THE PRESENTS THEY MAKE.

Dominion, Volume 22, Issue 72, 18 December 1928, Page 41 (Supplement)

THE PRESENTS THEY MAKE.

A Christmas Confession by a Male Victim. This, I feel, is going to be a very difficult article to write, because it gives the impression that I am one of those detestable creatures who are always looking whole rows of gift horses in the mouth. Far be it for me, a mere man, callously to criticise any , presents which I receive. It seems, > however, as if I owe a duty, not only 1 to my fellow-men, but to' the great 1 -army of Sisters, Aunts, Nieces, and other feminine folk who so very > thoughtfully make their men-folk pref sents at Christmas-time. You will notice that I do not men--3 tion Mothers. That is because they ’ possess a sort of second-sight, and ? never waste time or money in making ‘ useless presents. Any gifts which 3 they make are both suitable and ap--1 propriate. I take off my hat to all Mothers. Yea, verily do they understand the ways of their own particular J specimens of Men. ' But let me state without further 1 preamble that to many a good man ’ and true, the homemade article for . his personal adornment is utterly im- . possible. I See Magenta. Knitted ties, for instance! Dear girl, . do find out if “he is likely to wear one . before you make your eyes pop out [ knit, knit, knitting it. In my drawer J at present, repose eight ties in various I hues, varying from blue and white to I green, and a chaste shade of magneta. : They are all beautifully knitted. Some- ■ times tears come to my eyes as I gaze ; upon them. But it lias long been a ’ well-known fad of mine to wear only • black ties. Sometimes I get out the i magenta one and look at it. This is , upon occasions when I think that to wear a colour would make a change. That tie cures me of all such restless thought at once. The other contents of my drawer would make angels weep, too, if they were allowed to glance inside. Fortunately, they are not (human angels or otherwise). Socks! Socks! Barely, indeed, have I received a pair of home-made socks I can wear. They are usually far too thick, or far too hard, or far too small, or far too bright. Then there is a pair of skyblue bedsocks and a “pull-over,” so narrow that once it is on it is really easier in the end to wriggle out of one’s skin. Well, well, I suppose all this is rather terrible reading, but then, poignant pages from one’s life are apt to be like that. Still, let me give you a good tip. Notice his size, tastes, and fads, or your present is doomed to be thrust away.