A LETTER FROM HOME.

Otago Witness, Issue 3792, 16 November 1926, Page 67

A LETTER FROM HOME.

By

SHEILA SCOBILE MACDONALD

(Specially Written for the Witness.) September 20. The September of 1926 will surely be long remembered, as being the most sunshiny, hottest September on record. As lovely day succeeds lovely day, the pessimists shake their heads and say mournfully, “It won't last,” just as if we were foolish to enjoy the good we have, instead of mourning over the evil that doubtless will surely come. We read of “depressions” drifting from Iceland towards us, but they never reach us, or if they do, become so mellowed and kindly en route that they reach us in the gayest mood imaginable. Yet in spite of the midsummer heat, there are signs of autumn in plenty, for the hedges and commons are thick with ripe blackberries, the bracken is turning yellow, and alas and alack! the leaves are beginning to fall from the trees. But the gardens are still gay with asters, Michaelmas daisies, and liellenium, while geraniums are revelling in the sunshine, and behaving just as if frost in September were an unheard of occurrence. But behind all the warmth of this delightful autumn is an undercurrent of worry about the coal question, and we one and all wonder just what we are going to do about it this winter. Last week 1 went to an exhibition of modern househeating ideas. It was a sultry day, and the many women present fanned themselves industriously with their little booklets of information, while they listened to a long lecture on how to heat their houses efficiently at a small cost. All the same, the sad fact remains that behind even the most economical of contrivances, there must be coal of sorts, and it isn’t of much use to be shown the most wonderful of gas fires, when gas is cut down to al*)ut half its usual power. In fact, with the prospect of an allowance of only one cwt of coal a fortnight, and, in the event «f one’s owning a gas cooker, that allowance consisting of foreign coal only, the winter outlook is chilly, to put things mildly. The foreign coal is horrible stuff into the bargain, smoky and unclean to a degree. In view of the situation, there is some talk of summer time, which normally should come to an end on October 3, being extended for a month, as by this means there would be a considerable saving in coal, gas, and electricity. * * * I was talking to an American woman the other day, and she was full of the most appalling information about our miners, and the state of absolute starvation to which their wives and children are reduced. It is not surprising that such things are believed, when one reads that Mr Ben Tillett, lecturing in the States,, actually stated as a fact that it was not an uncommon sight to see the children of the poor digging for roots and herbs, and searching for bones with which to make a weak broth, in a futile attempt to keep soul and body together. I thought a lot, and said most of it, but, like all Americans, ray friend knew best, and remained frankly unconvinced that Mr Tillett was romancing. * * # Time passes, and the world goes on working and amusing itself, but even as regards amusements we don’t all think alike, for when London’s newest and longest tube was opened the other day, literally tens of thousands of people indulged in a free joy ride t<T and from Morden and Edgeware road.

Judging by the crowded trains and the long waiting queues, they apparently extracted an enormous amount of pleasure out of the depressing perform-

ance, but the palm must be given to an enterprising mother of five, who shepherded her flock in and out of crowded trains, and, regardless of the fact that one member of her family was but six weeks old, scorned even to omit the moving staircase. Well, it takes a lot of people to make lip a world! * * * We have several good things in the theatre line this autumn, and one play in particular has already taken London by storm. I refer to “The Constant Nymph,” which is an adaption by Mr Basil Deans of the novel by Margaret Kennedy. The i cast includes Noel Coward, Edna Best, Catlileen Nesbitt, Ekissa Landi, Audrey Mather, and Mary Clare, and the play is one long delight from start to finish. * * * We went to the first matinee last ' Thursday, standing in a pit queue for 1 nearly three hours, and then only getting | back seats. The first scene lasts over 1 an hour, and is such an intense, breathless, soul-stirring jumble, that one wonders how out of so many possibilities a hero and heroine can ever emerge. Blit they do emerge, and in the last tragic act Noel Coward and Edna Best pretty well have the stage to themselves. Altogether “The Constant Nymph” is a wonderful play, wonderfully staged, and even more wonderfully acted. There has for a long time been a sort of mild agitation that Drury Lane should be reserved as a special theatre for the more serious type of play, but after reading of the profits raked in by “Rose Marie,” which for months past has been staged at that theatre, I am afraid that in slang parlance there will be “nothing doing” for the highbrows. But if the profits at Drury Lane have been tremendous, what will be thought of “No, No, Nanette!” (who, by the way, is at last feeling a little weary) collecting something like £IOO,OOO, or the CoOptimists, whose profits, on an original capital of £9OO, total something like £500,000. Such plums must make the mouths of playwrights and managers water, but the picking of them is, unfortunately, only for the lucky few. * * # After all the scarifying remarks that have been made about our British apathy and want of success in film production, it is really interesting to have to chronicle the releasing of four really first-class British films. One of these, “Mademoiselle From Armentieres,” is a thrilling tale of wartime France, aud is just brimming over with fun and sentiment, with nothing in it of the mock heroics of Hollywood. The acting is superb, and what is more—really English. (Then Ivor Novello appears in “The Lodger,” an adaption of Mr Belloc Lowndes’s book of the same name. “Palaner” has an Algerian setting, and is acted by the genuine article, with a dusky king and a witch-doctor all complete and most realistic. Lastly there is “Mons,” which we are told is to be the film success of the year, and for which orders are already literally pouring in. There are still more good films in the making, and it is comforting to be able to show America that when Britain does get busy, she is able to produce the right stuff in the right way. * * * When I was in town the other day, I was somewhat staggered by the sight of two youths, clad in plus fours, and carrying golf sticks, who on closer inspection turned out to be girls. Quite pretty girls too, in spite of their remarkable attire, and both were setting out to compete in the girls’ golf championship at Stoke Pogi*.

The championship again went to France, for though Diana Esmond (who by the way is only 16) is of English nationality, she lives and learned to play golf in France, so in spite of their sporting garb my two “plus four” girls were beaten. But what a wonderful thing has women’s sport grown to be. Columns of the daily papers are devoted to it, and a publicity is given to the doings of women generally as would have been undreamt of even ten years ago. In spite of the outcry against athletics for women, one can’t help noticing how healthy girls and women look nowadays. Travelling frequently, as I do, up and down to town in a suburban train, I am always amazed at the freshness, charm, and general well-being of the working girl, as compared with that of her brother. Why it should be so is a mystery, unless it be that in her determination to be slim the girls’ careful diet accounts for her undoubted superiority as regards personal appearance. We hear of golf faces, and tennis faces, and sports faces generally, but I never see them. As it happened, I was on the station the day our victorious British girls returned from the Women’s Olympiad at Gothenburg, and I thought then that a more charming collection of freshlooking, lively young creatures it would be hard to find anywhere. * * * The other day I went shopping with a friend who is shortly going out to South Africa. As she has plenty of money, and the best possible taste, we had rather an exciting day. First of all we toured Bond street from end to end, shopping from the outside of the windows only, and dodging backwards and forwards from one side of the street to the other. Having seen all there was to see outside, we began on the inside, finally ending up by buying silk stockings very expensively in Berwick Market, and bargain hunting in the small foreign shops which abound in Shaftesbury avenue and Wardour street. We lunched in a French restaurant in Soho, where we were served with five truly excellent courses for half-a-erown a head. We started off with a hors d’oeuvre of melon, and finished with a whipped cream chocolate sweet served in tiny cases of something that looked and tasted like almond toffee. There was chicken and salad also, and delicious little “noix dc veau” served with little slices of carrot in a thin brown sauce. Altogether a very nice clay, in my recollection of which two facts are outstanding. One is, that if only French cooking took less time and trouble, I should plump for it every time, and the other is that whatever colour women may in their heart of hearts fancy this winter, they will be driven to wine colour. I never saw anything like it, it was wine, wine all the way.