THE SKETCHED

Otago Witness, Issue 3663, 27 May 1924, Page 65

THE SKETCHED

DIFFICULT LETTERS. How our pen flies over some letters, how it lags over others! (observes Beryl tsage in the Daily Mail). We might classify our friends by the ease or difficulty with which we write to them. It was a Kipfing character who chose for his epitaph, “He liked it all. The ideal correspondent “likes it all.” To her or him we can let ourselves go, and she, by some blessed accident of temperament, will understand. We can even gossip. Of course we dislike gossip, yet each of us keeps an etherealised vintage of it, and with the ideal correspondent we crack a bottle now and then. Letters to married friends are apt to be difficult. The married woman sees the prospect through her husband’s shadow and reads our letters through it. “Don’t write any secrets,’’ she cautions us. “John always reads your letters.” Perhaps in a mood of egotistic desperation we exclaim, “Bother John 1 1 must be myself,” and unite as we like; but usually our letters to women whose husbands pose as censors are strictly edited. And that takes time. Persons who scrupulously observe ‘‘turns” in writing, and who fall into despair at being placed in our debt too soon, are not edifying correspondents. I do not like the* pinch of this give-and-take system. If I may n.ot turn around and speak to my friend when I wish to express myself, then the barrier between ns is more palpable than that of distance. Enforced writing is almost as painful as suppressed zeal. Thera are days on end when the mechanical pushing of a pen is irksome and one longs for telepathic power to commune with friends at a distance; yet write we must before we can hear again for the give-and-take precision. WHEN FLOWERS ARE DISPLEASED. Flowers are almost as quick to show signs of displeasure as human beings. Most people know what it is to arrange two kinds of blossoms in a vase, and then to find a few hours later that the blooms are drooping. In most cases this is due to the fact that flowers object to being associated with one another. Separate tne blossoms, and in a short while they will be as fresh as ever. Lilies of the valley are hardly ever happy for long when mixed with other flowers, and soon show their dislike by drooping badly. Hoses, carnations, sweet peas, and mignonette are all flowers which should be kept to themselves. Either they will affect the blooms with which they are placed or they themselves will quickly Quite a number of flowers dislike music. Time and again it has been noticed that blossoms on a piano which is frequently played last only a very short while. Even more curious is the effect of a jazz hand on some of the more sensitive flowers. The large Easter lilies and cyclamen have been noticed to turn away from a band which was playing dance music, just as if they wished to get as far off from the sound as possible. There seems to be something about certain folk that violets really dislike, and not only will they withhold their perfume but they will droop as well. Much the same kind of thing has been observed in the more delicate sorts of roses. Flowers, as well as foliage plants, often show a marked dislike of certain rooms in a house. A vase full of drooping blossoms removed to another apartment will undergo a complete transformation in an hour or so. There is usually no very clear reason why this should be so, except that, in the first instance, the flowers are not pleased with their surroundings. If a foliage plant seems to be unhappy in one room, place it in another, and it is quite likely to become liealtby once again. A SAD AMTI-CLIMAX FOR “SILVER THREADS AMONG THE GOLD.”

It has been praised as “one of the bestloved romantic ballads of all times,” that popular song called “Silver Threads Among the Gold,” but its tender prophecy was never fulfilled, it seems, for the woman who inspired it. That woman, Mrs Harriet Danks, was buried recently near New York City, and for her (reports the New York World) “the long trail of unhappiness that so strangely followed the writing of the love strain is over.” The report runs on: Mrs Hanks was eighty-two. She died Wednesday, in reduced circumstances, in a Brooklyn rooming-house. She was buried in New Union Eield, after a simple service in the Lefferts Place Chapel. In 1874, when Hart Pease Danks, a young musician and singer, and his wife were living happily together in this city, he composed to her one of the tenderest love songs of the ages. Everybody knows it : Darling, I am growing old, Silver threads among the gold Shine upon my brow to-day, Life is fading fast away. But, my darling, j'ou will be Always young and fair to me. Yes, my darling, yon will be Always young and fair to me. Who has not sung, or tried to sing, or heard .sung that immortal refrain ? The words were written by Eben E. Rexford. Danks composed the melody. Perhaps the course of his life would have been different if he never had composed it. The song sold, prosperity came, and with it domestic unhappiness. Danks and his wife parted. In 1903 an old man was found dead in a rooming-house in Philadelphia. His landlady found him kneeling at the side of his bed, where death had overtaken him.

He had a copy of “Silver Threads Among the Gold” in his hand, and on it was pencilled : “It’s hard to grow old alone.” That was how Dangs died, and his widow died in circumstances nearly parallel. Meanwhile for years, while the song which had been written for love of her was being suing by lovers throughout the world, the widow’ of Danks grew to feel the pinch of want and the loneliness of old age. The prophecy of her lover of the old days remained unfulfilled. MAN SPEED. The ngws from Switzerland that Captain F. A. M. Browning, of the British bobsleigh team entered for the Olympic Winter Games, was travelling at forty miles an hour when his bob overturned, no doubt surprised some people who are inclined to take it for granted that to achieve any considerable speed, an engine of some kind is essential. Yet, as the above quoted incident shows, surprisingly high speeds can be reached without the assistance of any mechanical power. The sprinter who covers a hundred yards in ten seconds, travels at an average speed of rather more than the twenty miles an uour legal maximum for a motor-car, and during part of the race must considerably exceed the limit. A man on roller skates can travel still faster, for although the ordinary skater makes a circuit of the rink at only about, fourteen miles an hour, the racing expert has been known to attain a speed of twenty-five miles. Ice skating produces about the same maximum speed as rolled skating, but it is estimated that in ice hockey, and over short- distances, rather higher speeds are sometimes attained. Diving can produce very high velocities, varying with the height from which the dive is made. A diver, for instance, who takes off from a height of fifD- feet is actually travelling at- the rate of thirtyeight miles an hour when he enters the water. The motor-cyclist whose speedometer registers sixty miles an hour experiences a glow of pride in his mount, yet nothing has been done which has not already been achieved by man power. A speed of more than sixty-one miles an hour lias been reached on an ordinary racing pattern “push” bicycle, and although the “push’’ cyclist was paced by a motor cyclist and protected from wind pressure, this is none the less a remarkable feat. It is, however, only when wheels are abandoned that the highest man-power speeds became possible. In a race on skis down the snow-clad mountain slope an average speed of fortyfive miles an hour is not uncommon even among the lesser lights of the sport, while the expert will equal the speed of an express train, and cover the distance at sixty miles an hour. Lugeing on a specially prepared snow or ice runs frequently produces a speed of forty-five miles an hour, and on the famous Cresta run a speed of eighty miles an hour has been reached. ROMANCE. By Major H. Rayne, British Somaliland. “Wooi-oof!” a hyaena on the prowl. Sleepy heads pop up from camel mats; ciurses and stones fiy thick as hail. I look at my watch —10 o’clock. In London, three hours behind us, the day s rush is spent, the tubes and omnibuses have spilled forth the slaves of civilisation into the narrow streets down which they pass, each to his confined space for the night. What a life! But here is space and freedom and romance! To emphasise the latter the hytena howls again; a distant jackal barks snappily. A pile of black clouds driving at the moon is my last impression ere I fall asleep under tiie gob tree, over a great branch of which my men threw yesterday a leaf-covered shade of sticks. Later, as the storm breaks, Tisamna and the cook come to ask if I am getting wet. I know well they but seek an excuse to share my shelter, and allow them to fuss about until the rain passes. Then I spill tiie rain water from my canvas bed and sleep once more, uncomfortably. Early morning—“ Breakfast ready, Tisamna? I am very hungry ; poached eggs on toast! ’ ’ “Ay well, sahib! But ...” “ I don’t want ‘ buts ’ —but eggs on toast! ” I reply. “ But the hyaena ate all the. eggs. The hyaena that came last night during the storm—when we were attending to you. ' “Help! Then I’ll have mutton steak,” I reply bravely, yet with a sinking heart. “ Tell cook to beat it on a box, roll it in flour, and ...” “ But, sahib ...” “Of course he ate the meat too ! Then open a tin of sardines! ” “ Ayweh, but ...” “ What now ! You are not going to say the hyrena has eaten all the sardines? ” “No! How foolish to tell you that! I am a grown man possessed of common Eense. I was about to say he had eaten all the bread and that the potatoes are finished.” “ You have flour. Dare you tell me the hyaena has eaten all the flour? ” “ I cannot tell such a ne. He only spilled the yeast, and cook says it will be three days before he can provide more.” Moonlight, Africa, romance—fiddlesticks! I’d give something to be sitting before a plate of fried eggs and bacon, bread on the table, and a shop jiust around the corner.

But I’m going to sit up to-night for that hyeena.

SPORTING MASCOTS. By F. G. Prixce-Wuite. There are practical-minded persons who call faith in mascots “stuff ana nonsense.” They are no doubt chuckling merrily over the defeat of superstitious Billy Hindley, of Bolton, who was beaten at the King, London, by level-headed Johnny Curley, of Lambeth. Billy went into the fight with a silver cross in his belt. lie battled for 19 rounds with his mind at ease, and his confidence in his mascot was stronger than his right fist. He was vanquished, but if you dared jeer at his superstition he would very probably knock you down. Billy has the faith of the true mascotbeliever, and a dozen defeats would not weaken it. He is in excellent and numerous company. There are charmists among the followers of every T sport under the sun. I know of women who would shudder at the thought of driving their cars an inch unless they were wearing a charm of some sort. There are some who pin their faith to a piece of “lucky’’ jade; others wear on the little finger of the left hand „a ring reputed to have an eerie history- — preferably one that has come undamaged, with its previous owners, through many accidents. Then there are women who will not hunt without a mascot —generally some little article of jewellery with sentimental value, but sometimes a few hairs out of a black cat’s tail worn in a plain locket. Scoffers might laugh themselves into hysterics, but it would not move these superstitious Dianas. Racing motorists are devoted believers in mascots. Some have been known to refuse to race on a track on discovering that they have left their mascots at home. Their most common emblem of faith in the Unseen Forces is a gold coin given to them by women who love them, for all their dependence on quick sight and responsive muscles, footballers are not innocent of superstition. There are many who run on to the field with confidence all the greater because they have tucked some loved woman’s handkerchief into their bosom. Cricketers, too, have a weakness for carrying to the pitch a woman’s gift. Yachtsmen are notoriously superstitious. At the close of Cowes Week you may hear a thousand reasons why their small craft lost or won—all of them based on the behaviour of mascots, such as cats or miniature Chinese gods. But of all who take risks at the bidding of the “sporting instinct” airmen are undeniably the most superstitious. A friend of mine, who faced death a thousand times as a night-bomber in the war, was afraid to leave solid earth unless, purring beneath his warm coat as he crouched in the cockpit, a jet-black kitten went with him up towards the twinkling stars. And the wife of Squadron-Leader A. Stuart Maclaren fixed a mascot to his big amphibious ’plane before the start of his world flight. It was a small brass figure of an airman holding his “joy-stick.” “For luck,” she said, and believed it. MY BIRTHDAY. By Maurice Lane-Norcott. The only person I don’t have to write and thank on my birthday is Anne. Indeed, I have no cause to thank her, because she has brought the giving of birthday presents to an art worthy of Machiavelli. She thinks of all the things she wants herself, and then thinks of some excuse to give me one of them for a. birthday present-. For instance, a month ago Anne thought that she would like a garden roller. Actually she didn’t put it in that way. What she said was: Wouldn’t I like a garden roller? I said I should hate one. “But,” she protested, “if we’re going to play tennis this season we simply must have a roller.” I shook my head sadly. “I -can’t afford one, Anne,” I said. “I’m afraid we’ll have to go on letting the gardener use his once a week as before.” She smiled winningly. “Then I'll buy you one for a birthday present,” she said generously. Another birthday present that I have refused to receive this year is a vacuum cleaner., The suggestion arose out of a slight complaint I made regarding the brushing of the-carpets. Our maid is an extremely noisy brasher. When she is brushing the carpet in the dining room I can distinctly hear her in my study, which .is under the roof. “Then don’t you think we ought to buy a vacuum cleaner?” said Anne when I mentioned this matter. “Well, frankly,” I said, “I don’t. Can’t Parker brush the -carpets more quietly?” “But they’re so dirty, dear,” murmured Anne. “Now a vacuum cleaner would “I don’t think I could afford one just now,” I interrupted sadly. “Then,” said Anne brightly, “I’ll give you one for a ” “I’d sooner have a tie, Anne,” I remarked glumly. But I am very much afraid I am not going to get a tie. Everything points to my receiving a mowing machine next Friday. For a week now Arnie lias been wanting a mowing machine. There are mowing-machine catalogues all over the house. Indeed, I should say that I am almost certain to wake up, aged 32, in a day or two and find Model A Lawn Mower waiting for me in the tool shed. I looked it up in a catalogue just now. It is priced four pounds seventeen and sixpence, and this morning Anne borrowed five pounds. I do hate birthdays.