THE SKETCHER

Otago Witness, Issue 3833, 30 August 1927, Page 73

THE SKETCHER

THE LOST FLIERS—NUNCESSER AND GOLI. I heard the motors roar, I saw the takeoff and the rise; I felt the rush of wind beneath the wings And upward raised my eyes. . . You cleft the clouds . . . you rode the trackless air— A strange and shining star. A meteor shot from fields of France To span a distant shore. . . . I drooped my head to cup my hands Against my eyes. ’Tis a moment all my life I shall be sorry for! ! For in that moment you had left the world and me. And though I heard a faint hum Drifting from those hills of mist— And though I strained my eyes through tears To film a glimpse of you I could not see . . . I knew that you were gone. , . . All my days I shall be listening now. Heart-startled with every plane I hear. With every little sound like engines from afar. But always, it is just a gust of wind Or the throbbing of the Sphinxlike sea Beneath a lonely and impervious —lsabelle Eiling, in the Blade. IN THE FILM WORLD. Startling new factors are going to be introduced into international relationships by a silent (or rather the reverse of silent) revolution which is at this moment in progress. The films are going to “ talk.” That phenomenon, long threatened, is now a fait accompli, but not at all in the way imagined by many observers who detected its imminence. Nothing has occurred to change the conviction that so far as the film drama is concerned it must remain silent.

Where the films are going to break into vocality is in the news section, known as the “ topical.” Two new pictures shown to the public induce this argument—the film of Lindbergh’s United States welcome, and the film of the Walker-Milligan fight. It is the Lindbergh picture which suggests the new factor which the world of diplomacy, I suggest (says a writer in the Evening Standard), will have to consider when the talking topical is in general use. The English observer cannot fail to note that President Coolidge in his just eulogy of American air achievements makes no reference to the fact that Englishmen first flew the Atlantic.

But because of the all-hearing microphone he came in fact to be addressing the Eng;ish-speaking world, and national susceptibilities are strangely and illogically touchy. In the not-distant future statesmen, presidents, even kings, will have to take this new factor into account when preparing their speeches.

At least four organisations are concerned in the new development, and will, I suppose, eventually link up with various news films concerns. The systems involved are the Phonofilm, the Movietone, the Acousticon, and the Vitaphone. The Acousticon, the secret of British Gaumont, and the Vitaphone films have also still to be heard in this country. The former employs two strips of film in synchronisation, one being for pictures and the other for sound. The Vitaphone is quite different, using a gramophone disc in electrical conjunction with the film. * * * The following is an argument by Ronald Colman and Vilma Banky, who are starring together in “ The Winning of Barbara Worth”: — Ronald Colman says: “I am not a misogynist; if I ever had been I would have had it charmed out of me when I played with Miss Banky in ‘ The Winning of Barbara Worth ’; but without casting any aspersion on the fair and indispensable sex I do believe that no w’oma.. is capable of criticising a film as well as a man.

Man is a logical creature —woman is ruled by her emotions. Man stops to think and reason, while woman judges by her feelings. Man has been trained for generation upon generation to rely on his mind; he has trained it, educated it, for the one purpose of logical reasoning. When he sits in a motion picture theatre and watches the unfolding of a story on the screen it is natural that he, better than a woman, should be able to weigh the merits of the plot, and determine whether it is admirable or ridiculous.

When he sees a motion picture the male critic does not allow himself to be 'swayed by his heart, as does his fair partner. He is determined to be fair and just, let the laurels fall where they mav.

But there is this much to be considered. For an opinion on how well & film is

made I would rather appeal to a man. For an opinion on how good the story is I would sooner trust a woman’s judgment. The greatest makers of pictures are men, Griffith, Stroheim, Cruze, Henry King (who made “Barbara Worth ”) and a dozen others; the greatest judge of stories in the rough and writer of scenarios is a woman, Frances Marion, authoress of most of the big scripts from which the film directors work. Vilma Bankv savs: —

A woman naturally makes the best judge of a film because she sees it with that innate sense of sympathy which is lacking in most men. She is nerved to a higher pitch, keyed to more subtle reactions, endowed by nature to a finer appreciation of the true meaning of dramatic art than is the male.

It is my experience that the average woman- can sense a dramatic situation and appreciate its finer points while mere man is stalling along through the underbrush 100 miles behind, wondering what all the fuss is about.

She" has that God-given quality of emotional reaction which masculinity never had. Is the picture truly sad? Look about you in the darkened theatre and you will see the women in tears. Nearly all the men merely look sheepish. Besides, we must not ignore the fact that the average audience is made up of a far higher percentage of women than of men. It is only natural tlur a woman will know best what other women will like.

EVERY POET KNOWS. Every eager poet knows Passions perish with the rose; Joys depart and love goes free. . . . Yet you sadly stare at me, Call me faithless and unfair, Wondering why I ceased to care: Seeking deftly what I lack For a spell to bring me back. O, Fond Silly one, no chain Vulcan forged can bind again My unchastened heart that took Freedom for its sacred book.

Many a woman, far too kind, Never dares the truth “ You bore ” , . Only in her secret mind Shuts the gate and locks the door. I, with airy gesture hade You adieu, and turned to find Fresh enchantment . . . and you swore Hussy . . . hussy . . . Here’s a truth Men but rarely hear, forsooth — Every woman, in her breast, Bears an infinite unrest .... Every woman, did she dare Leave the spinning, leave the fire, As myself, would onward fare Loitering with her heart’s desire. . . . Deep in every woman’s heart Don Juan finds his counterpart! —Dorothy Dow, in the Bookman. BALLOON JUMPING. How to walk on the clouds—almost—and quite literally upon the tops of trees, how to stride airily across lakes and rivers, how to jump straight over houses, Jiow to solve the traffic problem by strolling over the top of the onrushing automobile, all this is explained by Frederick S. Hoppin in an article on the new sport of balloon jumping which appears in the July number of the Forum magazine. All you have to do is to tie on a balloon exerting a lift of just a trifle less than your own weight. If you get a lift greater than your weight, of course, you are. whisked off into the clouds. But if a man weighing 1501 b puts on a balloon lifting an even 1001 b, then he has suddenly reduced his weight to a mere 501 b. But, as his legs are just as strong as ever, he can jump or step just three times as far as he could before. .Or as Mr Hoppin puts it:

“ On a fine summer day when a little breeze, moving not faster than 15 miles’ an hour, is blowing across the country the balloon jumper settles himself in his harness and attaches it firmly to the balloon. He stands with his feet spread slightly apart like a frog, the ballobn floating above him. A little gust comes along. He bends his knees and springs easily up into the air. The balloon bears him up gracefully 100 ft or so above the ground, and together they drift across the landscape over fields, fences, and ditches, till they come down again 100yds or so from where they left the earth. In front of him stands a tree. He walks forward a few steps while the balloon regains its balance and begins to rise again. Then, as it tugs for freedom, he steps leisurely into the air towards the tree. He reaches the upper branches and, resting his foot lightly on the most extended one, steps slowly and dignifiedly toward the top, and there pushes carelessly off into space and floats gracefully down to the ground.

“ A few steps down the field a barn looms ahead. This time the jumper takes off a little farther away, and,' with - strong spring, upborne by the wind, he and the balloon rise majestically to the rooftree, and there, for a moment, he poises on one foot. Hie lightest of shoves and he floats off and upwards, to sail

serenely 100 ft or so before alighting again upon the turf. “ Glittering in the distance straight ahead, lies a pond of a couple of hundred yards wide. The jumper takes this just as carelessly as the rest. Rising into the air before he reaches the pond, he drifts half way across and then floats down lightly as a seagull.” THE HIGHWAYMAN. With iron heels I spurn the turf, The late moon sees me ride; The belfried owl on yonder towerHoots to my ringing stride! Halloo! Halloo! A coach in sight! Fat purses, knot your strings to-night! By moonlight on a wintry heath A forester am 1— Diana to the clouds again. And darkness cloak the sky! Halloo! Halloo! A coach in sight! Fat purses, knot your strings to-night! —C. E. L'Ami, in the New York Tinies. CONSIDER THE CORK CROP. A cork is such an ordinary little thing that it is rarely given a thought. Yet there is food for wonderment even .here, and the present is the time to consider it; for in Spain and Portugal in particular, and other Mediterranean countries in general, the cork crop is now being gathered. Cork is, of course, the outside bark of certain trees, and it is harvested from a species of evergreen oak which makes it abundantly. Not until the trees are from 15 to 20 years old can a crop be expected, and then it is of poor quality. This “ virgin cork,” as it is called, is woody ami irregular in texture, and serves only such coarse purposes as making rustic work for greenhouse aiid window box.

The second crop is still unfit for ordinary use, but it suffices to make floats for fishing-nets and such-like articles. Nevertheless, these crops are worth the taking. Indeed, it does not pay to leave them, for the quality of the next crop is improved by each successive stripping. So it goes on, the crop getting better and better for quite 150 years—but only once in eight or ten years can a crop be harvested. The harvesting takes place in July and August, when the Spaniards, Portugese, and others slit round the tree-trunk near the ground and near the lowest branch, and then down the tree in about four places, subsequently prising off the bark with the other end of their speciallymade knives. Care is, of course, taken not to injure the main stem of the tree during these operations. The curved strips are next scraped and cleaned, and then heated and pressed on hard, flat surfaces. This process not only flattens them, but closes their pores and so imparts “ nerve ” to the cork —after which it is ready for manufacture or export.

Simple as the whole growth and manufacture is, however, there is something wonderful about cork. Is it not remarkable that so many and varied useful qualities should all grow together into one subsance, so that with it we can cork a bottle of fluid, without fear of leak or taint; wear a hatband without bearing undue weight or pressure; float, without fear of our support crumbling or becoming waterlogged?—to mention only three of its numerous uses. And do you know that the patricians of Greece and Rome “ corked ” their wine vessels long before glass bottles were invented, as their women folk—then, as now, more interested in fashions—used cork in their shoes?—Glasgow Weekly Herald.

THE WALKING PICEON. Thro’ the noon-silenced close The grey tower-pigeon goes Smouldering green and rose— Pecking, pattering. He knows To bathe in an organ’s fire, — In the noisy choir Of bells: in the breath Of passionate prayer: in the desperate fragrance of death.

The mosaics of his fan, white and grey Packed, toy-like away— Thro’ the noon-silenced close Wingless, he goes, Smouldering green and rose. —M. M. Johnson, in G. K.’s Weekly. UNTIDY. Bahs was looking round the room. It was the sitting room, and Babs herself was not a conspicuously tidy person, but Vera! Shoes, scarves, hats, lay everywhere. On the sofa was a brown paper parcel with a laundry note pinned to it, and trailing across it was a blue ribbon with a champagne cork tied .0 the end of it, as if Vera had been playing with a kitten. A box of powder had been spilt, and trodden into the worn carpet, instead of being swept up again. From the mantelpiece half the contents of a vanity hag had been spilled into the fender, and the edge of the shelf itself resembled the black keyboard of a pianoforte with the cigarettes that had been left burning there. It was the same in the next room, which was Vera’s bedroom. Orange peel lay on a plate by the side of the bed, and the dispersed pages of an evening paper strewed the floor. On the dressing table was a plate with a chop bone on it, for Vera seemed to dress and to tak- her meals in either room indifferently, walking about and dropping things as she

went. The little hall where she had groped for the box of matches was in reality the kitchen. The crazy little bathroom had no light at all, if one might judge from the candle end in the enamelled stick that stood on the chair by the side of the cracked bath.—Oliver Onions 1 , in Cut Flowers. LONELY PLACES. I glimpse them here and there. High on a hill, But half revealed, calm and serenely still,. As I flash swiftly by, a lonely spot Is unaware how fortunate its lot. Wood creatures only know its charm and mystery, No human eye will ever all its beauty see. When winter wraps the earth in shawls of white, The virgin forests call me through the night. Midsummer moons oft point a finger where A lifted wing alone stirs sultry air. 1 lie. awake and, through the darkness, visions steal Of cliffs whose coolness human hands will never feel.

The dawn intrigues me. Safe from alien view, The modest woodland flowers are filled with dew, The twilight hour which veils the flaming west, Enchants with thoughts of every hidden nest. And when rain falls I turn from nearby faces, My heart goes questing far to lonely places. —Kalfus Kurtz Gusling, in the Courier Journal. EDUCATE FOR CHARM. Ban culture and cultivate charm, is the advice given to educators by Albert Carr in the July number of the-Forum magazine. From an ancient gag line of a long-forgotten melodrama, Air Carr borrows a title, and calls his article “ Doing Right by our Nell.” “ Our Nell ” is the average American girl, and in Mr Carr’s opinion the American schools have done anything but right by her. They have taught her an infinity of things that are no use to her, and totally failed to teach her almost as many things that she vitally needs. And thereby they have failed to “do right by our Nell.” Nellie wants just pne thing, says Mr Carr. She wants to get married. And site finds it hard to attract a really worthy help-mate. “ Unfortunately, her cheeks and lips are almost always painted too red, and her nose powdered toe white for the average taste. She puts tight little waves into her -bobbed, blonde hair, although nature intended it to be worn smooth and close to her head. She has a fancy for red hats, which do not become her. Her finger nails are not unimpeachable. Her legs are slightly bowed. She swings her liips too much when she walks. Her table manners are bad; so is her grammar. Her voice has a nasal twang that becomes a whine when she grows excited. And she is undeniably lacking in conversational powers, her stock repartee consisting of 1 quit your kiddin’, and ‘so s your old man.' “ Man—marriageable man — ’ can do much better; and the consequence is that Nellie labours under a handicap in the marital sweepstakes and, while she retains her dreams, her life is unhappy. But it will all be all right. Mr Carr assures us, the moment we scrap the conventional public school and set up in its place “the charm school.” Instead of instructing our Nell in the geography of Timbnctoo. we must teach her to dress, walk, talk, cook, interior-decorate, make a home, and take care of children. When that is done, the new Jerusalem will be right around the corner. It all sounds very alluring as the persuasive Mr Carr explains it perhaps because Mr Carr, when not an author is an advertising man. Anyhow, it is a scheme worth trying. It can t possibly work worse than most conventional education. SEA FOOD. I had always marvelled at the system which made such a variety of food possible, day after day. The work seemed staggering in its complications. Who thought out all those intricate dishes, the pretty omelette with strawberries at breakfast, the iced Russian caviare with toast and lemon at dinner? How did they know the number of passengers who would fancy the Mikado salad of rice and delicious sauce at luncheon ? To me it had always been a great gastronomical mystery.

For in that ship meal followed meal with the speed of a kinema film. It started at half-past 6 in the morning, when the steward —who used to remark sadly, “ I haf but two, tree vords English ” —entered the cabin with bananas, oranges, and tea. Breakfast at eight would begin with iced grapefruit .and sugar, and proceed pleasantly with some delicate Cape fish, an omelette with herbs and ham, or tomatoes, or Parmesan cheese. There was meat if you wanted it —chopped steak with onions, boiled mutton chops, and sausages named after every city in If-that was not enough you could have -.pancakes with' bananas, honey, Chinese ginger, mar-, malade, cheese, and five different drinks—coffee, tea, cocoa, chocolate, and coffee hag. I was never abl" to distinguish between coffee and coffee hag except that they were served in different pots. After 1 -eakfast you walked on deck for a while, chatted and-read for a while,

and behold! a smiling steward bore down upon you with a tray of beef tea. At lunch the real business of the oberkoeck’s day began. First on the menu were the salads—wonderful appetisers with romantic names. Duchess salad consisted mainly, of meat; there was always potato salad; and among the others I remember the Russian vegetable salad, the celery with mayonnaise, and the superb Jockey Club salad. These were princely dishes, worthy of the lunch that followed.

I chose the cold fish usually; the jellied eel or the rolled herring with pickled cucumber in the centre. Sometimes there would be a piquant soused herring, whiting with butter sauce, sole fried with consummate skill, or neatly grilled. Fowl liver, or “ bif.stek with risotto” would come next; but I preferred to probe the hitherto unknown delights of the German sausage. I recall the Rugenwalde sausage, which is pink, and served with tomato and lettuce; the Tiankfurt wurst, long an<] red, decorated with sauerkraut; the Bologna and the Brunswick, the splendid Gotha tongue sausage. Aly mouth waters in retrospect. Lawrence C. Green, in Chambers's Journal. COD IN MAPLE STREET. God "walks at evening down our dingy street Where lovers stand beneath the shade

ami say \\ hat two within a garden would repeat Once, centuries away. God walks at evening down our dhmy street . As once in Eden where the trees like this, And moon dropped down on lovers’ hair their sweet Petals and moonlight kiss. God walks at evening past each sagging house. ° “ Housekeeping Rooms for Rent ” — a flapping sign ! As God in Eden smiled to hear their vows, He smiles at yours and mine. “ I’ll make you happy, dear!” He smiles, for yet He knows that woe on us as them will fa'l. That, thrust from Eden, we will toil and sweat, And that we’ll love it all. —Mary Carolyn Davies, in tho Commonweal. THE CHERRY WIFE. It wasn’t me he married, but my orchard; And so I keep him tinkling at the bell From the first glint of daylight until sunset, ’Jo scare the birds, and serve him out as well.

The birth in June are mighty early risers;

Ami he must rise with them if he would sell A single cherry; and. on rainy mornings, How 1 lie chuckling at the tinkling bell! —Wilfrid Gibson, in the Observer. THE BRAINY ELEPHANT. “ In less than one day,” says Director Reid Blair, of the New York Zoological Park, in an article in the current issue of the Forum magazine, “ Keeper Gleason taught our Indian elephant to pick up pennies from the floor, raise the lid of a small box placed high above hig head, drop the pennies into it, and register them by ringing a bell. He then looked for his reward. If it was not forthcoming in the shape of forage biscuits or peanuts he woukLring the bell until it did appear. “ It was soon noticeable that although Gunda was an accomplished beggar and teller his banking methods were somewhat peculiar. While the deposits were heavy, there was a corresponding heavy shortage at times. Upon inspecting the books it was found that Gunda, dropped the penny into the box, but afterwards very deftly picked it out again and put it in his mouth. When the keeper was away from the stall Gunda put the cent on the floor until a visitor came along, when he went through the form of picking it up again and ringing the bell. “ To prevent this fraud small staples were driven in the bottom of the ‘banker’s’ box,’ so that the penny fell between them. Gunda, however, simply stretched the tip at the end of his trunk and lifted the penny out as before. It was only by using long nails in place of the staples that we eould prevent the trick. But Gunda was equal to the occasion, and developed another method of acquiring extra titbits. One morning While standing nearby, Gunda’s keeper heard a penny drop into the bank, then another, until lie counted four. Stepping quickly to the front he saw the wise elephant reaching with his trunk to the flat top of the partition wall, where lie had made a secret ‘ deposit.’ When detected Gunda slyly walked away, and the keeper, on examination, found nine other pennies on the wall. To men who really know animals fey. long association and contact the question of their ability to think is not debatable.”