THE SKETCHER

Otago Witness, Issue 3864, 3 April 1928, Page 73

THE SKETCHER

PIZZICATO. You play the fiddle, . . I’ll dance a jig. We’ll turn our souls To a whirligig. We’ll make a quaint pair Crazy as loons Scraping and dancing’ Through empty rooms. The creak of the floor And the dust in the air, Will be the signs That we are there. Will be the signs; Yet who can say They do not come From a windy day. Who can say * The songs we sing Aren’t the cold winds Echoing. So! Up to the garret. Down to the ground, While deep in my throat I’ll make a sound That might be laughter And might be death. While you cry, Hi I .. At every breath And faster we’ll go, And faster yet, A mad Pierrot And a cold Pierrette. Faster, madder, With clamour and din; The air will grow dark And the air will grow thin. I'll soon forget, I will not care, My heart will be The empty air. I’ll soon forget, The blood on my coat, Bine finger-marks On your pale white throat. I’ll soon forget, I will ! I will! Play! Play! You are cold, you are still. -Palms-Poems. MAKE UP YOUR OWN MIND? It’s a fine thing to be able to make up your mind on the spot, and stick to it. It means strength and courage and conviction—and a perfectly gorgeous disregard of other people’s opinions! If w e all had this super-courage and self-confidence, life would be a veritable picnic. '• No more hectic nights, tossing and turning in bed wondering if it would be better to do this, that, or the other thing. No more harried days wondering if it would have been better if we hadn't done this, that, or the other thing. No mor e dressing feverishly and dashing round to ask Ethel what she would da “if she were you! ” No long-drawn-out patches of hesitation, wobbling from one point of view tj the other; consuming pounds of good grey matter in the brain and tons of nervous energy ; .No, life would be a comparative joyride, if only we could make up our minds, our own selves, and then go on with the job in hand. * * * I’m the most advice-seeking person you 11 meet in a week's walk! And there s nothing, just nothing, you can tell me about the havoc it works! It’s devastating ! It’s demoralising ! After you’ve “ talked it over ” with umpteen people, you’re a million times further off knowing what to do. Before you started on your giddy round of advice-collecting, you only had your own point of view to worry with. Now you have to wrestle with About 40 other entirely different points of view. So your last state is considerably worse than vour first' .When you have to make a bier decision, it’s a very wise and right thing to go to a friend on whose judgment you can rely and “ talk it over ” with her’or him. It s always well—when it’s a thing that matters—to have another point of view. But quite a lot of us can scarcely buy a cabbage or a. bath tow e ! without asking somebody or other whether to have a curly or a straight cabbage, or a mauve or a red-bordered towel. * * » This sort of thing is the last word in feebleness ! Not to be .able to do anything off your own bat is a confession of abject weakness. To always and always have to turn to somebody else and a t sk “ What would, you do. dear? ” is more than pathetic,' it’s almost indecent! What on earth does it matter what the other person would do? It’s what you do that matters this time ! It’s your business, not hers! ’ Why try to shove it on to someone else? She' has her own decisions to make, noor wretch, why should she make yours for you ? lour brains are as good as hers, aren’t thev—or are they not? If thev ar e not, well, then, you have an excuse for picking hers! If they are, the.n you are either lazy or weak—and both are disgustingly . horrid traits!

Advice collecting is. a thing that grows on you when you’re, not looking! You start with asking whether you ought *

to buy a house or not, and end by taking someone by the hand when you* go to buy your notepaper. It matters a lot about buying a house. It doesn’t matter - a tinker’s button about your wretched notepaper! It matters tremendously which school you send Peter to; but it won’t give anybody but you a sleepless night if you choose a grey carpet instead of a blue! * * * Perhaps the worst and most dangerous part of this advice-seeking mania is that it robs us of all initiative. It’s only a question of time before we reach the stage of not being able to do the simplest little thing on earth without asking the nearest person “ what would you do? ” When you reach that stage, •my friend, a lump of cotton wool will do quite nicely for you instead of a brain! I repeat, when you’re up against something that matters, a second opinion is often a very great help. But don’t, for any sake, put your initiative into cold storage! Use it, that’s what it’s meant for!—V. N., in Women’s Weekly. THE NIGHT MEETINC. Across the fields the neighbours go, Their lanterns swinging to and fro; Overhead are the marching stars; Restless sheep crowd at the bars; Underfoot the soft turf springs; Among the trees the night wind sings; In all hearts a high faith glows, Going to night meeting. Silent and grave the elders walk; Lagging behind, the young folks talk; Banter and laugh will shorten the way; There is a smell of trodden hay; Old and young, and babes in arms— Cuddled and safe from all alarms— I Go across the silent fields, Wending to night meeting Hark! from the small church belfry swell The measured tones of the summoning bell The willow sprays, in passing bent, Give out a fragrant, spicy scent; Within the church the parson old Tells the Story he oft has told; Then fervent hymns and prayers arise, Closing the night meeting. Back through the fields the neighbours go, Their lanterns swinging to and fro; Overhead still march the stars; Slumbering sheep lie at the bars; Silent and grave the elders walk; In tender tones the young folks talk; Nearer to God all of them are, Coming from night meeting. —Adaline H. Tatman, in the Ladies’ Home Journal.

LOOK OUT!

This is a word of warning to women —a word of warning about three deadly sins—jealousy, pettiness, and cattiness. They are not peculiar to women. Men err as readily and as frequently in these directions as women do, but for the very reason that women are coming more and more to the* fore they should guard against criticism. And the only way to guard against it is to give no cause for it. You have only to look around to see how people get into the habit of being and doing all kinds of silly things almost without knowing. People become bitter and narrow-minded without realising it; others become bigoted and carping, and more than enough seem to acquire a petty and catty attitude of mind. So many people are made unhappy by the expression of unkind and petty thoughts. I received, only this week, a very sad little epistle from a girl whose office friends don’t seem able to bear the thought of her having a good time. “ Whenever I go out straight from work,” she says, “ they always have some pointed remark to make, but they say it in such a way that I can’t take exception to it.” Again, not long ago, I received a letter from a girl who, quite young’, had been promoted to a good position. That made her happy, she said; but she had ..never realised that the promotion could carry with it some disadvantages. : Yet, sad though it is, most people find that they have only to climb one rung higher than their fellows on any old ladder, and they are regarded with envy —the kind of envy that expresses itself unpleasantly. The stage, perhaps, is. one of the places where this particular form of jealousy is most rife. There, amid the little triumphs of an hour, it is, of course, easy enough to envy your neighbour. Yet it is something which one of our youngest and most successful actresses has owned that she intends to guard against. She has suffered at the hands of others; accordingly, she will keep a ■ watch on herself so that none may suffer at her hands. In a world where competition is so keen it is difficult not to envy your neighbour sometimes, especially when it seems as“if some come by their rewards unfairly or too easily. But even then it is always wise to remember that that is only your point of view, -

There are some people who cannot give a word of praise without a qualifying “but”; there are others who can never resist a sly dig at those they do not like, or an unkind word about those who do not like them. Older people, I find, are more carping in their criticisms than are the younger ones. Youth may be intolerant, but on the whole it is not certain enough to be bitter, envious, or petty for long. No, generally speaking, it is the older people, t|je not-so-young-as-they-were people, who ought to be careful. Perhaps they think in terms of being outshone or left behind, and that might move anyone to sadness and perhaps on to cattiness. And yet that is a wrong way to look at things, for if the wiseacres are to be believed, every dog has his day, and opportunity knocks once at every man’s door; and, after all, everyone has the poXver to be individual in themselves and in their work. I think we should all learn to give words of praise graciously, and if we feel they are not deserved—well, we can always keep quiet. Again, everyone should try to be pleased at the other people’s good fortune. Another point; it is all very well to discuss the faults and failings and criticise the work of people you don’t know, but in offices or such large communities it is not kind, and certainly not wise, to enter into such discussions about those with whom you work. Of course, the successful ones and the popular ones must look out, too. Nothing is worse than being or appearing smug, self-satisfied, or self-important—-three things that, happen to many successful and semi-successful people. Such people ask for criticism. And so it seems that almost everybody has got to “look out,” as they jog or hurry along.—Answers.

SONG. Love that is hoarded, moulds at last Until we know some day The only thing we ever have Is what we give away. And kindness that is never used But hidden all alone Will slowly harden till it is As hard as any stone. It is the things we always hold Ihat we will lose some day; The only things we ever keep Are what we give away. —Louis Ginsberg, in the Liberator. THE GUEST WOULD HAVE BEEN HAPPIER IN THE KITCHEN. Poor Mrs Brown was looking an absolute wreck. Was it the ’flu, I wondered. “ You look very tired, Mrs Brown,” I remarked. “ I feel as if I could go to bed for a week,” she told me. “I have had a cousin of John’s staying with us for a fortnight, and I have made up my mind that, for the future, guests are too much of a luxury for me. ... I was simplyrun off my feet from morning to night.” Now as it happens Mrs Brown is a good housekeeper, and I could not help wondering -why the addition of one person should have so upset her home. Her explanation was a simple one. “ When we are alone,” she said, “ we always have all our meals in the kitchen. In fact, the kitchen is the room we use most —it is the living room of our house.” •K' -’v •5C“And no wonder that it is,” I answered. In my mind, as she spoke, I saw the creamy walls, the blue linoleum, the blue and white gingham curtains, and the brightly-coloured cottage china on the dresser. Was there ever a brighter, cheerier, more inviting place, a cosier dining room, a pleasanter corner for an after-dinner smoke? “ You see,” said Mary, “ Florence, with her two maids at home, would feel uncomfortable having her food in the kitchen. So I had all the meals set in the dining room, and, oh, dear, what a work it has been. Instead of being able to set the breakfast the night before in the kitchen, I had to wait for the dining room table till Florence went to bed. Often we went out to the pictures or to a second house, and by the time we had had a cup of cocoa it was quite late, and I was too tired to do anything but fly off to bed. “Then, of course, I had to get up very early to do out the dining room and have the fire on and the table ready for breakfast. If only she would have stayed in bed for breakfast, as I begged her to do, but she would get up ‘to save me troubled Florence offered to help, of course, but as she could not even make her own bed, you can guess how useful she was! As for the fetching and carrying at dinner and tea, I was just run off my feet. Besides, when you have both to dish up and to serve all the food in this dreadful weather fit is sure to. get cold between the kitchen and the dining room. It meant, too, that one was putting on coals all day long on the two fires, and I could as little afford the money as the labour.” * * * I wonder how many of us are like Mrs Brown.- When a friend comes to stay with us we upset the whole routine of the house,. give ourselves a tremen 7 dous lot of nhnecesary work, and knock ourselves up into the bargain. Probably, too,. if one only knew it, our failure to live in our own simple, natural way makes our visitor unhappy and spoils her visit, for she cannot help seeing how much work she is causing.

We have such a habit of thinking how this, that, and the other will strike the eyes of our visitor, that we are apt to forget that it is ourselves that our guest has come to see; not our houses nor our rooms. The more we allow our guest to be “one of the family” the more we shall enjoy her visit, and the more capable we shall -be of making our friends wish to return to our home. The Browns are a delightful, cheery household—hard-up, but happy. Their friend is well off, but she is a lonely woman. How. much more she would have enjoyed her holiday had they taken her into the heart of the household, and let her live with them in their own vAy.—Nora Macleod, in the Glasgow Weekly Herald.

MY MOTHER’S MOTHER SPEAKS. It will be the death of you As it was of my daughter’s, Away from the sea, Away from deep waters. How can you love a farmer Who milks the cows, Who feeds the horse and hens And nurses the sows? You should love a fisherman With salt sprays on his lips, Whose eyes are blue and narrow From watching the ships. You should love a fisherman The land cannot hold, Who loves the wild sea As a hoarder loves gold. Your eyes will go dry As the prairie sod, Watching your man Sit and nod. All through the winter Behind a closed door; You will remember As never before. Across the wild moor, The wind sharp as pain— The sea will call you Again and again. The sea claims her own— Daughter of my daughter, What are you doing Away from water? What are you doing x With a farmer by your side You who should be A fisherman’s bride! — 'Borghild Lee, in Poetry. ALL THE WORLD LOVES A LISTENER. A world-famous writer on women has remarked that women “ make love by listening.” Thinking it over, most people would agree that he was right, for on the whole/ in spite of their reputation frr gossiping, women are the listening sex rather than the talking sex. Women, generally speaking, are better listeners than men ; or appear to be so, for not all of them do what they appear to do! One of the most charming women I know frankly owned that she had trained her mind to give half its attention to those people who wanted to talk while she wanted to think of something else. Occasionally you will find a man who is a good listener even occasionally a good talker as well, though the two do not often go hand in hand. But a man will not often listen from a desire to please as some women frequently will. A man listens mostly in spite of himself—because be happens to be interested. Map or woman, however, one thing is certain. A good listener, and more particularly a sincere and conscientious listener, is always popular, sometimes even more popular, than a good talker! On e of each will ensure the success of most social gatherings, hut while more than one good talker is sometimes confusing,. it does not matter how many good listeners there are present so long as there'is someone who needs their attention ! Yet, strangely enough, although, there are many people quite willing to allow others to do all the talking, there are, when one comes to look round, surprisingly few good listeners. For listening in itself is a gentle art which goes even beyond the moment when a person-ceases to speak. or*sing, or play. What more irritating, for instance, than the,, listener who is obviously waiting for his turn? The person who. while someone else is speaking, i s quite obviously turning over in his or her mind what she or he is going to say as soon as. the other troublesome person has finished ? They generally plunge into the conversation entirely at random-with an almost ill-mannered disregard for-’ all that has gone before. They are, in - fact, determined to have their sav at all' - costs. For . a person to start the ball'of conversation- rollinrr in an clmpst onnosite direction’’immediately another person has finished sneaking is to a' sensitive nerson., somewhat in the nature. of a snub. It is as if to say that the previous subject was of little account. “ Interrupting you,” and “ Oh, that reminds me,” are, perhaps two of the most obvious remarks which label the bad listener. Stunid answers, vague expressions and ronming eyes are other signs.. These last three; though, mav sometimes he due to nervousness, while it must always be remembered that a very keen mentality may sometimes concentrate less and even so have a better erin of a discussion than others who have given all their attention. I The natural listener is, of course, the one most to b e desired. But in this respect listening is very much like talking).you cannot listen naturally to"some-

one you do not feel natural with, to someone with whom you do not feel entirely at ease or at borne.—An exchange. WILD GEESE. W heart when the geese are flying— A wavering wedge on the high, bright blue— I tighten my. lips to keep from cryino; Beautiful birds, let me go with you! ” And at night when they honk—and their wings are weaving A pattern across a full gold moon— I hold to a heart that would be IcavIf it were freed to fly too soon. I hold to my heart that would be going— A comrade to wild birds of the air, As wayward as they—and never knowing Where it is going—and never care— I hold to my heart—for here lies duty— And here is the path where my feet must stay— But 0, that quivering line of beauty Beating its beautiful, bright-winged way! —Grace Noll Crowell, in an exchange. CHANGED LONDON. A bright girl of 18 got up to ask a question at the close of a lecture on modern painting last winter. “ What I can’t understand,” she said, “ is why there should have been all these violent changes in art, when there have been no corresponding changes in life.” “ Ah, my dear young lady,” said the lecturer, “I expect you are not old enough to remember London in the days of the hansom-cab and horse omnibus.” No changes! Why, there is far less difference between the Academy of 25 years ago than there is between modern London and the London of 1901. When I was 25 Queen Victoria had just died, and the Kaiser, who attended her funeral, was a popular figure. Leader writers wrote glibly of’ the “ warm affection ” existing between the monarchs of Germany and Great Britain, and of the cordial relations which existed between the two countries. The Boer War was entering upon its final stage, and London, rather bored with the subject, was already giving its attention to other things. “ Floradora ” was still running at the Lyric, Miss Rosie Boote was singing “ Maisie’s a Daisy at the Gaiety, Marie Lloyd had celebrated her thirty-first birthday, and London Scots were endeavouring not ahvays with success to persuade their cockney friends that a new comedian, Harry Lauder, was really very funny. The music halls were flourishing, the promenades of the Empire, the Alhambra, and the “Pav.,” were crowded nightly; but the revue was unknown, except in Paris. Knowing ones explained that it might go down in France, but would never succeed in England. The “tuppeny tube” was already running from Shepherd’s Bush to the Bank but property owners from Harlesden to Clapham. had not yet given up hope of establishing a claim for compensation on account of “vibration”; and from day to day the daily journals told us about the “ very influential opposition ” which was active against the “ proposed new tube from Hammersmith to Piccadilly Circus.” The London County Council was constructing, very leisurely, a new avenue between Holborn and the Strand, and all sorts of people busied themselves with suggesting names for the new thoroughfare. One friend of mine wrote to the papers and pointed out that since Pall Mall was derived from the once popular Italian ball-and--mallet game,. “ Palamaglio,” it would be appropriate to remind posterity of another more recent pastime of christening this avenue “The Ping Pong.” •! have always been sorry that my friend’s suggestion was not adopted—Kingsway is a poor substitute.—-Frank Rutter, in “Since I Was Twenty-Five.”

MARMALADE. A darling old maid in a time-tinted gown, A quaint little tabic with leaves that fold down, Old china for one on a dainty cloth laid, And little brown biscuits and sweet marmalade. I wonder if once, when the table was new, She raised up one leaf to make room for two? r -: Was there back in those days a lover who stayed For little brown biscuits and her marmalade? I, too, have a table of dull finished brown; I used to think, always I’d keep the leaves down; ‘ /- But some one who changed all the plans I had.niade, Loves little brown biscuits and my marmalade. :s ... —B. O. White, in Modern Priscilla.