A CHAT ON BOOKS.

Otago Witness, Issue 2467, 26 June 1901, Page 66

A CHAT ON BOOKS.

llio.^-e of my venders aalio have read ancT en|oyed "Klizdbeth's German. Garden" and. U A Ro'il.u-y Summer"' may perhaps like to know of a new book by the same autho-re-s: a. book A\hi:h constitutes an ideal present for some dear little maid's birthday or Christmas gift. " The April Baby's Bcok of Tunes"' is r. charming collection of the de a' old nur-ery lhymes, set to mu^ic and. moveover, delightfully illustrated by K?te Groenaway : ihe letterpress being by the authoress of "Elizabeth's German, Garden." "Torn Rails," by Allar Raine, is another of those Welsh tales, of which our lengthy chat over "A Welsh Singer" would give yon an idea of the scope and natural beauty. In '"Torn Sails" the atmosphere is even more exclusively Wehh, the whole simple story evolving itself from the village chronicles of the little fishing and sailmaking community of My. ntseison. One absolutely longs to ramble, sketchbook in hand, down that "rocky, road passing through it down to the shore, in. an independent sort of way, as if rather disclaiming any connection with the cottages following its course ; to follow the noisy, little river foaming its way down from the moors above, to the green waters of Cardigan Bay. "In the narrow valley or ' cum' through which the little streamlet ran the whole village lay. It" looked like nothing more than a cluster of white shells left by the storm in a chink of the rocks."' The banks ot the Gwendraeth, as it ran through the village, were the centre of interest and attraction, the common rendezvous for all sorts of domestic operations. On its banks the household washing was carried on, fires being lighted here and there, on Avhich the water was boiled in large brass pans. There Avas much chattering and laughter, varied sometimes by hymn-singing in chorus, so that "washing day" at Mwntseison was a holiday rather than a day of toil. Here the sheep from the moors above were washed once a year, with much calling and shouting and barking of dogs. The barefooted boys and girls paddled and sailed their boats in its clear waters in the summer evenings ; and here when the storms of winter made the little harbour unsafe, the fishing boats were hauled up together ; here, too, the nets were washed ; and here every day the willow baskets full of vegetables were brought down to be rinsed before they were flung into the crock of boiling water and oatmeal which hung from every chimney at the hour of noon, vegetables being the principal ingredients in the appetising "cawl"' (soup) that spread its savoury aroma through the whole village. "At the end of the village nearest the sea, and not far from the top of the sliff stood a large wooden building, ... and in and out of its aa ide-open doois there was always somebody passing. Within its boarded walls was carried on the thriving business of sail-making, which gave employment and comfort to almost every household in the village. Hard by in a cleft of the great hillside stood the house of the master, Hugh Morgan, "Mishteer/' as he was called, for he was the owner of more than half of Mwntseison. Hugh Morgan's is, as far as may be, a perfect character. Kindly, genial, firm, and of great governing qualities, he is indeed an uncrowned king among the people. Ivor Parry, his foreman, is also his closest friend — the bond of love and trust between the two men, despite the great disparity in their ages, is like -the, friendship of David and Jonathan, -^surpassing the love of women." Yet a woman, fair as she is good and sweet, wrecks it ! Ivor Parry had long loved Gladys Price, the sweetest, gentlest girl in the village, yet puts oft" the declaration of lii» love — why, is not quite clear. Gladys, unrealised, unconsidered by herself, loves him. Upon this .sweet peace of brooding, undeclared love breaks the .announcement of Hugh Morgan's love for Gladys, and Ivor's sudden departure to take a new situation — for who is he to interfere with the hopes of the nun who has been his benefactoi and truest friend through all his life? Hugh Morgan's suit is warmly upheld by old Xani Price — Ivor- has gone, nor had he nvei declared his love : Gladys marries '"the Mishteer." Throughout the simple story luns the dark thread of the malign influence of a ceitain Gavpii Owen, whose cffoits to win Ivoi Pdiry's love am. re \ain. Gwen's grandmothej had been a witch, and if GAven heiself is not one, it is not for want of avill ! Xothmg could be nearer to her distorted idea' of happiness* than the malign poAver oi a. A\itch — ah, what dear ieA T enges would lie Avithin her grasp! If Gwen i« the evil influence of the village. Mali Vone j« its good angel. A woman whose mature beauty still far Mnpas«es the charm of eA-en Ghidy> herself. Man had been the love of Hugh Moigan'b youth, and lost him chiough a foolish quarrel which both w ere too proud to make up." The moment'? pride and folly aie repented in years of love and regret, yet Avhen Hugh: marries, his young v. if e has no firmer friend than Man Vone. Tilings seem to go but poorly in ther sailmaking shed after Ivor's departure — Hugh, though happy in his marnage, feels an unaccountable sense of loss. Gladys, so gay and blight of old, is quiet and pale. Hugh writes, imploring Ivor to return and resume his old position, to Avhich Ivor (mistaking his thought) accedes-. Gladys.? heart sink* A\itliin her. Meantime Gweh

ing. They must appeal to every reader, I think, because of their simplicity, and the aspects of every-day, commonplace life which they touch ; and they must ennoble every reader because of the steadfast faith, the pure devotion, which inspires them. Their lesson is the lesson we all can preach, and few can practise — to lift the real life to the ideal, in all we most rebel against to find our discipline, in everything that claims our labour and sui rounds our lives — to " find naught common on this earth."

Two other books by the same writer are " The Everyday of Life," which is a great favourite of mine, and " Silent Times," the most beautiful of the three, I think. Every busy worker knows the ineffable peace of that hour or half hour of silence — the very words "Silent Times" breathe their beni.son. The ceaseless whirr of the machinery stilled for a little time — the strange echoing emptiness that for a few moments pains with its unaccustomed void — the silence that rings loudei than sound — and then the adju.stment, the gentle, thankful letting oneself go on that sea of silence and rest — is not this peace?* But to return to Dr Miller's books — for some of you may like to .send for them, especially when I tell you that they are so beautifully bound in a delicate pale blue and gold as'to fit them to be gift books. They are all to be had at the Bible Depot, Princes street. EMMELIXE.