Editor's Walles

Otago Witness, Issue 3870, 15 May 1928, Page 83

Editor's Walles

WELCOME, ACTORS’ By an Old Player. Perhaps the greatest recompense for the drawbacks of touring is the genial welcome the actor receives very frequently from the owners of industrial concerns. ' Usually a player has merely to announce that he is at the theatre, and he is not only/given the run of factory or mill, but is treated with a deference and kindness that might be shown to royalty. In former years touring companies would pay official visits en masse to breweries in such towns as Burton and Stoke. .More recently these mass visits have been abandoned, because the theatre at night was often half-empty. The townspeople stayed away, fearing that the hospitality might have been too much for the artists. In the course of a dozen tours I visited soap, biscuit, steel, glass, and pottery works; also cotton, lace, and paper mills. Hat factories, boot factories, and carpet factories were also inspected. Three hours were spent wandering through the largest armament works in the country. Moreover, I went down two coal mines and one tin mine. In factories where girls are employed there is often some attempted recognition. “ That’s him that took the villain! ” or “Yon’s the comic! ” are whispers one overhears. The guesses are usually vague, but there is no mistaking the warmth of welcome. REUNION. By some derision of wild circumstance Not then our pleasure somehow to perceive, Last night we fell together to achieve A light eclipse of years. But the pale chance Of youth resumed was lost. Time gave a glance At each of us, and there was no reprieve; And when there was at last a way to leave, Farewell was a foreseen extravagance. To-night the west has yet a failing red, While silence whispers of all things not here; And round there where the fire was that is dead, Dusk-hidden tenants that are chairs appear. The same old stars will soon be overhead, But not so friendly and not quite so near. —Edwin Arlington Robinson, in the Nation. STILL IN SERVICE. Carefully the tramp climbed the steps of the large house, and, arriving at the top, rang the electric bell. The door opened and the occupant of the house, a professor of music, stood on the threshold. . “ Excuse me, sir.’ began the tramp, bowing politely. “ Have you any worn-out clothes? ” “ I have,” answered the other. “What do you do with them?” “ I fold them carefully and hang them over a chair every night,” replied the musician kindly, “ and then in the morning I brush them and put them on again.” THE HUMAN FLOOD. We_ are but billows breaking Upon the shore of Time, Monotonously making Our unremembered rhyme. Life is a vast commotion, , Alternate strife to reach, Now unknown gulfs of ocean, And now a glittering beach. At first the heaving splendour, The shock, the exultant foam, And then what sad surrender! A sigh, a turning home. We are swayed by a power that ranges On high, and darkling trace A sickle that somehow changes To the likeness of a face. —Thomas Sharp, in the Windsor Magazine. WISDOMETTES. Don t envy a good complexion. Buy one. * » * Little girls to-day believe that they should be seen. 7 A man’s face becomes drawn when he 3s overdrawn. Some men are known by their deeds, others by their mortgages. • • • A woman’s secret society has been formed in New York. It sounds impossible. “ The weather has been trying,” says ■a writer. But with very little success. CHANNEL CROSSING. . Of all the pestiferous nuisances, luggage is the worst. Why must we have luggage? To keep out the cold! Ah, no! there is something more than that. It is partly to attract, partly to annoy, and partly owing to snobbery that we nave so much clothing and luggage. Comfort comes into' the question only very sparely. But it is an ill wind, etcetera. And what would the Customs and the porters do if we had no luggage? . . . These _ cross-Channel steamers are limited in size by the atrocious harbour at Dover. Sometimes I wonder what the Board of Trade thinks about the Boat accommodation, and what -would happen ffo the hundreds of passengers if a quick disaster occurred. I suppose it is all right and every possible occurrence accounted for, but the boat supply looks scanty. . . . —Halford Ross, in “By BDevious Ways.”

HER NEAR SIDE. It -was in one of those ultra-modern “ Beauty Shoppes.” In front of a long mirror sat a young maiden, freshly shampooed and shingled. •Languidly she polished her nails as she awaited the finishing touch of the magic marcelling iron, and idly contemplated the beautiful reflection in the mirror. As the first golden curl rippled out the girl turned to the operator, and, lifting a daintily manicured right hand, murmured: “ Please wave it extra tight on this side. It’s the side I dance on.” NO NEED TO WORRY. In a quiet country town a commercial traveller entered the general store. Going through to the parlour at the back, he came upon the proprietor and a friend engaged in a game of draughts. “ Mr Slocum,” he said, “ d’you know there are two customers in the shop? ” Slocum did not even raise his eyes from the board. He merely nodded his head and whispered in reply: “ That’s all right. Keep quiet, and they will go away again.” MOTHER’S BIRTHDAY. When my mother’s birthday comes I shall be in a fix; What good is tuppence farthing to A little girl of six? I could look in all the windows Of ev’ry shop that’s near, But that is only waste of time Now evrything’s so dear! But when my mother’s birthday comes She’s sure to say the same— Of all the very nicest gifts That I could ever name. There’s only one she really wants To call her very own, And that’s a great big kiss from me When we are quite alone! HIS SUBCONSCIOUS MIND. The policeman was evidently off duty, though still in uniform, and was crossing Shaftesbury avenue just like any other ordinary person (says a Daily Chronicle writer). He must have come straight from “ point duty,” I think, and been still wrapped in the atmosphere of that arduous work, also perhaps influenced by the dignity of his uniform—for twice during his passage across the road up went his arm as if he would fain stop the traffic, instead of dodging it. THE VILLAGE STREET. A wide street, Where trees meet, Their green ' arms entwined. An old'gate Where friends meet, And memories bind. A porch light That shines bright To welcome me when I go back The long track To childhood again! A wide street, Where friends greet Each other and stand In threes or In fours or In pairs, hand in hand. . ■ When dark falls The thrush calls His final good night. Each dwelling Is telling Its love with a light. —Anne Campbell, in Women’s Weekly. LONDON’S HIDDEN STREAMS. The discovery of an underground stream which had undermined the roadway near Clapham Junction is only another reminder that London is_ built on land through which flowed various brooks and little rivers before these were covered in or confined in culverts. In many cases the memory of these is preserved in the names of streets of districts (says a Morning Post writer). In the city we have Walbrook and the I leet River, and elsewhere such names as Brook street. Eastbourne and' Westbourne terrace. Bayswater, and so forth remind us of the springs that rose from the gravelly soil and the. waters which were either used as a water supply or ultimately found their way into the Thames. Spring street, Paddington, marks the site ot a spring of pure water which was formerly conveyed in leaden pipes to Cornhill and Cheapside, and the Bayswater district was once famous for its watereresses, concerning which Gerarde declared that the eating of them brought back the wonted bloom to the cheeks of young ladies. So you see the Elizabethans knew something about vitamins. THE WANDERING JEW. I am the son of the ages, Defier of rack and stake; The storm that uproots and that rages Can only bend me. not break. I am the swordless struggler With'man for man’s re-birth; I am Prometheus—the smuggler Of heaven’s fire on earth. I I am the Peddler who barters And pays with life for faith; I am the son of martyrs Who conquered life through death.’ I am tlie Nations’ riddle— Homeles in thousand homes; When Romes are burning—mv fiddle Is playing the tune of new Romes. I am a book whose pages Are written in blood and in flame; I am the son of the Ages— The Wandering Jew is my name! —P. M. Raskin, in the Jewish Tribune.

PEARL SECRETS. A machine has just been invented which is said to prove conclusively whether a pearl is of the natural or cultivated variety. Up to now it has been practically impossible to distinguish between the Japanese cultivated pearl and the real thing. • Pearls are occasionally found in British oysters. A little while ago one man, who made a, lucky discovery of this kind, not orfily got a fair price for the pearl, but also 5s for the shell from which the treasure had come. Why? So that it could be sent to a laboratory and examined, in the hope of discovering why that particular oyster was diseased. The old belief that pearls formed in oysters because of the intrusion of a grain of sand or other foreign matter, round which there grew a pearl, is now known to be wrong. Pearls can be skinned right down to their cores, and no sand has ever' been found. A pearl is of the same composition all the way through. So it is now agreed that the gem is the product of a mysterious disease. If anyone wants to make a, fortune all that is necessary is to discover what produces this disease in oysters, and then to spread it! A “RECORD” SEASON. Already there is talk of a “ record ” season. This kind of thing happens regularly every year, but it is, I am informed, a fact that an unusually large number of big houses have been let for the late spring and early summer months (says an Evening Standard writer). Lady Dundas of Arniston, sister of the Duchess of Buckingham, has taken 57 Princes Gate, where she will soon be entertaining for her daughter. Lady Dundas is a great gardener, and while in London is supplied daily with flowers from her Scottish home. WHAT SHE WANTED. Little Margaret had been presented with a splendid toy with which she was never tired of playing; in fact, she played with it all day long. “Margaret,” remarked her mother, how is it that you never play with any other Christmas presents?” “ Oh let her play with it,” protested the older daughter. “As soon as the novelty wears off she’ll stop.” A few minutes later mother noticed Margaret examining the toy from all sides and asked what she was doing. J for the novelty that wears off, Margaret replied. “ IF I HAD TIME! ” “ If I had time! ” we often say, What wonders we would do to-day! Procrastination never should Lead to futility’s dark wood, Where, groping still for chances gone, We wander whilst the world moves on. “If I had time!” Oh, foolish cry! For men who must find time to die; Who travel life’s long lonesome lane But once, and may riot turn again To use once more that splendid hour When life was in its perfect flower. “If I had time!” how I would spend An hour with some neglected friend, Pay back some debt of love I owe. Some seeds of comfort try to sow. Some light, enkindle, which might guide An erring heart from wandering wide! —A. B. Cooper, in Tit Bits. SLIMMING SWEETS. Women are getting rather tired of forgoing sweets for the sake of slimness, so the maitres des cuisines have been busily at work concocting sweetmeats which won’t add a cubit to one’s girth (exclaims an English writer). Slimming sweets are now on the menu of at least one famous restaurant. They are delicious, and yet the secret is a simple one. White of egg is used instead of cream; and, of course, fruit and fruit juices and liqueur are used for sweetening instead of sugar. Dieting in 1928 is not to be half so rigorous and self-denying as in 1927. There will be all kinds of delicious dishes for the must-keep-slims. ALL ABOARD. The sailors on shore leave decided that a change of occupation would do them a world of good, so they called on the proprietor of a livery stable and asked for a horse to ride. “What sort of horse?” asked the riding master. “ Four-legged one o’ course,” came the sharp answer, “ I mean, do you want a quiet or a spirited horse? ” explained the other. Never mind that,” spoke up one of the party. “Only give us a pretty long orse, ’cos there’s eight of us, anil we all want to get aboard, see? ” LONG “PICTURES.” My visits to the films are infrequent, but on an occasion last week I was again struck by the unnecessary length of the programme (says a Daily Chronicle writer). Members of my household who go always complain of headaches, and I' do not wonder. , Children are additionally exhausted by their excitement. The programme I had to sit through lasted just over three hours. One hour is quite enough for me, but in view of the white exhausted faces of the children I saw after the entertainment two hours seems to be quite long enough for the keenest fan. FOREWARNED. Little Johnny had been naughty all day; but the climax came when, just before tea, he calmly splashed his sister’s frock with mud. YVhen father came home from the office, mother-told him of his son’s misdeeds. Father looked serious. “Look here, my boy,” he said, “the next time you start throwing mud about, you’ll go off to bed without your supper! ” For a few moments. Johnny sat in silence. Then he turned to his father. “ Thanks for the information,” he reI marked. “ The next time I want to throw I mud at Cissie I’ll wait till after supper!”

; MODERN SHOE-BUYING. | The woman to-day who goes to buy shoes must be prepared to hear the assistant ask, “And do you do our daily feet exercises, madam? ” (says a London Star writer). This plan of giving customers instruction in foot exercises to straighten, and beautify their feet has been hit upon by one of London’s fashionable shoe shops, the proprietors of which are greatly concerned at the many feet defects in their clients. One of the ideas to strengthen the feet and lift a fallen arch is to roll a ball about gripping it with th e toes. Customers will find that this, however, is only one of the several exercises -which constitute a pedie daily dozen; CARD HOUSES. When I was small I used to build A great big house of cards, A Chinese palace wonder filled, With Clubs and Spades for guards. Alas! a tiny, breeze would blow Across its patterned yards, And then the house would shake, and so —’Twas just a pack of cards. So build I yet a love of dreams My palace rich and fair, And still beneath the breeze it seems Like dust and wool and air. - —J- 8., in Answers. “LOVE CASTS OUT”— You certainly cannot love and fear a person, but every love has its fears as well as its joys. A mother loves her children, vet every hour, every moment, brings a terrifying thought: “ I wonder if Johnny has fallen suffocated“ Perhaps baby has been • us band is late a nervous wife immediately pictures an accident, and works herself into such a frenzy of apprehension that her man’s cheery greeting when he does come is the signal for a , ,nood of tears or reproaches. Both children and husband know that mother reels like that; but they rather resent it. She is a wise woman who hides her love-begotten fear, who smiles even while she makes the children feel that she trusts them to keep out of danger without perpetual warnings. Nerves ar e easily acquired. A fidgetv neurotic mother is apt to rear an equally nervous family. Though love was the cause of it, she is to blame when they inherit her habit of continually fretting about the might-have-beens. ; So, mothers, next time your husband is late, try not to worry too much: next time the children ar e out try not to watch the clock and picture wildly impossible things. If love cannot quite cast out fear for your loved ones, it can at least help you to keep calm for their sake. COULDN’T GET IT BACK. A Scotsman, while on a visit to some friends in England, was persuaded to have a hand at nap, with the result that when he arose to go he was the poorer by about thirty shillings. „ Stay a little longer,” said his friend. " Supper is ready, and we have a nice piece of ham cooked.” “ I want none o’ yer ham,” said the angry Scotsman. “Dae ve think I cud eat thirty shilli’gs worth o’ ham! ” — Cornish Arms Bulletin. NO DOUBT ABOUT IT! “ Yes,” said the traveller, “ I had an amusing journej- up to town. There were two Scotsmen in the compartment.” “ How do you know they were Scotsmen? ” asked his friend. “Well, they both happened to take their pipes out together. They filled them, and then each calmly waited for the other to strike a match.” “Well, what happened?” “ Oh, I brought out my pipe, so both of them waited for my match! ” THE ENGLISH CEMETERY. “ Where,” she asked, “do they put the English?” “ Over there we have a very nice corner reserved. I’ll show you, shan’t I ? There’s a little girl of just my age—mustn’t the people in her hotel been upset" about it? I often think she brooded. “Yes, I daresay you do. I often used to. But it wouldn’t be much fun, really, dying to impress other people or to be picturesque or pitied.” “ I suppose not, really. But I couldn’t .help just imagining that day they Were so stuffy with us ’cause we broke the lift. I put my tongue out after Mrs Hillier when she had stopped and been sarcastic at me in the passage, and I thought, ‘Yah! if I liked, you’d be sobbing and sniffing to-morrow and putting flowers — carnations —on my coffin, and saying what a darling little girl I’d been! ’” They went on to look at the English end of the cemetery, where more discreet memorials had been hewn into shapes better suited to granite than to Carrara marble. All round the cypresses waited. How complete the Riviera was, thought Sydney; one could even die here. Birds were rare; she started as one dipped from a tree and flew zig-zag with a shrill cry, skimming the gravestones. Like an echo of the bird’s cry they heard the creak of a hinge, as the gate, hidden by the trees, was pushed open decorously. Sydney could feel her heart thump as they listened and waited.—Elizabeth Bowen, m “ The Hotel.”

THE MESSAGE. Her friends all declare How dull it must be, And marvel she took One so silent as he; She that delighted In gay causerie. How she must miss The delicate wit, The sparkling bon mot, The very last “hit,’ Say all of her friends ... And marvel at it. But what of their blindness? , For time and again His two eyes go seeking Her wise eyes, and then 'Plainly she hears him, Prince among men. —A. Newberry Choyce, in the Royal Magazine.

WILD HORSE. Nostrils flared, wind-tossed mane— Hooves that pound the earth again—• Over canyon,'over hill, Wild heart, you are pacing still. You are galloping away On the plains of yesterday. Foam-flecks smear your heaving chest, Trappers taunt you, east and west. Eyeballs strained you stand at gaze Toward the blue hills’ summer haze. There is freedom in your stride, And your head’s unbending pride. Sunset hovers through your glades, Moonlight silvers the Cascades, Ghost coyotes, dogs of death, Howl your scent of laboured breath— And, down gulches of the night Thundering, you race from sight. Silence Far horizons quail To snorting coursers of the rail. Hell is riding close to you, And your halcyon days are through. Wild Horse, soul of liberty, Burst your heart, but keep you free. —Wheaton Hale Brewer, in Palms. WELL WORTH IT. Old Farmer Hayseed had bought an ancient motor car at an auction sale in a near-by town. After a great deal of argument, he managed to persuade his neighbour to come for a joy ride. They started off very well, but after descending a steep hill the car gathered much more speed, and the passenger began to get alarmed. ° “Hayseed,” he cried, “I’ll gi’e ye a h note if ye'll stop and let me out.” The other swung th e vehicle round a sharp bend. 111 gi’e ye a tenner,” he replied anxiously, “if ye’ll tell me how to! ” CAPTURED. Under an elm tree where the river reaches TheV watched the evening deepen in.the sky, • They watched the westward clouds go towering by Through lakes of blue toward those shining beaches, Those far enchanted strands where blowing tides Break into light along the shallow air: They watched how like a tall ship’s lantern there Over that stormy surf the faint star rides. Ship of a dream, he thought—O dreame'dof shore Beyond all oceans and all earthly seas! Now -would they never call him any more; Now would they never hurt him with unease. She was that' ship, that sea, that siren land, And she was here, her hand shut in his hand. —Archibald Macleish, in the Yale Review.