THE SKETCHER

Otago Witness, Issue 3671, 22 July 1924, Page 65

THE SKETCHER

THE CHRONICLES OF MARY’N HURRELL. VII.—A HAPPY TIME. By Emily Baizeen. (For the Witness.) The ballroom was decorated with great branches of tree-fern and white chrysanthemums—and the scene of those flowers always brings back to me the gay scene and the happy faces of that fairyland ot long ago. The floor was like a sea of amber satin, and, as we made our way across it, Tootsie whispered: “Isn’t it slippery, Mary’n? I do hope we won't fall down when we’re dancing.” “Don’t be afraid,” I said. When the music is started we’ll be able to balance on glass.” In the dressing room a number of girls were already assembled whom we did not know very well, and we felt almost as usurpers for a time—watching them grouped around the mirrors, pinning flowers in their frocks or in their hair; pattirj- down this stray curl or that stray "id ; and, in fact, going through those mmiiiar odd tricks which most girls do before they enter the ballroom to be joined by their partners. Tootsie and I had not removed our wraps when we were both glad to see Dora enter, happy and gay as usual, with another Braemar girl—Hilda Montgomery. Ethel Love, Leonora Rice, and Marcie Mead soon arrived also—and we were quickly surrounded and inspected. “I know you were here, ’ Dora said to me. “ I saw your father cut there, and I took Jim over to him; lie seamed lonely.” Dora was now well acquainted with my family, having been to our home on several occasions. “ Good girl.” I thanked her. “ 'Well,” she continued, “ let us all see how you look.” Us ail ” were the girls I have just mentioned, and our own particular friends at Braemar.

They passed me, with a note of kindly approval in their comment, and Dora said : “ Isn’t our Tootsie* a sweet little debutante? ”

Tootsie smacked her on the arm and retorted: “ Don't you laugh at me, young Dora—l’m all right.” “ So I said,” Dora added teasingly. Then she removed her own wrap and we each cried out in sincere admiration — the other rival beauties of Braemar as well. Dora was lovely—in a soft blue, surah silk evening frock, and some rare white flowers which Jim Bowen had sent her from Paton’s—the tcp-notch florists in Swanston street! So there we were—each looking our very best as we went into the ballroom, where a glad surprise and some enchantment awaited at least one of our party, and where Joy herself met us all with outstretched hands. “ Oh, Mary n,” said Dora stopping suddenly before me when wo were about halfway down the room, “I’ve got such a surprise for you; someone you used to know very well when we were at de Drew’s —Dale Martin—is here to-night. Some of the cutters dug him up from somewhere —it seems he has turned cut a splendid singer—going to be a ‘ pro.’ —you remember him, ot course?” “Remember him? Gracious! Dora, 1 should think so! Where is he? ” I demanded, with quick, impulsive eagerness and much excitement. I called Tootsie and told her the wonderful news before Dora could reply. And we both displayed over much excitement for really nicely-mannered young ladies, I suppose; but the incident and the occasion might reasonably be calculated to stir within us some extra emotions—and it did! Dora continued : “ I told Jim that we knew him—at least I didn’t suppose there could be two Dale Martins in the world, and both with red hair—but that must be him with Jim now,” she added —a little dubiously, however ; for the young man coming across the room towards us with Jim Bowen (his head, red-golden and shining in the lights) was nearly two inches above Jim, as they walked together. And I stared at him as he came. Surely this handsome, polished, and immaculately-dressed young man could not be my old oifice-bov friend, Dale Martin ? But it was Dale; and he eagerly searched my own eyes and read my glad surprise and sure welcome to himself, just as perfectly as I did his, before we clasped hands spontaneously and rapturously, regardless of everybody there. “Mary’n !” “Dale !” Dale was the first to gain command of the situation, and he began at once to demand an account of my heartless disappearance that morning, long ago, when I had so silently departed with the key of the Mystery—his Mystery—in my possession. But ere I could reply, Jim Bowen Interrupted to give us our dance cards for the evening. “I see that you are quite old friends,” he remarked. "I should think they are !” said Dora. “They used to sweep the streets together, didn’t you?’’

“Yes, we did-—and jolly fine times we had too!” Dale added, enthusiastically. “Dale,” I said eagerly, drawing Tootsie forward, “this is Tootsie; you remember my sister? And the puzzle?”

“Rather!” he cried delightedly, and, grasping her hand, he oegan to recite humorously ; “ ‘ Of dull m-omotony this is the name, and backwards’ ”

“Oh —oh,” Tootsie interrupted, “I am glad to see you, Da —er—Mr ” and she glanced up at the tall stranger, suddenly abashed. Dale understood her, and he laughed. “It’s all right, Tootsie, call me Dale, won’t you? Never mind about my being so high up in the air,” he added. Father came up just then, and, seeing I was about to present him, Dale assured me that he had already had that honour.

“Jim introduced me to your escort,” he added, “and as he can’t possibly dance the first with you both—may I have the pleasure He stretched out his hand for my programme, and he wrote his name against a rather too liberal supply of dances besides the first, including the last waltz and the supper dance. Humility and modesty were never Dale Martin's failings or strong points. He marked eft' a couple on Tootsie’s card also, and she was delighted. “I don’t care,” she told me afterwards,

“as long as they dance with me, whether they only do it to please you or no t....

The first dance was just about to start when he came up—the new cutter —bowing low over my hand and asking for my card in that irresistible voice of his. Tliis occasion was the first time I was able to take a “good look” at Alf Trent, and I was surprised to fin'd him “rather ugly,” at least to my judgment on that point; but he was smart, and had an up-to-date appearance, which must have accounted for Dora’s calling him “a perfect dream of a boy.” well-cut clothes and knowing how to wear them makes a wonderful difference in people estimate of us—far too much compared to their worth, of course; but so it is, and not all the platitudes in the world can alter the fact. I was immediately influenced by his smartness myself, although I did’ not quite realise to what extent until some time afterwards. And no matter who or how many I have since really loved, it is Alf Trent’s anything but handsome image which is most deeply stamped on my memory-chart. Not in one moment, however, did such a thing Happen to me —and I was utterly indifferent, all that evening at least, whether it was Alf Trent or Dale Martin who had his name most written on my dance card. And apropos of this, I remember one thoughtful action of my own which I am ever pleased to recall. In the midst of my glory, in the midst of my fast-filling programme, I reserved one space for my darling father’s own initials. Thank heaven that there is that “small voice” wittihi us to prompt us rightly in due time to save us from useless remorse. Dora and Marcia had been equally thoughtful, though, and they asked me to tell my father to ask them for a dance. So, knowing them as I do—• how can I let my pen be idle and silent whilst some ignorant Yahoo calls out “Fact’ry ’Ands !” It is by the little acts of our lives that character a*nl disposition reveal themselves; and a factory girl is very often a lady just a.s a princess might also happen to be one. . . . But l>ale and I were waltzing. Smiling down at me he said: “I did miss you that morning when you weren’t there; and when you didn’t come back I nearly went out of my mind. But where did the poor old girls sleep anyhow?” “On the tables in the workroom, Dale.”

“Good Lord !” he exclaimed, and he added humorously: “No wonder I gave up trying to be a detective, when 1 began by bumping into a stone-wall problem like that for a start.’"

Then I explained why I had left Miss de Drew’s in such an unexpected way, and how anxious Tootsie arid I had been on his account, and about the measles, and our subsequent disappointment at finding he had left the land agent’s office before I went back to tell him all about it.

“Well, Mary’n,” he said, “it won’t be my fault if you ever lose me again.” . . . Somebody has aptly described a sense of humour as the sauce of life which helps us to swallow many a bitter pill and make no wry faces—and Dale’s line sense of humour did this for him many, many tiiries over, as I am very well aware.

“But I hear that you are a professional singer now,” I said.

“Well—hardly a ‘pro’ yet; but the critics have given me some hope in that direction —I am working at Dalgety’s—still over a ‘row of figures,’ you know.”

I wished him success in his new venture, and said I would be glad to hear his song that evening. “Don’t expect too much, then,” he begged. My next partner was Alf Trent; and he danced perfectly as he smiled down at me and talked softly in my ear—an ideal beau, and an accomplished “ladies’ man.” He asked me did I like dancing. And I, still quite undisturbed by his peculiar fascination, or thinking myself so, smiled back at him and said, “What a question.” He immediately drew me closer. “It is dreamy all right,” he said, and I could feel in the rhythmic touch of his body close to mine his physical delight in the melody. When the dance was over he whispered intimately in my ear: “I am glad that we work at the same place—l will see you sometimes.”

“ I am glad, too,” I made myself reply. “ Nice gnl,” he said, tucking my arm comfortably in his own as he led me back to my friends. When he had left us Tootsie whispered: “What’s he been saying to you, Mary n —your face is so pink.” “Hush!” 1 implored, adding quickly: “ Nothing—nothing at all. “Well,” she returned, “you’ll tell me when we get home?”

“ Y'es—oh, yes, if you like.” “ I’m having a good time, too,” she informed me later on in the evening. “ I’ve danced with Dad, and Dale, and three straight off with that boy over there—with the black curly hair.” I had been far too engrossed with my own affairs to have noticed Tootsie’s much —but I asked her now who the boy was, and I felt surprised indeed when she calmly announced : “ Oh, he’s an Italian, and his brother is playing in the orchestra —he came along as a sort of fill-gap, if he should be wanted, and I think lie’s going to play tho extras with another young man who plays the piano—my one plays the violin; and he can dance, Mary’n; I am enjoying myself. fins name’s Cleto Vasspri, isn't it lovely? ' (Tootsie was getting on !) Well, I supposed it was, and I said 1 was glad she was enjoying herself —but fancy an Italian boy—and dancing three times in succession with the same partner. My father came over to us just then, and ho told Tootsie she mustn’t do that sort of thing. “ You can’t do that, Tootsie,’ he said kindly

“ But I did ! ” she said, and she added: “Nobody else asks me, and lie likes danc ing a® much as I do.”

My father took her card and looked at it, then he handed it to me with an amused smile.

The initials C. V. were written opposite all the remaining dances on the programme. When the next dance was over I was astonished to see Tootsie trotting across the room to me with her new friend in tow. “Tootsie!” I began, “did you dance again when Dad told you ”

“No, I didn’t! ” she interrupted indignantly; “we sat it out.” “ Goodness gracious! ” I said, and she went on explaining calmly : “ I told him what my father said, didn’t I? she asked abruptly, turning to her young partner. He was probably older than myself; hut he was very shy and boyish. Just as he was about to holt away Tootsie grabbed him by the arm. She said: “ This is my sister—Miss Harrell—Cleto Vasspri.” Poor fellow! I tried to put him at ease, but with very small effect, I coulcT see. I asked him if he was enjoying himself, and he grew confused and whispered something inaudible. Then Tootsie rushed to his rescue and explained. ' file's enjoying himself very much indeed, she assured me. “ He’s having the time oi his life; only he s too shy to tell you. He told me though. He’s glad I’m here, and I'm glad he is. Y T ou can go away now if you like,” she said to him, ana 111 ask Dad if I may have the one after this with you.”

“Tootsie!” I remonstrated when he had gone ; but she seemed quite comfortable about the mate she had found for herself, and she certainly must have been the fairy princess at the ball for him. And isn’t it glorious, anyhow, to be young and happy and carefree and innocent? Isn’t it? . . .

Dale Martin lingered by my side aftefi the last dance, and I said : “ I did like your song, Dale, I ” “Never mind about the old song, Mary’n; we haven’t much time, and 1 want to know' where you live—l’m coming to see you,” he said straightly. “ But, oh, Dale—l—we ll sea about that.” I know he meant to be insistent, and I do not think I should have minded either, but just then I saw Alf Trent coming, my way, and I very deliberately put him before one of the best men on earth, for I said hurriedly to Dale, “ I must go now —good night, Dale—goocl night.” It was Alf Trent who was holding my hand when my father came to take us home. . . Ah, me! What a whirlpool of emotions can still be called up by the remembrance of that wonderfully happy night—or the scent of beautiful, white chrysanthemums! (To be continued.) QUEER WORDS MADE BY CHILDREN. The subject of the double words which some particularly observant boys and girls are able to invent with extraordinary facility does not appear to have received the attention it deserves, perhaps because the juvenile power of creating compound words is by no means a usual gift. But it exists. I have in mind a- little fellow of my acquaintance, whose parents decided to keep their boy from beginning the serious work of learning until he was seven —the age he has just reached. His parents no doubt acted very wisely, for the powers of observation of this seven-year-old are exceptional. He shows them by his compounds. The guard of a railway train, for instance, he calls “train-master.” A sailor is a “shipman.” The chimney-pot is the “smokehole,” while a boot polishing brush is a “boot-shiner.” He has also a remarkable tendency to describe an object by an active term. Thus, an express train is a “rusher,” a ladder is a “climber,” and an aeroplane is a “flyer.” • * * * These conceptions of the untrained child-mind are strangely line those of our Saxon forefathers. Old English was peculiarly rich in compounds and in descriptive words. It was an objective rather than a subjective language, yet this little friend of mine unconsciously talks in the style of our old mother tongue. In his compounds it is the most striking object that is uppermost in his

mind—the train, the ship, the smoke ; not the guard, or the sailor, or the chimneypot. Without knowing it he is displaying one of the characteristics of Old English. Can it be that the primitive characteristics of his far-off ancestors crop out when the mind of the unschooled boy begins to function actively and independently, or must we conclude that intellectually the men who spoke Old English were only children of a larger growth? THE GIFT OF SILENCE. By Dorothy Foster. Could the good old fairy-tale custom of gathering the godmothers around the cot of the baby princess but be revived, how many parents would be wise enough to ask that upon the child might be bestowed the gilt of silence? Silence in a woman is surely the most desirable of all the qualities of intelligence. For the true silence is a very inte’ligent thing, and not to be confused with mere dumbness. Speech is not only contained in a jumble of words having no light behind them. “I, I, I —you, you, you—they and us, and we and them —this play, that dance —My dear, really ?—real silk right up to the top, and only six-and-eleven ! —such a topping car—Dick and Gerry and Ursula and Vi, who isn’t really pretty, but so fascinating—hard courts —and Aunt Maria’s Pekingese.” This only do we remember, and that her expression never changed throughout the who’e gamut of vacuity. Silence is eloquent, pregnant with the unspoken thought. You have a headache, and yearn for repose not to be found in the reiterated offer of cold cloths and asperin. The pain would be forgotten could you sit and watch her read or sew, catching from time to time a glance of sympathy more soothing than a whole apothecary’s shopful of curative tablets. On a country walk you neither want to be pestered with questions concerning the species and habits of birds nor to be regaled with botanical details concerning the difference between the greater and lesser celandine. But you like to know, as your footsteps ring out upon the hard white road and your upward glances show a lacework of soft silver against the clear sky, that you both have the same thought. “How early the birch is budding ! ’ Or, wandering through some woodland way, to sense your delight and wonder shared.

When some great joy stirs your soul, or success comes to crown your striving, it is good to see the radiance of her giauness lor you shining like sunlight. When care touches you, and she meets yefur doubting with the help of hopefulness, you need not dread the words, “1 told you so! ” And if grief has found its way into your heart, trust her with your burden. She will not blurt oat, “ My poor darling, how tragic for you! ’ but she will break her understanding silence with some little tender jest, making you feel the victory of courage that can come to us through suffering and tears. Can we never induce the fairy godmothers to come back and dower out women with this gift of silence? THE REAL RODEO HORSE. (By Leonard Matters in the Daily Chronicle.) Some horses are born to buck; some have bucking thrust upon Jiem, and some cannot buck at all. From the first and second categories comes the horse that makes his mark in the world of rodeos, and, like many another overseas visitor, goes to Wembley. It is the instinct of every untamed horse to get rid of the rider on his back. His nature resents the combined indignities of bit, saddle, and dominating man. Resentment is one thing and wild revolt is another. Eivery horse-breaker knows that many animals never buck when they are first ridden. They may hunch their backs, but they do not seem to know how to indulge in that perfect frenzy of riot and contortion which characterises the real bucker. Of those that do know how, and will give a preliminary display of their knowledge, the majority quickly accept the inevitable and settle down kindly to being ridden. A small percentage of horses horn to buck can never resist the desire to do so. These animals make a habit, a vice, or a profession of bucking. Some of them become real “ outlaws ” and man-killers. They will add to their share of original sin the dangerous trick of throwing themselves down and rolling over the rider when they cannot dislodge him any other way; or they will “ savage ” him with their teeth or kick him to death at the first chance. When their records get too bad they share the fate of the bushrangers of an earlier Australia and the “ bad men ” of the Western States, and through the medium of a bullet their careers are ended. The other kind is not a really bad type—he just bucks to show he can and to earn his keep. He is as much a professional artist as the famous “ bronco busters ” who come along to ride him. He may have been at the game for years, and have attended every rodeo within a thousand miles of his birthplace. Ordinarily he may be quite tame and peaceful, and in no sense an “ outlaw, but when the show begins and lve feels the weight of a man on his back—- “ Whoopee-e-e ! ” —off ho goes, head between his forelegs, back arched like a bow, squealing like a pig. Prop and jump; forward, sideward, all ways at once; up in the air, round on his tracks, dip and plunge and—hang on for your life! Such a horse will buck till one or two things happens. Either his rider is thrown or he becomes too exhausted to buck any more. He is never mastered, however. Give him a spell, mount him again, and you can have the same per-

formance precisely. He will buck to-day, to morrow, and every day till he dies.

All over the world this class of horse is well known to rough-riders. In a sense he is a trick or a show horse. To the “buck-jump rider” of Australia, the “ bronco buster ” of the United States and Canada, and “el domador ” of Argentina he is the one horse of real interest.

He knows what is expected of him, and seems to enter into the contest like a sport. You may lead him quietly on to the ground; you may bit and saddle him without a struggle, and you may even mount him in peace. Then he goes to it.” Either you go to tho ground or you sit him for the stipulated time. He will try conclusions with you again to-morrow or any day. This kind of horse is not, as some people imagine, ill-treated. He is too valuable to the showman, and ho has to be kept pretty fit for his work. Actually he revels in the game, and when the famous riders are telling of the horses they have ridden, he could, were ho able to speak, tell of one they have rarely sat and never beaten.