THROUGH A DARTMOOR WINDOW.

Otago Witness, Issue 3214, 20 October 1915, Page 71

THROUGH A DARTMOOR WINDOW.

WHAT THEI “RAINBOW-MAKER” DOES'. “Here is a book which it Is a joy to read. It makes you want to run down to Dartmoor by the next train to find out where this wonderful “Dartmoor Window” is which sees so much, perchance to meet the “ Rainbow-maker * and “ Miss Beatrice,” who have given immortality to this cottage window. This book, “Through a Dartmoor Window,” by Beatrice Chase (Longmans), enshrines two spirits—mother and daughter, who had imagination enough to make the window—and so artlessly is the book written that the writer probably does not know how she has enmeshed in her book the fragrance of their outlook on life, and distilled for her readers something of that sweet serenity of soul which makes what they see through the window worth telling. It is a book which makes for sanity in a time of war. The book closes by quoting John Oxenham’s lines: For every wide-flung window of the soul We thank Thee, Lord. —The Book Begins.— The book was begun in spring-time, when Dartmoor teemed with new life. “All the moor-world to-day is peace and light and joyousness, and rich with the incomparable treasure of Motherhood, whether vegetable, animal, human, or spiritual, for Motherhood has many wondrous and often unsuspected phases, as I have learnt since I came to dwell on the great Mother Moor. “So it is of set purpose that I have chosen to begin my work to-day—the great _ feast • of Motherhood—because the bringing forth of a book is one phase of spiritual Motherhood. “Each book is a spirit-child of its author’s heart and brain—a spirit-child clothed in the robe of white, type-embroi-dered paper, which makes it materially visible to the eyes of all mankind.” —The Old Cottage Added To.— Now the making of that Dartmoor window was in this wise: First there was the old cottage, and then the decision to add to it “in order that the place might be our only home. ... It meant no more returns to the poisonous city, no more illnesses consequent thereon, no more ebbing of vitality till the annual date when my life would once again be renewed by Mother Dartmoor.” “There are few joys to equal the joy of owning an old house, however humble. “It is itself a book without an end. This joy Is ours. “It was built in the days when machinery was still rare and costly. And it was fashioned by a race of men who did, and do, use only the most primitive tools. Consequently, every inch of the house is handmade. This in itself is a history. “Besides this, there are the generations of people who have lived in it, been born in it, and died in it. It is sweet to wander from room to room listening to the wordless stories of love and life that each tells.” —Making the Window.— It is a delightful story how those “great gentlemen,” the Dartmoor workmen, added to the old house. Mother and daughter had been warned of the folly of employing men without control of their time or materials, “especially as we were two helpless women with no men to look after ois. “They need not so have cautioned us. It was just this very fact which, made each workman constitute himself our natural protector. The head man explained the situation one day to the ‘ Rainbow-maker,’ in one pregnant sentence : “ ‘You’m a wddder, mum, and Miss Beatrice be fatherless, and us knoweth well what the Bible tells us about our duty to the widder and the fatherless.’ “On that they acted consistently throughout. They made no fuss. They did not profess to be pious. They were surprised when we praised them. But they treated us from first to last as I hope and pray they and theirs will be treated all their lives long.” There was one old man, “frail and very suffering,” to whom, when the job was done, the “Rainbow-maker” sent a small cheque, with a sweet letter of thanks, explaining that it was nothing like the worth of his services, “but she hoped we might be allowed to make him this grateful little recognition.” “An hour or so after the note was dispatched he arrived. He walked straight In, wearing his old work-a-day clothes. He hadn’t stopped to tidy or even clean up. He walked straight in, glared at us both, flung the cheque down on the table, and demanded: “ T’ve come to know what that be for. What I done for ’ee was done for love, and I bain’t going to take yer money.’ “I was never tired of stealing in, after the men had gone for the day, to look at the different views through the gaping apertures. It is impossible to describe the joy of focussing old views through new windows, and alternately stooping and craning to see if this field or that old tor friend will be visible from some given room.” “Like the old house, every bit of the new one is hand-made by skilful, honest, moorland hands, and there was not one inch of it, from the foundation line to the roof ridge, which we have not watched in the making.” —Trouble About the Window.— But there was trouble about the making of the window. “The men objected first, because they said it would be too near the ground outside, as the bank rises. We ruled out this idea, and the ‘ Rainbow-maker ’ decided

to have the window set in a rounded wall instead of a square-cornered angle. She wanted the wall rounded like a tower. This brought a volley of protest. No such thing had never been done in the place before. ’Twould look squint-eyed. ’Twould be enough to frighten the horses coming round the road, and so on. The ‘ Rain-bow-maker’ was firm, and' I backed her. . . . When it was done the head man was found contemplating it one day with his head on one side. “ T reckon that window don’t look so bad after all mum/ ho admitted handsomely.” And the window proved a perpetual joy—spread throughout the world by means of this book. “Everyone who goes by is known to us, together with every member of the family, even to the collateral branches, and if now and then a stranger does come, think of the thrill it causes i’ —Uses of the Window.— One of the most desirable attributes of the window was its utility. “Orders are given to tradesmen, friendly carts are pulled up on their way to the lowlands, and charged with requests to rescue a belated parcel from the station. Bunches of flowers float in, propelled by kindly hands. Advice is asked as to the minor ailments, and salves and potions are handed forth, to the sufferer, hometimes cheques are passed out, and change is handed in. The men on horseback are the cleverest, for they sidle their cobs broadside on against the wall, and sit on the saddles discoursing to the Rainbowmaker as she sits on the window bench a little above them. When the hunt goes by, some friend or other will deftly steer his or her horse’s head in at the casement, and a velvet-like nose will appear suddenly among the crockery. —A Wonderful Window.— “If the Rainbow-maker, when left alone in the house, suddenly discovers some lack, she merely opens the window, and announces it in general terms to the breeze. Someone hears her plaint, and delivers it to the proper quarter. In this manner she sends messages many miles, aneb it saves much correspondnce. Upon one”occasion she was heard bemoaning her need of a load of firewood. A day or two later a thumping load arrived from a strange farmer, whom her wireless request had duly reached. She did not know where to get the wood, so she sat in the window, and said she w r antcd it, till someone, who did know, heard and sent it. —lnside the Window. — “All my books and letters are written in the window, except when I write out-of-doors. The natives now are well accustomed to see me working in the window, by daylight or lamplight. “The great open fireplace has sweetly arranged itself exactly opposite to the window. It looks as if -we had purposely done it for effect. The result is that wayfarers look in through the flowers at the blazing logs and red-hot turf, and it is impossible to describe the sweet and homely effect given by the signs of the fire as one turns the corner. “The Rainbow-maker shares the same corner with me. Her desk stands at my right hand. Her angels run to the very window-pane. She has a passion for angels, and her corner is crammed with lovely groups of Fra Angelicos, whose black and white and gold frames show conspicuously against the white walls.” —What the “ Rainbow-maker ” Does. — One of the most charming chapters of this book is that which tells what the “Rainbow-maker” (the w-riter’s mother) does. She has a four-roomed cottage, which she has turned into “a truly free holiday home for poor ladies wdro have to earn their own living in large cities. . , . The poor faces that come round the corner always look the same. They are white and lined, with greyish lips. Each day 7 we watch their faces getting a little pinker, and the deep lines being mysteriously and invisibly ironed out by magic Mother Moor. Then in due time their hair gets glossy, ond their eyes bright, and the moor bloom is powdered on above the pink. That is such a beautiful result of washing your face in soft water and living in the sun without a hat.” “Of course, all this means a certain amount of money annually, and we are far from rich. By great care, the Rain-bow-maker manages the chief expenses, but the often necessary railway fares are altogether beyond us. And it is for these that she sits in the Dartmoor window weaving rainbows ; in other words, making chains and necklaces of Venetian glass beads, to sell to rich women in aid of their poorer sisters. “They are exquisite, these necklaces, both in colour and form. They are dainty, graceful, delicate, yet as powerful as iron chains, for by 7 their magic they draw many a weary mortal to the great healing and haven of Dartmoor. They are a faithful reproduction of all the moor tints, and many of them have names. “It is a beautiful industry for a beautiful object, and—herein lies its pathos—it is almost the last thing that is left to the Rainbow-maker to do. In her day she has done great work rvith head and hands. . . . She cannot walk without two sticks, and then only a few 7 yards. Her hands are equally crippled. . . . But she has ingeniously contrived to share her beautiful retreat with others who need it in order to go on living at all. . . . And thus her pain has become a precious factor in the production of both spiritual and material beauty.”