What a Waste!

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXV, Issue 23145, 17 September 1938, Page 8 (Supplement)

What a Waste!

C-|- LOVE to whis-tle 'cause it I makes me mer-ry, makes me feel so ve-ry—' " I broke off and did my best to whistle, rapidly up the scales. I scowled at the result. Never mind. " 'I love to yo-del ev-erywhere I go, Yo-del-lcy-ee, Yo —' what a waste \" I sighed heavily then looked up suddenly and beheld my Irish grandmother surveying me with disapproval. "What a waste, eh, me lass? An' what do ye mean by that? That you and your beautiful voice are wasted here in the wilds of this unappreciative, uncultivated little district?" Gran can bo very sarcastic at times. "Oh no," I said airily, "I was just thinking what a waste of a lovely day it is." Gran looked at me suspiciously, and departed. Left to myself I had a sudden wonderful idea. Gran had put it into my mind. I made a mental and not very modest

r i On the Ma-Veli

! The bamboos sway, o'er the cooling j : spray, I | On the Ma-veli; i Frail na-leaves fall With a lisping : call | On the Ma-veli; ( j A liquid note from a Wild bird's : throat ! Woos the silent air; ] The Waters purl, the na-blooms curl j In their petals fair; j The new moon shines; on the forest j pines \ Lurks a silver light; j 'Gainst bamboo frond, o'er a nelum j pond, \ In the silver night. j A whisper sighs to the gold fireflies j On the Ma-veli— j A Peace serene I with a sigh between j 4 On the Ma-veli. j j —Original by Sumana Cooray (17). I Ceylon : •Ma-veli—a beautiful river in Ceylon, j nil mv iroT-iniic npi-rimnTislim r>nts

note of all my various accompnsnmenLs and virtues, and fishing in my top blazer pocket brought forth a small mirror two inches by three, and proceeded to study my face. "No, you're not bad looking," I said at last to one-third of my reflection. "In fact at times one might, with a little stretch of imagination, call you pretty I You have nice teeth and real Irish black curls." Now let me think; what else? Perhaps I had hotter mention that I have been sitting on the top of the gate sinc& the story began and the time is now — Bother, my watch has stopped. The time is about twenty past. (Don't nsk me past what, 'cause I've no idea.) . I peered closer into the mirror, trying to decide whether I could without gross exaggeration say mj' complexion had a petal-like texture. I looked up suddenly and saw two old Maoris sitting motionless on their ponies, watching me with undisguised curiosity. The gate I was sitting on wasn't a chain from the road. 1 felt extremely ridiculous, and pocketing the mirror defiantly, said haughtily: "Well, what are you staring at? Whereupon tliey jabbered to each other in Maori, and guffawing loudly, kicked their ponies 111 the ribs and ambled on. I scowled. Ideally, one

—By Vic. C. Fussell: (19), Original

couldn't get any privacy! It didn t occur to me that one doesn't usually look for privacy by sitting on the front gate. To get on with the screen-test. Voice —I have an extremely clear and flute-like voice like—Galii Curci—ahem —perhaps that is aiming a bit too high. I have an extremely clear and flute-like voice just like —a flute. That's better. Now about personality. Here I paused considerably (not being at all sure what personality is exactly). I'll leave that bit out. They can see for them-

selves anyway. I ieit suuuenij m iuj right hand pocket. Perhaps 1 hud, by chance left just one small caramel in the bag. I pulled the bag out, very crumpled and sticky and put niv fingers hopefully into the corners. No luck. Not that I expected to find any, knowing myself. _ I s'pose I will have to go in and set the table for lunch soon, 1 thought. 1 contemplated the toe of my sandal. I have a very nice speaking voice (or so l'vo been told), a sunny nature, liere I thought guiltily of the times Gran has scolded me for having a "face

as long as a fiddle, me lass, and what's up with ye now?" And I don't pull horrible faces when I sing. Although 1 can't truthfully say that I look as lovely as Deanna Durbin does when she sings. It would bo exasperating if, when I presented myself at Hollywood they said: "Oh, hard luck, my dear young lady, you are just too late. If you'd come before Deanna Durbin now —" I should be very annoyed, of course, still it would be nice to know that if Deanna Durbin hadn't existed 1 might be in her shoes. "Faith!" called Gran, and I all but fell off the gate. "Ye don't mean to tell me that ye are still sitting mooning on that gate, me lass! You're up to no good I'll be bound." "Isn't it a perfect day. Grannie darling," 1 said smiling angelically at her, "shall I go for a ride, do you think?" "1 think ye might as well. It might keep you out of mischief, and your horse is fair galloping his legs off for want of something to do." I suddenly lost interest in the screentest, as craning my neck, I peered oyer the hedge and saw Patrick careering madly round the paddock —tail out and mane streaming. "The darling," I muttered, watching his beautiful action as he flew across the rough ground taking the wide drain in his stride. I started to get down from the gate. I'd just tear in and get the bridle and go for an exhilarating gallop. Then a thought struck me. I wonder if Deanna Durbin can ride? If not, I'm one upl I would say to the conductor —the director —er —the producer — "And besides all that, Sir, I mean my Lord, ahem —your Honor —" What do you call them anyway? I'd say: "And besides all that, my dear fellow, I can ride like — You should just see mo ride! "If you've got a buckaroo handy—you haven't? That's good—l mean — oh well, never mind. I can jump fences and water-jumps sitting side-saddle on an a-stride saddle" (that will be a bit of a tongue-twister if I'm excited) "and I can mount and dismount going at full canter. I can play polo with a golf stick and a tennis ball and—" "Faith!" This time I did fall off the gate.