THE SKETCHER

Otago Witness, Issue 3886, 4 September 1928, Page 71

THE SKETCHER

IN THE SPRING TIME.

In the Springtime you went walking, Lovely lady, lady fair; Set the busy birds a-talking— Made a fragrance in the air. Swift you went, and light you went; Grasses green in homage bent; And the sun a blessing sent— Laid it warmly on your hair. Througn the woods you came a-singing. Slender lady, lady sweet; Bluebells set up such a ringin"—• Pale primroses kissed your feet Clear you carolled, carolled true, And the branches crooned with you— Tried to hold jour dress of blue— Could not, for j-ou went so fleet. All Spring could not stay your going, Lissom lady, lady gav, Free you went like wind a-blowing, Laughingly upon your way. / But you left a joyousness—- ' Blue the sky is, like your dress; Plough is like your hair’s brown tress— And your voice fills all the day. —P. F. C., in the Woman’s Journal.

DO ANIMALS SURVIVE AFTER DEATH ?

“Progress is the Jaw of life. Man is not man as yet.”—Browning. No! We believe that man has not j T et attained to the fullness of his stature, and that it does not yet appear what he shall become, but we are conscious of a deep expectancy within ourselves of a life beyond the grave, fuller and more advanced than the present one. And, if we expect this for ourselves, what about the animals, some of whom live in closest touch with man, sharing his pursuits, his pleasures, and ’sorrows? Have they a future life? The death of a beloved dog, a remarkably intelligent animal, has led his owner to question seriously’ the generally-ac-cepted idea that animals have yo souls and that death for them means the end of all things, and to suggest some reasons for holding a contrary belief. Firstly, one believes that there was a very definite purpose for all creation. Secondly, animal life is of greater antiquity than human life. Man and the animals have lived together since their creation, though, the progress in the animal world has apparently been of slower growth. Scientists tell us that man has not always been the intelligent being he is now, that his condition to-day is the result of the progress made through the long ages. The greater development of man must come to pass after he has passed through the grave, and is it here that he must sever his lifelong connection with the animals? That would mean for man survival of the individual, but for the animal survival only of the race. Why should man claim for himself alone this divine favour?

It may be argued that man is superior mentally, and that his intelligence has placed him on a higher plane. But, even so, he has progressed gradually to the position he has attained. Why not grant the same progress to the animals, some of whom possess powers of perception and understanding of a high order, • .especially those in closest contact with • man. Think of a dog’s ability to act on his own initiative when the life of his master is in danger, how resourceful he becomes in overcoming difficulties in his anxiety to procure help, making frantic and almost human appeals for aid. The intuition or instinct which enables him to detect in the sound of a footstep the difference between friend or foe is a quality more highly developed in the animal than in man. To study the loyalty and faithfulness of a dog to his owner, in spite of varying moods and treatment, is a humbling education. What human being would turn and lick the hand that smote him? Alas! there are still too many cases like that immortalised by Dickens. Too many Bill Sikes whose ungovernable tempers and savage treatment receive persistent loyalty in return. A dog’s efforts to express sympathy and understanding are almost human, and one asks the question, Are these powers of understanding, judgment, resource, intuition, and fidelity to be buried with the body? Surely that would be waste on a colossal scale! Does such a theory agree with one’s conception of a beneficent God? No! One feels they must emerge from the sleep of death and enter on a new existence, just as the caterpillar- enters an apparent sleep of death and emerges a beautiful butterfly, taking on a new form of life, of which it could never have dreamed when it crawled upon the earth. The theory of a continued existence for animals and all created things, as well as for man, must have been held by the divines of old who compiled the Book of Common Prayer, and included the canticle which calls upon “ All beasts and cattle” to “bless the Lord”

and magnify Him for ever. Perhaps Saint Paul was of similar mind when he wrote “ The whole creation groaneth and travaileth together until now.”

Progress is the law of life, not of death.—E. Wallace, in the Glasgow Weekly Herald.

DAFFODILS.

Who’ll buy my daffodils, Sweet yellow daffodils? He who has daffodils Has riches untold. ■ lor what is so beautiful— Naught is so beautiful— As its sheath of green leaves And its trumpet of gold. Where a river flows down through a farwinding glen, Between birch trees of silvery grey, Now stealthily- creeping, now joyfully leaping, " J J Now dashing in air, veiled in spray; Where the wind’s blowing free o’er a heath-covered hill, And birch trees wildly toss to and fro, There s a deep-hid dell, and a slowlyspringing well, J And tis there that the daffodils grow. They’ll keep you in memory— Long-lingering memory— Of their clusters of gold '■Neath a birch’s grey bough, feo who’ll buy my daffodils, Sweet yellow daffodils ? ’Tis the queen of all flowers I offer you now.” ~N. A M., ni Schola Regia (the maga-bui-h 0 ) h<2 K ° yal High Sch ° o1 ’ Edin -

I’LL TELL THE MEN.

It makes me tired to read all the stuff men are writing to the papers about their “ Ideal Moman”! “Ideal Woman,” indeed! M hat about our Ideal Man! Not that we are asking for fullyfledged angels, complete with halo'and cooking diplomas, as the other part of the community is! We don’t want an angel. We don’t mind about his cooking abilities, either! It he can brew a cup of tea and singe a bit of bread on headachy occasions, tnats as much as we ask! We ask so little of our Ideal l So very, very little that it seems to me S y th™ in “’ ed t "° pins could o»r ii W <v dont e roan because they’re not like their grandfathers—we’d hate it if they were!

We’re a million times better equipped foi the hazards of matrimony to-day than our poor dear grandmothers ever were! We make better companions! Have far more in common! Working side by side ( witli men, we understand, as our grandmothers could never have done the things they’re “ up against ” every day. We know the rasp and fret on nerves and temper. And “understanding we make wider allowances—and fewer demands! The lastest thing we want is an angel in the house! He’d be horribly out of place—or always in the way! All we ask for is Somebody- kind and strong and understanding. Somebody who can catch a glimpse of that, oh, so elusive “other side of the question”!’ Somebody with a sense of humour! A sense of humour!—at all costs, please, a sense of humour! . Gentle but firm specially when there are cows about —or a mouse! And not a stickler for dull exactitudes, like minding if you say Mrs Jones spent hundreds of pounds on her drawing room, when you really meant £25! Or that you’d been nearly crushed to death trying to board a bus, when what you meant was somebody walked about on your new shoes! * * * After all, one has to show- a little imagination in these affairs. Sticking to mere facts is such a thin sort of business. Life needs a bit of trimming U P> j ust to get a sparkle here and there! I like a few sparkles! Somebody who’d notice out loud when you’re looking your best—someone who’d bring y r ou home a present occasionally’ —something quite unnecessary that you’ve been wanting for ages—just to cheer life up a bit. Somebody big enough to keep it dark that he could do every dashed thing you do 10 times better—even when we know- it ourselves. Somebody who wouldn’t hold a postmortem on every exploit and yet would not think us safe enough to be sent on “ Carriage forward ” or “ To be left till called for.” Just Somebody to. laugh with! Somebody’ to work with. Somebody to be

happy with. Somebody to be sad with. Somebody to play with! But first, last—and for always and always—Somebody to be in love with! You see, we’re just like gi r.ndmother after all!—Jean North, in Home Chat.

THESE THINGS SHALL STAY.

Some things there are which change not — As green leaves in Spring And running water; The beach in waiting silence fraught With songs the salt winds bring With strange sea laughter murmuring . Till they have taught her Their shifting songs to sing; At drowsy summer window ledges Fingered winds that press and pass And trample soft-foot through the hedges . ■ - Or poise a-tip-toe in the grass Swaying along the pathway’s edges; The wet wind’s breath on a grey beech bole; The flash of sun on a swallow’s wing; The riot in a robin’s soul When love of earth has made him sing At the middle moment of the dawn Before day comes and the night is gone. Song and love and wind and rain Have been, are, will be again. . . Behind the wind’s swift changes, And the green leaf’s growing, A deathless spirit ranges Beautiful past knowing By- day- and by night. Roof-trees may fall And granite moulder, Old love take flight And new love grow older. These things shall stay, None of these all Shall pass away. —Hal Saunders White, in the North American Review.

MOTORING DAYS AND WAYS.

It is exactly 25 years since a motor car made its first appearance in our village (says a writer in a Scottish exchange). That does not mean that we had never seen such a thing, but we still found them extremely exciting, and stared open-mouthed if one appeared. This one had come to stay, temporarily at least, with the family who took a villa near us every summer. We all thought them “ just a little bit vulgar, you know-,” and this ostentatious behaviour confirmed our views. Nice people —ould never -dream of- giving up horses and careering round recklessly at 12 miles an hour. The thing wasn’t done! Our nurse told us, while reproving our rude and envious remarks, that we would .find sfhat. the gentry think twice before accepting an invitation to take the air in such an invention of the devil, and with difficulty we refrained from holding our noses when the motor car puffed by, leaving behind a trail of thick blue smoke and a disgusting smell. In those days we did not chatter casually of sports models or limousines. Ah, no! At all times w-e gave the full title, a motor car—in our village “ the ” motor car. * * * It was a ludicrous affair, very’ high, no w-indscreen or hood, and with a low sloping bonnet. The driver and a passenger sat in front on an open seat like a gig; two more seats were perched sideways over the rear wheels (with solid tyres), and after a fifth person had clambered in the door was slammed and a folding seat lowered. We hoped this door would fly open and someone fall out, but it never happened. To go for a drive was the height of our ambition, and we schemed to secure an invitation without becoming too friendly with its dubious owners, although we knew that it was doubtful if the destination would ever be reached, or indeed, if one would ever get away at all. A run involved great preparations. * * * The tank was filled and tins of petrol stowed inside, and there was much tinkering with spanner and oil can, the bonnet sticking up in the air like a huge empty biscuit tin and the driver clad in the boiler suit without which he daren’t travel two yards from the door. Often we passed him lying on his back, the road strewn with nuts and bolts, his face scarlet, and the family seated on the grass. When steep hills were reached fat people got out and walked up, getting to the top possibly before the motor. One, the husband, wore special clothes, a wonderful cap with removable flaps for his ears; the wife and daughters in giddy outfits which would bring tears to the eyes of any modern milliner, their heads and faces being shrouded in confections of navy blue chiffon with mica panes before their eyes. They piled on jerseys and leather-lined coats, and wrapped their legs in layers of. rugs.

■ In spite of these drawbacks <ve pined for our drive, but the weeks passed and our spirits sank. * * *

The climax came when on a Sunday the familiar chug-chug was heard and the motor bumped past. Tim Wilsons were then definitely beyond the pale, and we knew that even did we achieve our r ted invitation the answer would be a uecidcd “ No.” But retribution followed fast. Towards evening the owner, dusty and footsore, tramped ignominously back, his motor car containing wife and daughters dragged by a sturdy farm horse. The glory all departed with his chain drive, which had broken down completely! Only 25 years ago, and what a change. Our country road is bordered with petrol pumps, and not a villager would bother to look up were a two-seater aeroplane to park itself in the nearest- field.

HERE IS THE SPOT.

(Done for a lover, and a season.) Bine with violets, fresh with laughter, .And softly shaded and sweetly scented,* Hidden away from roof and rafter, Here is the spot our love frequented... Here is the spot where we met and parted, Kissed, turned casual. What comes after ? Nothing can now remain, I think, Of the secret meetings, the hidden wonder, Only the wild rose still is pink And the old oak, riven apart with thunder, Moves in the self-same way its limbs And gathers its moss in crack and chink. And here, in suihmer, when buds arc turned Deep and fragrant, and when the varnished Fruit of the thorn apple tree has burned Red, blood-red, like a dream long banished, Pitiful, wistful, two ghosts come seeking Love that faded and joy that vanished. Dorothy Dow, in College Humour. THIS YEAR OF GRACE. By Ellis Jeffreys. There is more need for women to be graceful to-day than ever before. Fifty years ago crinolines were being worn, covering up women's legs completely, thus hiding their gait. Twenty years back skirts were still down to the ankles, while “ leg of mutton ” sleeves obscured the movement of the arms. Even six or seven years ago skirts were long enough to hide one’s walk, should it be unattractive. But now, witji short skirts and sleeves, a woman must be very graceful if she is to create a good impression. Shingled hair means that more attention must also be paid to the holding of one’s head, for if it is badly held it will be a great deal more noticeable than it would if hair was long and hats large, as of yore. Is the girl of to-day remembering these points and trying to be as graceful as she can? Personally, I think she is getting to realise the importance of being graceful, but there is still room for improvement in many thousands of our women. For one thing, the road to grace is not being helped at all by modern dancing. Often this has been condemned by old-timers as being too tame, but our younger generation have only laughed and gone on doing the Charleston or the Black Bottom. After all, what did it matter what the old people said? If they enjoyed it, that was enough. But have they given a thought to the artistic side of modern dancing? If so, they could hardly avoid seeing how uglv it is, compared with the dances of other days. What was more graceful, for instance, than the minuets and quadrilles of the eighteenth century, or the polkas and Boston two-steps of Queen Victoria’s time? The truth is, nearly all the modern dances have originated from the negro races, and coloured people are a long way from being graceful. ° Of course, there is no escape for the girl who looks at modern ballroom dancing from this point of view. Until fashion changes, and more graceful dances are introduced, she can only go on just as she does now. But there are many other ways in which she can be graceful. There is an ugly and a beautiful style of doing everything. Instinct will tell a girl which is the ugly one, and she must do her best to avoid it. At the. same time, she must not be self-conscious. A movement that is naturally graceful looks far better than one which is made with studied grace. Special attention should be given to manners. A girl with good manners is nearly always graceful, for politeness cannot exist where clumsy gestures are present. The post-war years have seen some of the worst manners of all time, but I think a revival of politeness is on the way now. I myself find the young women of to-day far more mannerly than those of three or four years ago. Let us hope the revival of gracefulness will follow on the same lines. Only produce some more graceful dances, and we will be assured of it.

And to the girls who retort that they are too busy nowadays to waste thentime cultivating gracefulness, let me say that this, with general deportment, is a far greater asset in business than they imagine. A graceful girl Will make a favourable impression on her em-

ployer. Even though it —■ be sub? conscious, she will appear-to him to bq capable, and if preference is to be shown to anybody, it will be to her rather than to a girl who is awkward or Answers.

THE REBEL.

Beating all day at the ivory keys, And marshalling figures in rows, Debiting purchases, crediting sales, Discounting provisions and clothes. Sitting all day at a miserable desk, With fifty more doing the same, And the road outside, where the traffic goes by, Like a flickering, beckoning flame. God! I am sick of the office routine, Siek unto death of the rut, Tired of being a cog in the wheel (And receiving a salary cut). I want to get out, to go drifting again—» To forget about ledgers and files, And search out a road that wind* through the hills; And follow it miles and miles. I long for the roar of a strange city streets, 7 For the stars on the desert at night, The laugh of a girl in a Mexican town, Or a Barbary waterfront fight. I hear the road calling, I know I’ll be gone When the spring skies are turning to blue. The typewriter, dictaphone, buzzer, and books ? You’re welcome To take them—l’m through! —Terry Hatten, in Interludes.

COMING OF MAVIS BLUE.

According to all the official forecasts, and forecasts in these matters are usually very’ official indeed, this year is going to be a blue year—in fact, it is going to be a mavis blue year. Of course the weather clerk may’ decide not to have a spring this year’ just as he decided not to have a summer last year, but that will not deter our nymphs and matrons from arraying themselves in the popular mavis blue. The inevitable realist here interposes to. ask, M hat on earth is mavis, and why should he, she, or it be blue? That merely’ shows how dull and ignorant realists can be. Mavis, of course, is the poetical name for the song thrush, and the blue in question is the fascinating greenish blue of that feathered songstress’s eggs. Every schoolboy who has done any “ nesting ” knows the blue of a thrush's egg. and how very pretty and alluring it is. Well, the dames and damsels of this coming spring are going to be just as pretty and alluring. There is, as a matter of fact, a real industrial romance behind the new colour. It was actually copied from a thrush’s egg, and the fact that the exact tint has been faithfully reproduced is surely a wonderful tribute to the skill and incurably romantic instinct of the modern British dye chemist. The dyer’s cra't has always been the craft of an artist, and although nowadays he does not conjure his colours from plants and insects, but scientifically synthesises thousands of them from black mossy coal-tar, he is none the less an artist.

This year he has given us mavis blue, a colour symbolic of the singing birds and new awakening life. Practically everybody likes blue. It symbolises, so we are c'-editably informed, “ spiritual qualities, discernment, gentleness, courtesy.” Certain ancient religions took it to be the colour of the human soul, and nowadays we take it to be the colour of aristocratic descent, hence “ blue blood ” and possibly blue bags. If blue really does symbolise spiritual qualities ’t is just possible that the coming mavis blue spring will see a vast religious revival in our great cities, but this can hardly have been part of the dye manufacturers’ original intention. At least, judging from a limited acquaintance with dye manufacturers, we should scarcely think so. What the new colour will do will be to make our female section daintier, more captivating, and more marriageable than ever. Roll on, spring!—A. E. Tomlinson.