THE FARMER’S WIFE.

North Canterbury Gazette, Volume I, Issue 20, 23 December 1932, Page 2

THE FARMER’S WIFE.

FACTS AMO SOME FANCIES. (Specially written for the Gazette). [By Plain Anne.] XX 'J'HE sage leaves which I gathered a few days ago are now crisp and and dry. As I crush them to powder they give off a delightfully pungent perfume. Beneath its spell, the years between are forgotten, and once more I am anticipating a visit from Father Christmas—hay have already called up the chimney for a doll with real hair that will brush, and a suit of clothes for Father, this latter being considered a marvellously daring request. How well I recall my explicit directions for “a small checked tweed, please, and sort of brownish,” these details being thoughtfully supplied by mother, who naturally was anxious that will brush, and a suit of clothes all the necessary details,. “Hear My Prayer.” In the chill dawn of that far distant Christmas morning, with a joy that held an element of awe, I gazed at the so new suit, its knife edged creases and small check pattern filling my soul with glee. Beside its glory, even the 'dolly with real hair and eyelashes for good measure seemed a minor joy. The Christmas suit, as it was always called, turned out to have quite marvellous wearing qualities, but to one member of our family, at least, that was not a matter for astonishment. The wearing quality of jts joyous arrival has survived all the years, and neither time nor moth can ever corrupt it for me. Work weary mothers, grown heavy-eyed and sleepy waiting to fill the Christmas stocking, will perhaps be remembered very lovingly, when the years have taught the credulous owners how infinitely kind and unselfish was Santa Claus of 1932. Gifts That Cost Little. What though the socks may not be filled quite so abundantly nor so expensively as of yore! The joy of seeking a fairy gift is not lessened because the longed-for dress is fashioned of modestly priced material ; the poc-ket-knife of this year, while less imposing than those of more prosperous times, can still give its owner much joy (and pain). There are many gifts which do not require much outlay. This week T have dried much of the lavender from my garden. Town friends will appreciate its sweetness in their linen cupboards, while T shall not be deprived of the joy of giving. I know a neighbour’s

little p;ir], who greatly desired to <rive a small child a Christmas gift. Herself penniless, she has contrived a wonderful golliwog from discarded stockings. She is now eagerly waiting for Christmas that she may bring her gift of love. Carols. Above all, we can give a cheery smile and a merry Christmas, as we pass on our way. Possibly not quite so many country kiddies will get to town to see the coloured lights and gay decorations that rouse a Christmas feeling in the most weary heart, but many, even this year, will manage a day’s shopping and over the wireless will float the carols which have delighted men since that first sweet Christmas in Bethlehem. As of yore, bandsmen will be early on their way playing “Christians Awake!” and “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” Who knows how much the influence of the special Christmas plea for Peace and Goodwill may yet he felt in this strangely disorganised world of today P Yet who can tell? I am reminded of the stark rage which two of our best known carols were wont to rouse in at least one Christian bosom. It chanced that my friend conducted an enthusiastic but somewhat I illiterate choir. One of its most valued female “ supports ” possessed a powerful soprano voice of great range and of a peculiar unblending quality. She also possessed a supply of unattached aitchcs, which, in the fervour of Christinas carolling became disastrously irreverent. Thus, to the mortification of the choir-master (and it must be admitted, the delight of the small boys) the lady’s voice would be raised in an amazing demand for “ale! ale!”, while later she indcfatigably proclaimed “ No-Hell, NoHell, No-He-ell ! ” Ah, well! If goodwill does not solve the social evils, then perhaps the sharpness of our present pangs may drive us to seek heroic measures for a cure! How often do we endure weeks of nagging toothache, while one night of the acute variety sends us to the dentist’s chair. However it may be, I wish you all a Merry Christinas and—yes! I dare say it—a “happy New Year.” A More Hopeful Feeling. In the face of present conditions this may seem a great presumption, and yesterday I might have scoffed at the idea, but if the door of opportunity seems locked in the face of our boys and girls, perhaps youth itself will find the key to the future both for themselves and for us. Somehow, perhaps because of the sunshine that dried our hay all week, possibly since our early potatoes are lifting well, and I have picked glorious bunches of sweet peas for visiting friends, I can’t help hoping more hopefully than of late. 'Anyhow I am going

to cook a nice Christmas dinner, and trustfully furling my sombre “brolly,” wait till all the little clouds roll by. Waiting for the Bridges. An eminent K.C. once told me that if all the folks who visited him for ad-, vice had waited to cross their bridges when they came to them, he would be about out of a job. Today though some /of ns feel that a life-belt or at least gum-boots will be needed when we set foot on our particularly wobbly bridge, yet I can believe him. A week ago 1 wondered how we would get all our black currants picked. At present before even the deep sheen of perfect ripeness has yet been attained, ‘the blackbirds have settled the problem well and truly. I am hoping they will spare us sufficient for a boiling of jam, as black currant and lemon tea is a popular palliative for winter colds, especially with an aspirin dissolved in its ruby depths. Cough Cures. In my childhood we enjoyed a pleasing compound of linseed and Jamaica liquorice in which, golden twists of barley sugar were melted. Strangely, colds which went off at the mere mention of ammoniated quinine became vocal if not vital at the sight of that brown nectar. Hardly less fascinating was it to let the flat little seeds' of the linseed slither through exploring fingers. Even later, when I boiled tins of linseed to mix with 9kim milk for my calves I still found pleasure in plunging my hands deep in the shining brown masses of seed. French beans and scarlet runners have a similar appeal, but their fascination lies partly in the mottled beauty of their colouring. How Many Beans Make Five? As children we used to hoard the biggest and brightest of these for our game of “Eggs in the Bush.” This pastime was reputed to give the youthful players facility in figuring. Perhaps that’s how shrewd folks., early learn/ “how many beans make five,” —a difficult. matter in my own experience. The various combinations of 4 and 1. 3 and 2, etc., were capable of producing quite surprising results in my childish computations. Latterly T’ve spilled so many of Life’s beans that I have given up counting the fallen, and rejoice only that at least they were bright playthings. Even if we haven’t" a bean left after this Christmas, who knows what a crop we may harvest next year Musical Evening BREAK-UP PARTY. Mrs. G. Me Alpine was hostess at the break-up of Mr. S. G. Lamport’s singing class held at her residence in Good Street last week. Both indoor and outdoor games were played, among which was a treasure hunt, won by Helen Banks. The programme began with a pianoforte duet bv Joy McAlpine and Helen Banks. The short musical programme included various songs by the whole company; “Danny Boy,” Peter Wheeler; “The Lass with the Delicate Air,’ Mr. S. G. Lamport; “When Father Laid the Carpet on the Stairs,” and “When I was a Boy at School,” Mr. McAlpine; while by special request “Bose in the Heather” was sung by the boys. After supper Albert Ager presented Mrs. McAlpine with two crystal vases, whilst Alan Lockhart gave Mr. Lamport a clothes brush. Mr. Lamport thanked Mrs McAlpine for her hospiity during the year, and for the enjoyable evening. Apart from the boys of the singing dass, those present were: Mr. and Mrs. G. McAlpine, Mr. S. G. Lamport, Mrs Yates, Misses Rav and Beverly Jones, Joy McAlpine, Marinette Yates, Helen Banks, Joan Iveir, Beatrice Hutchison and Douglas McAlpine.

Collecting Brass SOUVENIRS AND ORNAMENTS [By Al, in tlie ‘Manchester Guardian’] The passing of the brass step and brass fireirons and the relegation of a good many brass candlesticks to cupboards has lessened the bright and shiny appearance of a good many houses. Lancashire housewives still clean a square of brass on the stove «oi; an odd handle on the Hue trap or the taps at the sink. But if you have a liking for brass it is as well to look out for the souvenirs and ornaments made in brass which does not need cleaning. There is the brass toasting-fork with a gargoyle or an imp as a handle which crowd the antique shops in the old towns. Most of them have a nail-hole so that they can liang by the fireplace, and if they suffer a little through mass production they are still useful. Cathedrals, famous buildings, and statues in brass relief as ashtrays and matchholders are common, with a slightly dirty and oddish look about them which is ingenious and deceptive. Then there is the same sort of thing in the shape of a bell, with the unfortunate building split in the middle. In a German town we tried to get a plain brass bell in three shops and were unsuccessful. The greatest feat is Cologne Cathedral on the narrow handle of a boy’s penknife! The old brass warming-pan has been efficiently copied, but not always with jfihe Jong handle, and one of the best ways of taking hot water to a room is in a brass can in the shape of a garden watering-can. From Gibraltar I brought home a large Spanish brazier in dull brass, which never shines brightly and seems t,o look after itself. An old Spanish lamp in brass with four lights in the shape of Aladdin’s lamp burns clearly