HOME FIRES.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 235, 3 October 1936, Page 3 (Supplement)

HOME FIRES.

A CHEERY WELCOME. art of hospitality. (By E.M.C.) Have you ever realised that the fires that greet you in the various homesyou visit express more or less the individuality of the women in the home? There iff the happy, generous fire of logs merrily crackling or the more solid one of glowing coals that gives you welcome as you enter the room. You feel it has been lit for some time, thus ensuring that the welcome will be a really warm one. Gratefully you unbutton your coat and relax. You know it is going to be a pleasant visit. Regretfully you leave and cast a lingering look at the fire, which seems to be seconding the invitation to stay a little longer. There is the sullen fire that greets you, and well you know it has been lit just as you reach the' door. Furtive little flames poke through here and there, only to disappear and remain in hiding. Spirals of smoke curl up the chimney while you try to remind yourself that "where there's smoke there's fire." You draw your' coat more closely round and try to cover silk-clad legs with your skirt. Eyen the. cup that is supposed to cheer fails to do its duty, while a desultory conversation drags on. Desperate at last, you jump up with the remark, "I really must be going." You look hack at the fire,, glad to leave

it, though it really ft burning now, but still meagre and sulky. Vaguely you wonder will your hostess crouch over it when you have departed, glad that she has not to share it. Sheer Incompetence. There is the haphazard fire. You %nter a room where there are no signs of a fire, only an empty grate. Your hostess invites you to sit down with a "I really must start the fire!" You feel she expects you to say, "Oh, don't bother, I'm not cold." You are so desperately cold you know you will be ill if you don't have that fire. She darts away, and upon hearing a sound of chopping and splintering you begin to think you really might be a nuisance. She returns with an armful of untidylooking timber and clutching a piece of paper, which she proceeds to flatten into the grate. Throwing the wood on top, she applies a match, while she looks mildly surprised that nothing happens except one or two little bursts of flame, which immediately die down. She tries lighting twists of paper and pushes them through the grate. Hateful habit! With a triumphant gleam in her eye she rushes off to return with a bottle of kerosene. Recklessly she pours it over the wood, puts a match to it and the result is you expect the fire brigade to arrive at any moment. Each time conversation is resumed she rushes off for more fuel. Trying to explain why Jack had not seen to the wood and filled the scuttle she lapses into a tale of the same Jack's peccadilloes. As you glance at the fire which is now not much more than charred wood and grey ash and note the untidy hearth, you vaguely think there may be something to be said for Jack.

Perhaps worse than all is that modern abomination the imitation fire that scorches your legs and allows the rest of you to freeze. No friendly, sparkling warmth this, only a dull glare that coldly reflects itself in the steely chromium plated sides of the radiator. Here you exchange platitudes with a hostess who somehow seems as artificial as her fire. The fire that does not bear thinking about is the one that just isn't there at all, not even a radiator. No matter how attractive the room may be, nor how sumptuous the afternoon tea, your mind will continually stray to your own fireside. Look to your fires, the most attractive addition to any room, and when all else in your home has become just a memory to your friend's they will always remember the warmth of your fireside.