HALF-MOON STREET

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXX, Issue 21520, 17 June 1933, Page 4 (Supplement)

HALF-MOON STREET

BY LAURETTA MAUD WILLOUGHBY

This evening I walked down Half Moon Street. • You have never heard of Half-Moon Street? Weil nor had I until I came to London. Nor had I heard of Pudding Lane, Bride Street, or Broomhouse Road, Child's Hill or Cherry-tree Alley, Milk Street or Threadneedle Lane—no not one of them. As I walked down Half-Moon Street the day was fading out of the sky and lights began to show through the narrow windows of the tall brick houses, and the iron railings all pearled with rain begun to twinkle. A long grey cat walked silently ahead as though showing me the way. Every now and then it turned its head and opening its mouth, made a little whispering noise like a smothered yawn. " A witch's cat no doubt," I thought, dreamily following. A lamplighter crossed the road with a long pole in his hands, and touching the lamps with his wand, strung a thread of pearls in the air. An old woman in a red shawl shambled along the street carrying an armful of roses. " Lovelv white roses " she called, " one penny for a lovely white rose." " 6h!" I exclaimed " Only a penny," and she held them out eagerly. " Yes, my dear, and freshly picked this morning." I chose two red ones, almost black in the half-light—it was then I enquired about the witches.

Sho looked at me keenly, closely with her sharp eyes. " You can't tell me," I went on, " that a street with name like HalfMoon hasn't any witches; come give me a little inkling whore a witch lives and I will buy one more rose—yes I will buy all your roses and then you can go home "and put your toes up—there! —think how nice that would be." She smiled. " You see that house away back in the shadows," she said slowly. " Well once a witch lived there. Oh yes, my dear, stairs were found up the chimneys, and cupboards, let in the wall, all full of broomsticks, and little secret drawers full of shells and I don't know what else besides. And slippers! She must have had a mania for collecting slippers—everywhere—the kitchen dresser, in the flour bin, on the pantry shelves, on the floor, everywhere you looked, shoes; lovely shoes. I've heard they were, some scarcely worn at all. little bright satin ones, gay little red ones with pointed toes, black ones with" shining buckles, dainty silver ones with narrow straps of jewels—there were no two pairs alike and there must have been a hundred. But we all have our little whims and fancies. I knew a witch once, who every autumn, went about with a huge sack, gathering up the leaves—she couldn't bear to leave them shivering in the cold to be blown to goodness knows where by the wind so sho would take them home to her attic. Ah yes my dear, and there was Katy Gullv. Katy Gully lived in Broomhou.se Road—folks said she'd come to a bad end, so daring she was, ridiug a broomstick in the broad daylight and making charms under tho policeman's very noses as it were—she had long red hair, a head of hair dearie, that most would have taken a pride in, but not she, she nover put a brush to it —well perhaps at Christmas, but I wouldn't vouch for it. Sing, though— ah to hear her sing —her voice would have married her to a king. There's no doubt it would, but sho wouldn't wait my dear, she got impatient like, and married a baker, —a baker'—threw herself away, simply threw—" " But if—if she was happy," I ventured to say, but she snapped her fingers at me. "Happy!" she sniffed "happy she was till she tired of his jam tarts and his muffins and his sugared doughnuts and then 6ho changed nim into a coalscuttle—oh ves she did dearie, she was sorry afterwards, but it was too late, then But there nre kindly witches. I've seen a witch no matter what weather, gfct out her broomstick to take a fallen star back to the sky—oh yes they N are kind at heart; and who makes tho warm little shoes for the pigeons in the winter time?" She looked at me quostioningly. " I don't know," I admitted " You see I am a stranger here. I —" " Tho witches," sho said. " The witches my dear, out of their own red flannelette potticoats and the sleeves of their flannelette nightgowns—there's not a squirrel in Kensington Gardens that sleeps without a bed jacket. No, my dear, not one—nor without little bed socks neither." A barrel organ commenced to play an odd little tune. " Well, said she, " I must be getting along." She looked back at the roses.' " I'd put their stalks in warm water when you get them home I would," she said. " Good-night dearie."