THE SKETCHER

Otago Witness, Issue 3818, 17 May 1927, Page 73

THE SKETCHER

SUFFERING. J hear you speak of suffering As if it were a little thing. You name the torches it has lit; • You cry that greatness grows with It-;. You say it is the sharpest tool To make a wise man of a fool. And I can only look at you '”1 . : % And whisper that it is not true. > For I have tasted every pain Of soul, of body, and of brain. And I know well that suffering 1 Makes one a bird without a wing. Look! can you see the hunger-scar That made me topple when my star Had come within my eager clutch? Look! can you see the fever-touch That felled me where the pathways part? Look! can you see a broken heart? finch things lie buried in my brain As will not ever live again. And none will ever hear a note Of all that trembled in my throat. And still you speak of suffering. As if it were a little thing. What have I ever asked of ,pne Besides a ray of summer sun; A slice of bread ; a day, no more, Beneath a roof, behind a door, Where I might drop upon a bed The hot volcano of my head; A friendly word, a gentle smile To sweeten bitterness awhile? And this was all I ever dared To ask of one ; and all I cared. But even this was once denied To me; and though I live, I died. Ah, misery wields such a knife As kills the beautiful in life. What is a bird, and what a breeze To one to who feels hell’s agonies? What is a flower, what a song To one to whom the years are long? What is the sun, and what the moon To one who will not see them soon? Why do you speak of suffering As if it were a little thing? —Bobin Christopher, in The World.

THE VIKING. (Hexameters.)

Over the ocean we sail, when it lies as if peacefully sleeping ; Over it too in the storm, when the loudvoiced billows are leaping ; Over the sea when it smiles, thick-studded

with verdurous islands, Over it too ■when the shore sinks down

with its pinnacled highlands! There is our path o’er the field which men’s feet never have trodden, Soft with the thin sea-spray, with the salt brine’s bitterness sodden; There is the place where we dwell, there rule we a lonely dominion, Empty except for our sail and the gull’s

unwearying pinion. Barren the sea’s broad plain, unmeet are its furrows for sowing; Yet is its harvest for us worth more than our heaviest mowing; Sandy the soil that we dig! but we gather from loamier tillage,

Cornland that others afar ploughed deep for our reaping and pillage; Bare are our pastures at home ! yet barer

the meadows we harry, Barer the barn that we sack and the store

whence cargo we carry. Others may mow green fields, when the

- sun shines over the meadow, Norsemen the acre of death; and they toil close under its shadow; Heavy the swathes that they cut! for they mow where the enemy presses. > Mow till the night brings rest or till evening’s victory blesses. Life shall be life while it lasts; then pass we by pathways of valour, Up to the portal of gold, to the threshold of golden Valhalla; Freya will greet us and Thor, skalds’ harps with our praises resounding Kings will acclaim us with shouts from the carved oak-panels rebounding. Odin will order the feast, glad sagas and singing and laughter Rise as a cloud till the sound smites glittering roof-tree and rafter. ■—J. A. Fort, in an English exchange. THE STORY OF A LITTLE POEM. There is a great little poem which every child in Italy knows by heart. It is' about a fleabitten or piebald mare, and was written by Giovanni Pascoli from the recollection of an early tragedy which darkened his childhood and haunted his whole life.

Giovanni was born in 1855. The child’s early years passed pleasantly on the farm, among the olives and vines and chestnuts, and with the horses and huge white oxen for his friends. Sometimes Ruggero, his father, had fo go to the market at Cesena to sell produce and buy implements and other things. He drove there one summer day, on August 10, 1867, when Giovanni was a dreamy little boy of 12.

A filly—"starling-coloured” as the poem has it—drew the cart in which he made the journey. The fierce Italian , day passed and in the evening the sound of swift hoofs and wheels announced the home-

coming. His family rushed out*to welcome him. The mare, stopped at the gate. But no one sprang out of the cart to greet those who had met the master so often when he came back from market.

In the cart Ruggero Pascoli lay huddled up, a corpse. Bullet wounds told their tale. Some unknown assassin—probably lurking in a deep trench which bordered the rough country road—had fired from his hiding place and killed him. Pascoli had fallen back dead. The faithful little mare, bounding forward, had raced for home with its burden.

In the silence of the night the widow went alone to the stables. She went close to the mare.

‘‘Speak!” she whispered. ‘‘Speak!” What did you see happen on the road?” The marc, “born between the pines and the salt beaches” of the wild Maremma, as the poem tells us, pricked up her ears. But there was no other sign ; the only sounds were the wind in the poplars, and the munching of the stout Percherons in neighbouring- stalls. “Oh, little mare—speak!” The widow cried.—‘‘You saw the flash and the murderer; your ears heard the report and the cry. Your flying hoofs brought him home to me, my dear husband.—Speak!” There was. silence again save for the wind and the munching. She whispered a name into the pricked-up ears. Silence all.

Another name was whispered. Silence. -“Was it ” she hesitated, then spoke the name of a man who had a grudge against her husband, and whom she had suspected from the first.

The little mare lifted her head suddenly and neighed loudly. Giovanni Pascoli never forgot that terrible night of his boyhood, and years later he wrote the poem of which this in the story.—Alfred Tresidder Sheppard, in the Spectator.

IN STARRY SKIES. In starry skies, long years ago, I found my Science. Heart aglow I watched each night unfold a maze Of mystic suns and worlds ablaze, That spoke: “ Know us and wiser grow.” And with each season’s ebb and flow, My soul, with faltering steps and slow, Still wanders up far-glimmering ways In starry skies.

Nor do I heed Life’s gaudy show, But onward, upward I shall go, Until new star-lands meet my gaze, And where, perhaps in after-days, I’ll learn the things I long to know In starry skies. —Sterling Bunch, in Popular Astronomy.

SWIMMING IN THE WINTER. By Annette Kellerman, in the Daily Mail.

When a friend on one of these cold mornings casually mentions that she is “just off for a swim,” one rather naturally skivers and murmurs, “Oh, how could you!”

And yet, if the majority of us only realised what splendid exercise swimming is, both physically and mentally, how it helps to promote and maintain perfect fitness, we should think twice in future before condemning our friend’s action as an extravagant piece of bravado. It is really remarkable what a false impression people have of winter swimming. Good swimmers invariably advocate the winter as being by far the most suitable time to learn, and when the majority of baths warm the water to a temperature of 68 to 70 degrees, no one can reasonably make excuses on the ground that it is too cold.

In the States physical culture has progressed much further than it has done in Britain. The Americans were the first to realise the valuable properties of swimming, not only as a physical educator, but also as a health-giving exercise, and So convinced were they of its possibilities that they have since taken up swimming on proper scientific^ lines. * . * *

Swimming is of . particular value to women, since.it not only develops those parts of the body which are apt to grow fleshy with age, but it also prevents those tissues from becoming clogged, to the detriment of one’s health.

A woman, if she desires to acquire a good figure, ’ should visit the swimming baths at least two or three times a week. Swimming does not, of course, reduce superfluous flesh to any great extent, because after leaving the water, most people overeat, but it proportions the flesh over the body, and thus prevents it from collecting in any particular part. Perhaps one of the greatest advantages is the chest development which it achieves through the' regulation of correct breathing. And swimming the breast stroke without the legs is a splendid exercise for this purpose. I- discovered this fact some few years ago when we were training a number of girls for an important film where they wore fishtails.

Quite a number of people who delight in summer swimming refrain from going in during the winter owing to their susceptibility to colds. More often than hot, however, these infections are due to the lack of a few simple precautions. Beginners are too fond of dallying about in the water

and sitting on the edge of the bath. The correct thing to do is to make a practice of swimming a regular distance every time you enter the water, and then, as soon as you come out, to dry yourself thoroughly. I have found eucalyptus to be one of the best remedies against catching cold. It is not a nice taste, but a drop on the tongue and a touch inside each nostril, before- entering the water and again on .leaving the bath, is a splendid preventive.

MONO TOO MUCH OF LIF C ! I asked a philosophic friend of mine the other day how she always managed to be so contented. I knew her life was not a very happy one, and her work nothing but an uphill climb with little to show for it, and yet she always was smiling, she never grumbled, and one felt that she was satisfied with things. She enlarged to me her theory of happiness, which is briefly that one should never expect too much from life. Take it for granted that all you have any right to expect is 50 per cent, of happiness, and 75 per cent, is the very greatest you can ever hope to have. Cultivate this outlook and you will he happy.

The trouble with -most people is that they want 100 per cent., and when they don’t get it they are miserable and discontented. What right has anyone to expect that they shall have perfect happiness ? Who is there who deserves such a reward, and would anyone properly appreciate such good fortune if life were ■without even one tiny crumpled roseleaf? After all, the patches of sunlight would not appear so brilliant if there were not some dark clouds with which to compare them. Half the meaning of life is learned by contrast, and if we are to appreciate great joy when it comes to us we must have had some black moments of utter misery with which to compare it.

“ It is all very well to philosophise,” perhaps you will say, “ but philosophy doesn’t help when you leave theories for the real things of life.” But that is just where philosophy can play its part. 1. you have schooled yourself not to expect too much from life you aren’t disappointed when you don’t get it.

It is so easy to forget all the good things you have to be thankful for when you are nursing your grievances. So count the many things you have to be glad about, and your grievances will somehow shrink, and become less important, and you’ll be happier in consequence. However bad things are there is usually something to hold on to.— Woman’s Weekly.

COTTON MOUTH. Here I lie coiled. In the swampy grass where the pink orchids are. Go slow, you with the eyes that seek a

star. Watch where you tread. I am Death and am not dead. 1 am hidden and when 1 like May strike. And when at the time and place Up from the shadow I dart, You will suddenly start And terror will bleach your face And numbness sicken your heart And my black eye shall brighten in the

sun As the venom begins to stun. Turn from the star- to the weed Where the orchids hang. Mine is a fearful fang. Take heed. —Leonard Bacon, in the Saturday Review of literature. A FLOWER PAINTER. Alice Van Heddeghem, whose recent exhibition of flower pictures at the Abbey Galleries in Westminster revived an interest in an art somewhat fallen into abeyance, counts herself happy because such a gift is hers. Flowers of England, Italy and France, in their season, make the round of her days; living as she does in the heart of London, these flowers bring sunshine to her when the skies are grey, and by her pictorial' representation of lovely blossom, she gives it out to the world. “My little farm restores me to myself,” cries Horace. The poet loved his woodlands, the artist carries her dreams into her home with her flowers, and, when life is hard, they restore her to herself. Covent Garden knows this artist well. By seven o’clock in the morning, she may be seen there, seeking her flower models, picking and choosing. Roses may be said to be her favourite -study ; she finds inspiration in their perfume, colour, and endless variety of form, and long acquaintance has made her familiar with every species of flower, and its merits and demerits as subjects for her brush. The rose exotic is not highly esteemed by her, simply because it is a thing of too much perfection; lacking, it is true, the frequent blemish of the garden product, but also much of its grace. Like some cold human beauty, the hot-house rose, subject of such ardent cultivation, is of too aristocratic a nature, too reticent and haughty to disclose its soul to the ffower student,- “too faultlessly regular” to be of use as a “sitter.” < ■

No one is more vigorous in combating the idea that flower painting comes under the heading of “still-life” than this artist, differing from her predecessors of the 17th and following centuries; who placed flowers as picture subjects in the same catalogue with dead fish, Venetian glass vases, and polished tables, deeming them all “inanimate nature.” ■

Anyone who has tried to paint a -?oppy will realise that this is true. it for 10 minutes and the poppy has chjbged its shape, as' a subject for portrayed it is another flower; th© same may be laid of stocks, which shed their petals quickly, and of primroses, which flatten Uleir leaves in a manner devastating to the artist’s intention.

Some flowers Alice Van Heddeghem finds unpaintable. The tulip, the source of so much inspiration in Holland, makes no appeal to her as a subject, nor does the Roman hyacinth. Gorgeous in colour these flowers are; but so stiff and unbending is their character that they ippel and do not attract the artist’s fancy, On the other hand, a bunch of garden roses, thrown carelessly upon a table or into a basket, form themselves naturally into a picture without the extraneous aid of some handsome bowl or vase-—May Fraser, in Good-Housekeeping.

THE WAY OF A STAR. A strange thing in a star to be putting

a sorrow on me, And I sitting quiet with no dark heart

at all, But a -wonder on me for the simple things, Like the way of the day to come and the night to fall, And the wind that is blind to the eye

and a sting to the flesh. And it leaping over the bog to howl on the sea; Or just the glad way of the gorse to be smelling sweet . . . And a little star to bo putting.a sorrow

on me. —Charlotte Arthur, in Poetry Magazine.

GN REVIEWING.

A reviewer may pronounce judgment on a dozen books a week, and be no prodigy. At an after-dinner debate, one well-known critic made the humorous confession, or boast, that in the years yhen he was compelled to review large parcels of books, he made it a rule at least to turn each page in the volume before him. I believe that with a little manual dexterity this may be accomplished in five minutes. I do not for a moment suggest that he reviewed books only with his digits; for, indeed, he is known everywhere as a critic who reviews with brains and conscience. But he spoke of reviewing as it is, and must bo, in an age of enormous literary production. Another literary- man once told me that in the days when he was engaged in reviewing novels instead of writing them, as he does now, he calculated that 40 minutes was the "average time he could devote to the reading and reviewing of an average novel. Of course, he made exceptions, but generally- speaking he reviewed by stop-watch. This is not a verynew state of things. Hazlitt long ago remarked—“ Authors, in proportion to their numbers, become not formidable, but despicable. They would not be heard of or- severed from the crowd without the critic’s aid, and all complaints of ill-treatment are vain.” This was written both in protest and as a truth. The problem is indeed now a physical one. The volume of publicity given to books is enormous, and publicity multiplies the chances of private publicity—the most effective kind, for conversation is the greatest of all agents in making a book successful. It has also to be remembered that, for good or evil, books are now written and published with a haste proportionate to the haste with which they are criticised. The average life of books has been woefully shortened, and criticism tends to move in relation to the general literary speed, as the minute hand of a clock keeps relation with the hour hand. —.John o’ London, in John o’ London’s Weekly. WOMANLINESS. When one is trying to express one's creed it is by- no means a bad plan to begin by- indicating one’s disbeliefs and prejudices. I do not like women who steep themselves in the sordid from a mistaken sense of 'duty. I do not like women who marry- and deliberately remain childless because they- plan to write, to act, to paint, or dance nightly.

I do not like women of 40 who -show their knees outside the bathroom. I have an absurd prejudice against bobbing and shingling, and, if you would slay me for it, I shall say before I die that it will be time to use the scissors when the Queen, Princess Mary, and the great ladies of the land set the example. I am afraid that I frown upon women explorers, not because there is anything unwomanly in exploring, but because they must be such an appalling nuisance to the country explored. By now you will have expected me to abuse the women who go in for sport. You will be disappointed. Let women play every game, but I beg they do not let men exploit their sport as an exhibition for making money-. I also implore them to regard in its properperspective all the newspaper gush about their prowess. Lenglen (professionals have no Christian name, I believe) is equal in lawn tennis ability to only a second-rate male player. There are some pastimes, however, in which women outshine men, and let them have the glory of it. One is swimming. I am not astonished at women swimming the Channel. From what I have seen of sea-bathing in the past 10 years I am surprised that any man could swim the Channel and that any woman could not. Men are attracted much more by the

good health of a woman than they think.' The swimming, the golfing, and the tennis playing girls delight men, who think they arc perfect in spite of playing games. In addition to finding them perfect, they find them pretty, which is ever so much better. They are right. There are no plain girls and not very many plain women. But their perfection and their prettiness, if men only knew it, come from the eager athletic pursuits of the glorious young women of —Basil Macdonald Hastings in Good Housekeeping.