"ALIEN'S" LETTER FROM ENGLAND.

Otago Witness, Issue 3332, 23 January 1918, Page 56

"ALIEN'S" LETTER FROM ENGLAND.

(Specially Written for the Ladies' Page.) HOME FIRES. November 5. November is here, and no muffin man! If that -were the worst of our troubles how happy should we be ! But sitting by the lire brings memories; and in that ■world of long and long ago, before the war, Avhen we were all happy, whether we knew it or not, the muffin on the hearth was the accompaniment of the home fires, as sure as the fires. With November mists and fogs came the tinkle, tinkle of the muffin-man's bell down the street. And there were worse places than London on a "drear November" afternoon, with the countless miles of street lamps stretching into infinitude to right and left of you, and inside, the curtains drawn, and the hot tea and muffins. I never agreed with Tennyson that "a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things,", except, perhaps, for a very depressed moment; a sorrow's hope of sorrow is remembering • happjer things, for nothing is impossible that once has been. Not to us, perhaps, in its actuality, but that which we have once possessed we may keep, if we will, in spirit. None who have been loved are loveless; none who have known true friendship are friendless if they carry on with them the words, the tones, the deeds that were for. them in a past day. The friends are gone, or others claim them; but no one, no time, can. take from us that which was ours and which Memory holds for us. The exile in his wandering takes home with him; cool streams of remembrance trickle through the burning sand; the lonely explorer, dying 'mid the snow, sees in his visions the fires of home, and his soul is warmed by what has been. "Keep the home fires burning," sing our soldiers, thigh deep in the mud of Flanders. We hope and believe that remembering those home fires is not a sorrow to him. Remembering happier things should brace us with gratitude that we have known the sweet and pleasant and deep things that were to know and feel, for to many of us remembrance—when this war is over —will ba all that is left to us of what made our old, every-day, and perhaps thankless life. We took and take so much for granted—"that the stars keep their courses" and the "seasons roll" "to give us our daily bread," that "Britain ruled the waves*'—and we are learning now through denial how much we had unappreciated. "It can't be got for love nor money" used to be an empty phrase, which is quickly being understood in its full meaning. The crowds stare blankly at the boards —"No tea; no butter"! The muffin-bell would only be an aggravation under such circumstances—an unbuffered and tea-less muffin would indeed be an

anguished remembrance of happier things! And -whatever would Dickens say? He incorporated the muffin—hot and well buttered —into London life. You rarely opened a door (in his books) behind a shop on a -winter's afternoon, leading into a cosy parlour, where the buxom, rosychecked little woman had not got the muffins ready, and where the fragrance of steaming tea did not greet you. The cosy, leisured afternoons are like Marley—"dead as a door-nail." There are no cosy women any more; they are working for life or death in the factories, on the land, jn the hospitals, the canteens, at the base, on the trains, cars, in the shops, and at the desk. In the early morning, when all the world is grey, it is difficult to take hope into a hard task; and yet hundreds of thousands of these women who have put their hands to the Empire's plough have no thought of turning back.

We shall lack more than buttered muffins and tea before the war is over, and we are beginning to say less frequently "After the war," and ~to realise that if we ■ want to meet our friends it is too indefinite to say, "When the war is over and travelling is normal." This week's happenings" in Italy and Russia have pushed the day of peace further into the distance.

We can only live a day at a time, and take short views, for, like these foggy hours that shut off the distance in mystery, so. not only is the war outlook, but every outlook, shrouded by the war, and that is all prospects, domestic and national. To keep a good heart secure that, whatever comes, we are suffering for the right; to put by our dTeams of what might have been and tackle the thing that is, is our nearest duty. Indolence and self-indulgence are insidious enemies that sap the personal and national life of achievement and strength. As a nation, we have got our teeth fastened on the enemy, and, bulldog-like, we shall never let go till we bring away some of his flesh.' That we know •. but how much of ours he will take we do not know. Those people who, reluctant to face the thought of "hardship and abnormal conditions,' and, to excuse their lack of energy, have been saying that the enemy was nearly exhausted and his total collapse near at hand;— that he would soon be "wiped out" off the land and the sea—must be rousing to the true facts of the case with uncomfortable consternation. Sir Arthur Yapp, formally opening the food economy campaign on Saturday, said that we must "tighten our belts now," and gave a good deal of practical information and advice. The food position of all the Allied nations is serious, he reiterated, though not nearly so serious as that of the Central Powers; but as the war drags on it will be better to suffer partial inconvenience than, as will happen if we are not restricted, suffer hunger later on, and be compelled to accept an inconclusive peace. Britain depended for food on the harvests of other countries, but in the present crisis she had to think of the food of her Allies as well as her own. The entry of the United States into the war meant much; but every American soldier in France must be fed* from overseas. The harvest in France, like our own, had been a partial failure. Every boatload of food saved would mean soldiers from the other side of the Atlantic fighting with us. Every town and household, must economise. If London's eight million would save 4oz of bread each day that alone would mean, 180,000,000 41b loaves in a year. But the reduction in the price of the loaf has been followed by a rise of 3 per cent, in the consumption of bread. The loss of one wheat ship means the loss of a week's bread ration for 2,688,000 people. Sir Arthur urged people not to buy more than of tea at a time, which sounded like a joke, as most of us last week could get only 2oz, and many none at all. He touched on the vexed question of the Christmas pudding, for which little fruit and few eggs will be obtainable. Lord Rhondda is most anxious, if possible, to avoid rationing, although why is not clear, and it has been urged for months and months past as the only sound policy, for campaigns of economy will never restrict the greedy with enough money to satisfy the demands of the profiteers. The high prices deprive the majority more than does the Food Controller. That jt will not be a Christmas of universal feasting is certain. To " eat the fat and drink the wine" will be quite out of the bill of fare for millions. Alreadv substitutes for the turkey and plum pudding are being urged upon the public. Hero is a Christmas pudding that you may like to try: Four ounces flour, 2oz oatmeal, 2oz ground rice, 3oz fat, half a teaspoonful of salt, one dessertspoonful mixed spice. 2oz sultanas, 2oz mixed chopped peel, apples, 2oz grated carrot, one egg dried, half a gill milk. 2oz treacle, grated rind, and juice of half a lemon, half a teaspoonful of baking powder. Put all the dry ingredients in a basin, mix the soda, milk, and syrup, add beaten egg. Mix this into the drv ingredients and stir well. Put the mix*ture into greased paper basins and cover them with a cloth or greased paper. Boil for two and a-half hours or steam for three and a-half hours. Serve on a hot dish with any sauce desired. Stuffed mutton is suggested in the place of poultry. If everyone could get that there w<juld be no need to grumble. But I agree with Mrs Pember Reeves that the truest economy would be to go without the Christmas dinner altogether, as many will have to do of necessity. But if those who could have a Christmas dinner fasted on this one day and gave it to those who have to fast on many days of the year, it would be truer to "the spirit of Christmas. Sir Arthur Geddes has a plan for a League of National Safety, for which he hopes to h&ve 10,000,000 members by Christmas, all following this pledge: "I realise that economy in the use of all food and the checking of all waste helps my country to complete victory, and I promise to do all in my power to assist

this campaign for national safely." There is a badge to wear and a certificate of membership, and each district, each church, and each industry is to be asked to enrol its members. The success of this scheme, its promotor hopes, may save the country from the expense and inconvenience of compulsory rationing. This Aveek-end, not only in London, but in all towns, large and "small alike, the hunt for food supplies was greater than ever, and the queues were more noticeable. At Carlisle Butter Market there were some rough scenes. The women became angry at the attempt by dealers to buy wholesale and to send to centres where the fixed price is more than 3s per lb. The angry women mobbed the dealers, and through the intervention of officials the butter was served out to the women in pound packets. In Landilo, Pembrokeshire, the market-place was crowded with colliers, who prevented the butter from being taken away to other districts until the local people had been supplied. The Ministry of Food, in a statement promising larger tea supplies this month, stated that there is in the country a certain amount of uncontrolled tea, which is not fetching 4s per lb. It is Indian and Celyon tea, imported before July, when the Government began to control the price; but as soon as this is finished, which it is estimated will be at the end of the year, the Government will further reduce the 4s maximum price. Shortage of tonnage renders it necessary that there should be a rigid economy in tea for a long time to come. The Hoarding Order,

which provides against persons hoarding more o! any foodstuffs than required for ordinary consumption, is a punishable offence. The Economy Department of the Ministry of Food is issuing pamphlets containing a large number of simple recipes, which, if followed, would provide many nutritious and dainty dishes at little cost: but ."made dishes" take time and skill and utensils and unlimited fire or gas, and do not meet the requirements of the great working mass who require something substantial and easily prepared, as, say, for instance, a dish of potatoes and a steak or chops. Fortunately, the potatoes at least are to be got. We had another raid on a big scale one night last week, no fewer than 30 Gothas passing over the coast, but only a few got through the barrage, of fire which endeavoured to shut them off from London. The raid began before 11 o'clock, and it was after 3 when, the " All clear" signals sounded. I had just snuggled down in bed when the music of the guns began, and there were four weary hours in dressing gown and slippers watching by the dying embers of the fire, for the Gothas passed over in relays, three and four at a time, with intervals between them, and the guns had no sooner chased one lot than another arrived, and they came back in like formation. None of them was brought down either on the coast or anywhere else, for, although the moon was shining brightly, there were mottled clouds over the sky, behind -which the Gothas - hid and dropped their bombs. I heard several fall in the direction of Dover, but we were only peppered with the shrapnel of our own guns that were blazing away all round. In the houses opposite my cottage that was once a college the soldiers have come back from camp to billet there for the winter (alas! for quiet for the next six months), and they, too, were roused, and came into the street to watch progress, when a shower of shrapnel pelted like hail on the roofs, and sent them scuttling and laughing back to shelter. This year they cook and eat also at their billet, Instead of marching to the canteen to their meals, and their " camp kitchen" is

planted in the road, puffing and steaming most of the day, and casting off odours of stew by the hour. England is a great armed camp, and the righta<pf civilians are no more. And however active and hard the soldier's life may be, perhaps because of it the men arc looking splendid ; and we have need of all of them. TO MARJORIE ALICE, ON HER SECOND BIRTHDAY. The voicee of the Spring!—the " Sw.eet o' year,"— . The worJd new born is in thy birth, O child! There is no aging earth, no winter drear, That is not newly thrilled where Childhood smiled. Thy laughter echoes, and the shadows flee, Chased by the sunbeams, sweetest Marjorie. The voices of the Home!—we hear them yet Where'er a child babbles, in love, to greet. No exile, he, nor wholly desolate Where little footsteps come his own to meet. Thy footsteps patter with a sound of glee, Swift to love's arms of welcome, Marjorie. Bright, smiling eyes!—smile brighter with the years! Impatient feet!—hurry to tread your good! Reach for the rose! Nor if sharp pain intrude Cast it away. For, where Love's emblem be Is all life's fragrance, happy Marjorie. Rose and the thorn, laughter and tears, sweet child; Springtime and" Autumn!—So life comes to beWhen the leaves yellow in the evening mild, And all the best is left to memory. So year by year may lovelight filter through Your tree of life as when the leaves were two. —Amen.