THE SKETCHER

Otago Witness, Issue 3765, 11 May 1926, Page 73

THE SKETCHER

RAINY BUNDAY. Bo you remember the day in February That it rained and rained? It was a Sunday and we stayed indoors

beside the fire, .And just when the sun should have been setting, A sulphurous, cinnamon candle Was lit somewhere in the heavens, And you went out and called to me,

“Come!” And we stood on the terrace and looked

about us, On a world blanketed with black gauze, Rubbed to a dull lustre of lemon and

silver Through taupe and gold chiffon! It was just like living a fairy tale! The bare trees had been dipped in mercury!

The wet road running by the door Was an onyx and platinum path that might have led to the moon! Drops, dull as cat’s eyes, Dripped, dripped, Everywhere. . . . We looked at each other; Our flesh was the colour of old ivory! We wanted to exclaim, but instead We only caught our breath and stared. . It only lasted a minute, And we laughed afterward, But I tell you, I should not have been surprised If the Angel Gabriel had appeared beside us,

Or if a silver-green dragon belching almond-coloured fire Had lunged at us down the lane! —Margaret Duncan Dravo, in The Lyric West. OLD OHINEMURI DAYS. By Mona Tracy. (For the Witness.) I never catch the scent of rain-wet biiar roses, nor see a red road winding away to the hills, but I am back again in the town of Paeroa, and living my own small part in the old Ohinemuri days. Those were the days when mines like the Martha, the Waihi, and the Talisman were names to conjure with, when the great batteries at Waikino worked double shift, and the slow waggons brought down to Paeroa—the railway had not been carried through to Waihi —the precious output of the mines. ' But they were days of simpler things, too; of childhood, awakening to the interest and beauty of the world, of playtime dedicated to the thousand delights of bush and river and range. That is why a red road and the scent of briar roses are inextricably mingled in my memory w ith an old Ohinemuri town. 1 should like to know a thousand things about the Paeroa of to-day. Do the roads still wander over the landscape with fascinating irregularity, and are they still hedged with hawthorn, in spring a miracle of white blossom? Does the fragrant pink manuka still grow on Primrose Hill, and are there still wild strawberries to be gathered along the little survey paths? Do the children still play at bushranging? When the river spills a flood of yellow water over the swamp-lands, do the boys still go a-pirating, with tin-lined packingcases for their pirate ships? Do they still wash gold from the little creeks that tinkle down from the bush on the high ranges? Almost I. fear the answer; but even if the Paeroa of to-day still held all these simple delights, it could never contain the romance that made it unique thirty years ago. I cannot but think that the old road that ran through the ranges from Paeroa to Waihi must have been at that time the most interesting highway in New Zealand. Although it was crossed by all of a dozen streams, brawling their way to the Ohinemuri River, I do not seem to remember a single bridge; but I do remember great frowning cliffs and a gorge of savage beauty, with the river, yellowed by cyanide tailings, foaming hundreds of feet below a road all too narrow for the pageant that moved along it from dawn until dark.

And what a pageant that was—the waggons with their slow-plodding teams that drew in, without bidding, before each favourite caravanserai; the coaches, clattering perilously down from Waitekouri to Maekaytown; the gigs, the heavy carts! They will have all gone now. Nor will there ever go up to Waihi the same motley stream of humanity that makes the road so vivid in my remembrance. I can see the travellers yet—the miners, the batteryhands, the men hoping to buy mines, the men wishing they hadn’t, the prospectors, the sharebrokers, the auctioneers, the confidence men, the pedlars, the drifters, a kaleidoscopic pageant •of people, all beckoned to Waihi by a finger dipped in gold. There were women, too. . . , Somehow they did not carry in their faces the eager look that one saw in those of

the men. One beheld them standing at the doors of tiny houses along the road; they came out to look at the coaches. There might be gold in the hills, but there was life on the road. Though there might be constant work for your man at the batteries or in the mines, you never knew when the dry dust would settle oh his lungs. If your man had money to-day, the chances were he’d be without a penny to-morrow. ... I do not think the women of old Ohinemuri found life a thing of easy security. . . . They sang sad little songs, too; all the Ohinemuri songs I remember were sad. And if they sometimes had a great deal of pathos, the spirit was there. There in Waihi with its pride and its millions, Men’s lives, are squandered while earning a crust, Leaving homes desolate, the grave of some loved one, Ruthlessly slain by the battery dust. . . . I heard that particular ditty sung by a coachload of women returning from an excursion to the Thames. They had all their finery on, they were well-pleased with their day’s outing, but their eyes, like their song, were sad. So even though you were to tell me that they have not cut the manuka from Primrose Hill to set that most delectable of playgrounds down in English grasses, and even though I could be assured that the swamp-lands on which I went a-pirating have not been drained to make a model suburb, I do not think your Paeroa could ever be quite like mine. To me it was the beginning of romance'and beauty and adveture; and I think it was the eager stream of people on the old Paeroa-Waihi road that first showed me the vanity of a finger dipped in gold. TOP DOC. By Kathleen O’Brien, in the Daily Chronicle. We modems are fond of probing into the Unconsciousness for the causes behind our irresponsible behaviour. The discovery of the Unconscious has, on the whole, been a great relief to many of us. It is something to put the blame on; an ever-ready scapegoat. The strange law of attraction and repulsion, by the operation of which, for no earthly reason that we can explain, one person becomes a delight to us and another person a nuisance, apparently takes its inception in that vague but convenient territory. All this assumed working of unseen forces presents no difficulty to the intelligent mind when applied to human beings But when it comes to having to share the Unconscious with fox-terriers! For there can be no other way of regarding Horatio’s vindictive hatred of the baker’s perfectly harmless mongrel than as an operation of some dark ore-sensible reaction within his canine soul. It isn’t even as if Horatio could possibly have the consciousness of blood and birth to excuse him. His behaviour to the baker’s mongrel, I regret to say, cannot be explained by anything so simple as the contempt of the aristocrat for the plebeian. For there is a thing about Horatio that must be told at cnee, if true honesty is to be considered, Horatio. . . . No, I cannot find it in my heart to put it into bald, stark words, after all; for Horatio is my friend. I will say only this. I spoke of fox-terriers. 1 should have described him as only nearly a foxterrier.

Having hurried over the blot on Horatio’s escutcheon, I can now go on to say that in all matters save those concerning the baker’s mongrel, the character of Horatio is above reproach.

He is one of the most winning of beasts. He comes bounding up into one’s room of a morning, when one is sulkily contemplating getting up, with a smile as sweet as honey in the comb. He wags his tail—l am sorry to say, beinfj only nearly a fox-terrier, Horatio nas a tail that is long enough to be waggable—he puts his paws on the window sill, and he says: “I say, what a jolly day > Come on, now, get up and come down to breakfast. There’s a nice fire downstairs, and some of Mrs Merrywenther’s butter, and home-made marmalade. Oh my! Isn’t life a lark?” Thus speaks Horatio in the early morning.

He is a kind fellow, too, and will give an unwanted bone to anyone (except the baker’s mongrel). Even cats lie tolerates; and he seems to regard the Grayson’s Aberdeen, whom personally 1 find peculiarly devoid of charm, as surprisingly likeable. But when the baker’s mongrel approaches in the mists of distance, there appears a deepening cloud over the pied brows of Horatio. Even if he is wrapped in deepest slumber, something warns him of the approach of his shrinking and terrified adversary. He starts up from his sleep; he growls horribly. The hair bristles on his back. He assumes an attitude of defiance in face of an attack whose imminence exists solely in his imagination. He creeps stealthily to the front gate; he stands there with head lowered and teeth bared, snarling. The wretched animal for whom he is waiting comes up, assuming, with a hoi-

low smile, a display of forced and palpitant friendliness. “H-h-liullo, old m-man!” he says, his knees tottering beneath him, “n-not so c-cold as it is”—he shoots past Horatio, who snaps at his flying heels, hurling imprecations—“was it?” As I have indicated, there is no explaining, on logical grounds, Horatio’s loathing of the baker’s mongrel. It is the least aggressive creature in the world. It shows no fight, it snatches no bones. It loves peace at any price. It asks only to be let alone. Perhaps that is why Horatio despises it. Its utter spiritlessness gets on his nerves. Its mild, homely, uneventful countenance seems to evoke some dormant demon of malevolence within him. * * # But I never thought Horatio would go the length he did. It was on a day when they were tarring the road. The wet tar gleamed and smelt enticingly, and there was a delicious heap of brown Rand at the side of the ditch. And the baker’s mongrel came tottering down the road, towards Horatio. . . . I suppose the combination of circumstances was too much for Horatio. The law of “Never the tar and the sand and the mongrel all together” was suddenly and miraculously suspended. When, with the assistance of the baker, the Grayson boys, young Venables from Peace Farm, and a crowd of passing school children, I managed to separate them, the only means by which I could detect one tarred and sanded, bleeding and reeling beast from another, were an air of guilty ecstasy (denoting Horatio) and an expression of a seared and broken spirit (denoting the baker’s mongrel). Horatio took his punishment like a man, I will say that for him. He kept saying to me, as I scoured him with paraffin, “1 know I did wrong, and I’m paying for it; but —don’t you agree it was worth it?” But I refused to answer Horatio.

ENTERTAINING. I have guests In to dine. They make jests Over wine: Play at whist For a bit, Then desist Playing it: Talk the shop Of the day, Have a “drop” And then say “We must go”— But they don’t And I know That they won’t. They’ll remain What appears (To the sane) Many years So I start To detest From my heart Every guest. More polite Would it be And (they might All agree) Good and kind To say “How Would you mind Going now?” Etiquette Will dictate That it’s better to hate! —Edgar Tower, in G. K.’s Weekly. OUT-CROWN FRIENDSHIPS. (By Marie Stuart, in the Daily Mail.) Death and absence are not the only ways of losing friends. We grow away from people, and often this is sadder than going away from them. There are friends who pass and friends who remain. Few come with us all the way. W’ith some we travel to the cross-roads, and then, whether the farewell be conscious or unconscious, we turn in different directions. This does not prove disloyalty or failure on either side. We and they are in the grip of different tendencies, circumstances, social and spiritual laws. The currents of destiny bear us east and west.

We out-grow friendships as we out-grow clothes. Dr Johnston said: “If a man does not make new acquaintances as he advances through life he will soon find himself left alone. A man, sir, should keep his friendships in constant repair.” If one or two have grown with us, and the years have welded us, we are blessed indeed. “If Tve find but one to whom we can speak out our heart freely, with whom we can walk in love and simplicity, without dissimulation, we have no ground of quarrel with the world or God.” One such friend in a lifetime to journey with us all the way—what a treasure beyond compare! I think that friendship between man and woman can only last when each brings to it fine qualities of mind and of heart. Friendship, which is a mere cover for flirtation or an avenue providing a convenient approach to a proposal, is only a pretence.

Men do not always want to make love to women. Many a man honestly wants a woman comrade—someone to talk to—someone, also, with a more understanding ear, and with more patience than his brother man. And what a luxury it is to be ourselves, quite naturally with just one hnman being! I love the school boy definition of a friend—“ One who knows all about you, and likes vou just the same.” To be admitted to the friendship of a man or woman of true culture, largeness of vision, and kindliness is the greatest privilege on earth.

A SCHOOL LIBRARIAN ON “THE POISONING OF YOUTH."

“I buy some hundreds of books a }-ear. I am compelled to do so. The books are mostly novels. Bern" librarian in a big school, 1 am responsible for the character and worthiness of the literary pabulum (outside the official syllabuses) which the boys consume. My experience during the post-war period has almost reduced me to despair. Except for boys’ books of an essentially juvenile interest and detective stories I have found most of the general library fiction unfitted to our needs,” writes Mr John Rudd, in the English Review. “The ‘trail’ yarns were at first healthy but these, too, have slithered down the greasy slopes of the muck hill. Boys in the upper forms, and especially in the ‘tops,’ have to be catered for, and their interests are no longer juvenile. They want, nay, demand, Wells, Bennett, Sheila Kaye-Smith, Rose -Macaulay, Galsworthy—in short, all the most advertised moderns. Brought up on the healthy diet of Kipling, Marryat, lan Hay, and others of their select company, these lads, growing apace, want diet more suitable to their years. Where is it to be found ?. . . “How can we be assisted? By novelists writing books which will stimulate idealism—books which at least are healthy inculcations cf the old truth: The wages of sin is death. By publishers accepting the mission of true educationists. If ■profit’ in this commercial age will not permit these sacrifices, then at least we may beg that the reviewers will honestly tell us what is in the books so that we may know whether they are worth our money or not.

“ ‘Got that book yet, sir?” ‘ ‘No.’ “ ‘When’s it coming in?’ ** ‘Well, I don’t think it will come. It’s—er—a book that runs off the rails rather. Should advise you to give it a miss, old chap. Won’t do you any good. Pig’s stuff!’ “ ‘Right-o, sir!’ And with a smile, frank and grateful, I venture to think, he will leave me.” AMONG THE LINEN. One of the things for which 1 have always pitied Eve was that she had no linen chest, though I have no doubt that it was from her charming habit of laying away fig leaves for future use that we, her daughters, acquired the linen-chest habit (writes Ethel Mannin, in the Daily Express.) I came in to spend—shall we say—one and three-three, and I ended up by spending—well, it doesn’t really matter, only it left me on the verge of an overdraft at the bank. Because there, seductively laid out on cunning little ables, were pile upon pile of “pure linen” table napkins, most exquisitely embroidered pure linen sheets, stacks of pillow-slips to match, and stacks upon stacks of the sort of traycloths that it is always a shame to miss, with the sort of lace that looks so frightfully good and always suggests to guests that somewhere you have simply cupboards and chests full of the same sort of thing—instead of, say, just half a dozen treasured pieces.

And the luncheon and dinner mats—oh, the lovely coloured loveliness of them, and the so-fascinating linen mats with the Italian embroidery—just the to go with Venetian glass—or to conpensate you for the absence of it. A woman may not be actually needing French embroidered pillow-slips or any more tray-cloths with hand-made lace or jolly coloured linen luncheon or dinner mat 3, or beautiful Irish linen sheets, but behind her, down through all the ages, generations of women have been respond ing to the lure of the linen chest, hoarding up linen, replenishing it, tending it as carefully as a collector of glass or china tends his specimens; we may crop our heads, flaunt our knees in public, and be as undomesticated as we like, but the distaff and spinning wheel are in our blood.

Generations of Penelopes and Arachnes have bequeathed to us as part of our femininity an inherent love of linen. We may go about jauntily for eleven months out of twelve declaring that we are “not the domesticated sort,” but the January sales and the first display of “household linen”—and out peeps the suppressed but never-to-be-quite-extinguished Penelope! TOBY JUGS. According to tradition, Toby jugs are said to have originally been made in the likeness of Old Toby Philpot, as thirsty a soul As e’er drank a bottle or fathomed a bowl. It is also possible that the idea may have been an adaptation of the sixteenth and seventeenth century wine flasks known as “Bellarmines,” or in German “Bartman” (bearded man.) These showed the mask of a bearded man under the rirn of the neck (writes G. Baseden Butt, in the Daily Chronicle.) In the hands of such great eighteenth century potters as Ralph Wood, Thomas Whieldon, and John Astbury, the appearance of “Old Toby” soon underwent great variation. He is usually short, corpulent, with a jug of ale on his knee, and almost always wears a three-cornered hat. Collectors to-day may look for the “Sailor,” seated on a chest of dollars; the “Postboy,” astride a barrel; the portly “Snufftaker,” or “The Old English Gentleman,” who, notwithstanding his genteel demeanour, holds a glass in one hand and a jug in the other. There are also Nelson. Napoleon, and Frederick the Great Tobies—a custom of portraiture which atill pewists, for in modem examples one finds such national heroes as Admiral Jellicoe and Lord Kitchener. Genuine antique Tobies may be distinguished by brown veining due to discoloration of the lead glaze. A more certain indication is the presence of iridescent rainbow colours, but this is only found if the glaze is on a dark body.

In addition to jugs, there are Toby mugs ; and rather lees known are the inkpots, salt-cellars, mustard-pots, and teapots, also modelled in the likeness of “Old Toby.”

CONCERNING COMBS. Europe is not alone the place where combs ari worn and made (writes Clive Holland in Chambers’s Journal). Some of the early Oriental combs which have been preserved for us are wonderfully beautiful, although as a general rule the designs arc somewhat too elaborate and even intricate for W’estern tastes. Indian combs are more especially notable for this kind of decorative work. In China may be found examples of rare artistic merit almost alongside those of a most primitive nature. The Japanese, ever noted for delicacy of art, do not affect combs of great elaboration or those having much “ wall space ” to cover. The backs are usually of small dimensions, and consequently a spray of cherry blossom, a lotus, a trail of leaves, a lizard, or some similar single desigu is generally favoured. East and West the comb is found—indeed, one of the most interesting features connected with most articles oi feminine dress or adornment is their universality. t The lady of fashion in London has her • combs both for use and for ornament;' j the Parisienne places in her beautifully arranged coiffure a comb of tortoise- f shell set with real gems or diamants de j Paris, as the case may be; the Indian lady has hers of ivory or gold, the Japanese hers of turtle-shell, ivory, jade, or lacquer; and the South Sea maiden, often guiltless of fashion as regards dress, combs her hair with a rough substitute made of fish-bones or shark’s teeth, or j clumsily fashioned from wood. } DO WOMEN REASON? It is often said that women never j reason—they only jump to conclusions (says M. D. Win, in the Daily Mail), j Jt is certainly abundantly evident that ; a woman’s mind works in an unaccountable way—from the point of view of a man. Why, for example, was von Hin- j denburg, the arch-militarist, put into \ office by the woman’s vote ? j The root of the difference between masculine and feminine ways of thinking lies probably in the essentially different “ tuning ” of the two naturesA woman is most strongly attracted by; her “ opposites.” A gentle woman marries a blustering, aggressive man, while j her stronger-minded, stronger-willed; sister takes as her partner someone \ whom she can dominate. And very often \ such marriages are very happy; for woman’s intuition helps her to perceive subconsciously that in married life each should be the complement of the other, supplying what the other lacks. * * * A woman, too, is more prodigal of i haloes than is the less impressionable; man. This partly explains the popu-j laritv of a man like the new German ] President. Once the hero of the German i nation, he still holds sway over the im- j agination of the women. His lonely,/ austere figure appeals to their innate 1 love of contrast. Their own more yield-J ing, affection-ridden hearts admire Ilia ruthlessness, his iron will. . j Nevertheless feminine instinct is ( quick to scent falseness. An uncompro- > mising man often commands allegiance ' just because “we know where he is.” , Woman is credited with having a tortuous mind, but in public iffairs she always wants straightness and a definite, clean-cut policy.