THE SKETCHER

Otago Witness, Issue 3859, 28 February 1928, Page 73

THE SKETCHER

A SONG TO THE VALIANT. I’ll walk on the storm-swept side of the hill In my young days, in my strong days, In the days of ardent pleasure. I’ll go where the winds are fierce and clilll—--o>i the storm-swept side of th e daring hill—

And there will I shout my song lays In a madly tumbling measure. Hilloo the dusk, And hilloo the dark! The wind hath a tusk And I wear its mark. The day’s last spark hath a valiant will: Hilloo the dark on the wind-swept hill ! From the hour of pain Two joys we gain— The strife and the after-leisure.

I’ll w’alk on the sheltered side of the hill In my old days, in my cold days, As the sap of life is waning. I’ll find a road where the trees are still —

On the sheltered side of the placid hill — • And dream a dream of the bold days When the leash of Time was straining. Adieu the snows, And the fang that rips ! And hilloo the rose With her velvet lips! Where the brown bee sips with his . gorgeous lust I’ll pay back earth with her borrowed dust; Nor shall I grieve At the clay I leave But joy in the gifts I’m gaining. Lord, hear thou the prayer of a poet’s soul, In his fire days, when his lyre plays, And his song is swift with passion. Give to him prowess to near the goal, While his limbs are firm and his sight is whole. Make brief his stay in the dire days When the paling heart is ashen. The storm-swept sides Of the hill belong To the soul that rides To the gates of song • May Ms days be long where the wild winds play On the sheltered side let him briefly stay ; When his muse grows dumb Let the darkness come In the Orient’s fine, swift fashion. —Wilson Macdonald, in the London Mercury. DO GO, PLEASE! I think it’s the nicest, chummiest thing to have a friend “ drop in ” for half and hour’s chat or a hasty cup of tea. When you’re sitting alone on a dull, grey winter afternoon, a large worry in your mind and an overflowing mending basket at your side, it’s joy to have a cheery face and a bright smile come peeping round the door! “ Guessed you’d be alone, dear, and just dropped in for half an hour! Yes, I’d simply love a cup of tea, if you really were just going to have one!” The large worry dwindles to nothing, and th e mending seems to do itself!

The long, tedious days you spend rounding the corner after ’flu ! When you were down with it the entire house was looking after you ! You were the only one who mattered J But now there’s no danger of your pegging out, all the excitement has fizzled away, and you are left to get on with life as decently and uncomplainingly as you can. What a godsend to have a friend dropping in unexpectedly on one of these dull, long-drawn-out days 1 Her bright, inconsequent chatter does you more good than all the tonics you’ve been pouring down you. Yes, the “ dropper-in ” can be—and very often is, an unmixed joy. She helps us over rough bits of road'; she points out the splashes of gay blue in the sky ; she dusts up the cobwebs in our mind and, lets in the fresh air. After a breezy half-hour of her w e are twice the women we were. * * * I like a “ dropper-in ” when she drops in at the right time, and has the good sense to take herself off when she doesn’t. The “ dropper-in ” who hits the wrong hour and stays is a fiend of the first degree! She ought to be imprisoned for life! There’s nothing to be said in her favour—just nothing. The woman who stays when she can’t heln seeing she isn’t wanted deserves all she gets,, and then some more!, “.Dropping in?.’ is anxart. Oh, a veryfine art! . * * * You drop in on a friend and find her surrounded on three sides by yawning jam-pots, and on the fourth, a cookingstove complete with boiling jam. Then, if ever, is the time you “ drop out ” ! Don’t, for any’ sake, stand on the order of going, but go! You drop in to see little Mrs Smith next-door, and have a cup of tea, if it’s going. But Mrs Smith is having a few friends to tea. If you were in thq front row when common sense was handed round, you’ll pretend you’ve just run in to borrow the morning paper, as the cat’s eaten yours! * * * If you are one of those uncomfortable people who wake up extra early on, Sunday morning and like “ a little trot

before going to church,” kindly keep trotting and don’t “ drop in ” on your friend, Mrs Binks, who lives opposite your church.

I speak feelingly, having suffered, that awful Sunday morning when Elaine called on her way to church ! Of course, everything had gone wrong that morning extra wrong. I mean, even for a Sunday morning. Jack was later than ever coming down to breakfast, and when he did appear, he was arrayed in all the glory of his Jaegar dressing-gown, his hair on end and a mossy growth decorating his chin.

My horrified protest at the unaccustomed sight was met with, “ Well, I had to do something to stop you shrieking upstairs at me! Funny thing if a chap can’t have an extra half-hour on a Sunday morning! ” and so on and so on for the next ten minutes. In the heat of the moment I overlooked the fact that I was enveloped in mv overall, and had quite a large amount of kitchen ’stove mmy finger-nails! Jack, in a further effort to assert his independence, jabbed a tablespoon into the marmalade and left it standing upright, used the bread-knife tor the butter, and sprawled the Sunday paper over three-quarters of the table! And just at this moment, when the whole room was looking like the remains of the last war and a bit of the next, Elaine, in immaculate Sunday attire, tapped playfully on the window-pane and called out gaily: “Just coming in for a minute, dear, on my way to church ! ” And she carried out her threat! I repeat, “ dropping-in ” i a a fine art, but “ dropping-out ” is a finer ! YOU ARE WONDERFUL IN DEATH. You are wonderful in death! Far, far more wonderful Than when your bosom rose and fell Instinct with breath. Sphinx-like, there you lie— All the mysteries Of all the ages yours. . . So this it is to die. In your presence I am bared, Silent and overawed— I who only yesterday Your inmost secrets shared. . Ah, only yesterday You were one with me; You spoke, you laughed, you sang As we of common clay, But now ... I stand appalled— Like c..e bewildered and afraid Amidst the deafening silences In an empty room enthralled. I am perplexed and lost— As one who sails Uncharted seas, Tempest tossed. Sphinx-like, you hold concealed M hat all mankind would know— The mysteries no mortal sage Has ever yet revealed. You have met and conquered Death— And so, you are more wonderful Than when your bosom rose and fell Instinct with breath. —J. C. Lindberg, in Basque Petals. DO NOT CONDEMN THE MIDDLE-ACED BRIDE. “ Why, she must be forty if s he is a day. AV hat a fool he must be. I wonder what he sees in her? ” But is ‘he. so foolish after all? Men are so often attracted by the fluffy young things of twenty, that thev become blinded to all else but the outward charm of their personal appearance. The v do not stop to think whether their beauty is more than skin deep, or to ask themselves whether they will make good wives or efficient mothers. They do not trouble to find out what they ar e really like, out are quite willing to judge them by what appears on the surface They are naturally disappointed and inclined to feel injured when these sam e charming younw women fail- to develop into the capable housewives and devoted mothers that they seem to expect, or if they lack these qualities which they consider’should come naturally to every woman.

With the woman of thirty-five, or thereabouts, at least you know what to expect. She knows her own mind and her character is fully formed. She has had some experience of life and time to get over i restlessness of youth, and is more ikely to settle down happily and appreciate. the. security of a home and the companionship of a husband. She has a sense of values. She does not expect her husband to be full of affection when he comes home tired, nor <*° es she pour all the little troubles of the ,dav into hi s ear until he has been fed. She knows that married happiness is largely dependant upon material comfort and harmonious surroundings * * *

There is really only one point on which the e«”lv marriage scores over'the later one, r”d that is with regard ,to the rearing of a numerous family, but in these

days of limited incomes this is not such a serious question as would appear on the surface. Bo when looked at from all aspects, the middle-aged' marriage, far from being condemned, is often found to be one of the happiest and most successful. A Scottish Exchange. SONNET. Who would have thought that eyelids could be dear, Or anything as tangible as hands? Who would have thought that mere material strands Of hair could have the power to draw me near? That shoulders with my heart could interfere, Sending out strange, imperious commands ? And is there any sage who understands The pleasing convolutions of an ear? So if I will not let you read in peace, Because of yearnings quite beyond control, Ponder with me what vital facts are these— The lure of soul for flesh and flesh for soul. And meditate how faintly lags behind Our long-extolled supremacy of mind. —Jessica Nelson North, in Poetry. THE FUNNY NUMBER. Everybody knows that certain numbers have had thrust upon them distinctions which are likely to cling to them for ever. Thus three is a “ lucky ” number—- “ third time lucky,” says every gambler —and it is also a mystical one. Seven is likewise “ lucky,” and these two have borne this significance from time immemorial. Thirteen, on the other hand, has been held to be “ unlucky ” for nearly 2000 years—ever since 13 sat down to table at the Last Supper. But how many can say off-hand which number has earned for itself the distinction of being the “ funny ” member of the vast family of numbers? It is number nine. From back in the days of Queen Elizabeth we get the story of her witty remark addressed to a deputation of tailors, nine in. number, who came to petition her. When they had all filed in before her she is reported to have said, “ I see there are nine tailors here. Be seated, sir.” Evidently the jest that “nine tailors make a man ” was as- popular in those days as : t is in ours. Nowadays it is chiefly the stage comedian who makes merry with the figure. In innumerable revues, pantomimes, concert part}’ entertainments, and other light shows we find a comedian offering some document of alleged preciousness’—a secret plan, bond, lottery ticket, compromising letters or the like—to another of the characters, and the dialogue usually goes something like this: “ See, here is the document. That scrap of paper is worth a million pounds! What will you give me for it? Shall we say three thousand? What, we shan’t? Oh! What about two thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine? No? Oh! '“Well i.ame your own price. A thousand—only a thousand? It’s yours! Thank you, sir. What, no? Oh! ' Well, then. I’ll give it you—for a paltry two hundred and throw in the envelope. What, no? Oh! Think again—worth a million. Oh, don’t go away, sir—here, you can have it for 9d! ” It is nearly always 9d at the finish, by? Neither Thalia nor heaven knows.

“ Say 99,” says the doctor, and the p.'tient always smiles. Why? There is nothing intrinsically funny in this very useful test for chest trouble. But there have b-en so many burlesques of doctors by comedians and others in which “ 99 ” has figured prominently that the mere mention of the number has come to be quite a joke. It is doubtful if 21 or 1G would ever have afforded an equal amount of amusement.

“A cat has nine - lives” is a proverb always quoted in a spirit of levity. Recollections of some cats I have met convince me that the number of their lives has been grossly underestimated. The. figure itself, too, is a bit of a clown—it can stand on its head and pass itself off as a six.—John Bond, in the Weekly Scotsman. PROGRESS. When I was very young I thought That love was like a fire Which flamed and left cold ashes should It happen to expire. But now I’ve found since I am not So very, very young, That love is like a Broadway sign Above the pavements hung With darkness in between the flares To make them dazzle more, It flashes on and off again. Each time, bright as before. —Nancy Telfair, in Bozart. LET’S LISTEN FOR SECRETS. Everybody likes a secret—children and grown-ups alike. Children listen. Do grown-ups listen? I don’t think we do. Why don’t we? There is a secret in everything. It’s well worth while listening. “What a wonderful sunset! Look!” you say to me. Why do you? Because there is something for you particularly in the beautiful sunset. You don’t know that there is—or perhaps you do; you are hearing a secret. What it is you know. The colours tell you something. It is your secret. Next time you are

guided to cry, “What a lovely sunset!” ! listen; you’ll hear something well worth I hearing.

Many of us admire a thing and let it go at that. There is a reason,.however, for admiring it. If we listen we find out the reason. My favourite colour is daffodil yellow. If I listen carefully I know daffodil yellow will tell me a secret, speak to me in its sweet wav. It’s nice for me then to see daffodils in my window boxes. And so it is with everything. Has it occurred to you? Its not enough merely to admire a thing. It is better than nothing; it is much. But how -much better it is to listen for the secret which is ours for the hearing. Why do you like a piece of music, never tire of it ? On the contrary, the more you hear it the more you like it. For you it has a secret—and, I think, unlike most things, music forces its secrets on us, so that sooner or later the attention is captured. Beethoven, whose feast the whole world has been remembering—what secrets he tells people! “Not me,” you say. “I don’t like him—he’s too difficult?’ Then he has no secret for you, and there can be no point in your hearing his music. You prefer Mozart?—well, then, listen to him with all your might. His secrets will thrill your heart—they must be lovely secrets. There is this—this secret in something for everybody. Let us listen. Artists understand this. The artist listens. He listens for the secrets of colour and form—they speak to him—and down they go on to the canvas. He hears it all. We may admire the same thing that the artist admires. The difference is, he listens to the secrets and interprets them on canvas; we don’t; we just admire the thing and let it go at that. The spring and summer are the special times for secrets. The sunshine encouiages them. “ I must have that hat,” is the cry of a girl. You, perhaps. Well, listen. Y’ou feel you must have it because you love it That hat speaks to you. Listen to what it says. I may not like it. It doesn’t matter—you do. Listen to its secret. It’s so easy—just a moment’s silence—that’s all —and then the—thrill!

There is a secret in the petals of a rose; in the sun going down; in a line of poetry; in your friend’s eyes; in a picture of a little house on a hill. There are all sorts of secrets, in all sorts of things, for all sorts of people. “Do .you know I love my work; it has a secret for me,” was the surprising remark of a girl the other day. In that jast good-night on a summer’s eve; in that reluctant last grip when you must go, there is a secret —isn’t there? —F. Manning Sproston, in the Glasgow Weekly Herald.

THE SHOPPER. Quite eagerly I shopped through all the town For garments such as I saw others wear With subtle charm. I did not pause to care What price I paid. I craved a silver gown Of cool sophistication, and a crown Of sparkling worldly wisdom for my hair, A coat -if artifice, and everywhere Bright fringes of pretension hanging down. I found them all, but now I’ve put them on, And stand before my mirror, I can see The glittering things do not become me. When I turn to reach my old dress it is gone— old discarded dress, simplicity. I wonder if it can be found again! —B. Y”. YVillianis, in the Christian Science Monitor. LORGNETTES. At a fashionable restaurant which stages a cabaret show a young girl was recently seen to use in place of opera glasses a diminutive lorgnette, which she afterwards folded and slipped in the palm of her white kid glove (says the Daily Telegraph). At least one of those who noticed her was reminded of a much-admired character in a popular Victorian novel, a very haughty aunt who froze her nieces and nephews into good behaviour by fixing her lorgnette < • them with the exclamation, “Desist! ” The lorgnette which is now in vogue is too dainty a toy to be used as a vehicle of authority with great success. It is more of an ornament, and has so won the favour of youth that girls are to be seen using it as often as their elders. There was not much variety in the old designs, but this novelty is to be ha’d in several pretty styles. The glasses, diminutive but adequate, may be diamond or pear-shaped, and the rims and small handle are in handsomely worked white gold, which contains a small quantity of platinum. When the lorgnette is not w: uted the owner only has to fold the tw , glasses together by means of a spring and clasp the ■ -idle over them. It can then be slipped with comfort into the glove. Handsome chains in white gold to match the lorgnette can be obtained by those who nrefer to wear it. This practical little novelty has helped to wean women from a vogue that is seldom admired—that of the monocle. It is a curious fact that the monocle, introduced, it is said, by an Englishman with one bad eye, is often worn as a form of “ swank.” ' On the other, hand, there are a few women, including a celebrated actress, who wear

, it instead of the spectacles advised by an optician because they consider it to be less unsightly. THEY SAID: “YOU HAVE GATHERED DRIFTWOOD. . They said, “ Yon have gathered driftwood all your years • We can not use you: we are moving fast And doing things so different, so vast! ” then he sat still, and through his hot. blind tears He saw the sun rise like a thousand spears; Tlie slow tide sliding in ; a single mast Black on the sky; and he stood up and passed 1 Beyond the breakwater and the huddling weirs. ° And on the beach the driftwood had been blown Heaving with the tide and wind. And ther e He kneeled . . . a sail swept by . . he was alone.' A hashed white across the broad blue air . . . They said, “ You have gathered driftwood all your years. . ” He groped amid the driftwood blind with tears. —Joseph Auslander, in an exchange. MISS SYBIL THORNDIKE. • Popularity is a sweet draught,” once said Curran ■ and now, after her years ot ups and downs, strain and stress, Miss Thorndike is at last tasting it’ Well may she enjoy it, for she has earned t. And yet—l saw a photograph of X a i 7 ear . or tw ;° ago in which she looked happier and more proud than I have ever seen her look on the stage, even when bowing to an audienc e at the end of an evening of triumph It showed her in her home, seated at a f lanO u°‘k e ’ vvith her children gathered ipT‘n d . her i I am , E " re that in her home lies not only her happiness, but also the I cret of much of her power as an interpreter. She once said, “ All the talk about ,marriage spoiling one’s art is nonsense. Of course it is! H aye the people who denounce a happy married hfe as ” the end of art ” forgotten the story of Mrs Siddons? She was the greatest of all our tragic actresses, a woman of dazzling beauty, and for years the universally acclaimed queen of our \ et ™ an y a time, when acting at Covent Garden or Drury Lane, she ms seen spending the intervals between the acts sitting in a quiet corner nursing her baby Neither, permit one to add, f'd -1 e J aC , S , , of a husband and a large family of children prevent another gifted and glorious woman, Clara Schumann,

from being the greatest pianist in Europe’ there, after all, lies Sybil Thorndike’s seciet in her home. There she may well gather her strength. And there w e mav veil believe she finds her richest reward. —II. M. Halbrook, in John o’ London’s Weekly.

“IN THAT DIM MONUMENT WHERE TYBALT LIES.” In that dim monument where Tybalt lies I would that we lay sleeping side by side And that the loveliness that never dies There in our silent effigies had died. For now your living beauty too much stirs Across my sight, and I grow dumb with tears; And I am homesick for old sepulchres Now that your lips wake the forgotten years. Love that is perfect comes thus to the land M ithin whose borders only death can be. Wherefoie T say, hold out to me your hand, And set me free, set me forever free And come, with terrible silence in your eyes, To that dim monument where Tvbalt lies. —Arthur Davison Eicke, in Poetry. CHILDREN AT TABLE. I say that if children have meals with grown-ups they ought to be allowed to join in the conversation they know about, and when they hear someone making a mistake, just say so like anyone else at table. But no; “children must be seen aiM not heard,” so the grownups say. When I am married and have children I shall never have them to any meals unless I allow them to talk, anil I shall never talk about anything I don’t want them to know about. Antf another thing I shall do: when they come home from school for the holidays I shall let them stay 7 in bed just as long as they like in the morning. I shall let them have their meals in the nursery until they are quite rested from all the work and supervision they have had the term. They can 101 l and put their elbows on the table, and talk just as much as they like. ,1 know after a few davs’ relaxation they will be quite readv to have meals with me, and to obey and be own in time for breakfast. ° It isn’t because we children 101 l and behave badly at the table; it is just because every grown-up at taole corrects every little thing waj do or sav, and t-at draws everyone’s attention 'to' us. But why don't they sometimes tell the gi own-ups to keep their feet in their shoes and. their elbows off the table?— Miss Tarzan ” (Eileen Montague Jackson), “Switzerland Calling;”