A LETTER FROM HOME.

Otago Witness, Issue 3806, 22 February 1927, Page 67

A LETTER FROM HOME.

By Sheila Scqbie Macdonald.

(Specially Written for the Witness.) December 27. Christmas is over, and. after all the forecasts of snow and really old-fashioned weather it turned out to be a green Christmas, with a tolerable amount of sunshine, and the keenest and most piercing of north winds. There was an attempt at snow in the north, but on the whole the effort was a failure, and "from my point of view’ a very pleasing and eminently satisfactory failure. And now peace and quiet has descended upon the land, and until Tuesday brings back the hustle and bustle of life London strc.is are almost deserted. But though the streets may seem to be empty of traffic, and one can even cross at Piccadilly Circus without waiting for the assistance of a policeman, the theatres and restaurants are simply packed. Three weeks ago ve went to try and book seats for- “Peter Pan” on Boxing Day, only to be told that not a single seat in the theatre was available for that day for any one of the many children’s plays staged at this season. Children nowadays are no longer thrilled with a pantomime. They infinitely prefer the delights of “ Peter Pan,” the excitement of “ Treasure Island,” or the beauty and romance of “ Where the Rainbow Ends.”

As for the famous Peter, he is younger and more attractive than ever, and this year for the second time in succession is being played by Dorothy Dickson. 1 personally find her rendering much more attractive than Gladys Cooper’s, but none of them come up to the long-ago effort of Nina Boucicault. Being bored with American plays, and to be quite frank with revue and musical comedy, I have chosen “ Romance ” for my Boxing Day theatrical treat. I never tire of “ Romance,” chiefly, I frankly admit, because it is sticky with sentiment —and I do like sentiment on the stage, especially when it is interpreted by Doris Keane and Owen Nares. The latter is still a matinee idol, and his name and personality are certain to’ draw crowds, no matter what part he plays. He acts so attractively, and looks so very nice doing it that I don’t wonder at the number, sex, and youth, of his admirers. Four years ago I saw Owen Nares ■with Edna Best in a foolish play called “ Quarantine,” and thought then what an attractive personality he had. Edna Best was then chiefly famous for being the mother of twins, but no one ever hears mentions of her maternal cares these days, and as the 'Constant Nymph she looks like being a permanency at the New Theatre. * * *

Tli ere has been a great outcry against the staggering suggestion that all war babies are mentally and physically inferior to the pre-war and post-war article, and outraged parents and grandparents are rushing into print, and offering children and grandchildren t for public inspectionWhat rubbish all such wild statements are, and wbat harm they do. I was sent a French paper the other day, in which much prominence was given to this foolish statement as to the health and vigour of growing young Britains, and the writer congratulated French feomen on their superior mental and physical endurance, as evidenced in the fact that in France there is no sign of a growing C. 3 population.

I always laugh at the pessimists, for never was there a more heartening sight than to pass a council school at the dinner hour, and meet literally hundreds of rosycheeked sturdy British boys and girls of any age from five to 15. As for British babies, whether they are being dragged along by an elder baby in a converted candle box, or wheeled by a tired, worried young mother in a much worn “pram,” while she does her marketing, or sprawling, daintily clad, exquisitely turned out, in the most expensive of up-to-date baby carriages, wheeled by the most carefully trained nurse, they are one and all adorable. « . i And of all our thousands of jolly, healthy British babies, quite one of the jolliest is little Princess Elizabeth of York. I was walking through Hyde Park the other day—such a cold, frosty day too — and a nurse wheeling a very nice dark blue “pram” in which sat a rosy-cheeked, grey-eyed, brown-haired baby passed quite close to me. The baby was playing with a woolly white rabbit, and every now and again would chuckle loudly and attempt to throw it out on to the ground. But it was tied in, and all the nurse did was to lean forward and retrieve the dangling toy, whereupon the baby churckled, and again attempted to throw it away. I smiled at the nurse, and I smiled at the baby, and then I noticed an enterprising photographer quite close to me busilv taking a photograph of the little scene. The nurse walked on serenely unconscious, and 1 approached the photographer. ‘‘Was that an important baby you were snapping?’’ I asked. He smiled.

“I should rather think so,” he replied. “May be queen of England some day. That was her Royal Highness Princess Elizabeth.” Such a duck of a baby, and so like her pretty little mother.

Sir Thomas Beecham’s temper has been further and finally ruffled by the great success of an Albert Hall concert organised by Mr Jack Hylton, of jazz band fame. Jack Hylton’s Band is the band, and Jack Hylton’s concert was such a success that he smiles broadly, turns the other cheek to his critics, and goes on thumping out more fox-tyots, confident that the youth of the nation is behind him. Personally, Jack Hylton’s Band gives me such a- headache that I can’t listen to it for more than five minutes at a time. That untiring, incessant repetition of simple rhythms somehow beats in on my brain until it feels as if it were on fire, and this, to my mind, deplorable fact is, I am told, what is so desirable. None of the young folk can stand any criticism of Jazz music, and as one bright young thing crushiirgly retorted to an elderly scoffer the other day: “Well, Chopin glorified the mazurka and Beethoven the gavotte, so why should even the high brows turn up their noses at a fox-trot? It’s all music! ! !” Complete collapse of the outraged critic!

All dancing London Charlestons now, and there are seemingly as many steps and varieties of Charlestons as sands on the seashore. It isn’t pretty, to put it mildly, and many and many a time have I seen a happy-go-lucky Mashona labourer casting aside his gardening implements, and jigging about in an intricate and quite unconscious Charleston. It must be rather a blow for those who have spent long hours in mastering this complicated dance to he told by a member of the party of undergraduates now visiting America that in New York the Charleston is quite, out of date. But in London it js still the rage.

There has recently been a movement on foot to move Covent Garden Market from Covent Garden to some more open commodious place, and the spot most favoured by the market authorities is the spot in Bloomsbury recently occupied by the Foundling Hospital. The Foundlings are now housed in a huge, red brick, most modern building at Redhill, in Surrey, where, although their surroundings are so different, they still wear their quaint old-world costumes, and conform to many of their old-world customs.

But although, no doubt, Bloomsbury as a centre would be admirable for a market, Londoners demand that the beautiful grounds of the hospital should not be built on, but be reserved for all time as a playground for children. There is quite a controversy raging, and now some bright individual has suggested building an underground market. What a marvellous widespread organisation Covent Garden is, for even in my little Surrey town the early procession of flower and fruit-laden carts and lorries begins soon after 3 o’clock, even on winter mornings, and of course the constant influx of Continental and colonial produce must be amazing. Even now in midwinter narcissi and jonquils are for sale in the streets, and pots of hyacinths are to be seen even in quite humble homes. I was talking the other day to a friend of mine, who, being a great flower lover, spent last spring, the very earliest part of it, in the Scilly Isles. It was quite primitive, for only flower growers, or those in some way connected with the trade, live there. The crossing from the mainland is a nightmare, but even in stormy weather, provided a favourable wind is blowing, quite two miles from shore one is conscious of the sweet scent of flowers. My friend stayed at the one and only inn, and spent her days on a flowe farm packing crates of scented beauty for despatch to grey, smoky London. There was no hairdresser on tlie island, and after six weeks’ sojourn she returned to the mainland with a shingle which looked like an overgrown untidy “ bob,” a body glowing with health and vigour, and a fixed determination to spend another springtide amongst t K -' flowers.