LETTERS FROM A POULTRY FARMER TO HER CHUM.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLI, Issue 12698, 29 October 1904, Page 1 (Supplement)

LETTERS FROM A POULTRY FARMER TO HER CHUM.

[by cmc] Eglantine, North Auckland, 7u\, ti -w« New Zealand. My Dear Helena,— <■ . » is just impossible for you to conjure «P a mental photo, of me. in this VirginNature environment. It is a far cry from Kensington to a farm in Northern New Zealand. A complete metamorphosis: the change from an artificial butterfly of the metropolis reverted to the chrysalis state of dear Dame Nature. And behold, dearie, ais very good—and I like it muchly. V I begin to believe what old Dr. Everskam said is true about that dilapidated left lung of mine. What Algiers, Davos, St. Moritss, #ttd all the other fashionable, fascinating jWaces Jailed to do—l feel a Faith—and jfaith is a Healer sublime— Faith that, here .in this eternally green, eternally tran|ud» eternally wholesome corner of New Zealand, I shall repateh that woful left lung of mine and regain the vigour I covet. ... I can whoop with hope renewed. And yon know how long, how wearily long the inclination and the. impetus for euch vocal enthusiasm have been dead within me. So, no immortelles for me, just yet. thank you*. Living away off in the bush, one gets ckse to Life's realities— true Essentials of Existence'. . . . It is as if the scores of artificialities that circle 'round, envelop and engulf one in the swift current of city We, fall off here near Nature's simplicities, like dead leaves, revealing mind and soul 'stripped to the sun. ;: I.am the Veritable woman now. lam at last tete-a-tete with my soul—my ego, creeping up and struggling through society's "submerging strata, reaches for light and growth in an atmosphere of Nature's freshness, free from the thraldom of that crushing, hypnotising, devouring dead weight of Ebola' Delight we dub Society. ... I hear you laugh, Helena, and I don't care. In chasing pleasure you can't catch contentment. For pleasure is an artificial stimuteb, manufactured, by man within city walls. Contentment is a flowering plant, nurtured from within the human soul, and it is not a question of locality. Wo take it with us where we go. Not so, this will-o'-the-wisp we call pleasure, which must have its appropriate locale, its encouraging environment, its stage-setting, its costumes, and its posturings. I'm away from the brass- band parade now, and I see the game outside the it's the glare that blinds. Yet, at first, the Contemplation interested me, and when, ' your big bundles of London pictorial papers came I felt like a country girl sitting in the stalls. The smart advertisements of gowns and millinery and lingerie fretted my vanity, and I felt the pangs of a dandy out of date. I'D. admit it took a few months to wear away such small conceits, but I feel now how fine a thing it is to rise superior to the newest cut in skirts and size of sleeves, the latest height of hats, the correct curve of collars— artifices ali: fresh toys for the frivolous, more money for the modistes. Heighol give mo my hens in preference— But I anticipate. . "

Apropos of fashion's foolish fluctuations, hsj*e you, observed that tbo women ' whe "'' do things," who, have ,a : pursuit, a profess* sion, a conscious occupation these women are garmented, not dressed or dolled'/ Look at the cook (if you're lucky enough to temporarily own one), the housemaid, the shop assistant, the trained nurse, and further up the scale, note the neatly tailored typewriter, the girl accountant, the business woman—-ave they.not garmented on the plan of usefulness, with simplicity of cut, durability of material, soberness of colour— tending to fit them sensibly for their work? No meaningless frills, no needless decoration, but skirt and blouse built on man-like lines of utility. The utility of beauty, too, for is it not becoming? What is more fetching than the black blouse and skirt, the white apron, cuffs, collar and cap of a housemaid? Isn't it Frencby. an artistic black and white sketch? I always yearned to wear it. ,

The fashionable woman advertises hex unfitness for useful work, and glories in it, too, I fancy.

You should see me, Helena, in my brief skirt, my simple blouse, and soft, untrimmed hat; and you would say I have wedded the useful to the beautiful, for it is highly becoming and so unliampering, giving me a sweet sense of freedom, a swinging independence of mere material that would irk cay truly rural tjpirit.

For lam truly, happily rural ; since I sloughed the things that enslave and achieved the things that elevate—the things that count in the currency of the soul. In reaching the simple realities of life, how much I had to discard! Along with the flipperies of fashion there fell the flipperies of its shadow-chasings, its daily inanities 5 away from the vortex, I found how poor, how pitifully poor. I was in resources; what a paucity of real, workable interests I suffered from! . . . The pursuit of pleasure and personal adornment had made up my occupation! (save the mark with a little aimless reading, a little fitful music, a little dilettante painting—the accomplishments, so-called, of a "nice" Englishwoman! Well, banished from London's preoccupations and temptations and time-killers, I cam* face to face with myftelf, face to face, real hard too, and 1 met—my empty hands!

Out in the open I wandered ; out of doors, under a sun and sky that saturated my soul. How I drank the ozone! how I breathed deep draughts of wine-like air! Out again in the silent night, under the stars that sang together, saying, "You arc part of all you behold."

Oh ! the scent of tho woods, the coolness of its shadows, the filigree greenness of its fern forests! Foiests, whole forests of tree ferns—think of it!—spreading their long, leafy fronds and clasping green entwining lingers. Underneath, in. damp shadows, nestle wild maidenhair, the young green sprays peeping through wild bracken and shrubs and fragrant grasses ; then along the moss-like turf of undulating hills to a modest murmuring stream—a dear, erratic, inconsequent feminine stream and there! Behold!

_ My ducks, my —geese, whose cackling ancestors saved Rome ; whose descendants, to-day, along with then hen-cousins, saved a jaded, idle, weak-lunged London girl. And how? I'll tell you in my next screed.