THE SKETCHER

Otago Witness, Issue 3774, 13 July 1926, Page 73

THE SKETCHER

ORPHEUS. When Orpheus with his wind-swift fingers Hippies the strings that gleam like rain, The wheeling birds fly up and sing, Hither, thither echoing; There is a crackling of dry twigs, A sweeping of leaves along the ground, Fawny faces and dumb eyes Peer through the fluttering screens That mask ferocious teeth and claws Now tranquil. As the music sighs up the hillside, The young ones hear, Come skipping, ambling, rolling down. Their soft ears flapping as they run, Their fleecy coats catching in the thickets, Till they lie, listening, round his feet. Unseen for centuries, Fabulous creatures creep out of their caves, The unicorn Prances down from his bed of leaves, His milk-white muzzle still stained green With the munching, crunching of mountain herbs. The griffin, usually so fierce, - Now tame and amiable again, Has covered the white bones in his secret cavern With a rustling pall of dank dead leaves, While the salamander, true lover of art, Flickers, and creeps out of the flame; Gently now, and away he goes, Kindles his proud and blazing track Across the forest, Lies listening, Cools his fever in the flowing water of the lute. * • * ' But when the housewife returns, Carrying her basket, She will not understand. She misses nothing, Hears nothing. She will only see That the fire is dead, The grate cold. *‘ * * But the child upstairs, Alone, in the empty cottage, Heard a strange wind, like music, In the forest, Saw something creep out of the fire. —Osbert Sitwell, in the Nation and Athenaeum. TE UIRA. i By Rhona Bodle. (Foe the Witniss.) Many years ago the Ngatiamoe tribe emigrated from the banks of the Wanganui, and settled in the north of the South Island. For a long time the Ngatiamoe had had a feud with two other warlike tribes —the Ngatitara and the Ngatikuri in the North Island. Bent on vengeance these two tribes combined, and drove the Ngatiamoe still further south towards the Southern Alps. For many centuries the Ngatiamoe had had in their possessio- a tribal charm —a splendid greenstone mere (edged club) —called Taonga. At the time of the following incident, about 1700, Te Uira (lightning), an exceedingly daring Maori, was chief of the Ngatiamoe, and custodian of Taonga. For several weeks Waitane, rangitira (chief) of the combined Ngatitara and Ngatikuri, had endeavoured to surprise the pa (fortress) of the Ngatiamoe, and exterminate his ancient enemies. Chagrined at constant rebuffs Waitane and his chiefs had withdrawn to take counsel. They believed that if they could steal Taonga from the enemy the Ngatiamoe stronghold would fall into their hands. While the conference was progressing in the enemies’ camp Te Uira, with the celebrated Taonga, had left the pa, hoping to discover the plans of the opposing forces. He made his way carefully through the bush to within a hundred yards of the enemies’ camp. His bare feet made no sound as he stepped over dead branches, and glided swiftly between the tree trunks; his bare limbs shone a dark brown, and his muscles quivered with every movement of his lithe body; his splendid mat of woven flax and kiwi feathers hung negligently 'around him; over his left ear was a huia feather, the emblem of his royal rank. But although he was full of the excitement of adventure his tattooed face was expressionless as he drew nearer to the camp. It was nearly sunset; a wild pigeon alarmed at Te Uira’s approach flew into the air. In Waitane’s camp his son, Rua, saw a bird rise silently into the air from one side of the clearing. He strolled to the bush on the opposite side of the clearing, and, once amid the shadows of the trceß, worked his way to the place from which the pigeon had risen. Presently he caught a glimpse of the whito tip of the huia feather. He glided silently and swiftly towards the unconscious Te Uira, and cast covetous eyes on beautiful Taonga. Suddenly, as if scenting danger, Te Uira turned, and saw Rua in the act of springing on him. He stepped to one aide, and tried to close with Rua,

who was a mighty warrior. In their struggle Rua called to his friends: “Te Uira! Taonga! ” Te Uira in desperation wrenched his arm free, and dealt Rua a smashing blow with Taonga. Rua fell heavily to the ground, but as Te Uira paused for breath he saw he was surrounded. He rushed at the nearest Maori with faithful Taonga raised above his head, but a warrior behind him bore him to the ground, and he was bound securely. He was carried into the clearing, where he was tied to a tree. While he was being bound he breathed deeply, and expanded all his muscles. When his captors went to the newly-lit fire in the centre of the clearing Te Uira relaxed his muscles, and gradually worked his hands free. He could do no more till dark. Meanwhile, Waitane, sorrowing deeply at his son’s death, said that Te Uira was to be kept prisoner till all the Ngatitara and Ngatikuri had assembled, and then he would be killed and eaten. The various chiefs were congratulating themselves on having captured Te Uira and Taonga, and were discussing their hopes of victory. When darkness fell the exultant warriors gathered round the fires, and Taonga was passed round for all to see. One of the chiefs, feeling the heat of the fire too strong, sauntered towards the cool bush. In the meantime Te Uira had succeeded in freeing himself, and, as the chief was passing him in the dark, his powerful fist shot out, and the chief collapsed without a sound. Te Uira, however, would not escape without Taonga, and so, putting on the fallen chief’s mat and tying the chief himself to the tree, he strolled nonchalantly back to the ring of brown faces glistening in the firelight. Even the trees rising tall and dark all round bent nearer to see Taonga, and from the sky the stars clustered closer to catch a glimpse of the wonderful mere. The scene around the fire was indeed interesting; the firelight flickered and flashed on dozens of eager faces, noble warlike faces tattooed most elaborately. Some were young, some old, but all were eager to handle Taonga, the weapon of a hundred heroes, and the talisman of the wily Te Uira and his tribe. Te Uira with superb unconcern took the seat which the chief had left, and, owing to the flickering firelight and the tattooing on his dusky countenance, the deception was not discovered. Gradually Taonga came towards him. When at last it reached him, and he had the beloved weapon safely in his grasp, he aimed a terrific blow at the warriors on either side of him, and springing to his feet he dashed to the bush, where he paused to call out triumphantly: “Te Uira! Taonga!” and then disappeared. He eluded liis pursuers, and returned to his pa with the palladium of his people. Unfortunately his triumph was short-lived, for Waitane, burning to avenge his son’s death, advanced in great fury on the pa. The Ngatiamoe were forced to retreat further south, and to establish another pa. Waitane surrounded it, and defeat threatened Te Uira. One night, however, the pa was deserted; Te Uira and his tribe, with the mighty Taonga, disappeared; they were never seen again. Some said that they fled down past Aorangi (Mount Cook), past Wakatipu to the shores of,Milford Sound. The southern tribes have legends of men whom their fathers sued to see in the distance,- but who always disappeared into the bush if observed. Perhaps they are the lost Ngatiamoe, and perhaps someone may yet find that marvellous mere, Taonga. Who knows? FRIENDSHIP. (By Lady Norah Bentinck, in the Daily Mail.) With perhaps the exception of love, more nonsense has been written about friendship than about anything else in the world. It has been said with much truth that, rare as is true love, true friendship is rarer still. The brilliant but' sceptical Emerson once wrote that “true friendship, like immortality, is too good to be true. Another, and less caustic, definition tells us that friendship is a strong habitual inclination in two persons to promote the good and the happiness of the other. This, of course, is quite a good idea, but how many people are capable of feeling this inclination for ever? Selfinterest weighs heavily in the scales; great friendship demands much selfsacrifice, and, although it is still possible to find true and great friendships, it is doubtful whether such blooms are common in a world that has grown sophisticated, over-cunning, and overcrowded. The paths of friends should not diverge too much; for the road that is never trod gets overgrown and, if after many years we traverse it once more,

we will, perhaps find the mind, the habits, and the opinions changed of him with whom we had once had all in common. To have things in common!—that is one of the chief reasons for a friendship to begin, and one of the chief reasons of its lasting. Friendships are made with those whose pursuits, ideas, and aims are more or less the same as our own. And very rarely do we find lasting friendship between persons whose fortunes are sharply contrasted. A humble friend is too often something like a poor relation. His services and ministrations are graciously accepted, while a mere nod or a fleeting smile is thought a quite sufficient reward. It is perhaps among school-girls that true friendship is found most often. School-girl friendships are very tender, very pure, and very romantic. Old maids can often be very good friends and so can bachelors, but between men and women of this type it is as rare as the great auk’s egg. A YOUNG BOY. Let him alone, and when he is one year older We will send him away to school. This year he is twelve. His eyes are colder Than stars in a rainy pool. Cold and clear. He bends his graceful head * Not to our sadness, nor to any other. Perhaps, we think, he w’ould have loved his mother; But his mother is dead. His round cheek is like a sun-sweetened apple, And his brown throat is bare. , Is there any sorrow with which he must grapple That we would not die to share? He will not help us. He puts his thoughts behind him, And not of these w ill he speak. He is like the waters out of Nameless Creek, Dark and still. There you may and find him. There he dives like the gull, with the mill-sluice races; His curving arm, dappled by shade and sun, Rises and falls. But he comes not back for our praises When the race is done. A child is harder to win than any lover. Let him alone —there is nothing more to say. Lovely, elusive —when the year is over We will send him away. —Jessica Nelson North, in Poetry. THE WORLD AND HIS WIVES. (By Jane Doe, in the Daily Chronicle.; One of the great joys of my life is that I am always being horribly shocked. Most of the shocks are quite good for me, though. They make me so content and cheerful about my little lot in this world. This is the very latest. * * • I went with a friend to spend the evening at ner cousin’s house. This cousin is married to a semi-elderly man prominent in the city. Pots of money. A couple of emeralds on her hands the size of acid tablets. ' A Bentley. A day and a night chauffeur. One child and two nurses. A Chinese cabinet full of rock crystals. I sighed with envy, as occasionally the most independent and arrogantly self-sup-porting females do s oretly sigh when confronted with young married ladies who have done well for themselves without so much 3 soiling their hands, so to speak. Those emeralds and rock crystals alone represented to me -ne endowment policy, one freehold, and about five pounds a week, with nothing to do until the endowment policy was redeemable. Next to me at dinner was a very entertaining person. Everyone called her Muriel. Mrs Smith called her “Muriel, darling.” She knew all about the rock crystals. She’d chosen some of them herself, she said, over twenty years ago. • # • ‘‘Who was the lady who was showing me the crystals?” I asked my friend on the way home. “I didn’t eaten her name. The one they called ‘Muriel.’ ” “Mrs Smith.” “Oh, a relative?” “First wife.” “No! Why, she called Mrs Smith the Second ‘Gertie, dearest.’ Do tell me.” “She ran off during the war, but changed her mind afterwards. But she was too late. Smith wanted 'to marry my cousin then. But he makes her an allowance, a very ample one, I believe. She dines there twioe a month. Their daughter, who is 24, goes in and out nearly every day.” “But doesn’t your cousin mind? She seems so young and so freshly romantic.” “You heard her call her ‘Muriel darling,’ didn’t you? They’re very fond of each other.” • * ft With my mind’s eye I rapidly reviewed the events of the evening in tne light of my new and interesting knowledge. I remembered seeing Mr Smith offer Mrs Smith the Second Turkish cigarettes and light them with a steady, clear flame. I also remember Mr Smith offering Mrs thnith the First Russian cigarettes and light them with a steady, clear flame. He called her Muriel, though not Muriel, darling. v

She went home in the Bentley, and I remembered Mr Smith walking down the garden path with her and handing her in. Previous to that we all trooped up into the nursery, and Mrs Smith the Second appeared very grateful to Mrs Smith the First for some useful information about heat spots. As our bus lurched down Church street I begged of my friend, “Would it be vulgar of me to say that that menage takes the wedding cake?” “Vulgar, but excusable!” replied the cousin of Mrs Smith the Second. • a a Of course, it’s no business of mine to get shocked at what, after all, is really splendid evidence of good sistership and wifely love. Divorce, thank heaven, does not always connote horrifying things like lies, spite, treachery and bitterness. If two people discover that life together means only mutual unhappiness and mental ferment, and are freed, perhaps to marry more successfully, it would be very uncomfortable for everyone concerned, would it not, if their subsequent meetings were fraught with dis-temper, uneasiness and outraged pride? This is a nice problem of conduct that has to be faced when you consider that our Divorce Court and Assize judges are sadly overworked. Only a little while ago a certain wellknown actor took unto himself his fourth beautiful actress bride. Now, all these ladies are stars who are constantly twinkling before the public eye. Supposing, then, they were actuated with communal feelings of jealousy against the new wife of their ex-husband ? Alternatively, supposing they separately refused to even appear in any theatre or under any management,remotely connected with each other? Why, the theatrical profession would be torn apart if that policy became general! While not many actors or managers have had time to marry four women in a moderately short lifetime, there are lots who have had more than one very popular actress wife. * * * Spite, bitterness and enmity are as cruel as the grave. But I think I believe in a suitable amount of cold shouldering. And if I were Mrs Smith the Second I should hate Mrs Smith the First like poison if she ever came to dinner and showed off my rock crystals. OUR DAUCHTER. Peggy is the joy of our hearts, really, if she is a dispensation. Our eldest daughter has a daughter only one year younger, so Peggy seems rather like another grandchild, only more so, and is horribly spoilt. She says, being the only child we have at home now*, she suffers from discipline which, divided among five might be borne, proves overwhelming for one to endure. The truth being thdt we, Elizabeth, the mother, and I, Peter, her father, do the enduring. The cigarette habit she has not acquired, as her attempts ended . . . well, you know how. The chocolate habit she has acquired with conspicuous success. Many aspiring youths minister unto this hobby. The said youths egg her on to be a female champion golfer. As she practises in any part of the house she happens to be in Elizabeth’s articles of “ bigotry and virtue ” suffer severely. So what the youths save me in chocolates is well taken out of me in saving her from her mother’s just wrath. I don’t always succeed in matching in time the treasure smashed, and then, what happens to me? And the hardened little sinner laughs! Now for the tragic vagaries; these were harmless. Her hair was her mother’s pride and her father’s joy. Fancy our feelings one clay when Peggy appeared bobbed at lunch and presented her mother with a parcel which, on being opened, proved to be her glory in tissue paper. We were stunned, but the little w itch looked so pretty, as all very young girls do when the bobbing is loose and curly, that we said nothing, at which I fancy she was disappointed. That night I woke to hear a gentle sniffing at the moonlit window. Elizabeth weeping and kissing her daughter’s shorn glory! How one pitied women convicts and brides of the church who were forced to sacrifice their hair. Now at fashion’s decree an enormous percentage of girls and women, w r ho should have more sense, do so unto Moloch gladly. Of course, for those who have no hair to speak of it is a convenient fashion. Most of those strange fashions originate in the misfortune of some great lady and her need of disguising it. But still another hair change. Again a lunch surprise. Peggy came in with the back of her head almost shaved, and whiskers like Bill Sykes’s on her dimpled cheeks.' Me: “ Margaret! ” Peggy: “ Oh, my Sunday name! I’m in for a wigging.” Me: “No vulgar punning, miss. Shingling?” Peggy*. “No, dad. Bingling.” Me: “Fine. Whiskers are out for men. Someone must wear them. Women into the breach! ” No more was paid, but Peggy looked crestfallen. Ridicule she can r t stand. Next week Bhe appeared minus the whiskers, and announeed “ Eton crop.” “ Splendid! ” said I. “ I see you have painted butterflies on your stockings and left shoulder, not to mention other Strange devices on your arms. Shave dean ana continue the artistic effects

over your head, finishing with a swarn) of bees where you wear your bonnet.” As one of the chocolate adorers is ai| artist this won’t be an expensive vagary. Elizabeth tells me she has taken charge of her hair herself now. Maybe a wig will appear until the crop grows again. Then her waist. It has appeared at every inch from her armpits to her knees. It is gradually rising as her skirt shortens. I wonder how he knows where to place his manly arm. I pity him. Fancy the anxiety caused by the dread of the possibility, nay probability, of the desired waist being inches off the spot of yesterday! It was' easy in my time. Elizabeth's stayed put, and had a nice bunchy piece of dress just below it that served as a guide and rest for the arm.—• Peter Pater, in the Weekly Scotsman. THE ASPIDISTRA. It is a blessed thing to have some quest which is so impersonal, so materially unimportant, that it neither interferes with one’s individual pleasures nor is defeated by one’s individual griefs, writes Edith Shackleton in the Evening Standard. Such is my long-established interest in the aspidistra, that gloomy plant which has been adopted, but subtly and in silence, as a symbol of respectability, beauty, and refinement by the whole of Western Eurfope, but with especial fervour and devoutness by the inhabitants of the British Isles. The secrecy which enfolds this subject is especially fascinating to the inquirer. I am aware that housewives sometimes talk about their aspidistras in a matter-of-fact way, that they exchange hints on their spring cleaning, their nourishment, and disposition, and on how to start offshoots from the family cluster as part of the dowers of departing brides. But nobody speaks or writes or the deeply-rooted symbolic significance they must have to keep them enthroned on a million British window-sills, staircase landings, and sombre unused sideboards. No simple explanation for the aspidistra will stand examination. Other sickly herbage commonly seen in the usual happy households where nobody has ever looked or thought hard at or about any object contained in them, is clearly an expression of idealism. The depressed fragment of a Royal fern, for example, may remind its possessor of the lovely jungles of the same growth that fringe the edges of Irish bog pools, who may vaguely hope that the captured specimen may some day reach that same fiesh profusion. But who has ever seen the aspidistra in wild and glorious health and splendour? It is not even an urban symbol of lest rusticity, for one finds it worshipped in country places where there is a surrounding wealth of leaf .and blossom. It darkens the village parlour. It is proudly placed on the inn dining-table in honour of the sojourning gentry, even though jugs of primroses or cowslips are easily available. Nor is it a purely northern symptom of nostalgia for the fecund south. I once held this theory, but have since found the aspidistra, even more dreary and invalid than it is to be seen between the lace curtains of Camberwell and Islington, in Italian hotels when the world outside was a riot of blossom, when cascades of bougainvilleas, torrents of passion flowers, delicate festoons of convolvulus were all about, and zinnias and begonias blazed. In Italy, too, the symbol stands. A little brochure on the “Aspidistra in Art” would be an engaging undertaking, and might bring to light some valuable information. Personally I have not been able to find any early examples, and am, so far, of opinion that Miss Maude Goodman must be held to be the laureate, as it were, of this dominant, mystic plant. Literature yields little. Like the lover’s kiss the aspidistra is absent from the works of Jane Austen, and I feel that if it had been rampant in her time that keen observer would have taken some delighted note of it. I suspect that it is a Victorian ideal of privacy, restraint, and solemnity for which the aspidistra stands, but there is no praise of it in Tennyson, Swinburne did not ask to be redeemed from it, nor did Maggie Tulliver’s aunts rival one another in its culture.