COSY CORNER CLUB.

Otago Witness, Issue 2516, 4 June 1902, Page 60

COSY CORNER CLUB.

FOURTH SLSSION.— FIRST MEETING. TOPIC Members' met ting. At these meetings it is customary foi members to choose their own topic, sending an etsay, sketch, verses, or quotation, not exceeding about 300 words, on tha topic chosen. My Dear Comrades, — It is with sincere pleasure that I welcome you to the first meeting of our club's fourth session. I join my hearty wishes for a successful and interesting session to yours, and confidently remind you that success lies with, yourselves in the efforts you make to support me. I tiust the really excellent work of the club last session may be even excelled iii the present session. Many of our old members are absent to-day, to my great regret. I a>-k your kindliest thoughts and sympathies for * Lex," Avho is too deeply and recently bereaved by one most dear to join us. The knowledge that on this day we think of him with silent sympathy will have its solace. " Eve," unable to be present, and afraid that the whole .session may still find her place vacant, regrets it as deeply as we shall do. " Sweetbriar " will surely think of u;s as we do of her. I mis>s her neat handwriting and cheerful, kindly greeting. THE DREAM OF THE DAFFODILS. There is a garden walled on either hand by mist. In it a busy host of gardeners, foresters, and florists, some sowing, others reaping, each striving that the blossoms of next spring may be more beautiful than those of this. While many are engaged beautifying the landscape, making Nature proud of itself, one take 3 an ungainly-looking root and places it m the soil, and while the other gardeners are dreaming of magnificent scenery end mighty forests, his is the dream of the Daffodils. What a host of dreamers 1 What a multitude of dreams! From, the ruler planning the glories of an Empire to the gentle mother who, from amongst the flowers that the Lord hath given, her, cherishes the frailest and spends all the latent power of love on those who Beem to deserve it least. This is the wonder of it: we understand soldiers admiring Wellington, or scholars worshipping such foresters of thought ps Tennjson and Shakespeare. But this little plot — so hidden, so primitive! Yet look oinfcftr^ tiio gaxtUncr aceiids all his. time berej

its sunshine is the smiles of Heaven, its moisture is tears. This is the home of the Daffodil. Truly this is a strange 'garden. What an array of favourites it has! On© peeps in it for the dark, Egyptian rose; mother for the violet bed; we, who have culled of the myrtle and jasmine, find our aister amongst the tiger lilies, and, straying among its paths, we meet our little sister laden with the blossom of the fragrant wallflower; so on, through many other walks. We take our stand in the vast library, you with a copy of "Maud," we will say, book-marked at the bewitching song of the mad lover, I with the companion of my dreams , and wa watch the host of spirit fingers seeking its myriad shelves. Each volume claims at least one loving memory, whilst some claim many — labour and rest, laughter and tears; science, art, romance — not one sentence in the wistful garden of knowledge but claims to tiave reached one breast and taken from it the blossom of remembrance. Shall we go farther to-day? The garden is wide and long, the mist is banked up on ei'-her horizon, and the night birds are I calling in the forest. Lot us rather seek rest in the garden of the Daffodil. Lo! the budding time has come. The Daffodil has dreamed, and its dream is true. The ungainly seed has become a beautiful flower. The mist is dispelled — the time of watching is over. He who tended the golden narcissus is the king of the forest, a-id he has I borne the seed away that it may blossom in the breath of a diviner spring. This is the dream of the Daffodil. BOY FRIEND. There is much to unravel in the dainty dream you have- given us, Boy Friend. We shall read and reread and interpret each by the light of our own soul — come back again, perchance, some far-off day, and find yet another dream — of life — fresh adorned here. It seems the sweetest way of drawing close to the daffodil and its dream to quote those line? , of quaint old Herrick, for some of you may ; not have them at hand. TO DAFFODILS. Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon ; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attained his noon. Stay, stay, Until thf> hast-ing day Has run — But to the evensong, And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay as you, We hava as short a spring, As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or anything. We die, As your hours do, and dry A-.vay Like to the summer's rain. Or as the pearls of morning dew, Ne'er to be found again. Dear Emmdino,— The trials of the "crow" begin early— as early as 5 o'clock, when the alarm, -with most startling fury, introduces a now clay. The crow dresses and, still half 1 asleep, enters tha kitchen, -where he is the ' butt for the funny remarks of "the men." At I the first signs of sunrise he is hastily invited ; to "come out and see the sky — sucn a beauj tiful amber. To the crow it looks very like 1 yellow, but he is not greatly interested in . colours — just sufficiently interested to satisfy himself that the day is likely to be fine and nis work easier in consequence. The crow belongs exclusively to the stacker, whose position is one of great responsibility. A good stacker is not infrequently very irritable, especially on a windy .day, when straws, grain, and dust blow into his face and eyes, and the butt ends of the sheaves blow up when they are placed beside him — then ii is the troubles of the row are by no means imaginary. Even on a fine day he must be careful to drop tha sheaves at j exactly the right angle and at exactly the right moment, and must on no account neglect to call out "Thistle" when one of those emble- . matic, though unwelcome, plants are to be I found in a sheaf. Crowing is work that requires close attention, and is very irksome. | the men who. bring in the sheaves can do much towards helping the crow, and the more thoughtful ones do so by throwing the sheaves m an easy position on the stack. As a rule r the morning passes pleasantly enough. The stacker and teamster discuss, I though scrappily, all the topics of the day, and their opinions are candidly expressed. The interval for dinner is a change welcomed |by all. The crow has grown tired and the stacker silent. After dinner the sun beats down pitilessly, and sandflies buzz round in thousands. There is no sound save the swish, swish, of the sheaves and, occasionally, far down the paddock, an authoritative "Whoa-ah!" Evidently the horses do nob whoa, for a persuasive "Whoa, ■now," floats up to the stack, followed by an indignant "You would, would you?" Then there is a steady thud, thud of the horses pulling up the hill. Occasionally there is an er.cited shout and a yelping of dogs. The crow looks with longing eyes in the direction of the noise, which signifies a chase after a rat. A 1 faint squeak tells of the death of that animal. The mountains, faint through a blue haze, gradually stand out clearly, and the shadows i fall dark and deep. The sky at sun-set takes 1 on those glorious tints seen only in an autumn sky, gradually they fade away, the stars look down cold and silent, while the crow, with a weary sigh, climbs down the ladder and makes his way home. The creek, flowing dark and quiet between the flax bushes, seems to the crow in keeping with his feelings, and he takes that path iii preference to. stumbling over the turnip field. The wind, in a sudden gust, rustles eerily through the bush, and almost unconsciously tho crow's steps hasten on through the scrub — a. sombre walk, surely, with occasional ghostly skeletons of trees standing on guard by the path — under the poplars, rustling fretfully, through the garden with its death-like stillness and breath of decaying leaves, and so on to the kitchen, where the crow finds his troubles aie over for one day. TAFFY. Thank you, Taffy, for your graphic little outline of the crow and his day's work. You have taught me something 1 did not know before, and I "kidded myself, as the boys say, on knowing all the argot of farm and station life. How puzzled I was as I began your paper. What crow could it be? I thought of "the Crow" in that terrible, haunting "Term of His Natural Life"— of the inimitable "Jackdaw of Rheimg," who, repentant and reformed, ■wa3 at death "canonised— by the name of Jim Crow." But your crow is far more interesting, Tatty; he is ao real : I can hear the tinkle of the stream beneath the flax bushes and the "fretful 1 rustling" of the poplars; there is a tone of 1 weariness and sadness about the crow's home- ' ward walk. I hope the kitchen is not only bright and cheerful, but that smiles and warm welcomes await him there. You have begun the session well. I hope we tliall often see jou. Dsar Emmehue,— lf any land compels respect for the influence that it has exercised 1 on the -world at large, that land is surely Italy, the homo of poets. Aliens, many of them, yet quickened and brought together by the blight years given to that little bluerimmed peninsula in the Mediterranean. Tell off, then, just a few of the great who owe so I much U* hau Xa .Yftcioe ewes. Bvukuu a.

f prose poet if there ever was one; enthusiastic, i exact, grasping each, salient point with the ' promptitude of genius. What did "The Stones of Venice" not teach to him and, through him, to the world. Snuffy, stolid Sam Rogers becomes a bird-song of recurrent melody when he tells us of "the glorious oity in tho sea-, or pictures us tile gorgeous palaces of Modena, -with the orang* and scented myrtle a-bloom in the sunshine, and the peacocks that plumed on the long stone terraces. Watch them go by— the world's posts— dead. (xqldsmith, the excitable young student, coming again to receive his honours at Padua; Walter Savage Landor; Dante Rossetti, poet ana painter; Milton, in his young conceit, making immortal verses; Shelley, smoothfaced, simply earnest, and very tender to his kind, with ma pure-flamed, lonely genius refined andfosteredl among tho silent pine woods of Gomibo; the eager, long-haired German Goethe; Byron — Byron, the wilful and embittered, striking the strange, wild keynote of his verse from the quivering beauty and lost glory of Italy; telling ruthlessly of "Venice, lost and won, of her palaces that crumble to the shore, and of the slimy weed that trails the marble steps; I mourning bitterly by Shelley's funeral pyre j on the yellow sands of the blue Ligurian sea— j and making copy of it all. Italy had nothing but hopelessness to give that other boy-poet, Keats. He died alone at Naples, hearing the very beggars sing cantos of ''Tarso" in noisy, hot streets, and unknowing that at Rome the writers of "Prometheus Unbound" and of "Endymion" should lie in dual immortality. Macaulay goes' through Italy like a fresh lifegiving breeze; stirring the dead bones until they rise and clatter down the old ways of Tusculum with that nerve- tingling virility which has made Horatius and Lars Porsena great beyond the dimming of time. The . Marble Fawn on the Capitoline Hill gave of its quaint race to Nathaniel Hatrthorne, and l . tha bare-footed friars who sing their vespers in- its shade link memories, swift and elusive, of Brutus, Scipio, and Tacitus with the hum. oF wheals through the busy streets of to-day. Would "Pippa Passes" and all the delicatefancies that Browning wove fiom the silkwinding industries of "delicious Asola" have ever come to being in another and a sterner -land than Italy? The rich glowing pen-paint-ings of Mrs Browning are her love-offerings to the beautiful Arno, where it flows through white-i'obed Florence down tho garden wnys to Spezzia; and Mrs Hemans's delicate verse takes more bodiment and clarity when s»he snigs of Italy. But Italy can count herself blessed in the poet 3of her own land. Virgil, greatest and well-nigh earliest of epic poets, sleeps by the sounding Neapolitan sea that he loved so well. Horace, Livy, Pliny, Tasso, and unnumbered writers more once made holiday on that white shore; — the nebula of classic. Italy. Petrarch, perhaps the world's first poet laureate, wrote here in 137 B.C. for the laurel and for Laura. Macchiavelli and Leonardi di Vinci, the prosperous and brilliant, are yet unforgotten, but it was the torn tragedy of Dante's life that brought him through bitter pain and tribulation to the height of tbo "Divina Commedia,*' virile and vivid still, though the bones of the author have crumbled to dust near 700 years ago. But one man, poor and rugged, whose influence has gone out into the world farther than we know, stands iv the forefront of them all. From out of the dust of the Appian Way he first saw that Rome to which he -was to teach Christianity, and his name is St. Paul. Poet, preacher, and prophet, he at once ennobles poetry, and that l>oet-land, which is — Italy. TED. Thank you, Ted, for the gem of our meeting. A splendid theme, most vividly handled. Some day, dear, when your name is well and widely known, and shrined in the great everyday world, lie 3 your own dear world of readers and listeners — you will take out these old! Cosy Corner contributions — yeddowing fast with lime — and give a. smile and a sigh to the dear o!d companions of the way. Dear Emmeline, — Having observed that a. number of the C.C. Club are great admirers of Gordon's poems, I think I will devote a, short paper to him and his work. Here is a poem to his memory which I found in the Witness some time ago: "Ah, lone shade of Lindsay Gordon, Dost thou wander, weeping, where The melancholy breakers smoke and boom? Art thou bowed before thy Maker in some deep, unspoken prayer, Or lost in gulfs of everlasting gloom? Did no kindred spirit greet thee in those old colonial days? Did no sweet fellow give thee gladsome hale? Did they leave their singer, sobbing, down by j blue unbounded bays, [ Till utter desperation did prevail? "Thou wert morbid, pessimistic, thou didst perish in thy prime, I An leave with meaner lives the bitter load, Ah, who will follow after with sublimities of rhyme. And point to Southern bards the braver road?" I will not quote the last verse, but I think that these are beautiful lines, and very suitable to the memory of Lindsay Gordon. When I read tho "Roll of the Kettledrum," I could not help thinking what a splendid soldier he would have been had he chosen the army as his profession. While in "Bush Ballads" and "Galloping Rhymes " one cannot get rid of the idea that a whole-souled jockey must have written them. That love for horses and adventure pervades the whole book, and yet how morbid he was! Take "The Sick Stockrider" — how in reminding his old comrade of their past life adventures and their reckless comrades, most of whom have already passed away, he sums all up by saying that their life, though. hard, was a merry one, and the chances were that they went where most men go. One cannot but feel sorry at his sad end, .and yet we have tho feeling that his talents' were in a great measure wasted. But there are very few who have his poems and do not honestly admire them. I have reached the limit of space allowed us, and so must close. CLARE. Yes, Clare, I am sure you have many sympathisers m your admiration for poor Gordon's work, and it appeals doubly to those who love an outdoor life, and know intimately the joyu of riding and the friendship of horses'. The thought of Lindsay Gordon is always a sad one — one's heart naturally goes out to the prodigal ; yet these wasted lives, whose lifeblood waters the dreary desert of Failure, are too sad. All the pluck and daring, all the physical coutage in the world are powerless to save a man from himself. He wants moral courage there. A message for you in the Postbag. Dear Emmeline, — Just at the present time, while a strong wave of patriotism is flooding our hearts and minds in New Zealand, I think a few words abouc our soldiers' graves will not be out of place. When I say "our soldiers' graves," I am not referring to the graves of the many gallant men of New Zealand who have died in South. Africa by fever and the enemy's bullets, but to the graves of the brave soldiers who fell m the early Maori wars, and whose graves doi the country aide in many parts of the North. Island, uncared for and neglected, a standing; disgrace to the colony and to the Bettlera whose homes and hearths they fought and died for. I have visited several of these poos fellows' graves in Taranaki. They are veiyj badly, fejwed around, if fenced. *t fell. A. cams*

ing ground for sheep and cattle, or overgrown with, grass, fern, ana gorse. Rude slabs of wood, with the names roughly cult out, and now nearly obliterated by the action of sun and rain, lie prone and rotting in many cases in rank grass. And my heart is filled with the pity of it. I have visited, too, the sites of several of the old Maori and European, forts, and walked over the field of many a battle. The trenches, the embankments, are still to be seen, and the rifle pita that held some point of vantage — the face of a hill or a river's bank. These men were no less brave than our own of the present day. They were British soldiers, and the hardships they encountered no one will dispute. A wild, unsettled country ; no transports, no roads, no railways, no telegraph stations ; cut off almost entirely from communication with the outside world. They fought and were killed in battle, upholding the British .Flag, and we let them lie in ignoble graves. It seems almost incredible that we in this good land should so treat a British soldier. It is only a few months ago all New Zealand did its best to show fitting honour to one of Britain's greatest generals, Sir Hector Macdonald, and while we honoured the living general, we dishonoured and forgot the men who had formed a part of that great army Sir Hector Macdonald represented. I feel ashamed when I think of this great blot on our patriotism. "Who is to blame? Is it not the duty of the colony at large to see that these military cemeteries are securely fenced and cared for, and fitting monuments erected. Yesterday I stood in one of these uncared-for graveyards, near the mouth of the TVaiongora Hiver. Some 20 men lie buried there and one little lad (the bugler, I was told). Roughly cut on wooden slabs were the names and ages, the date and name of the engagement where they were killed, and the same of the regiment to whjch each belonged. .Except for these slabs of wood, there is nothing to show that a Christian soldier lies buried there. The graves* 'are overgrown with grass and gorse, and sheep and cattle roam over them at will. The greatest love, we are taught, is that of the man who lays down his life for his friend. These soldiers did more. They laid down their lives for the welfare of a whole country. By the sacrifice of their lives they helped to make New Zealand what it is to-day — a peaceful, happy country, both for Maoris and Europeans. And New Zealand denies them a fitting resting place! C. N. W. Your theme is indeed one which should appeal to every generous impulse of a young nation. I, too, when in Taranaki, have been struck ■with the same cold oblivion whose thanklessness has left these graves to ruin and neglect. That i 3, however, many years ago, before the •war in South Africa and the great wave of Imperialism had roused us to a new phase of our young national life. The patriotism (genuine and jingo) which now is the popular pulse beat was then slumbering, and the militarism which threatens to become a curse unforseen. Those to whom I spoke listened with polite indifference, merely agreeing that "something, of course, should be done" — or, "Of course it really lies with the Government." Dear Emmeline, — May the new session of the Cosy Corner Club be a most happy and prosperous one for each and every member .(president included, of course) is the sincere wish of Lois. As my contribution to the members' meeting I send my early recollections of a garden in Queensland — an earthly Paradise to me in childhood's days. It was of goodly size, and very charmingly situated on a little plain at the foot of high, wooded hills. In one direction the sombre Australian bush stretched nearly up to the fence, the tall b'.uegums reminding one of Bentinels at their post of duty. Our house stood near one corner of the garden, and was built on high piles, with a flight of steps leading up to the verandah. I well remember the cummer-house — a rustic building covered •with a. climbing plant bearing gorgeous purple blossoms. Here, even on the hottest day, it was possible to find shade and a certain degree of comfortable coolness. As we lived almost directly under the Tropic of Capricorn, you can imagine how fierce were the - lays Old Sol poured down on our devoted heads at times. The range of hills I mentioned before lay to the east, and thus absorbed much of the moisture from the sea breezes. This fact rendered irrigation needful to a large extent in tho garden, where the luxuriance of ilowct and fruit bore witness to the fertility of the 'soil. The names of the flowers I do not remember with any certainty, but I can still recall their vivid colouring and brilliant beauty. The fruits — tropical for the most part — included grapes, bananas, oranges, lemons, melons, pomegranates, figs, citrons, pineapples, and passion-fru.t. Apples grew abundantly, but, although of most tempting appearance, were very disappointing to the palate. However, the oranges made full amends for this, being of a most delicious flavoui — quite beyond comparison with the orange as we are acquainted with it in New Zealand. The tsugar-cane, tea, coffee, and tobacco plants also flourished in this favoured spot, the coffee-tree looking especially well when covered with its bright red barries. The yam or sweet potato replaced tho homely tuber of colder climates. Opossums were responsible at times for a great deal of damage, and on moonlight nights great excitement was caused by parties going 'possum-hunting in the neighbouring bush. Some South Sea Island natives were usually included in the expeditions, as, on account of their keen sight, they were able very readily tc detect the grey-furred little robbers pniong the pale-greenish leaves of the gum tiec3. Now I will conc'utlc, as I do not, vi-h to fall under the ban of your displeasuie, dear Emmeline, by sending too lengthy an epistle. LOIS. What a charming place, Lois! Have 'you not often dreamt of it and longed for it > Especially I should fancy tho memory of its tropical luxuriance would appeal to you m your last place of residence. Did it not, dear Lois? That dot upon, the hill-bounded plain always seems to me like an embodied disappointment: it meant to be so much, aud all it stands for to the traveller is — a cup of tea ! Listen ! Can you not hear the regular, comfortable breathing of the old lady as she serves it ' Dear Emmeline, — The Discovery lav alongside the wharf— rcKtung, after her four months' voyage, for the longer and mere eventful one to come. The first thing that struck me was the fcbsence of poitholes, but when we reached the deck, there they were, flat upon it , because, as our guide explained, " if they had been in the usual place the .cc might poke its nose through." No fanciful craft is this sturdy, broad, and short — built -for the work she is to undertake, and built with much understanding and little thought of beauty. Reliable she certainly - looks, but not elegant ; comfort has been aimed at, and itjias been attained. The long wardroom looked very cosy as we entered. The fireplace at the farther end spoke of the long nights when the explorers wou'd gather round the fire-glow, while the pianola and piano gave then- -;isic, and from the walls the faces of the {oh the Moth?rland greeted them. The King a; ' i-neen, from autographed portraits, observe the doings of their pioneers ; the iace' of the explorer Ross looks down on ikit lane table m he fetaft jyiU* th* Diacoveiy

to-day the track he took long ago in the flesh ; and the sole survivor of that expedition — a hale old man, who wished them well ere they left England — smiles on them from an autograph portrait beside his one-time leader. Books are everywhere, the library being scattered to any comer where there is room for a few volumes. Small though the cabins are, they are fitted so well, and space so economised that they do not seem small — only snug. And oh, the warmth of the clothes for the southern seas! The bulky camel-hair tunics, delightfully soft and light, but marvellously warm ; the helmets that button down over chin and nose, with just the necessary airholes ; tho wool-lined gloves — all make one feel, to look at them, that it would be impossible to be cold. And yet everywhere are reminders^ of the freezing temperature the Discovery is about to visit. The floats of the nets are all made of glass balls — because, our guide remarked, wood or cork would freeze solid, then probably sink. Long tanks stretch the length of the engine room, which are to be filled with snow and ice, and, after the kindly warmth has melted it, will flow along pipes to the cabins and wardroom for drinking purposes. All the stationery and many other things are marked with the Discovery's crest, the chief feature of which is a penguin — "For," we were cheerfully told, "if we are lost, and the next expedition finds any traces, anything that helps to identify us will be of interest." But the thought of harm seems to trouble them not at all, and this small band of men reck little of the hardships and isolation that will bs their lot, only counting themselves fortunate in being chosen to take part in the pxploring of new lands, and laughing at the danger, or counting it an added inducement — as Englishmen always have done since the world knew them. And when they cease to do so the world will know them no more. GNIB. Your topic is ore of great interest to me, Gnib, for "thc-y that go down to the sea in ships" are always much in my thoughts — and eyes. My own impression of the suitability and capability of the Discovery to face those terrific storms of the Antarctic regions is a sad one — built up, I confess, on the reports in our own press, supplemented Vv-ith the letters from members of the expedition which appeared in tho English papers. Then, too, I had just been reading Borchgrevink's book, and was impressed with the blind fury of those storms which descend from Erebus and Terror. I was so thankful to see that Sir Clements Markham's appeal has been responded to, and the relief ship provided for. Dear Emmelnie, — What are we living for? Not the vanities, the making of a great show, gathering flattery here and attention there from anyone who chances to be at that particular moment a fellow passenger in this wonderful caravan of life. But this is worth living for . to ba a woman who is slowly but surely lifting herself up above the common, everyday standards ; to learn to speak because you think, and because you have something timely, bright, and cheery to say, not because you think the air is calm, and a few good voice vibrations might stir it up. To be good and honest always, not for anybody's sake, but for the reason greatest of all — for the sake of having a clear, clean, beautiful conscience. To know refinement of speech, action, belief, opinion, and thought; and to learn something each day, gathering as we go a small collection of the world's wisdom, agreeing with ourselves that what we have learned is but a drop or two out of a sea of learning. To be kind and sweet and charitable, for it is in these things tliat one finds the only rewards for all the cares, suffering, tired nerves, and heavy spirits. To be loved, not because you aie beautiful or stately, but because you are worthy of deepest regard and because you are good and dear, and filled with human sympathy. To be impulsive when the impulses are good ones, to be cautious when they are not good ones, is wise, I think. OLIVIA. I am sure your idea of what to live for and how to live, Olivia, is a wise and noble one— and I think, perhaps, you would be quite surprised to know bow many of the correspondents who form my great company of unknown friends live their lives by this high standard, m silence. I frankly confess that many a time, in reading the simple and unaffected letters of those who honour me with their confidence, claim my sympathy, or ask my fuendly counsel, I feel abashed to think how much nobler, wiser, and sweeter, how much more full of "the peace which passeth all understanding" are those who ask my help than she who at best can but bring a warm and willing heart to their aid. Believe me, we little know what sacrifices, what patience, what endurance, what courage bloom in God's garden all around U3, unseen of our eyes, "for the human soul i 9 a very lonely thing," and the very flowers that our careless feet crush, our idle hands pluck may be those whose incense nse3 to Heaven moat fragrantly. Dear Einmeltne, — I have chosen for quotation Carlyle's words on war. I have been reading them lately, and think they describe it so well : — "What is the net purport a>id upshot of war? To my own knowledge, for example, there dwell in the British village of Dumdrudge some 500 souls. From these, by certain 'natural enemies' of the French, there are selected, during the French war, say 30 ablebodied men. Dumdrudge. at her expense, has suckled and nursed them she has, not without difficulty and sorrow, fed them up to manhood, and even trained them to crafts. Nevertheless, amid much weeping and swearing, they are selected, dre«"-"d v; red, and Mupped away, some 2500 miles, or say only to tho south of Spain, and fed there till wanted. Now to that same spot, in the south oi Spain, are 30 similar French artis-ans, from a French Dumdrudge, in like manner wending, till at length, after infinite effort, the two parties come into actual juxtaposition, and 30 stands flouting 30, each with a gun m h;s hand. Stiaightwav the word 'Fire!' is given, and they blow the tou^s out of oiie another, and in place of 60 useful craftsmen, the world has 60 dead carcases, which it must bury, and anew shed tears for. Had these men an> quarrel? Busy as the Devil is, not the smallest! They li\ eel far enough apart, were I the entirest strangers. How then? Simpleton' their Governors had fallen out, and instead of shooting one another had the cunning to make these poor blockheads shoot. In that fiction of the English Smollett, :t is true, the final cessation of war is peihayb piophetically shadowed forth : where the two natural enemies, in person take each a tobacco pipe, filled with brimstone, light the same, and smoke in one anothei's faces till the weaker gives in but from such predicted peace era, what blood-filled trenches and contentious centuries may fatal 1 divide u='" NEMO. I am glad you have quoted i tigged old Carlyle's words, Nemo — they me so tiue, mid this is a time when militarism, tucked out so alluringly in the garb of patriotism, bids fair to become the ignis fatuis of ni.u'.y of our young men. No doubt you saw the protest against the wave of militarism contained in the proceedings of the Women's National Council the other day. The glamour and the reality of war are such different things. The gient Riu sian painter, Verestcha^m, persisted m pointing war pictures of such uvid leahsm where all JJie horror* oj w«u the jusuub-, Uie Bie«e ;

the charge, the battlefield, were stript of illusion and shown m all their -nakedness, that the exhibition of his pictures was interdicted, and he was actually compelled to destroy some of them. In Lady Butler's celebrated pictures, splendid as they are in drawing and truthful in every accessory, artistic genius subdues horror to sadness — yet who can look even at her "Listed in the Connaught Rangers" without a sigh ? Dear Emmeline, — On looking round the flower-garden to-day, I could not help noticing what a very great change the last month has made on its appearance. Just four short weeks ago it was a blaze of colour, and now the plants which then held up their heads m all the pride of their autumn glory are reduced to brown stalks — mere cuinberers of the ground. On stooping down to examine a late rose — almost the last of the race — more closely, a delicious perfume greeted my nostrils, and, dropping on my knees in silent ecstasy, I found, hidden under their leaves, some — violets ! Oh, what memories crowded thick and fast on my mind as I eagerly gathered them into my hands and delightedly inhaled their fragrance l Can any flower compare with them? No, no, no! To me they arc the emblem of modesty, sweetness, patience — love! Oh, could we but be to our friends what the violet is to us, what a different world might this then be! How many a sick bedside has been made less weary by a bunch of them, how many a poor creature has been gladdened by tbeiT sweetness! I arranged them lovingly in a glass amongst their own leaves, and with a cloth-of-gold rose in their midst the effect 'was perfect! I placed them in a room, and, going into it in the darkness some hours later, the whole room seemed suddenly transformed, for a faint, delicious scent was at once apparent, and I impulsively exclaimed, "Oh, my violets!" My dear little friends, invisible then to the eye, but oh, how visible to the senses! Long may we have the privilege to plant and tend them in our gardens and learn the many lessons which th^y so silently teach vs 1 Queen Alexandra, it is said, has such a passion for violets that she has acres of them under cultivation in the Royal gardens, while her private rooms are literally decked with them. What a tribute to their modesty 1 — Yours truly, CATHERINA. " Well, of all the themes chosen this day, Catherina, I do not believe any will waken so close and intimate a response, such thought" that do lie too deep for words, such memories of friendship and love, of "life, death, and that great Hereafter," as your bunch of violets' For one will think of a day when "sick unto death" she lay, and through the long, long hours of darkness the violets that stood beside her bed poured forth their silent fragrance r J love and remembrance. And one will remember her wedding day, crowned with whilo violets, and another the day that her prodigal kissed her good-bye and laid in her lap blue violets, on which a tear and a kiss lay hidden , and I, for on?, remember many a wise a. id gentle word, many a sweet and womanly thought that has graced these columns abovi> the signature of " Violet." Dear Emmeline, — I have read of a yonng gu ! v,ho paid a visit to a sage for the sole puipose of discovering the art of conversation. When she had made known her wishes the sage requested her to listen. In words ps well as looks she said she was listening, whereupon the wise man made answer, "That is the whe'e art of conversation." Without presuming to greater knowledge than the sage. I venture to think he came somewhat short in his definition. To listen is scarcely enough: there can be no conversation where there is not an exchange of ideas. To take all and give nothing in return is selfish in the extreme. Yet how many we find quite willing to give us the benefit of their advice, experience, and knowledge in exchange for our attention! As often as not we feel the advantage has been theirs, and admit to ourselves that to be a good listener requires more virtues than we can lay ciaim to. It is by no means easy to pay sympathetic attention to what we have no desire to hear, and when we are waiting for an opportunity to display our knowledge ai.d descriptive powers — waiting for a good listenei , that we may enjoy ourselves. Moreover, it is too much to expect us to give up for the sake of politeness a really good chance of being witty at the speaker's expense. To keep our wits about us and listen to arguments attentively and answer them with steady and sound judgment is very fatiguing. It is much easier to ridicule. If our ridicule is good-natured, our entertainer will probably pass it over with a slight show of ai'noyanc It is much more conclusive to contemptuously derido the position he has taken up and to silence with laughter his most eUboiate arguments. It is a most effective way of restraining a tiresome talker. The uneasiness caused by a troubled conpeience will be short-lived. Whatever our feelings may bp, the rec-kles3 talker is the loser. We arc bound to have benefited to a certain extent, for have we not the choice of all his thoughts, with which we compare our own, and by comparison arrive at better aud stronger conclusions 9 He, poor man, through our indifference and hi* own conceit, gains nothing but a liltie gratification and stimulant to his vanity. When we take it upon ourselve« tc talk, there is still much to trouble us. There is our own listener to consider. We niu.st pay a certain amount of re = pect to his preiudices, and nyist talk of things interesting to him as weli as to ourselves. In an argument we are bound to listen to his view, and when he advances a counter-argument to consider it, :nul answer wtliout heat or iriitation. There is much more expected of u= ai.d tho only leally pleasant tune we have jS m conversation with one whose judsrment wo lespoct, who is not too stupid to understand us oi too clever for us to understand . who is equally l^ady to listen or to talk, and who is capab'e of doing both in an interesting manner. The great Johnson is admitted to bo th<* Rieatest master of conversation thr> world lias known. His favourite method of descnbirp; n pleasant evening was, "We have had a good talk" ; and when he was not pleased, "TheiP was a pood deal of talk, but no conversation." Great as he was, Johnson was well content to listen — until others suggested new topics. Then he "had a good talk" ; and talk it was— sharp, brilliant, witty. and scholaily. Ben Jonson describes a courtier. Among; other accomplishments it wa= necepsaiy to interspeise hi 9 conversation with oaths- "sikli dainty oaths," — and he who could invent new ones for Ins own especial use was one to be envied.— Yours tiulv, HOCHELAOA Your "passing notes" on convei-jtion, Hochelasa, contain much that is tiue— eveiv«lay truth, that comes home oonvincmglv. It is certain that the most populai talker is the good listener, it is also the brilliant talk?] who supplies the labb'e of "pickers aid stealors" with epigrams to misquote. ■.tni,,-, to tni=s <he point of. and witticisms to mn r <<>. Which is worse to listen to copious common places wjith smiling amiability or to have the bnef pleasure of supplying voiir friends with uncopyrighted brilliarces wlikli they hate not pvpii the grace to acknowledge 9 Both a'e nrhnirable le<*=ons in patience both have thrir reward on those ran- o- ra-.icn= when v.-c can listen \\ r > a clever conversationalist with whom we- aio in sympathy. I would like so niucl to 'alk to and listen <o many of mv frieid-. of the Cosy Corner. How much yon have to tell jba titaX I xfittld Uke is Jwail :

At the last moment I find that space will not permit of all the letters to appear in this issue. The second moiety will appear next week, so that contributors whose letters do not appear in this issue will understand they will bs in next week's page.