A LETTER FROM HOME.

Otago Witness, Issue 3808, 8 March 1927, Page 67

A LETTER FROM HOME.

By Sheila Scobie Macdonald. (Specially Written for the Witness.) January 9. There was a missal thrush singing on a branch of my leafless pear tree this morning, and just underneath the pear tree two pale, rather timid-looking primroses were actually blooming. I don’t know whether the thrush sang because the primroses had flowered, or whether the primroses felt that the thrush wanted backing up, but I feel sure that the sun shine and the warmth of this unusual January was responsible for making them both feel that the time had surely come to be up and doing. They were misof course, and long before this month is out they will probably find it out, but what a joy for winter-sick humans just to have heard and seen them! Already in the woods the sharp green spears of the snowdrop leaves -an be easily found, and in my little patch of garden the one crocus leaf of 10 days ago is lost amongst a multitude of others. It isn’t spring or anywhere near spring yet, of course, but still—there’s a something that wasn’t with us in December, and that something whispers hope of warmer days, lengthening afternoons, and all the delights of the English spring. -n>.

Already some of the shorter sales are over, and in some of the windows straw hats, light, coats, and delicious boyishlooking coats and skirts -(such short skirts, too!) and tennis frocks are being shown. These are really only for the fortunate few who are off to the .South of France, Egypt, or Madeira, but, nevertheless, they interest the stay-at-homes, to whom spring and light garments only mean that the Easter holidays are at hand. Middle-class England still conforms to the idea that the donning of a new frock and Easter Sunday synchronise, and would die rather than fail to conform to the time-honoured custom

In connection with the grave disturbances in China, I was most interested in listening the other day to the views of a missionary on the subject. As a rule missions and missionaries do not come my way, but the other day, as 1 was passing down our little High street, my shopping basket on my arm, I noticed the announcement of a lecture on missions in China, to be held in the Wesleyan Church that afternoon. I do like hearing the other person’s point of view, so I took myself, my prejudices, and my shopping basket into the church hall and sat down. The lecturer, a tall, thin, yellow-faced, melancholy, elderly man (a great many adjectives, but they are wanted to describe him) was painfully in earnest. He was accompanied by his wife, who was small, thin, dowdy, yellowfaced, and nervous, and by three other elderly, thin, anxious spinsters, also missionaries. The lecturer deplored the attitude of the Chinese towards the British, and freely, frankly, and fully admitted that missions and missionaries had a very great deal to do with this antagonism.

“But,” he said, with great emphasis, “even so—we must go on; we must take our light to lighten the darkness of China. It is our duty; come what may, we cannot avoid it.”

He was so greatly in earnest, as also were the women who accompanied him, that I was much impressed, until a man in the audience asked leave to make a short speech. He told us that he had been in business for years in China, and had learnt to like and respect the Chinese, their religion, and their laws. Their religion was age-old, beloved by them, and held infinitely dear. He asked us what we did when the Mormons, for instance, came amongst us preaching and. converting. “You simply chucked them out,” he concluded. “Well-—that’s what the Chinese are doing to us. Leave them alone—their religion doesn’t suit us, but it suits them, and God knows we’re in need of all the religion we can get, here at home.” The meeting ended in a smiHl uproar, during which I slipped out and went home, thinking deeply. Both men were convinced they were right, and yet their views were as the Poles asunder.

But, apart from China, the news of the week is undoubtedly the opening of telephone communication with New Tork. It was wonderful to read of the rush to book calls, two days beforehand, wonderful to think that in these days of taxation there were so many people with £l5 to spare. The newspapers announced that big business with two large B’s was talked, but as at present all the conversation can be overheard, pro.bablv discretion played a large part in the talks. But what a thrilling romance it all is, and what a much greater romance it will be shortly, when world-wide communication is opened up. And when added to it is the marvel of television, why, talking to the Martians doesn't seem quite so wildly improbable after all.

Tlc inventor of television, who, by the way, is a Scotsman named Baird, says that he is arranging to put a simple television device on the market within the next few months. It will cost about and with it installed the speaker can “look in” and see by wireless, persons speakmg at the broadcasting stations. That will be very nice, and most interest' mg? hui when the time comes for everyone to “look in” on everyone else, life will be horribly complicated. Imagine making plausible excuses at a phone, conscious that all the time one’s face is under scrutiny!! No, there are strie. limits to the use of marvels in the home.

I 'a u.' 1 " 10 -r? <lcl 'Shtful entertainment at tlie Albert Hall last week. It was the English Foik Dance Society festival, and the vast hall was so packed thqt long before the entertainment started even standing room was not to be had. Teams from different English counties danced their distinctive folk dances, and what interested me especially were the northern teams of sword and Morris dancing. These two • are essentially men’s dances, and they were extraordinarily interesting’. One team of men from Durham were all veterans, whose ages averaged 65. They brought their own musicians, and their dancing was soul-stirring. There was a team of men and women front Holland, who did delightful national clog dances (in costume, of course), but really nicest of all were our old English dances. Altogether it was a delightful evening, and I» don’t wonder that even the Albert Halt was not big enough to hold the spectators. Just

by way of varying things we had intervals of folk-song singing. I had never seen Morris dancing before, although during the summer here, especially, it seems to me, on chill and dreary days one frequently comes upon a group of chilly damp maidens, pirouetting more or less gracefully along the wind-swept seashore, or on the all too lush green sward of a dripping forest. In England, methinks, Morris dancing is best enjoyed indoors. * * * We are to have another season of Grand Opera at Covent Garden, the last, unless it is better supported financially. The losses in 1925 were very heavy, in 1926 considerably less so, but still very much on the wrong side. Before the war Grand Opera paid its way handsomely; pow it doesn’t, and the reason why it doesn’t is not because the Opera House is not always packed, but because the good old days of regular subscribers have, like many other good things, passed away. Nowadays if people want to go to the opera they book a seat or two scats or three as the case may be, but they don’t subscribe for seats that they have no intention of occupying. These people have now been told that they must mend their ways—or else—do without opera. Isn’t it odd why where opera is concerned it should be run at a dead loss, and yet a play like “The Farmer’s Wife,” by that much envied author, Eden Philpots, has made a clear profit of round about £260,000? I feel bitter about that £200,000, for £2 of mine went towards the making of it, and I didn’t get twopence worth of enjoyment out of them. Then think of the money made from successful films, and the salaries earned by film stars. I was hearing of one young Britisher by name Victor M’Laglen (a son of a colonial bishop, by the way), who as the result of creating a film called “What Price Glory” has been offered and has graciously accepted a salary of £30,000 a year. We haven’t seen “What Price Glory” here yet—its a joy to come—but according to American reports it is a super-film and a record breaker. * * * Next week I am going to the exhibition of Flemish art at Burlington House. I hear it. ig marvellous. The King and Queen sent some pictures from Windsor and Buckingham Palace, and even at the private view Burlington House was thronged with visitors. Not being a private-view person I shall have to go with the multitude and walk around in a queue like we did at the Ideal Homes exhibition last year. Very distressing to the temper, for everyone wants to stop just where you don’t, and vice versa.