THE SKETCHER

Otago Witness, Issue 3862, 20 March 1928, Page 77

THE SKETCHER

THE OWLD MAN’S TALK. Cathal O’Flynn lives all his lone Wi’ never a one to call his own; There’s nobody knows the age he is, Nor one in the place wi’ a beard like his. He’ll sit an’ dream on the bog all day, Wi’ his owld eyes starin’ far away, An’ take no heed if it’s wet or dry, Nor see the one that would pass him by. But still an’ all, at the dusk o’ nighty Himself in the house an’ the lamp alight, The people come by tw r o an’ three An’ chap at the door for company; An’ it’s “Come on in an’ warm yer shins,” An’ “ God save all,” at Cathal O’Flynn’s. *Tis then he’ll pile the turf to burn While the wee dog' smells at them all in turn; There’s chairs for three an’ a boss o’ wool, An ’two can sit on the creepie stool; “ An’ sure,” sez he, “ if I do my best There’s only the floor to take the rest.” An’ when they’re settled about the room, Half in the glow an’ half in gloom, ’Tis then the talk an’ the tales begin, An’ the best at the tellin’ is Cathal O’Flynn. He’ll tell o’ the days when himself was young, An’ sing wee staves o’ the songs they sung— An’ none but himself would know them now— He’ll tell o’ Andy M'Ginley’s cow, Drowned off the steep o’ the Gola bight, That still would walk on the land at night. He’ll tell o’ travellin’ here an’ there An’ fifty miles to the hirin’ fair, An’ barefoot there an’ back again— O’ wee folk that himself saw plain Behind Screglea twixt the dark an’ dawn. An’ them in a ring round Peggeen bawn, Owld Maura’s child that they took away, An’ none heard tell o’ her since that day. He’ll tell o’ the church in his own townland That never was built bj’ mortial hand, But every night it would grow a bit, An’ the whisper rose who was buildin’ it; An’ ’twould ha’ been finished stone on stone If them that was at it was left alone, But once when the night was dark an’ deep Owld Kitty the broguey 1 went to peep, An’ the dear knows what it might be level, But never a bit o’ herself would tell — “ Now God forgive me,” was all she’d say, “ For drivin’ the blessed saints away.” An’ speech was dead on her tongue since then, An ’the good saints never came back again, An’ the wee church never was roofed at all, Though it’s standin’ yet wi’ its broken wall. An’ maybe he’ll tell how, long ago, When a ship drove in on the rocks o’ 80, He rode his mare across Dunmore strand, An’ sank to her ribs in the shiftin’ sand; “An’ sure, if it had-a-been death for me I had no sin on me then,” sez he. He’ll whisper too as the light burns dim, The wild-like things that have chanced to him Beyond in the south by hill an’ glen, When he’d cross the land b’ the mountainly men. The wee, dark lough on the mountain side That none will name or there’d ill betide, For never a one but knows full well That deep in its waters the big hounds dwell. An’ sure there’d be fear for miles about If the whisper’d come that themselves were out; The. doors would be shut both far an’ wide An’ God help him would be left outside. An’ once himself wi’ a harvest load Saw the wet trail o’ them on the road, An’ lay in the bog as the dead might lie, An’ heard the rush o’ them passin’ by; AU’ sure when he rose in the mornin’ light The hair on his head was shinin’ white. An’ that’s the talk o’ him, tale on tale, Till, them that listen, are feart an’ pale, An’ none would venture the dark alone, For fear o’ meetin’ wi’ things unknown. An’ sure as he sits there, bent an’ thin, His long white beard on his mumblin’ chin, There’s some has pity they couldn’t own For lavin’ the owld man there his lone, Wi’ the wild wind cryin’ about the shore, But still there’s whiles, as they lave the door They’ll fancy they hear —but och, dear knows— The breath o’ a laugh as the last one goes. • —Elizabeth Shane, in an exchange. CHILD’S PLAY I By Katharine Haviland Taylor, in Home - Chat. We have all heard amused parents tell of how the littlest opg prefers, to all his. or her other playthings, a rolling-pin or a box of spools. I have heard this sort of tale dozens of times’,'and I am alwaysamazed that this natural arid fine prefer-.

ence in growing minds is considered funny.

I am writing this article with my heart brimming with the happiest sort of memories and because, last night, before I slept I thought of the many things that, as a little girl, had made me perfectly ecstatic.

I remember some pieces of knobby blue glass that had come from the wreck of a vase which had been presented to my poor, long-suffering mother by one of the parishioners. Well, my mother, who is a wise woman, gave me the pieces, and no doubt with joy and gladness, and then she said: “ You might make a fairyland under th e bridal wreath bush ”

She did not say: “ You could lay out streets, etc., etc., and etc. She merely gave to me the greatest gift that any mother or father can give to any child, which is the chance—the beautiful chance to make his or her own play and so—a and a better imagination. Then my mother had put into oiir back yard two packing boxes; one had held a piano and the other might have held a sewing machine. I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. Th e fact was that they the two boxes—became a country house, and I dragged a stone into them and' cooked on it; mud-pies and all that sort of thing. And I remember keenly my devoted two weeks at least to jumping le the highest box in an effort to fly—or to learn to fly. xlfter I d had the play boxes for a few years, a very kind parishioner had an elaborate playhouse built for me, and another member of my father’s congregation gave me a stove that really cooked. But I never never—had so good a time in that complete little hou Se as I did in the rough wood boxes that, after rain, gave off such a pungent, woody smell. those people who visited my real new playhouse used to say: “ Well, isn’t this complete? There isn’t a thing lacking! ” And that was exactly th e trouble. Everything was there, and you can’t play with everything done—finished! Have you seen older people work like mad to furnish, to th e last detail, a new house? And then, after a month of occupying it—rush off for some .holiday. And have you seen more fortunate, poorer people, chained to their ouses by thinking that next month—if everything goes well—they’ll get new rugs or have the chairs re-covered? And don’t you know that there is absoute tragedy for all of us, grown or small, in the finished, the completed, the ended?

While you read about childish things perhaps you say, if you are a practical, common sense” parent: “But the child could be using his time to better advantage.”

I can’t answer you, I can’t say what I want to say, because I believe in beiim polite. I shall simply say: Suppose you were planning a holiday; arranging for a week s stay in Paris, and six days m Rome and five in Florence; your maps out, and plans of steamers before you on the table. You would enjoy that planning, wouldn’t you? But if some kind, foolish friend came to you to sweep maps and plans aside as he said-' “ Now forget it all. I shall take care of this, and I shall, at the proper time, give you the completed trip—all readv for you, with no thought and no planning!” You would lose a lot from that trip, wouldn’t you? And we all take holidays, whether we move a foot from our gardens or not, and the energy given to planning is never wasted, no matter how foolish the planning may seem from the viewpoint of the common sense, practical parent. Planning foolishness Cperhaps) the child learns the technique of planning' The poor little chap who has never had a chance to build or to plan is going to be the office dolt, who will sit, chained to his chair, between executing orders giv en to, him by a man who learned to plan and imagine in his childhood and learned tliese valuable assets throurii having his possessions incomplete. °

■ It is father who runs the electric toys, you notice? While sonny prefers the monkey on the. stick who has lost most of; his complexion and a leg or two. ; Not long ago I saw a very poor little rich girl with her Christmas toys. She wq.s revelling in the cheap, small offerings from the cook; offerings through which she could imagine and so play, while the gorgeously beautiful presents that had been given to her by others were ignored.

Her mother didn’t understand, yet her mother is noted for giving very wonderful dinners where she assembles the guests who belong together and the foods that, too, are in harmony. If anyone walked up to that woman to say: “I shall pla;i your dinner; I shall invite Blank and Blank and Blank, and you put So-and-so here, and So-andrso there, and I shall tell you just what to eat—” her interests in her dinners and in giving them would fade. ’'

Yet she complains because her small girl prefers to dress a dilapidated old doll in, cast-off bits of other doll’s clothing, rather than to dress a very lovely French doll in the clothes that are hers out of a small Wardrobe trunk.

The child’s right—l have*tried to make you feel with me—is his chance to build; and one builds from dreams whether one makes bridges, stories, or even so little as an angel cakel And to help the child to build, and to the habit of dreaming which must precede all doing, I would give him spools, plain blocks; some boxes of different sizes, and a very few starting ideas as a rough road-map for his play 7 —child’s play—a small phrase for the big beginning; an absurdly small phrase!

And, to—in dealing with the child— I would strive to remember those things that in childhood made my heaven. Not a bad thing to strain one’s eyes looking backward, although we have often been told to “ look forward, not backward.” Yet, look back and remember Stevenson, who wrote: You may chance to hear once nyjre The little feet along the floor.

And, hearing —and remembering—you will understand; and you will see “ the truck ” in the garden as a glorious palace and as a promise of a fine tomorrow!. A to-morrow filled with peace, contentedness, usefulness, the right sort of mental energy and everything that is good. THE GIPSY BRIDE. An Ancestress. Forget that iver I ran barefoot An’ danced round a brushwood fire, An’ through our caravan window watched Stars climb a poplar spire? Forget my granny who sits on t’ steps Smokin’ her owd clay pipe? How turnpikes and years wind through her mind As she harks t’ wailin’ o’ t’ snipe! Forget my dad ? theer’s niver a man, In North or South Countree, A straighter rider. Who can break in A wild colt better nor he? Forget my sister Roma, whose eyes Are violets seen through veils 0’ mist —forget her voice, and her way O’ tellin’ owd sorrowful tales? Forget t’ round hill wheer my mother sleeps, Wheer a tide o’ wild flowers rise ? I’d as lief forget it’s God who leets Up mornin’ an’ evenin’ skies! Thoo has gi’en me wonnerful claes an’ gems, But as I sit in the hall, I’se terrible fain to be wheer winds Whistle through hedge an’ wall. Can thoo call hounds off when t’ scent's breast-high, Or larn a linnet to trill, Or forbid a Romany heart to roam At t’ whisper o’ lile April? —Dorothy Una Ratcliffe, in Poetry. GLASS HOUSES. Isn’t it amazing what utterly exasperating habits other people have? We’d never dream of doing the idiotic, aggravating things' they are always doing! And what makes it all a million times worse is they don’t even know they’re the last word in exasperatingness! There’s Freda. She’s a dear, really—generous, kind, sympathetic, and all "that, but the way she bounds into the room and nearly pushes you into the middle of next week with her “ healthy ” greeting, makes you forget all about her generosity, kindness and sympathy! All you can think of is her objectionable habit of shattering your nerves! That washes out Freda! * * * Then there’s Janet. Janet has a bee in her bonnet! She walks round under the pleasing delusion that she is entirely irresistible to the opposite sex! She’ll hold forth by the hour (if you’ll let her!) about “the awful time she’s had, my dear, in keeping So-and-so at bay”! According to Janet everybody in the office from the chief to the littles't office boy, fights for a smile. Even the bus conductor falls a victim to her charm, and is almost polite. Shop-walkers trip over their own feet rushing to her assistance. In fact, there isn’t a male thing within a mile of her who doesn’t instantly drape himself round her feet—according to Janet! And not a wmrd of it is true. She’d like it to be like that, poor darling, and because it isn’t she wraps a delusion round her—which we have to sit and look at —and while we’re looking we forget all about her “ dearness ”! * * * And look at Nancy!.

If ever there was a top-hole friend in the world it’s Nancy! But, oh, if only she wouldn’t borrow every mortal thing you possess and forget to return it! Everything goes, from your umbrella lent on a wet night to your last new book.

And when you eventually retrieve them it’s ten chances to one that the gamp is minus its silk tassel, or a spoke is out of action. And the glorious new book has had its leaves turned down.

Her top-hole friendship suffers a shrinkage. And Mildred —Mildred, it must be owned, is pne in a thousand! There just isn’t anything Mildred wouldn’t do for a chum! But, oh, her perfectly ghastly way of relating the most trivial, everyday happening as if it were a worldshattering phenomenon! . She goes into every miserable little .detail. AU the “I saids” and the “he

saids ” and the “ she saids ” until vou could shriek. Come to think of it, when you look around among your friends they all have an exasperating way with them. * * * don’t bound in on a chum like a young, tiger let loose. You don’t make your friends listen to yarns of “ conquests ” that simply never happened. . You don’t borrow your friend’s new silk dressing gown and hand it back generously decorated with tooth paste. You don’t make your friends reel with weariness or want your blood when you relate a petty happening. You don't do any of these hateful, exasperating things. Not a single one—you couldn’t if you tried! No, my friend, you don’t bound, borrow, “ romance,” or weary. But if some kind friend was big enough and brave enough to risk that said friendship by telling you how truly objectionable you are in other ways you’d have the shock of your young life. * * * We all, every one of us, have exasperating ways. My particular exasperatingness may be a different shape from yours, but it’s there all rigid—so is yours, believe me. My much-belauded optimism probably makes you want to punch my head. Your pessimism reduces me to sackcloth and ashes. My incurable way of “ putting off ” makes you want my blood. • Your untiring “do it now ” way makes me want to die. We all live in glass houses—so, no stones, please.—Women’s Weekly. THE YELLOW HAMMER. [The Scottish interpretation of the yellow hammer’s song is: Deil, deil deil tak ye!] Once within an elfin smithy Underneath a roof of withy, Lived a goblin, who was flunkey To a good-for-nothing spunky* ■ And h e shod his raging horses (Kelpies) by the watercourses, Till he dropped his golden hammer In the dyke and ’gan to yammer; “ Limb o’ Satan, fey and crookit! Deil, deil, deil tak ye ! Deil tak ye! ” —Deil took it! Now, in livery of amber. Where the purple vetches clamber, Bird for aye, of tim e unheeding. Still he looks for what he’s needing. You can see him fitting, perching. Zipping, dipping, flipping, searching, Hunting for his yellow hammer. You can hear him fret and stammer, Till th 0 golden corn is stookit. “Deil, deil, deil tak ye I -■ Drat the deil! Deil’s took it-f” * Will o’-the-wisp. - . • ~ —Barbara Euphan Todd, in. the Spectator. THE MODERN HOUSEWIFE. The housewife has my every sympathy. I realise that it is very galling to be expected to perform two or more duties at once—and that is what she is often called upon to do. She is required to wash on washday, cook respectable meals on washday—and also to keep her temper. Three difficult jobs to handle at’ one and the same time. But the housewife is inclined to think that she performs all the work that is done. No one else knows what a hard day’s work is like —save the housewife. The husband, at the office, sits and does nothing all the day except talk with clients and business friends. He hasclerks and assistants to do all his hard work for him.

True though this story b e to some extent, mere man’s work is not so rosy as it is painted. The family man ha s to think constantly of the welfare of his wife and family. Upon his work depends their comfort and sustenance. And although he is not actually using his physical strength, his mind and energies are keyed up to the highest pitch, in the anxiety to make money With which to keep the home running...

The housewife can forget her worries after tea, but that is often the time when the business man is working his hardest. His brain can never really rest, and during his so-called leisure hours he is planning for his problems of th e morrow. Even the most discontented woman must admit that the responsibility of providing the necessary money for the upkeep of a house and family is' no light one in these times.

Women are apt to overlook the fact that we are not now living in days pf prosperity, The :strain and responsibility placed upon the business man’s—or any man’s—shoulders nowadays are increased a hundred-fold in comparison with what they were in pre-war days, but the housewife still expects the same. treatment at the hands of her husband. . ,

Because a-woman-does not receive the little attentions she desires, the husband is selfish • because, she has.. coipplained of .headache - during- the day,- and her husband neglects to inquire after the state of her health when he-returns home after 6 o’clock, he is unfeeling; because' he does not sympathise with the woman who has been cleaning all day, he is heartless; and because he sits, reads, and smokes during the evening, he is lazy, inconsiderate, and .self-indulgent. - The woman who makes, no allowance for the difference which- nr.esent-day .problemshave had upon man is" making for herself an inevitable rift in the domestic Inte.’, Men have more important and vital issues to look after nowadays than the humouring of a spoilt wife. :

, No man wishes to shelve his responsibilities, but he would like a little help Aiid the greatest help which can b e extended by the housewife is—to expect less of htm. 1 . The woman who expects the least of her husband is the one who will see the ’ewest faults in him, and enjoy the greater happiness herself. —A Man, in .the Glasgow Weekly Herald. THE TRAMP. The warm wind from the spruces, the cool wind from the sea, The good hard road beneath’ my feet And the blue sky over me. I know a place where gray-green downs J surge up to meet the sky,— Where goldenrod and red trees grow. And clouds go swinging by. 1 know a pool that is blue and deep, where the trees hang over the edge, - lellow and tawny and red and brown I’rom beach and from rocky ledge. The salt wind from the ocean, -lhe sweet- wind from the hill, And it's through the cool blue shadow I go As I follow my wandering will, I know where the pines stand straight and high, And the sun shines over the world; vhere the great green waves go racing by '' ith their crests of white foam curled. I know where sunshine flecks the hills And shadows come and go; Where the hurrying thunder-storm sweeps down From heavy clouds hung low. The spiced wind over daisies, And new-mown hay in a load, And the sea-wind flinging its spray in my face * As I follow the open road. horalie Howard Haman, in Interludes. THE CAIRN. When I think of the little children learning In all the schools of the world, Learning in Danish, learning in Japanese, That two and two are four, and where the rivers of the world Rise, and the names of the mountains - and the principal cities, My heart breaks. Come up, children! Toss your little stones gaily On the great cairn of Knowledge! (Where lies what Euclid knew, a little grey stone, What Plato, what Pascal, what Galileo• Little grey stones, little grey stones on. a cairn) — ' ■<: Tell me, what is the name of the highest mountain? . • Name me a crater of fire! a peak of snow! Name me the mountains on the moon! But the name of the mountain that vou / climb all day,. Ask not your teacher that. —Edna St. \ incent Millay, in Harper’s. IS NATURE REALLY CRUEL? The only people who have any right ,tu speak about the cruelty of ‘Nature are the thorough-going vegetarians. But all honour to them and more humour. But those who charge Nature with cruelty must be more than vegetarians. They must abstain from setting traps for mice or laying poison for rats; they inust do without furs, of course, ami even, we suspect, abstain from buying ■ an eiderdown quilt for the baby. As for fly papers, they are anathema'; and if we blame Nature dare we kill a snake? We like Darwin’s common sense: “When we reflect on this struggle we may console ourselves with the full belief that the war of Nature is not incessant, that no fear is felt, that death is generally prompt, and that the vigorous, the healthy, and the happy survive and multiply.” ■ In the strict sense cruelty implies the enjoyment of the infliction of unnecessary pain, and there are at the most very few instances of this subtlety among even r the highest animals. We have seen & . buck antelope chasing and goring an '. upstart of his kin till the rival dripped ? with blood. There may have been pain -. here, especially afterwards, but there was no cruelty in the senior’s severe/ punishment. We do not go the length of saying that “ every prospect pleases; and only man is vile,” for there are some wild ongoings in Nature; but we are inclined to think that man has a monopoly of cruelty. J One of the difficult cases is the cat’s 'j playing with the mouse, but even that v familiar sight is not a clear instance., of cruelty, .as we could show if we had /i space. A caution to be kept in mind, moreover, is that domesticated and cap- j tive animals often develop unpleasant ■ ways, for which man, not Nature, is ‘ : responsible.’ . And another caution is .our y> ... ignorance of the gamut of pain. A' ! wasp curtailed of half its body will continue nonchalantly sipping jam, and. the legged part of an ant may work for hours after losing all the rest.—Professor J. Arthur Thomson, in John o’ London’s Weekly.