THE SKETCHER

Otago Witness, Issue 3889, 25 September 1928, Page 71

THE SKETCHER

HERITAGE.

jMy mother’s great-grandmother A lass from Devon came; Her little body is dust so long I’ve nigh forgotten her name. Her wistful legend only Has stood the wrack of years, How always at the summer’s flood Her laughter broke to tears; She’d blunder with her baking, Her stitches ran uneven; She’d droop above her'-churn and sigh, “Ah me, it’s spring in Devon! ” It made a family byword Long after she was dead; “As fine as spring in Devonshire,” Her children’s children said. Across the world I journeyed One year, as springtime came, And stumbled on her little heart Who had forgotten her name. And found beyond refuting What made that crooked seam, — What burned the biscuits in their prime, And spoiled the mellow’ cream. 0 little great-grandmother, The dream that bound your brow’ Has touched my own unwitting eyes— It’s spring in Devon now! ■ —Nancy Byrd Turner, in the Cornhill , _ Magazine. LOOK BEFORE YOU VAMP. By Katharine Haviland Taylor. Know yourself, my little sister-under-the-skin, and your impulses for good or ill, and know where you’re going! Know, too, whether you want a lifelong friend or a man w’ho will look upon you as the developing darkroom of his male weaknesses; and whether you want to hurt a woman who probably has enough hurts without your adding any to them.

I am speaking thus frankly of the possibility of your “ vamping ” because the new freedom sonietimes makes “ really nice girls” a bit too free. And there are many socially-judged, “ really nice ” little Eves running about nowadays who ask Adam to sti T away with them—outside of Adam’s own Eve’s Eden. We hear everywhere that Marjory is having “ an affair ” with Teddy Howard or Jones, and that Mrs Howard or Jones looks strained and tired, but that, otherwise, she’s paying no attention to it. Then we hear—that it’s “ all off,” and we talk of the next affair. Now, if we’d follow the first affair we’d find a salutary truth or two. Marjory, having lost her hold on Ted, has for ever lost the possibility of making lifelong friends of Ted and his wife. They are both her enemies. Ted thinks of her with shame; Mrs Ted, with hate. Marjory will also suffer from the same feeling with- Mrs Ted’s friends. And, thus, will be exiled to her St. Helena by her own faults, and at the time when a woman’s life may be—with proper preparation—at its most interesting point.

Life should not be regarded as a game in which we must win obvious and enviable prizes, and when it is, those who win the obvious and enviable prizes are rarely liked and loved. This excelling one’s friends and enemies usually means a sort of cruelty. Some years ago I encountered a flustered curate leaving my father’s drawing room; I had, at that moment, a flirtatious young friend visiting me, and after the curate had taken himself away I said to my guest: “ What'were you doing to Mr Nessly?” She answered, with an impish little giggle: x -' “ I was practising on him.” Now, her methods were to make each man feel that he alone was the example of all perfection, and in return she had sufficient proposals to have forced her to use a telegraph-pole-length parasol, had she notched it for each proposal. She was vastly proud of her conquests, but she had not once gained an enduring friend from all these lovers; instead,, she had hurt—badly—many, many men whom she should have saved from hurt, and she has ended up by being a rather embittered, frost-tinged virgin, who is amazed by the fact that all proposals have ceased, and that she is single and without too many friends. “ But,” you say, “ I am honestly crazy over So-and-so—and he is very unhappy with his w’ife. And”—a widening of eyes and a theatrically innocent expression—“we are just friends.” In answer to that I would say, “ Of course you are not his friend if you let him complain to you about his wife; you are, by letting him do this, weakening something in him that should be strong. And—you will some day feel his change; this change will come when he is a little tired of you, and has found someone else of equally lax character who will let him complain to her about his wife.”

The friend who endures helps a friend and does not sap him; this friend sticks a finger in the dyke to stop a leak; she does ■ not make the leak larger. And—the man remembers who has helped hint to keep from making confidences that he may later regret. Of this tvpe a man says, “She’s a fine girl! There aren’t very many like her ” —and some times I fear there are not. And there is another point; the kind of man who wishes affairs and nothing better is quite as equal to hurting as the best “ little vamp.” What do you want? False admiration, an admiration that will not bear the test, of years, or—a regard that will grow—slowly but surely ? What do you plan to do? Build up habits that will make you attractive at 40 or 50? Friends that will be dear al 40—or 50? Or—do you plan to live your life so that you will be stripped o* everything that counts at 40 or -50? Alone, cold, without friends? What influence do you want to have upon men ? An influence that will make them confide to you such trouble as you may help them solve and no others? Or do you want to hear their whining* about their wives, sisters, mothers, and—thus deplete their already failing strength? Do you want to ~ stimulate them suddenly and in a wrong way, to make them at length turn from you as this ephemeral emotion dies? Or—do you wish to be a sure and lasting friend? How do you want to be thought of by other women? As a good sport and a square woman or—a mean poacher? Do you want proposals for the sake of getting them? Or would you rather not have a proposal that will hurt the man to whom you must say’ no? Change you views if they have been wrong; it is easy nowadays in the “new freedom ” to become confused. And, with your views changed, build up n sound coterie of friends who will serve you well and as you serve them. And when you see something that looks rather alluring in the way of a “light flirtation,” realise that it is the product of but an hour; and that 40 and 50 count with a woman, and that to be those ages gracefully and happily we must work to find the right habits and strong habits well before those ages are close.—Home Chat.

CIRCUS RIDER TO RINGMASTER. Casterbridge Fair. When I am riding round the ring no longer, , Tell a tale of me; Say, no steed-borne woman’s nerve was stronger Than used mine to be. Let your whole soul say it; do. O it will be true! Should I soon no more be mistress found in Feats I’ve made my own, Trace the tan-laid track you’d whip me round in On the cantering roan: There may cross your eyes again My lithe look as them Show how I, when clay becomes mj’ cover, Took the high-loop leap Into your arms, who coaxed and grew my lover— Ah, to make me weep Since those journeys joyed in so Ever so long ago! Though not now as when you freshly knew me, But a fading form, Shape the kiss you’d briskly blow up to me While our love was warm, And my cheek unstained by tears, As in these last years! —Thomas Hardy, in Harper’s.

SHE WHO ADVERTISES IS LOST. Evelina is pretty, and exquisitely dressed, and a joy to the eye. So impressed was I with her chann of appearance that I introduced her to our local tennis club. And now I am suffering for it!

At my approach, with Evelina smiling at my side, there is a general movement, and before we can get within hail ing distance, there is a stealthy flight. If we do manage to get partners, do they sit with us after the doubles? They, do not. They slink off, with or without a muttered excuse, according to their degrees of politeness. And I think murderous thoughts, and simmer violently within myself. One day I shaP end up by stuffing Evelina, down a handv drain!

Only one sustained topic of conversation has she—as inevitable as the sunrise, as depressing as a rainy Satur day afternoon, is Evelina’s discourse upon her conquests—of men!

• Helen of Troy and Venus' were poor fish compared with Evelina, and Cleopatra didn’t know the first thing about

the art of enslavement. Not in thousands does Evelina count her victims, nor in tens of thousands, they are as the sands of the sea. Does she go to a theatre, there is always a man in the next row who sits speechless with admiration, and never takes his eyes off her the whole evening! After a visit to the cinema she comes with a breathless tale of a handsome boy who picked up her programme, and followed her out, and stood gazing in silent adoration and a heavy downpour, until she was lost to sight on the bus. And if she does spread herself with the girls, you’d think she would be grace fully silent with the men. Not she! Lest they might think she is a treasure unclaimed, a rose wasting its sweetness in vain, she enlightens them, in little asides and mysterious whisperings, how very popular she is with their sex, and how she understands them. She has al way’s known so many men, you see! And the men fidget, and smile, with a strained air, and the girls gaze with concentrated disbelief, and then they remember that I introduced her—and my popularity is dimmed. If a canvasser conies to her door to sell tea, or a traveller from a sewingmachine company, or a vendor of lavender bags, all, all go down before her deadly battery of charms. Never was such wholesale slaughter! Never since the days of King Arthur were there such sighing and amorous cavaliers. “ And you know,” she will conclude to . her unwilling and incredulous audience (usually, of one) “he looked at me so hard, and I felt positively shy. There was such meaning in his eyes! ” As one ill-natured member said: “ There are meanings and meanings, and people have been sent to asylums for seeing things! ” The men in our club are a hopeless lot. No eye for charm or beauty, no hearts to vibrate with a mysterious sympathy’. At any rate, they don’t appreciate Evelina! —Women’s Weekly. TO MY SUB-LIMINAL SELF. How came we thus together? Dark Spirit housed in me! Bound by W’hat fatal tether Closer than claw to leather, Or flower to honey-bee? Thou wak’st when I am sleeping,. Ousting me from my throne, My past lies in thy keeping, I spend long hours in reading The tares that thou hast sown. A sage that oft will blunder, A saint that stoops to shame, In all thy ways a wonder, Thou rendest life asunder, And I must bear the blame. When I an: tuned to sadness, Thou unabashed wilt play, But in thy ribald gladness Confusion lives, and madness Is never far away. Wilt thou be standing by me, In Heaven’s all-judging day, Pleading with them that try me, Or wilt thou then deny me. And go thy separate way ? —T. Thornely, in the London Mercury.

WHY DRESS CLOTHES ARE BLACK. Many and various are the causes which have brought certain fashions into vogue. Battles, sieges, novels, and even bets have each contributed to bring about a style of dress which flourished for a time and then ceased to be. - Strict adherence to a vow was the cause of ecru colour in linen and lace becoming fashionable, and thereby hangs a tale. In the beginning of the seven teenth century, when the Spaniards wer.besieging Ostend, Isabella, the daughter of Philip II of Spain, made a vow not to. change her linen until Ostend was captured. Unforunately the siege, instead of lasting three weeks or three months only, lasted three years, a pro longation which did not enter the lady’s head possibly when she made her vow Yet her reputation for veracity stood so high that it was believed she kept her vow, hence the ladies adopted as the fashionable colour a yellowish, dingy shade which was named after the princess, I’lsabeau.

Even a battle has been the cause of setting a fashion. At the battle of Steinkirk, fought on the morning of August 3. 1692, the French nobles were surprised in their sleep, and, hastily’ rushing out of their tents, they arranged their cravats in a very careless manner. The French were victorious, and to commemorate their victory it afterwards became the fashion to wear the neck cloth in a negligee manner. Hence the origin of the Steinkirk cravat, as it was named.

Few articles of dress were more popular at -one time than -the short coat

known as the spencer, the origin of wh.ch is extremely curious. During the reigi: of George 111 Earl Spencer, who was rather particular how he dressed, onceremarked in a company that no fashion was so ridiculous but would be adop nd if worn by a person of sufficient import ance. This was objected to, whereupon the earl offered to bet that if he cut off the skirts of his coat, and walked out with merely the body and sleeves, someone would follow suit. The bet was taken, the coat prepared, and worn by the earl in London. Before a week was over a well-known tailor, who was always on . the. look-out" for something new, copied it, and so the spencer came into being.

The present style of men’s" evening <ii ess came into" fashion a century ago through the medium of a novel. In the summer of 1828 Bulwer Lytton published “ Pelham,” which immediately became a best seller.” In it the mother of the hero says to him: “I did not like that blue coat you wore when last i say you. You look best in black, whicu is a great compliment, for people must be very distinguished in appearance to do so.” Commenting on this in his unfinished biography of his father the novelist’s son writes: “Lord Oxford telis me. that the adoption of the now in variable black for evening wear dates from the publication of “ Pelham ” in 1828.. Till then evening dress coats were of different colours —browm, green, or blue, according to the fancy of the wearer. John o’ London’s Weekly.

WANDERLUST. Girl of mine, listen! I need you to-day, Spells of spring magic Tempt me away. Grey geese a-flying, Wind in the south, Mysteries lying Beyond your red mouth. Girl of mine, hearken! I need you to-night, Out in the garden Plum trees are white. Petals a-sifting Under the moon, Dream-webs a-drifting In endless festoon. All the slim strength of you Binds me to home, Still the free soul of me Ever must roam! —L. Leslie Spaulding, in Footprints.

APPRECIATION OF SCENTS. It is commonly admitted that ths sense of smell is not with us so keen as once it was. “ Civilisation,” says J. A Thomson, “ has staked so much on eye and ear that man’s sense of smell seems on the down-grade.” In far-off days a keen sense of smel* was doubtless as useful as keen sight or keen hearing. Primitive man de pended on its announcements much mord than we do. Modern life has, in many ways, dispensed with the service of this sense. The nose no longer shares equal dignity with eye and ear. Things have their own characteristic fragrance. Each knows how to distil its own sweetness. The odour is as unmistakable as the plant. The variety is amazing. An attempt to catalogue the fragrances of the earth is a revelation of the abounding wealth that awaits this sense. Merely to go over the fragrances that we know, lingering in thought over each, how good it is—the odour of the newly-turned earth, the scent of pine woods, mint, lavender, rosemary, thyme, woodruff, and all the herbs, the sweet ness of roses, of honeysuckle, of mignonette, of the evening primrose, the clean aroma of clover fields, or of newly-mown grass, bogmyrtle, cherrywood, geranium. There is the odour of apples and tangerine oranges, of cloves, of newly-ground coffee, of wood smoke.

Each can make his own list, and with each separate odour that one knows well will be a store of memories. For the sense of smell is a loyal handmaid o-’ memory; often most precious things are given into its keeping. So that a sudden whiff of lavender or of pine or of wood smoke will restore some wondrbus bygone hour. This association with memory’ is an enchantment of -something that even for its own sake is precious. How great, wealth is stored under the one word fragrance! In regard to this sense, perhaps the first need is to be persuaded of the new joy it may bring to us, to believe that its gifts are not less precious than those of eye and of ear. Then some effort must be made to enter into the waiting heritage. There needs a discipline of the senses, no less than of the muscles, for fitness. To go into morning fields with a cigarette as our companion is to disqualify ourselves. We must make our choice. The sense must be eared for, protected. It is a most sensitive gift to be carefully treasured.—Frank Garth, in the Woman’s Magazine.

CHANT D’AMOUR. I lean from the window and wonder and drcam, As I wait, as I wait; She is coming to-night, and I dream and I wonder, At watch for a hurrying shadow from under The trees by the fountain, the shadow of trees; She will see me and wave, from the shadow of trees Her love with her hand, as I wait, as I wait For my love in a dream.

Then a step on the stair, then a. hand on the door, As I wait, as I wait; — She is here in her hat and her mantle of mauve Just matching the tint of the cheeks of my love; Her lips are on mine, and her arms are around me, Her heart on my heart throbs with joy to have found me, To have found and to know that I wait, that I wait For her love evermore. ‘ Arthur Symons, in the Buccaneer. FARDROSS. (County Tyrone). Now I may see at will The wide flung moors against the windy sky, The bountiful great curves of pastureland And umber of plowed fields; A larch-crowned hill, Old elm trees loud with rooks Blue smoke the wind whirls by. I watch the drifts of daffodils Grow golden in the dawn; A cherry tree put on its glistening veil, A gay pied wagtail running on the lawn; See where beside the hidden stream The webber April weaves A carpet of anemones On antique becchen leaves. Pictures of sky and mountain, Bogs where plover call, Deep primrosed glen, gray moor Are mine until the book ends here— The best of all— Your friendly faces at the open door, —W. M. Letts, in the Irish Statesman.

FORGOTTEN. Beneath the great pine tree we rest, Dear John, Elizabeth, and I—(I think I really’ loved him best) —- Elizabeth was first to die. And then I came. I knew his heart Was in the green mound on the hill; But I was glad to have a part In caring for his comfort still. And did he learn to love me some ? I never knew. With his last breath He smiled and said his time had come To sleep beside Elizabeth. I kept their graves, and still lived on, Until I, too, was called; and so The neighbours buried me by John— I had no other place to go. And here we’ve lain for many years. The hill is now a pasture field In strangers’ hands; nobody clears The sunken mounds by weeds concealed. The clumsy’ cows above us tread To gain the friendly pine tree’s shade— I shudder in my narrow bed, A little lonesome and afraid! I’d like to reach my hand to John, But I am held by more than death—• I tear to learn he thinks upon None other than Elizabeth. —B. 5 . Williams, in House of Happiness.

SPRING. The catbird prowls the lilacs once again, His low, weird notes a puzzle to the ear, Unlike Cock Kobin's voice—as joy to fear. I wonder that they both come back each year! And here’s that thief, the blue jay, bold as when He left last fall. Loud are his screams of hate, And Jenny Wren builds on, thrilled by her mate. I wonder, Spring, if you hold hands with Fate! —Lowe W. Wren, in the Kansas City Star. That whole loaf that has grown too stale and is beyond even freshening by moistening with milk and drying in the oven makes a nice dinner dish. Cut off the top crust and scoop out all the soft part without breaking the loaf. Crush the crumbs well and fry them in butter or beef dripping. Put a tablespoonful of butter or beef dripping, into a saucepan with two tablespoonfuls of flour, add two cups of milk slowly and bring to the boil, stirring all the time. Season with salt and pepper. Fill th. loaf with layers of the crumbs and any left over meat, chopped, making the top layer crumbs, and serve nice and hot.