uncomfortable, and almost persuade us we would prefer the society of a boor. The worst offender against courtesy is the person who calls when it suits his convenience, and departs when the inclination seizes him, on occasions after midnight, though he is aware +hat we must rise betimes. This specimen sparkles or drones as the case may bo when our eyelids are weighted with sleep and our replies come at random. In dealing with this type, it is wise not to replenish the fire, and to omit to pass the cigarettes. These methods are not infallible, and you may slink to bed sneezing and shivering after a prolonged farewell at the doorstep, but it is worth a trial, considering there are some who respond to the treatment.

Then there is the visitor with a grievance, the being whom life has treated scurvily (or who herself treats life scurvily). This poor creature looks at the world through smoked glasses, seeing no good in anything under the sun, making endless demands on your time and sympathy. Your efforts to cheer and console are regarded'as flippant, and she departs leaving an atmosphere black with forebodings. An earthquake, a fire, an epidemic would be more welcome than this visitor. The friend who is sure of a welcome is he who makes us laugh. He may have no position to speak of, scarcely a penny to his name, or a decent coat on his back, but a sense of humour covers all that. His jovial presence banishes care, puts life in its proner perspective, and warms our home like a fire. He is the ideal friend, and the writer is unable to resist the temptation of quoting Ecove Fitch's charming lines on "The Real Friends":— Cnll him my friend who seeks me In my den For quiet chats which light the weary day; Call him twice friend who knows exactly when to go away. Call him my friend whose voice is always free In my defence, when critics' words are rough; Call him twice friend who understands when he has said enough. Call him my friend who comes, in smiling faith, For my assistance when the clouds ar§> black. Call him thrice friend—though he is but a wraith— Who pays me back! —DOROTHY FRANCES PERRY.