A LETTER FROM HOME.

Otago Witness, Issue 3842, 1 November 1927, Page 67

A LETTER FROM HOME.

By Sheila Scobie Macdonald. (Special fob the Otago Witness.) September 6. I have always wanted to see the hopfields in Kent, so when one lovely, sunny morning last week I saw in the paper that the hop-picking season was in full swing, I left my half-finished breakfast, cut a few sandwiches, and, amidst the jeers of an uninterested family, left in a hurry for the top seat of a bus which was to take me on the . first part of the journey to Maidstone. It was so early that I had the top all to myself, and we lumbered along over the Banstead Downs, through the village of the same name whose rural charm is still more or less unspoilt, through the old-world villages of Burgh Heath and Kingswood, and on to where the Surrey hills dip’ down into Redhill and Reigate. The sky was cloudless and the beautiful woods on either-side of the road had that lightly-tinted russet look of early autumn, and every hedgerow was aflame with scarlet berries and the fluffy seeding balls of wild clematis. Blackberries every” where, too, with here and there a couple of gipsy women, incredibly and unromantically dirty, with the inevitable grimy infant in their arms, offering baskets of blackberries for sale. From the top of the Reigate Hill you look down on to the town tucked away below, out ovei 1 the wide Sussex Downs to the chalk cliffs of old England and beyond them to the distant haze of the sea. At Reigate a change of buses, and then on again through lovely, sleepy villages, with droves of fat ducks and geese on the emerald turf of the 11 Green,” with women gossiping in gay little cottage gardens, churches grey and cool, set in peaceful churchyards, and only the hooting of an anproaching car . or.. the petrol smelling dust of a passing one, to remind one that

this was really the twentieth century and not a dip back of 100 years. But, before we reached Maidstone, all was changed and lorries and buses, charabancs, and cars, packed with chattering humanity, streamed past us in endless succession. Girls dressed in all th e colcolours of the rainbow, art silk stockinged, neat hatted, smartly shod, were there in their hundreds, and with them large, black frocked, capable-looking mothers of families, and fathers, too, awed and rather overwhelmed, and very much second in importance to “ Mother,’’ who seemed all powerful and in her element.

“Is it a ‘ treat ’ of som e kind? ” I ininquired of the ticket collector.

‘‘ Well, in fine weather you could call it that,” he grinned, “ but if it’s wet there ain’t .much treat about it. Them’s all hop-pickers arriving from London.” I left the bus on the outskirts of Maidstone, and went on a voyage of discovery round the fields, fragrant with their acres of hanging festooned loveliness. Whole families were picking together—tiny white-faced children from London’s slums deep-busted, wide-hipped matrons (the modern female outline is evidently unfashionable in the East End), and shiftyeyed, bleary-faced men, with here and there a fine young specimen of British eef and bone, whisking or joking with a group of giggling, appreciative girls as he blithely filled his basket. These people make an annual holiday of hop-picking, and in the East End the exodus to Kent at this time of year is so great that the school holidays have had to be altered, as otherwise the schools are practically emptied. I asked one woman whether the pay was good, and she told rfle that she and her husband and three children could make as much as £1 a day between them.

Of course, some farms are much more popular than others, some. even running canteens, where the pickers can buy their food ready cooked. There are barns and huts galore for sleeping quarters, and covered sheds in which to cook, and the only thing that can’t be ordered and arranged is the weather.

But with the coming of September the rain has at last ceased, and one warm, fine day succeeds another. There is a nip in the air, though that reminds one that fires aren’t very far off, and that the long light evenings are almost past, but the hop pickers’ evenings must be so festive that there is no time to feel chilly. There are merry-go-roun'ds and side-shows, even a dance hall equipped with wireless, and so many gramophones that I marvelled how the many babies lying on rugs or shawls between the rows oi hops ever managed, to snatch a wink of sleep. I was glad I had seen it all, but when a chill wind blew’ up from the sea I thought less light-heartedly of those draughty huts and barns, and the healthy open-air life, and, glad that my lot did not include hop-picking, I thankfully caught a train for home and comfort. * * * The “ boiled down ” and simplified reports of the lectures of scientists at the British Association meeting at Leeds is causing immense interest amongst almost every section of the community, and even boys and girls are reading eagerly and holding' forth on the subject dearest to their hearts. The opinion of Dr Bidder that a thousand million years ago wc humans were a gay crowd of “ flagellates who spent our days and nights and all our time and energies in one long dance and jazz,” has simply taken London by storm. On a railway platform the other day I overheard a boy say severely to his sister who was doing a subdued and unconscious Charleston shuffle: “ Don’t make such a bally flagellate of yourself.” It threatens to.take the place of the famous Bottomley phrase, which on postc - innumerable stares one in the face wherever one goes. “ I have paid, but -”

The flagellate idea has completely overshadowed out interest in our monkey descent, so much so' that there is a distinct falling off in the attendance at the chimpanzee’s afternoon tea party at the Zoo. ; That entertainment has a horrid fascinating for me, and I’ve been twice to see it. Every tube train has an invitation printed in th©., advertising space, stating that the chimpanzees request the pleasure of your company to tea at 4

p.m. daily at Ape Terrace Regents Park,| Its a terrible and yet fascinating spectacle that awaits the guest, for on reaching the monkey house, he sees a table set for four—-white cloth, spoons, mugs, a jug of milk, and plates of fruit and nuts. 1 unctually to the moment, in come two lady chimpanzees, followed by two men oi the same species, who politely conduct them to their chairs and see them seated, before they in their turn take their places at the table. All seated, one of the ladies pours out the milk, and each monkey passes up his or her mug to be filled. Lhat done the gentlemen pass the nuts and fruit to the ladies, who delicately take a small helping on their plates, and proceed to eat it in, the most genteel manner possible. The meal over the gentlemen assist the ladies to descend and solemnly escort them from the room. It is most eerie—it makes one feel positively ill, and yet it’s so marvellous and so fascinating that one visit follows on another. One small boy of most ape like countenance who was standing near me said to a friend. Erb^” nt th " e ° ld b ° y Hke my ° ld man ‘‘Yus,’’ came the reply. “All ’cent he ain’t got no tail. - ’ I laughed all the way home. I think the dancing jazz-mad idea much pleasanter to dwell on than the monkey one. * * * We are living m such a world oL aeroplane marvels that one somehow loses court of how wonderful our aviators are and how great and undaunated their courage-. When Lindbergh flew over the Atlantic the reception given him bordered on the hysterical, and yet when only a few weeks later Mr Schlee and Mr Brock landed at Croydon on the first stage of their flight from America round the world, only a handful of enthusiasts and a squad of police had assembled to greet them. It wasn’t that we wern’t interested, but the Atlantic has been flown so often now, that we have ceased to be thrilled. Every day almost, another flight is announced as impending. Captain Courtenay’s departure the other day, hot on the tragic disappearance into space of the “ Flying Princess,” as Princess Lowenstein-Wertheim was called, created some stir, but public interest is more centred on Mr Levine, who arrived so unexpectedly and dramatically from France last week, and who announces daily his impending departure by air for America. I often pass Croydon Aerodrome in a bus or tram, and always there are machines coming and going, some like specks in the clouds, some flying so low that one has a feeling one must duck one’s head, some just taking off, and others descending from the clouds like great noisy sweeping birds. At one time we used often to go to the aerodrome on Sunday afternoon to see the arrival of the Paris mail, with its one or two very self-conscious and important ’rsengers. Now the oassengers are no longer either important or self-conscious, but grumbling loudly that their landing place should be sb far afield as Croydon, and we cn our side no longer trouble ourselves to go and look at them. Very typical of the age in which wei live.