THE COSY CORNER CLUB.

Otago Witness, Issue 3557, 16 May 1922, Page 48

THE COSY CORNER CLUB.

MEMBERS’ MEETINGS. The Cosy Corner Club session for this year opens with a goodly rally of those who have supported the club during the last two years. The iiapera are very varied in subject and treatment, and I am sure C.C.C. members and other readers will find this meeting most enjoyable. I heartily thank all those—many of them leading busy lives—who have devoted thought and time to the composition or selection of contributions, and I hope that this meeting is the prelude to a- series of well-attended ones. New members will alw'ays be welcomed. Here is a charming nature essay by Eve. MORNING PICTURES. Dear Esther,—My first vivid recollection of the glory of morning belongs to far-off years. 1 I was a little girl on a Tasmanian road, | with sunshine around me and a blue sky ■ al*ove me, and, though the hour must have been well past nine o’clock, all the world was i full of freshness of early morning. I groped I for words to express the feeling of morning j glory—and could find only the crude and I awkward remark that it felt “as if it was before breakfast.” To this day I, remember the sense of my own inability to convey the right meaning when a stupid grown-up had so little understanding as to ask with solicitude if I was still hungry—had I not had enough breakfast! A year or so later come more vivid memories—still of Tasmania, but in another home on the cast coast. There were many mornings of blue skies and golden wattle blossoms; of dancing sunlight on rhe water of the river, where shags sat on the j stakes of the old oyster-bed watching for I fish; of little birds eating honey from the j flowers of a great fuchsia outside the winI dow of the night-nursery ; of a world full of j the sound of fowls cackling, that called a , child to the freedom of morning and! made it impatient of morning baths and the long ! routine of dressing. There was a morning

dole of fruit in the nursery, fresh from the orchard—cherry plums or peaches, a handful of mulbsrries, figs still warm with the sun. Sometimes the morning held a great treat —a walk before breakfast with, letters for .the mail. The lucky children selected for this took with them slices of bread and butter thickly sprinkled with sugar (how delicious it tasted in the early morning air!), and permission to gather a certain number of blackberries from the orchard! hedge at the turning of the road. They were conscientious children and never exceeded the allowance of berries, but aery great care was exercisd in the choice cf the fruit. Following Tasmania comes New Zealand—the land of my birth. Its first morning picture of my memory is seen from the porthole of a redfunnelled boat. The early sun flashed on the sea and the buoys that marked the way into the Bluff Harbour, and on the wlnte and black of a seagull that rested on one of these; it gleamed! on the windows of little houses on shore, and on green grass, and made the land very beautiful. The delighted exclamations of a cabinful of child-era were boundless—two disagreeable old ladies in the neighbouring cabin complained bitterly, a little later, of their broken rest. To them the morning glory and the sight of land meant nothing! New Zealand holds many morning pictures—windy springtime, with tussocks on the hillsides moving like a flock of sheep, gold of gorse on the plain, daffodils and violets in the garden, and on the far horizon a line of mountains against the sky, still white in their robes of snow; summer, radiant and beautiful, with deep blue skies overhead and the mountain ranges lost m haze, brown thrushes busy in the green currant bushes, the song of birds and bleating of sheep everywhere—“real shearing weather.” Autumn has varying moods of morning—a windy day in colourings of browns and yellows, with thistledown floating through the air like snowflakes; a morning of mists that drift and change, hanging across the hills, thinning and breaking, showing glimpses of blue between the rifts, and outlining every spider’s web upon bushes and fences with crystal beads; or perh-aps the stillness of a dew-drenched world, with a hill-slope dotted with mushrooms, white above and fre-shly, -* delicately pink beneath, with drops of crimson moisture upon them like drops of blood. Winter, too, lias its glories manifold, the sparkling beauty of a frosty morning; the splendour of snow, fresh-fallen, when snow clouds have gone, and skylarks sing in a blue sky, and a soft dripping of wafer from snow-laden roofs and trees tells that the thaw has begun. Chief of all its morning glories is that of the frosty sunrise, with pink and deep rose, blue and amber colours on the cold, snow-clad ranges. To watch the colour creep into the sky, deepen, and glow, and fade again before the sun, is ample compensation for the early-riser, whose candle has been lighted to make preparation for the day’s work while the outside world is still in starlight. Gf the morning glories af Melbourne I have, also, many memories—first of them all the soft, plaintive sound of the voices of cooing doves—-a sound for ever and ever to be associated in my mind with that city. I recall from the past Melbourne mornings in springtime—the tender green of trees and the snow of almond blossoms on South Yarra Hill, seen from the train windows ; spring mornings in Oollins street, with bright blue skies and a keen wind, and the street fragrant with the scent of violets "and boronia on the barrows of the street* 'flower-sellers; spring morndng3 in Bourke street, with great bales of wool on the pavement outside Cloldsbrough Mort’s wool stores and offices—a sight that sent my thoughts swiftly across the distance of the seas to New Zealand hills and the smell of burning tussocks. Then there are summer mornings of glorious sunshine —the early hours of “scorchers” —with a- brilliant blaze of red and white and yellow pigfaoe on the railway embankments, and poppies growing wild beside the railway lines; autumn mornings with thick white fogs and the tang of frost in the air, trains slowing and stopping, the explosion of detonators in place of the usual railway signals, signalmen with flags growing out of the mist and! fading away like figures in a dream*; winter mornings, when smoke wreaths hung dense above the grey city, and flower-bovs sold the first kootamundra wattle—cromise of springtime near at hand. Some cf these mornings stand out singly and with vividness. There is one at St. Kild-a, very early, long before working hours, when a few enthusiastic souls said good-bye to the visiting American Fleet, only half-seeing the black shapes of the ships whore they lav in the distance against grey banks of fog, and watching them ’steal away silently one by one, and disappear from sight. Then there is another morning spent in the quiet of the beautiful Botanic Gardens, while the rest of the everyday world was a-t work. How fresh and silent it was among the flowers and on the dewy lawns — the hour for children and nursemaids came iater —how friendly were the little blue-

breasted birds, how beautiful was the view of t)je busy city across the river seen from the Temple of the Winds. A third morning brought a trip to Gembrook; Melbourne left behind ; the little train climbing up and up into the hills; a wind, fresh and vigorous, blowing through the open doors and windows of the carriages, and all the air exhilarating with the scent of the eucalyptus. They are like a string of jewels, these hours of morning, flashing and glowing in all their variant oolours against the more sombre hues of later day. EYE. Your essay recalls Keat’s line, “A thing of beauty is a joy for ever,” and the following ones. Such memories as these can brighten many hours otherwise gloomy. — ESTHER. THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL. Dear Esther,^ —In looking over some oopiea of a magazine whioh devotes many of .'3 pages to the. “home beautiful" from an architectural point of view I have thought that it might make an interesting study to consider what in such designs appeals to one’s own sense of beauty or comfort, or mere usefulness, bearing them in fought as in an imaginary home of one’s own. In the magazine mentioned the editor writes: ’One often hears it said, ‘I must have a home of my own, even if it’s only two rooms', or more humble-minded still, ‘if it’s only a bark hut,’ ” because in all humankind exists the instinct, the wide world over, to possess their own little cdTTier of the earth, however lowly it may »>e. It is the birthright of all —but ail do not enter into their birthright. Wo are told that “in toiling for this possession we are following the lead of tlie greatest minds of our nation. Few great men have been great removers, and, as a very general rule, they have owned their houses"—many making the acquisition their test and goal. “To give some of the most easily remembered instances, placing home-lovers in at least, good enlightened company," be quoted Shakespeare; Pope for his riverside villa at Twickenham-on-Thames; Scott’s beautiful Abbotsford; Burke; Wordsworth and Buskin for their homes in the Lake district; and “Dickens for Gad's Hill, pleasantly situated on a Kentish high with a ‘secret garden’ and writing room on the other side of the road." Some minds run cn ambitious lines, and their homes are built on such an elaborate scale that the word residence seems to suit them better tharf home. But even for a small cottage ideas can be gleaned from these pretentious mansions—in many cases beautiful in design in every way, and yet comfort in no way sacrificed to the artistic sense. Others, again, planned for summer “camps"—usually m morA sunny lands tlran ours—though quite simply planned, hold many hints for utilising space and giving ever-welcome shade—such as deep, roomy verandahs and balconies (when the home runs to ah upper storey), shelter from the heat and glare of day, and much-appreciated sleeping-out apartments through the night. One architect makes great use of the room space, often neglected, under the roof—not the small attic rooms of long ago, but high deep roofs and rooms airy and wholesome to live in, while the value of the home, in mere money value, is practically doubled. These sheltered verandahs and balconies are always a delight to me, while the roof of one house, where no verandah obtains, is brought down in a long protecting eave with a sun awning below it that must bring untold comfort from the burning midsummer rays. One lias a design in window planning that one can imagine from the interior is very pleasing—• ju«t the ordinary sash window in a weatherboard house, but instead of being placed ill the centre of the room, two' \yinflows, if one may so describe them, are put side by side right upon the outer edge, while a third joins them round the corner upon the adjoining wall, thus giving light and a view o F the landscape from two points combined. This is carried'out on both corners of the house, and, with a window seat within, the idea is a happy one. In mentioning win dows, one with a very striking effect is given in a simple little week-end cottage built in beautiful mountain country, where a large proportion of the end wail of the living room carries a great solitary pane of glass, set lengthways, with a pergola built outside to carry creeper to break the glare of the sun without hindering a magnificent view. In this same lx/om is also a comfortable and roomy bricked or tiled fireplace, with raised hearthstone to correspond, bringing the heedful touch of cosy warmth for bleak and rainy days For comfort in firesides, very many suggestions can be found in the homes of older lands. One I have seen had a small window of liny squares of glass set above the end of a recessed fireside seat—the window no bigger than a sliding pantry panel, deep-set, and on the wide ledge a bowl of flowers. I liked that little window. But one might go on for any length, even passing on to furniture in the process—presses, sideboards, tables, chairs—how delightful some of these chairs can be, and how the mere furnishings oan make or mar a room. Yet home, in its true and deep meaning, may dwell and a-sk no more than the bark hut after all. I will close my l>aper with the translation by Reginald Hme of “The Good Things of This Life," from the French of Artistoplie Plantin (sixteenth century)—published in the London Nation a year or two ago: Give me an house, convenient, clean and fair; An old-world garden with its fruitful walls; Orchards and spreading vines; a few tried thralls; A faithful wife unspent with children's care. No debts, no quarrels, lust, or lawyer’*' snare ; No irksome sharing of ancestral halls; Desiring little, deaf to ambitious calls, Or aught beside that simple folk forswear. Grant me to live fn low estate at ease, In true devotion telling out my days; Give me a soul at peace from passional ways, A fearless mind unmoved by man or fate. 80, praising God, I’ll graft and prune my trees Till death comes softly to my garden gate GABRIELLE. There are many good ideas in house construction. X think it- of first importance that

windows should be plentiful and large enough to let in abundance of light and sunshine, these can always be subdued or excluded when too powerful. The idea of a large window consisting of one pane does not seem very practical, however; what a calamity if it should get broken.—ESTHER. HEAVES FROM PUNCH Dear Esther, —Suppose, for a change, we take a look through a few old numbers of London Punch. They are very old —one id dated 1887—almost old enough to bo new again. It is not an easy task to depict a pictorial joke with the pen alone, but Twill make and will try not to spoil the effort by over much explanation. The first to come is “A Poser,” with a signature that I am unable to decipher. The scene is laid in a photographic studio. Pair sitter (fair by courtesy): "I am always taken from the same side, but I forget which.” Scotch photographer (reflectively, and after a deliberate survey of the front view): “Weel, it’ll no bo this side, Ah’m thinldn.’. Maybe it’s t’it-her-r-r.” But the countenance of the sitter suggests a suspicion that the photograph may not eventuate after all; at least, not in that studio. Now, let us take an outdoor scene by du Maurier. A winter morning in a quiet suburb. A middle-aged lady, tall, angular, and large of frame was the first, that morning, to pass along the snowcovered street. Her feet were not apparently out of proportion, but her shoes had very properly been chosen with a view to comfort rather than elegance, and her goloshes were evidently too large for the shoes, so it is no wonder that her tracks drew the attention of a tramp leaning against the park railings. It was certainly disappointing to be refused a gratuity on such a morning, but it was too bad to throw such bitter sarcasm into his quotation, .‘‘l triced yer little footsteps in the snaow,” to the manifest discomposure of the lady. Another suburban scene by the same artist is "A Study of Indiscretion.” A hansom cab is bowling steadily along a quiet road on a bright, sunny afternoon. There is only one pedestrian in sight and only one occupant in the cab, a young lady absorbed in the perusal of a letter which she- holds out in front of her as she leans against the back of the cab, quite unaware that cabby, with his face close down on the opening in the roof, finds the letter as 'nteresting as she, does herself. Now, suppose we try one of Charles Keene’s. Here, m a secluded corner of a delightful country lane, we find ail elegantly attired young man, apparently suffering from a severe shock, and a young woman, not quite so elaborately dressed, whose expression and attitude indicate a happy content with the fate that has befallen her. He (rapturously): “And new that’s all settled, darling, what kind of engagement ring would you like?” She: “Oh, gold this time, I hope, dearest; I’m sick of wearing imitation engagement rings!” (tableau.) ..No wonder that the poor fellow’s knees give way under him, that his neatly rolled umbrella drops from his liand, and his hair lifts the hat from his head. It may be that you disapprove of mother-in-law jokes. I don’t much favour them myself, for I certainly never had the smallest cause of complaint against my own; but Charles Keene presents a case where the husband’s indiscretion wrought such dire punishment that perhaps you may allow it to pass. He calls' it "A Festive Prospect,” and in it we see the meeting in the hall between the husband, who has stayed at home, and the wife, who has just returned from a visit to her mother, while, through the open doorway, wo see the back of the old lady herself, who, with uplifted finger, is bestowing on the cabman “a piece of her mind.” Husband (with consternation in his face): “Didn’t I tell you not to invite your mother back in my ” Wife (-whose face also expresses a foreboding of coming trouble): “Yes, dear, that’s what she’s come about. She react your letter”—(tableah). Is it possible to refuse a silent tear over such a catastrophe as this? For a long time now I have seen nothing of Punch beyond a hasty look at an occasional number*, but. I find that it has recently been investigating ancient Irish history and presenting the result in a characteristic manner. One point that Mr Punch elucidates is how .the deluge was met by the Irish. There may he doubts as to the accuracy of his version, and it certainly owes very little to the Book of Genesis, but it is plausible and so good-tempered that only an extreme type of Sinn Feiner could feel aggrieved by it. Ireland, of course, was a nation even then, and equally, of course, instead of submitting to Noah’s guidance, they built an ark of their own. The commander of the craft was an Irish gentleman called C’Donel, who' smilingly informed Noa'i, “Sure, we won’t go with you at all. Ireland! is a nation, an indepiudent nation. You may sail your ould ark; we’ve built one • f on r own. . . . Come on, O'Connor and O’Neil. Is M’Dermot aboard*? . . . Here, boys, get a move on; the flood is rism’’ fast. M hen Captain O’Donel observes the snakes tliat some of his subordinates have admitted, ho sings out, “Throw them assorted reptiles overboard, Thady; what’s the use of them at all.” Here we have the explanation of the hitherto mysterious fact that there are no snakes in Ireland. They have a few delays at starting. There is "an English Protestant, by name Parnell,” who pleads that they will find him useful,’and is admitted when they are assured that lie is not a Black borther ’; and a. Spaniard who claims to be “as good an Irishman as any of them.” Then at last comes the order to strike up on the harp, “Ireland a Nation “ and they are off—only to find that something has been forgotten after all. O’Donel: “Well, ’tis too late now. What might it lie, O Brien? The Dove of Peace did you say? The Dove of Nabocklish! Who cares? I ask yerseif what the divil does a-nny Irisiiman want with peace? He never had anny use for it;, no, nor never will. Push off'” OCTOGENARIAN.’ . Thank you. Octogenarian, for your selecV?.’.?r evergreen humorist, Punch.— ESTHER. CONTENTMENT. Dear Esther,—l am looking forward to our fiist meeting of the year, although I don’t seem to have anything original to offer for my contribution. Perhaps, though, in is idea of David Swing s may be enjoyed by some of our members and others. I thought it Jovelv, if we could only live up to it' “Contentment.—Let, us learn to be content with what we have. Let us «et rid of our false estimates. Set up all the higher ideals. A quiet home; a few books full of the inspirations of genius; vines of our own planting; a few friends worthy of being loved, and able to love us in return ■ a hundred innocent pleasures that bring us no para or remorse; a devotion to the ri'o-ht that will never swerve; a simple religion empty of all-bigotry—full of hope and trust and love. —David Swing. Wouldn’t, life be full if we could make tins our ideal. Contentment seems to be rare with most folk nowadays, when there i* so much strife and unhappiness. Those who have much waut more, and some would t* l contented if they only had enough to keep going. A ‘'homey” home is lovely. Some seem to be able to make the smallest-

place home, don’t they? And what a treat to visit in a real home! Love counts for everything, for without it we wouldn’t have much in life. Isn’t it grand to know we have our friends around us. But don’t youi think we are an unfaithful lot at times ? If we only look around us there is so much to be thankful for, though we have got a habit of getting grouchy when things go wrong. Strange to say, how email things can make everything wrong all day if we let them. It takes a bit of doing to get past them sometimes, but it’s always something achieved if one does get past. We are always so ready to see the flaws in our own folk, and yet we don’t like other people to see them and point them out. Perversity of human nature, isn’t it? As Robbie Burns said, “Oh, would the gift the gifties gio us, to see ourselves as others see os.” Wouldn’t it do us good? I will conclude with a prayer by Robert Louis Stevenson: “Be with our friends, be with ourselves. Go with each of us to rest. If any awake, temper to them the dark hours of watching; and when the day returns, Tetuxn to us our sun and comforter and call us up with morning faces and with morning hearts—eager to labour; eager to be happy, if happiness shall be our portion, and if the day be marked for sorrow, strofcg to endure it.”—Yours sincerely, ANEMONE, Truly, our happiness lies in ourselves far more tham in outward circumstances, Anemone.—ESTHEß. HELP FROM ABOVE. Dear Esther, —Another year has come and gone, and once more we are privileged to gather together in the Oesy Comer. The year has brought many changes. iSomo of us have lost a loved one—nay, I should not say lost, for'they are not lost; they have gone on before us to the heavenly city, and they are beckoning to us to keep in the straight and narrow way that leads us onward to the life eternal Others amongst us perhaps have still a dear one —one who has received the call to the Many Mansions — who still lingers on, surrounded by love and tenderness. At times one - wonders why, oh why, must this loved one 1 cave ns ? It may be perhaps that we were growing cold or indifferent to better things, and that just as a. shephred sometimes takes a wee lamb in his arms and carries it into another field, then naturally the mother follows, and, again, if the mother is removed, the lambs strive to reach her once more. So it is with us: the Good Shepherd veTy often takes our loved ones to be with Him, and then when we have One link the less to earth, One link the more to Heaven,” one longs to be reunited. How much God must have loved us, Esther to have given His dearest possession, His only begotten Son, to suffer in our room and stead. What comfort is. to be . found in this verse, “Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shaft be saved, thou and thine house.” Isn’t it wonderful how our faith will save our loved ernes too? We have only to trust God to give them faith, and He will do so. “According to your faith.be it done unto you.” “Fear not- to trust His simple word, So sweet, so tried, so true, And you are safe for evermore— Yes, even you!” As I think of the dark times through which so many of us are now passing, this verse comes to my mind: “ ’Tis religion that jc an give Sweetest, pleasure while we live; ’Tis religion must supply Solid comfort when we die.” What comfort a rainbow always brings to me, Esther. It is God’s promise, and His promises never fail And He has promised that He will go before us and make the crooked places straight. He will break in pieces the gate of brass and cut in sunder the bars of iron. The darkest hour is ever before the dawn, so let us - ope on! Hope ever! Though clouds be- dark to-day, The sun will shine to-morrow.” And we shall always find that “A safe stronghold our God is still, A trusty shield and weapon; He’ll guide us clear o'er evea-y ill That hath us now overtaken.” So many of us get suic-h a. heavy burden to carry that we cannot bear it alone, so we take it to the loving Lord Jesus—“castin ol all, °W care upon Him, for He oao-eth for uis. We are told to cast it, not to lay it down and then pick it up again. If* we attempt to bear our cross in our own strength it will simply drag us under. Is it not marvellous how when once we ca°t our burden at His feet, then “The way grows brighter, and brMiter still, For all the way long it is Jesus!” One of the greatest bnrdens one has to bear is that of anticipating troubles. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’ Let us be- of good cheer, remembering always that this is the victory that overcometth the world,’ even our faith,” so Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take; The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head.” With all good wishes to yourself and all comrades, and may this season be even more successful than last one was. FAITH. Truly we need faitli in face of so much that is sad and mysterious in the world—the faith that God is good and will make all tilings work for final good.—ESTHER. HISTORY OF A POPULAR SONG. Dear Esther, As we are allowed to choose cur own subject, I am writing on one I read in the Scotsman. Phrase songs used to be very popular, and most of us are verv familiar with “Get yer ’air cut,” but I suppose a great many, like myself, are under tne impression that “Pop goes the weasel ’ was really an old nursery rhyme. Such, however, is not the case. It was first sn,rnr by one W L. Edmunds at the Theatre Royal, Sadlers Wells, and nightly at the Orennone (wardens. The composer was W H. Mandate. It was a most popular song m the early fifties, and was the “tipperarv” of the Crimean War. From an old copy of the Referee the following definition of the chorus—“Up and down the city road, In and out the Eagle, That’s the way my money goes— Pop goes the weasel,” may be of some interest, to your readers In close proximity to City road, London, in which the Eagle Tavern was situated, ’ lies Boxton, a district largely inhabited at the time the above song was written by tailors of more or less bibulous tendencies. Amongst the articles of their trade was something called a “weasel,” which, t-hev “popped” when hard up in order to procure drink, and to find their way to the Eagle had perforce to go “up and down the City road.” This old song is still sung by school children when playing hop scotch,

and I daresay a gTeat many think it is “in and out of the easel,’ as I used to. Further on in the song—“A penny for a cotton ball, Twopence for a needle”— we see further articles required by the tailor. Little did we think in our childhood days when repeating these lines that the “City road” referred to London. BUENA VISTA. Thank you, Buena Vista, for your interesting explanation of a quaint song.— ESTHER. DOTTERELS AND THEIR NESTS. Dear Esther,—Once more we are at the opening of another C.C.C. session, and, looking back, one oan scarcely realise how the time has passed. The papers on our native birds and flowers I found full of interest. I think that the dotterels are specially interesting. I remember 6ne of the first dotterel’s nests that I found. What attracted my attention to the spot was seeing a dotterel trying to frighten a sheep away, and, hunting round in the grass I soon found the nest, if nest it could be called, as it is scarcely more than a slight hollow in the ground. It is the first and only time that I have seen the dotterel defending her nest. Their usual method seems to be feining a broken wing and trying to entice one to follow them away, rather than have anyone examining their nests. When looking at the nests I have know'll them to com© within a yard of me. I came upon a nest this year when the eggs were just chipped. It was about 24 hours' before the young birds came out, and the day after when the young birds left the nest. The little dotterels are the prettiest little creatures imaginable—like litt-el balls of down, speckled grey and brQwn, with long legs and bright black eyes. Unless one sees them moving it is almost impossible to detect them, and if one loses sight of them for a moment they disappear as if by magic. It is interesting to watch the little things hide. They run as fast os their long- legs can carry them, and suddenly you see them squat down in a- little hollow, where, although you can see them plainly, it would have been almost impossible to find them, if you had not been closely watching. While wandering through the hush on© day I came upon some, slugs. The largest was about ljin long. They were of a dark grey colour, and the back was veined exactly like a leaf—so like. a dead leaf, in fact that it was almost impossible to tell tlie difference without actually touching them. Do you know anything about them, Esther? With all' good wishes from VIOLA. Thank you very much, Viola, for yo-ur interesting account of those pretty little birds. The instinct of wild creatures is wonderfuI.—'ESTHERANCIENT BEAUTY RECIPES. Dear Esther, —In these days when paint, powders, and cosmetics of all kinds are displayed and sold by chemists -and advertised by beauty specialists, it may interest some readers of this page to learn how ladies of 600 years ago mad-e their own cosmetics and powders for beautifying their complecti-ons. I oopied the following recipes from a very old book: they are quite 500 years old, probably more. I will not attempt to give all the words their curious spelling. Also the us© of the f for s is rather puzzling to anyone not accustomed to the old style of. print. You will note the frequent use of capital letters. These recipes appear to be very harmless and safe for anyone to try :—- “To Cause a Curious White and Shining Compilection.—Take Blossoms of Peach two handfuls, the sap that drops from a cut vine 4 ounces, the seed of Mellons, grosley bruised, one ounce; Gum Turgaoanth, beaten finely to a powder, half an ounce; put to these-, well beaten and bruised, two quarts of Clarified Whey.. Let these infuse-twenty-four hours in a warm place, then press out the Liquid part a-s hard as may be by pressing, and use it as you see occasion.” “To Make the Hands and Face Plump.— Take the Marrow of the Bones of Hog’s Feet two- ounces, Oyl of Almonds and Oyl of Roses each half an ounce. Make these up into an Unguent, and chafe it in often, and it will Supple and Plump the Skin to a Curious Softness.” “To Take Away Freckles.—Take the Ga-ul of a young Cock, the Wool of a Hare's foot, burnt to powder, by wrapping- it up hard in Brown paper wetted, as in Burning Silver Lace, that it may not Burn to Ashes, but Moulder, and so be reducible into Powder. Add to these an ounce of Rye-meal; beat them together with the Pulp of a Lemon and Wine Vinegar till they may be spread Plaster-wise. Spread the composition on soft Leather, and lay it on the Freckley places; in twice or thrice applying you will see a strange alteration.” “Water of Tale: A Great Beautifier.— Take the best ‘Tale, slit it in thin pieces; hang it up in a thin Linnen Bag in a very damp place, with a Receiver under it- to receive the droppings, when it sweats or dissolves. Then distil it, and it produces a curious shining Beautifying Water, to set a Lovely Whiteness on the Skin and keep back the signs of Age.” I have no idea what kind of taTe 'is meant that will dissolve in the damp; it sounds rather queer. The following is quite nice and simple to make: “Sweet Powder.—Take Rice grounds, beat them, dry them, and sift them often, till they become very fine; then dry them again. Scent a pound of this with two grains of Musk, a dram of Rose scent, or any other scents propel- that is pleasing to yon. This ma3' be done for want of Rice grounds with White Starch, finely Powdered.” GERALDINE. Curious old recipes indeed! The last and that, for making the face and hands plump might be used to-day, however. I suppose the use of cosmetics began with the dawnings of civilisation.—ESTHEß, PHILOSOPHY. Oh yet, thou, all the world forsake Tljo’ fortune clips my wings, I will not cramp my heart, nor take Half views of men and tilings. Lot Whig and Tory stir their blood ; There must be stormy weather; But for some true result of good All parties work togther. Let there be Thistles, there are Grapes; If old tilings, there are now; Ten thousand broken lights and shapes, Yet glimpses of the true. Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme, We lack not rhymes and reasons, As on this whirligig of time We circle with the seasons. This earth is rich in mini and maid, With fair horizons bound: This whole wide eorth of light and shade Comes out a perfect round. High over roaring Templebar, And set in Heaven’s third story, I look at all things as they are, But thro’ a kind of glory. —Alfred Tennyson.

With greeting to all members, —Yours sincerely, MERIX. I am so glad you found time to send something to the opening meeting, Merix ESTHER. FRIENDSHIP. Dear Esther,—Aithr racking my brains for a suitable subject about which to write, I have decided upon that of “Friendship." First of all, what is meant by friendship? The dictionary says it is attachment from mutual esteem. The general public speak cf a friend in a very light-hearted manner, as, for instance, when a neighbour visits another, on© ofttimee hears, “I have been visiting a friend.” The particular party Visited may possibly be anything but a friend in the true sense of the word. I think myself that there are few real friendships formed through life. “A friend is one who knows all about you and loves you just

the same.” We are inclined to be uncharitable towards those less fortunate than ourselves, and when trouble arises, how often do we condemn instead) of giving a little practical help and sympathy. During the dreadful influenza epidemic those who worked amongst the sack saw with amazement how little former friendships counted when real help was needed. It was often the chance acquaintance who came to one’s aid and not the hitherto so-called friend. To those fortunate enough to possess true friends, what a blessing is theirs I It is a true saying that “a friend sticketh closer than a brother.” This has been proved so often during the recent European wars. In those wans all men were equial, whether of high birth or low, and when under hr© there was no time to consider whether one’s neighbour was Lord So-and-so or just plain'Mr ——. The men knew their comrades as Tom, Dick, or Harry, and that was sufficient. I have numerous acquaintances, but only a few whom I oould count as friends. Perhaps I am too uncharitable in my judgments, and no doubt the old quotation, “If we could see ocxrael’s as ithers see us,” applies to me perhaps more than to others. I value a friend very highly, and once I form that friendahip ho faults or petty troubles can intervene. I think I cannot do better than close with the words of that old song: Tell us, oh, tell us Where shall we find The friendship that leaves not A sorrow behind; The beauty that fades not, The love that endures, Tlie faith in each other That friendship secures, The faith in each other That friendship secures. - LENA. Trouble is the test of friendship, truly. I think you are a little pessimistic, though; my impression is that many people find and keep true friends. —ESTHER. Dear Esther,—l haven’t time to write a paper for the opening meeting of the C.C.C., so am sending a little poem by B. Jonsom. It is taken from “The Golden Treasury,” by Francis Palgrave. This book contains many fine poems by such authors as Cowper, Shelley, Keats, and Shakespeare. The poem I’ve chosen is called “The Noble Nature.” It is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be; , Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, ; To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere. ! A lily of a day I Is fairer far in May, I Although it fall and die that night— I It was the plant and flower of light. ! In small proportions we just beauties see; ; And in short measures life may perfect be. [ I like the syllabus for this session, and hope | it will be the means of even the busy members sending in a few lines to the meetj ings. To read the contributions of other I members of the C.C.C. always gives me great I pleasure. INVERCAULD. I Your selection is excellent, lnrercauld. I | am glad you like the syllabus, and hope you i will find time and cpnorlunity to contribute j often.—ESTHER. ' WEDDINGS AND ENGAGEMENTS. LONDON March 24. At St. John’s Church, Hampstead, on March 11, the wedding took place of William Eric Marcus Mitchell, eldest son of Dr J. F. Mitchell, of Bangor, Ireland, to Catherine Hamilton, younger daughter of Mr W. F. Hamilton, of Fairlie, New Zealand. The ceremony iras performed by the Rev. L. F. Canon-desig-nate of Newcastle. The Wesleyan Church, Hinde street, London, was beautifully decorated for the wedding, which took place on March 6, of Mr Norman Harold Barlow, .eldest son of Mr and Mrs Barlow, of Christchurch, to Miss Dorothy Eva Beckett, youngest daughter of Mr and Mrs T. W. Beckett, of Merton Keep, Pretoria. The ceremony was performed by the Rev. R. W. Harding, minister of the church, assisted by the j Rev. J. White of Rhodesia on old friend of I the bride’s family. Mr Beckett gave away | the bride who wore a dross of white brocaded satin embroidered with pearls. ! Her veil of Brussels net was held in place with a wreath of orange blossom. She

was attended by Miss Aileen Pilditch, of Sutton, who wore a dress of powder blue georgette, trimmed with pink roses, and she carried an Early Victorian posv of pink roses and forget-me-nots. Mr Norman Beckett (brother of the bridegroom) was best man. After the ceremony the guests were entertained at Berner’s Hotel by the bride’s parents. Mr and Mrs N. H. Barlow are now on their way to New Zealand, travelling via Canada. Their home is to be in Christchurch. The African World in its reference to the wedding, remarks that Mr and Mrs Beckett, who are intimately associated with the Transvaal’s history, have parted with their youngest daughter “to one of the best of New Zealand’s able and vigorous community.” From Johannesburg, news has arrived of the engagement of Mr Leonard Caro, of Durban, and Miss Vera Altson. The former is the son of the late Mr Daisd Caro and Mrs Caro, of Christchurch; the latter is the daughter of Mrs I. F. Altson, late of Bedford, and Addison Mansions, Kensington. The engagement is announced between Mr Philip Terence English, of Walsoken, Auckland, youngest son of the late Mr A. W. English, of Wisbech, Cambridgeshire, and of Mrs A. W. English, Elmstone Lodge, Bedford, and Miss Vena Helen Dalgety, younger daughter of the late Colonel E. H. Dalgety, C.8.E., and Mrs Dalgety, of 3, St. Michael’s road, Bedford.