The Sketcher

Otago Witness, Issue 3885, 28 August 1928, Page 71

The Sketcher

THE AWAKENING. Do you like daisies and lambs with long tails ? Meadows and springtime and gold buttercup ? Send for the north wind—his knock never fails — Tell him to waken Persephone up, Tell him to say to her dimples and curls, That slug-a-bed habits don't suit little girls. Nonsense, he can’t have forgotten the road, Hasn’t he called her, oh, often, before? Well then, old Pluto’s black marble abode, Well then, the keyhole (best choose the back door): Now let him tip-toe a corridor’s gloom, Turn to the left and he’s facing her room. Here, if again through a keyhole he’ll sweep, L Little Persephone sweetly lie’ll scan. Lying, like snow and wild roses, asleep. Now he must whisper, as only he can, t: Daisies,” and, presently (this never fails If “Daisies” don’t waken her), “Lambs . with long tails.” Then let him hasten, I’d not have him there When neat little knuckles are rubbing blue eyes And she sits up in bed to push back her bright hair And blink at the clock in a pretty surprise; (Yes, it won’t take him two of her cuckoo clock’s ticks To be off through both keyholes and back across Styx). Put we’ll know that she’s waking, for over the way The thrush on the apple-tree says so • at once; And didn’t the bells of the snow-drops to-day Fair tingle and jingle, and does not each dunce That hears that tink-tinkle, that thin one, two, three, Know that little Persephone rings for her tea ? ■—Patrick R. Chalmers, in the Spectator.

I CONSIDERED TRIFLES. Every now and then there dawns upon one the thought that a very real form of happiness comes merely through getting things done. The “tin gs ” in question may not be great works "of art, not the building of bridges, not even the completion of another bungalow. The feeling of achievement may even oe Mary Ann’s when she has finished washing the front doorsteps or done with polishing her brasses. But, satisfactorily as may be the accomplishment of each day’s duties, the feeling aroused in consequence is nothing to that experienced when tasks that have been waiting to be done for a long time are finally overtaken. These are the tasks that can be done any time—so we are wont to remark. The result is that the doing of them is postponed indefinitely. There are papers to be sorted out, desks to be re-arranged, wardrobes to be gone through, odd materials to be used up. One hears not infrequently of ladies with nicely regu lated minds, who, each time they acquire a new jumper, are careful at the same \ time to dispose of a similar garment for which they have no more use. There is, therefore, no fear of their wardrobes becoming too densely populated. Such people, however estimable, are difficult to live up to. * * * Spring-cleaning time undoubtedly makes the call of the postponed task particularly clamant. “ Come,” says Conscience, ably abetted by Cousin Martha, *’ now is the time to get it over and done with.” You proceed to review the excuses that immediately rise up in a feeble protest against the inevitable Letters to be written. . . . The dog to be taken for a walk. . . . Stockings to be mended. . . . They will not do. No, the hour has come. . . . The task must be carried through. x The business of sorting out can become a peculiarly harassing one if you do not harden your heart. There is that bundle .of miscellaneous printed matter. Pricelists from the shops. . . .. After all, the shopkeepers have been at a good deal of trouble to compile all this varied and artistic matter. From the printed page a lady in evening dress flaunts in yoiir face a primrose-coloured shawl thickly bestrewn with little pink and blue flowers. Have you really decided to be the means of compassing her doom ? You look at her somewhat wistfully. She - keeps on pointing the way to other ladies following after her similarly attired in shawls that are cyclamen or almond or lilac, all flower-embroidered, heavily fringed. To the flames with all of them! * * * Shall T keep this list of perfumes, bath salts, silver thimbles, trii.ket

boxes? By next Christinas, when it might come in useful, fashions may be altered, prices may be changed. Better cast it, too, into the flames before I have time to think the second thoughts that they tell vs nowadays are not always best. Then there is somebody’s list of solid silver tea services. “ No,” says my practical cousin; “no need to keep that. If you ever want to buy one you can easily ask the price at the shop.” So the silver tea service goes to join the ladies of the shawls in eternal perdition. But the Primrose Lady, alluring as she is, is a problem easy of solution compared with that of the disposal of old letters. I have a desk that I am unable to use because it’ is stuffed full of them! These letters were written, many of them, years ago; some of them date back to childhood. The business-like habit of keeping copies of one’s own letters was firmly instilled into my infant mind, so that I can still find among them an occasional childish epistle written in red or violet ink (because it was different) that supplies a record of names of pet rabbits and pussy-cats, and tales of dolls’ misdemeanours and accomplishments. These, this spring, as usual, I have left undisturbed.

“ Keep one of each,” says my cousin, practical again. “ That will be quite enough to remind you of their writers.” “ But I shall want to read them over every now and then when I am quite, quite old,” I feebly interpose. “ Yes, I know,” she replies ; “ I quite understand. But space is more valuable than sentiment.”

Letters do .keep on accumulating. And who among us, of the feminine sex at anyrate, would have it otherwise? But to destroy a letter that contains a single thought that is worth remembering—many of them don’t —is almost like destroying something vital. Of course—if my practical-minded cousin were here she would suggest this—one could copy out the thought so that, jewel-like, it should, on the stretched forefinger of all time, sparkle for ever—only it wouldn’t! It would become a pale, mute ghost of its former radiant self.

There are letters that are linked up with some pleasant happenings, letters that tell of the exchange of thoughts and feelings—even though they may not be wrapped up in blue ribbon—of autumn wanderings and primrosescented woods in springtime. That one came when I was feeling particularly lonely. I can smell the scent of the pines in this other. Should the writers of the letters be no longer accessible would not something of their personality linger about the written words? “ Yes, yes ” —I know’ that my cousin is becoming really impatient;—“that’s all very well, but the space in that cupboard is wauted to store the apricot jam! ” So sentiment must often go to the wall, or outside of it altogether. It is drastically opposed to the practice that compels oneself and one’s possessions to be housed within four walls—or, rather, between three walls and a view of the hills. Avaunt this enervating emotion! Let us be ruthless, uncaring, like unto the people who burn their letters as soon as read, and have then to rack their brains to determine whether the rendezvous was for 2 o’clock or 2.30. Why not make one big tonfire of the letters without reading a single line to make us waver? Perish the thought!

Over clotlies one might become almost —not quite—as sentimental. ’ They have their special associations. Only clothes take up more room than letters, so the needs of the jumble sale and the ragwife receive due attention. We may love our old clothes—though not with the love that men have for theirs, but the lure of the shops is potent. New friends were never like old ones, but a new hat, hope eternally reminds us, may be more successful than an old one. So, as I said, there is the rag-wife at the door, hex’ basket opening expectantly. The problem becomes more acute again when it is a question of the drawers that contain oui’ odds and ends. Odd ends of ribbon, pieces of lace, ends of silk, '•hat I shall never use, but that,, nevertheless, a spirit of thrift compels me to retain. “ Keep a thing for seven years. . ’. ” 1 do not make patchwork cushions—and what dreams may be woven into them! Neither do I seek to add to the contingents of frivolous pincushions and sachets that litter the stalls at sales of work. Still I keep these odds and ends. Flowers . . . gleaned fox- their beauty and loved, unlike Mary of Argyll, for that alone. They may serve some purpose some day. But meanwhile they occupy valuable space—than which is anything more coveted in the modern house 2

More difficult still is the problem of dealing with things the roots of which go fax - back into the past. There are women who each year take out quite childish things—a doll . . a child’s workbox . a coloured ball . .

look at them tenderly, dust them, and —put them back again. After all, timerobs us of so many things that it seems something of sacrilege to rob ourselves deliberately of those that may contribute to our happiness, even if only in the supposed sadness of “ remembering happier things.” But, of course—there is always that problem of space! Many things I have destroyed. Was there not the lady of the primrose way and her sisters who walked in similar flowery paths? The silver tea service; letters—some of them; other things. They made up a pile of considerable dimensions, so that now the air must circulate more freely. Old gloves, old collars, I have relinquished; last year’s posies, forget-me-nots, roses, violets—why retain them when the new flowers are carpeting the earth ? So I have got that really nice feeling of something attempted and done. Mine is not the satisfaction that comes from the completion of some -wonderful masterpiece achieved by “ toiling upward through the night,” not the glory of the housewife as she pauses to survey the table laden with cakes and marmalades that have been created under her finders; perhaps it more resembles that of Mary Ann when she lingers, arms akimbo, to regard her whitened steps. But still the thing is done. Could I only make a. resolution to retain rio unwanted things for a moment past their period of service I should have no piled-up stacks to grapple with next year. But shall I do so? I scarcely think so. And, in any case, by so doing, shouldn't I lose this nice, agreeable feeling of satisfaction?—Glasgow Weekly Herald. J AFTER THE VERMONT FLOOD. The river tore my garden all away, Narcissi sweet and tulips brave and bold! Flooded us ’round on that eventful day And hia from sight, the verdant valley wold. Madonna’s, cuddled by their parent stem Like dear sweet babies needing mother’s care, Or grown a little, clinging to the hem Of hurrying dress, ascending travelled ' stair— Are each one gone, swept onward hv the flood That took its toll of lives and flower and tree; And out the chaos, seems as if the blood Had sluggish grown in this sad heart of me. And lilacs, Persian, from the Eastern land, Uprooted, cast aside in some gnarled tree Hear from no stench of mud and river sand The song of nightingale in ecstacy. I can not put them back! How fill a place That has grown empty by a sudden change ? If yet tire same, we see a different face, And mourn with feelings all so sad and strange. I’m weary and the night grows cold, so cold. The river, calm, flows out and on again That reigned so short a time, grim monster’ bold It laps the banks and innocence would feign. From Alexandria, lilies splashed with red Are rotting in some dune of silt or sand, While calmly flows their spoiler over head. So destitute is all my garden land! I can not put them back, so late the day. * * * But I have toiled, and I am growing old. I thought my work so safe, like house with lock. I’ve gathered in a bit of needed gold, But—disregarded building on a rock. —Nellie S. Richardson, in the American Poetry Magazine.

WHEN DAFFODILS DANCE. When the daffodils are dancing merrily in the breeze or even nodding cheerfully in the florists’ windows—we feel that our little ones should be dancing too. So when Betty whines and frets about nothing at all in particular, and Peter sulks over a book, we wonder what is wrong. But the truth is that their little bodies are affected by seasonal changes, just as are those of their elders. We all know how trying the early spring is. How tired we feel, how out of sorts! Most of us, too, suffer at this time of year from a nameless irritability and depression. Is there any wonder then that our toddlers are restless and troublesome, and that our school boys and girls often find Latin and “ maths.”—and even the

beloved rugger and hockey—a weariness to the flesh? » * « Any such signs in our children, big and little, are, we should remember, simply indications of a physical condition, and should be treated accordingly. It is not that there is anything seriously wrong with the child, it is merely his blood that is disordered by the changing season. As a rule the less children are “ dosed ” the better, but there are times when some simple treatment is clearly required, and if health flags and tempers get the upper hand the spring is clearly one of them. After all, something was to be said for Granny’s remedy—the general handling round of brimstone and treacle. A great deal can be done by diet. For all, a course of plainer and lighter food is beneficial, with plenty of green vegetables and not too many potatoes. During the winter months soups and steamed puddings have figured largely in our menu. Now, in the early spring, these should be gradually eliminated, stewed fruit and light milk puddings being substituted. “ The children are always catching colds these days,” we hear on all sides at this season. And one reason for this is that they eat the wrong kind of food. Children in whose diet sugar, cakes, and sweet puddings play too prominent a part are always special favourites of the catarrh demon. With more milk, fruit, green vegetables, and crisp unsweetened cereals, the little cold catcher often shows a marked improvement. The question of clothing is equally important. In our very erratic and changeable climate not enough consideration is taken in our clothing scheme for the little ones. From the end of summer winter-weight vests and woollies are brought out and worn steadily till summer officially conies again. Yet, surely, this is foolish, for the .weather changes daily; in fact, almost hourly. The problem of suitably clothing the children is not to be dealt with automatically by following a time-table. It is one to which mothers must give constant thought, especially during the treacherous months of early spring, when tl” - r "’st winds prevail. The wearing of ga .ts that are too warm in mild, muggy weather is apt to make a child “ soft,” so that he is unable to stand the piercing wind when it comes along. It is also harmful because it makes the little body perspire, and a chill follows quickly if the child gets into a draught or has his outdoor wraps removed in a cold room. It is always a wise precaution to become accustomed to the atmosphere before the street coat and scarf are discarded. A coat which will not be oppressive on a warm day and which is roomy enough to allow of an extra sweater being worn underneath when it is really cold, is the ideal outdoor coat for a small child. « * * Another prevalent source of catching cold is the fashion which insists on all small children wearing sox when indoors. It is certainly a pretty custom, for the little dimpled legs are adorable—but it is really asking for trouble. When Betty plays about in a warm room and then runs into the hall or passages, or flies to the open door, there is sure to be a cold wind creeping in somewhere ready to strike and chill the unprotected limbs. Long stockings, especially during cold winds of winter, are certainly the safest, if not the most elegant wear, for little ones when indoors.

Don’t, however, be so scared of draughts as to fall into the error of dreading fresh air. Remember it is not the cold air in itself which is bad, but the sudden changes of temperature which one experiences in the house as well as outside in this country of ours.—Nora Macleod, in the Weekly Scotsman.

WATERS MEETING. The late winter waters and the early spring waters seem to be waiting alone and together. The Mississippi River splits lowa and Illinois into land on one side, land on the other, promises right and left, pick-ups of sunlight, alone and together. And since the Mississippi is never wrong and since the land, the sunlight, the promises take hold of the hearts of men with old lazy secrets, loafers always shambling under the sky over big rivers among the sunsleepers and the mud mumblers of big rivers, —late winter and early spring spill a kiss again down a valley of people—alone and together. —Carl Sandburg, in the New Republic. A SPRING SONG. The snowdrops in the garden beds, That yesterday were brown and bare, Are poking up their darling heads, So white, and delicately fair. The birds are busy in the trees, Chit-chatting over such affairs As sites for nests, and things like these, And soon they’ll be about in pairs. And, one day, coming ,on a patch Of violets, just blossoming, We’ll stand in joyful awe, to catch The first delightful breath of spring. —Mabel Constanduros. in Tit Bits.

THE END OF WINTER. She knew that now lie never would come here Again, never forgive the words that she Had spoken—cool words uttered casually While her cool fingers moved the teacups. Fear Struck at her heart. She let no sign appear, But, when he rose, said to him easily, “It is not twilight yet—the light you see, Changes so soon after the turn of year.’* He spoke without ironical intent His brief farewell, “ As winter goes You’ll find the days much longer.” And. he went Away with some trite reference to spring. The street door closed. The shadows, lengthening, Deepened the mauve and violet of the snows. —Helen Santmyer, in Scribner’s.

A SPRING RHAPSODY. As I climbed up from the shore I found her dancing at the top of the bank with all the grace and abandon of six years of age. She was alone; and she was dancing and sparkling for the same reason as the burn near-by danced and sparkled over the pebbles—because she could not help it. What a life-giving mixture is spring wind and sunshine! And the smile with which she greeted me had in it the freshness of the one and the sparkle of the other. Charmed to find that my unexpected advent was regarded as quite a welcome interruption, I returned her smile, and our introduction seemed to be complete, for, joining hands as the most natural thing in the world to do, we shortly found ourselves performing an impromptu dance together. Then; breathless with the wind and movement, we sat down on a seat near-by to watch the waves. We talked about them, the clouds, the seagulls, the fishes, and of how happy they must be all on this glorious day of breeze and sunshine. Her curls sometimes blew against my cheek. Her bright eyes looked into mine with frank trust and appreciation. Her tender little hands returned my clasp with loving impulsive pressure. More than once I kissed them. And why not. Something had to be done, all the conditions were so thrilling; and she certainly thought so, too, for she suddenly stood upon the seat, and, throwing her arms around my neck, kissed me wholeheartedly on the lips. Did it matter that my hat went careering along the grass? Not a bit of it. Let it career and enjoy itself. Everything had a right to do so, on a day of such light and air. Besides, there was no reason why my somewhat sparse locks should not stream in the wind and sunshine, as well as her rich curls. It would do them nothing but good.'' But we had been too long inactive. The conviction came to both of us at the same instant, and naturally, the thing to do was to rush off hand in hand in pursuit of my hat, which, in great high spirits, had leaped into the burn, and was gaily sailing seawards. We captured it, and hung it on a tree to dry, while we had a game of hide and seek. Need I say how we gloried in being caught?—which happened very often indeed; or how she clasped me with all her eager strength to make sure I should not escape; or how, when I caught her, she had to be thrown up into the air, while my heart revelled in her life and beauty, and my ears rang with her delighted laughter? We could have gone on being caught for ever—with an occasional interlude on the seat. But it was not to be. Our Arcady was too near to where prosaic conditions prevailed; for suddenly a voice summoned my shepherdess to go and be fed. Realising sadly that I myself was in need of a similar process, I waved adieu, and, throwing a last kiss in return for hers, took my wet hat from the tree and went home. My spring rhapsody was finished.— Jaseon, in a Scottish exchange. SEA CALL. Spring is riding the wind to-night; There’s an urge in the restless air. I must be off in the early light, And it makes no difference where. •A Far away on the rim of things There’s a voice that I used to know, Upon my shoulders the sprouting of wings, And a violent longing to go. Houses were meant for simple souls, Content with the same each day, But I must have a house that rolls— Aly way is the seagull’s way. Up with the anchor, down with the tide, And out on the long, blue track. Beauty’s a dream that we all must ride, What though we never come back! —E. Leslie Spaulding, in the Chicago Daily News.