THE SKETCHER

Otago Witness, Issue 3911, 26 February 1929, Page 71

THE SKETCHER

SAINT PER.

Per, the miser, was richer than any— He worked like a dog and saved every penny

His bony old hands could close upon To add to his pile when the day was done.

Queer places were stuffed with silver and gold; Slits and cracks had all they could hold. In the larder in every cup and dish Were coins enough for anyone’s wish. But he never gave mite to poor or priest, So the good church people long had - ceased

Their hinting, and long had ceased to

wonder Who would get the gold when Per went yonder. And the cracked bell high in the rotting steeple Sounded to Mass, calling the people;

Till the old bell broke! Now all together Must go to Per and ask him whether He’d give some money to buy a cord, Or if he would get a bell for the Lord? Ten good men went to his house, But there wasn’t a sign of man or mouse.

They knocked on the window and knocked on the door, Pushed it open and saw on the floor

Per sprawling and counting his piled-

up money. One stepped forth as sweet as honey, Smiled at Per and said: “See here! What about getting a new bell, Per? ” “ Your souls,” said Per, “ a hundredfold Be damned before you get my gold!

And a thousand devils pour burning oil Over your flesh when in hell you boil! ” He cursed and swore till the honest men Said they had better go home again.

With rags on the windows and slats on the door, Per counted his silver and copper once more.

Time went by until one day ten Strong men knocked on the door again. Squinting through the keyhole, one of them said: “Heaven bless me! The miser is dead! And all his money in heaps on the floor! ” They broke the windows and broke the door—

Per lay on his back with a glassy stare. Skinny as a nail, and the cupboard was bare.

They bought a coffin and buried him

proper, And counted at night the silver and copper,

And said: “Let us get the new church bell, By now old Per is safe in hell! ” Bnt the years have changed the tale r. bit; The good old mothers like to sit

And tell the children about Saint Per The pious man who once lived here, Who gave to the church the golden cord And a bell of silver to the Lord. —Borghild Lee, in Poetry.

ENID AND ELIZABETH.

By Prudence Davies.

(Copyright.—For the Otago Witness.) Well, to begin with, I am Enid, and I suppose I should be 18, to make it sound like a real story-book tale, but I’m not, Anyway, I’m Enid, and—a little over 18 And Elizabeth is—Elizabeth, and my very best friend—even though she isn’t at all beautiful, and sometimes doesn’t behave exactly as she should. Some nasty people say I’m always pulling her to pieces, but that’s not true, because I love her, and so, of course, I try to improve her.

But all this palaver is holding back my story, so now I’ll really start. Well, it all began with Mrs Wilkin’s garden party. I was invited, but Elizabeth wasn’t—l don’t know why. However, I went. ' •

It was a lovely, sunny afternoon, and I was just looking at the roses, and through Minnie Marshall, who is a cat, when up came Mrs Wilkins with a young man in tow.

“ Oh, Enid,” she said, “ I was looking for you. May I introduce Mr Horace Hastie of Lanehester—Miss Enid Hall.”

I was glad I had on my new pale blue organdie, but the young man, although he came from the town, didn’t seem to notice it; he kept on talking and talking. •“ Please don’t be too amused at my name! ” he said, “ It’s bad enough to be

Horace; but to combine it with Hastie—ugh! ” “Oh, Hastie! ” I said. “You are no relation to Miss Edna Hastie, I suppose?”

“ You bet I am! ” he cried, “ She’s my sister, and I live with her. Do vou know her ? ”

When he found that she had been my favourite teacher at school, and that I hadn’t seen her for four years, he promptly invited me to come and see her next time I was in Lanehester, which is only 10 miles from our village. I said I should be pleased; and soon we were deep in conversation on all sorts of subjects, from roses to afternoon tea, which we partook of on the veranda. At the end of the afternoon, we parted again, but this was not the last time I saw 7 him.

Several times we met by accident, and once we went for such a long tramp together—we must have gone at least two miles!

At the end of the week Horace went back to Lanehester, reminding me of my promise to visit him—l mean his sister. All this time I had been rather neglecting Elizabeth, I’m afraid, so a fortnight later I asked her to come to Lanehester with me. I was going to buy father a birthday present, and, incidentally, to call on Mr—oh, there 1 go again—Miss Hastie.

We set out on a fine Thursday morning. I was wearing my best costume, and Elizabeth was in her usual black, but looking very bright. We had a nice trip into town, but it was just after we arrived there that the terrible thing happened, for as, we were going along the main street, Elizabeth went right up to a lady and knocked her down! I had never felt so horrified in all my life before!

In a few seconds up came a fat policeman, who began to argue with me, and threaten me, while Elizabeth stood silent and (I hope) ashamed. Soon a crowd had collected, and there was J standing in a public street, trying to tell a stupid police constable that it wasn’t my fault that Elizabeth behaved so badly, when, horror of horrors, Horace Hastie came into sight! “ Why, Miss Hall! ” he exclaimed. “Whatever is the matter?”

I could have sunk through the ground with mortification, but I told him all about it, and soon he had settled the policeman—l don’t know how—and the crowd dispersed. . Then he insisted that I should come with him to his sister’s house.

“ You have had an unpleasant experience,” he said, “ It will do you good to rest a. little.”

So I went, though I was ready to cry with shame—aud I left Elizabeth without a word. /

We were just nearing the corner of Field street, where he said his sister lived, when he turned to me suddenly and said:

But, Miss Hall, how on earth did you manage to knock that woman over? ” This was really the last straw, and I burst into tears; but the next thing I knew, his arms were around me, and then—well, I shall draw a veil of what followed, as novelists say. A few minutes later I disentangled myself and said:

Horace Hastie, you are incorrigible. Just fancy, I have only known you a fortnight, and ”

I couldn’t help it,” he said cheerfully, “Hastie by name and hasty by nature, you know.”

I thought so too. and I thought so even more when he hurried me off to a jeweller’s—l don’t know what father will say!

“And on the way,” he said, “we’ll take Elizabeth to a garage, for she must come with us on our honeymoon.” I don’t think I mentioned that Elizamy ol<l Ford > which I bought, for £lO. ° THE CATTLE. As we sped homewards under a starry By the rich pastures, the sleeping and quiet trees, What are these little lights, tossed low and high, As a lantern swung in a man’s hand ? What are these?

Who are these coming? A soundless multitude Swerving away from the light ? These are eyes, eyes, eyes, The eyes of the frightened cattle, red as blood, Pass into the night and its mysteries.

Under the holy mountains the pastures keep Dew and honey and quiet breathing deep rest, By the side of the milky mother the lambs are asleep

Till the cuckoo calls; the night has a mother’s breast.

But these that have passed us by; they go, they go, Driven with curses and goads, unpitied, unstayed, To the slaughterhouse and the blood and at last the blow— The ghostly cattle passing have made me afraid. —Katharine Tynan, in the Spectator. ST. VALENTINE’S DAY. Although in this materialistic age, St. Valentine is a saint whose popularity l.e.s greatly diminished, there have been signs within the past year or two of a revival of the ancient festival—the custom of love-sick youth and maidens sending each other valentines on February 14. The British public, which in the ’seventies and early ’eighties of last century annually expended a quarter of a million pounds sterling upon those offerings of affection, spends upon them to-day not more than one-fifteenth of that sum. In 1880, 2500 men were employed in London alone in preparing for St. Valentme’s Day; to-day most of those men are otherwise engaged. _ln Cupid’s palmy days laced paper, tinsel, hearts, doves, and arrows were his stock-in-trade—a trade that has witnessed in two decades or so remarkable decline. -

But more than once the exchange of missives appropriate to the dedication of the saint of the Roman calendar said to have been martyred in 306 a.d., has very nearly disappeared, only to revive again more strongly than >.ver. And it must be remembered that valentines are still popular in the United States and Canada. In fact, in the American city February 14 is thought almost as much of as Christmas Day on this side of the Atlantic.

Chaucer a. d Shakespeare have told us that the observance of St. Valentine’s Day was engendered by the pretty conceit that in the middle of February birds first choose their mates, ar.d the notion is certainl’- charming. Then, again, Goldsmith relates in the “ Vicar of Wakefield ” how true loveknots were sent out on St. Valentines morning, and Misson, in his “ Travels in England,” describes how, on the eve of St. Valentine’s Day, an equa l number of maids and oaclielors got together, each writing his or her name upon slips of paper, which were subsequently rolled up and drawn by lots, the maids taking the men’s billets and the men the maids’, the fated one being to each his or her valentine.

The practice of sending printed picture cards on St. Valentine’s Day is of comparatively modern origin, d ting back only to the. middle of the last century. In older times costly presents we. given and received both by men and women. It is on record that Sir Walter Raleigh received on St. Valentine’s Day jewellery to the value of £30,00C from court ladies, and was equally extravagant in reciprocating.

In the reign of the pernickety monarch James I, St. Valentine’s Day lost some of its glory, and later during the time of the Commonwealth was, like most other popular festivals, absolutely snuffed out.

When Charles II came to the throne the day at once regained all its former importance. The Duchess of Richmond received gems worth £ll,OOO on one Valentine’s Day, and Nell Gwynne’s valentine from her royal .lover was a necklace costing £3OOO. In the days of the first Georges, again, little*was heard of valentines, and it was not until-1780 that the popularity of the feast flared up once more. At that date young men composed, wrote, and sometimes painted their own valentines. This fdrm remained in favour for about 50 years. Sometimes the missive was signed with its giver’s name, but more often with a nom-de-plume. Late in the ’eighties came the comic valentine—a hideous invention which did more than anything else to help kill the pretty old custom. Yet, even so, valentines continued to be sent in a large number up to the beginning of the present century. With the arrival of St. Valentine once more those caricatures which in past days violated every canon of art and good taste will be conspicuous by their absence. The festival is now dedicated to the genuine poetry of love and courtship. —D. A. 0., in the Glasgow Weekly Herald. THE KING’S DAUGHTER. Darkness was on the countryside. “ O love, O little love,” he cried, Reach out your hand to me! ” And to the nleading shepherd lad She reached her hand out, proud and glad; “ With all my heart,” said she.

“ The way is sharp,” he said, “ and slow. The night is thicker as we go.

Lean not so long on me.” She drew her eager hand away. “ Have cheer, fo r surely comes the day ■\nd journey’s end,” s aid she.

“Choose now a way less black and steep. I must lie down awhile to sleep. I can no more,” said he. ‘‘ Alas, but for my father’s sake There is no other way to take. I go j«lone,”. said she. —Rosalie Hickler, in the Atlantic Monthly. MOTHER OF A SON.

It does not matter how much we love little girls, there is something special about being the mothef of a son. Something primal that is behind all polite talk and convention, or anything that we care to pretend to the contrary. Perhaps it is this-glorious beginning that makes everything that comes afterwards seem so much worse, lhat little boys are twice the trouble of little girls to bring up few will deny. As a practising mother of many years’ experience I am quite sure of it. They take their teething harder, they take their measles worse, and oh, their goings to school!

Watch any school-special departing from any station at the end of any holidays! The brisk, determined-to-make-the-best-of-a-bad-business air of the little girls. The poor, sad, tear-sodden, drooping little boys! Indeed and indeed they meant to be brave, for how they hate to be outdone by their sisters! But, somehow, they mislaid all those good intentions just inside the doorway of home. And all this is heartbreakingly difficult when one is trying to be brave too. It often seems to me that we ~et no peace at all. For no sooner are they over their teething and nursery troubles than this school business begins, and off they go again, reft from us. their little bags con taining ** Handkerchief, extra collar, and night things, please,” in their grief-stricken hands. How we should like to keep them rt home, but how they would blame us afterwards if we did!

There may be mothers who look forward to tlie end of the holidays with sentiments

relief. I have read of them in books, but I have never met one. Most mothers in their heart of hearts are counting, secretly along with their sons, that dismal sum that runs, “ Only fourteen days, ten hours and thirty-five minutes left! ” And often in the night watches there is another sum we do who have sons. “ Only ten more years and the nursery door will be open, and the birds all flown.” Flown, to nowhere as comforting as school, with its mouse pie and dead horse which, according to all little boys, is the diet provided for them by those cultured murderers in disguise, their schoolmasters ! Flown to what? If only we could tell. But there is very little for us to do but sit at home and knit the stockings and give them memories that will help them to be decent afterwards.

Watching him from little-boyhood on, we know so well his weaknesses, we know so well his strengths. What will always be his greatest draw-back, and just those things he is going to find some day stand him in good stead. We are well aware of both, but if we tell him he will not listen to us; and experience, until the end of time, will be the only teacher the young will give attention. We have got to remember that, and we have also to remember that over the whole business of going out into the world there is the first glorious sparkle, for them, that is the dew of the morning which we can no longer see.

Nor can we sniff any more the glorious adventure in the air. But for him it is there. Send him out and let him discover it for himself.

That is the kindest thing any mother can do for her son. Fairies are dancing in the garden. Do not pull down the blinds because you cannot see them yourself.

Terrible is the temptation to keep him safe at home. To tie him fondly to our apron strings. To ..encourage him to sit warmly with us over the fire, and let High Noon with all its glad adventure pass by. There are mothers who do this. Mothers who say proudly: “My Harold is so devoted to me. He hasn’t a thought beyond me.” She says it with pride, not aware that she has made a failure of the biggest job of all. Harold has got to think of something else, or Harold is a wash-out. The world needs men, not comfortablyupholstered male chesterfields. Harden your heart! Send them out on their own. Encourage them to find interests apart from you. It may hurt you to find them needing you less and less, but if they don’t it is going to hurt them a great deal more later on, The world must have its own way with our sons. We cannot shield them from it. All we can see is that they learn the rules of the game in the kindest of schools, and start off armed with the proper tools. And we can make it clear to them that this business that seems so frightening to beginners is really the greatest fun of all to him who has his shoulder to the wheel.

Only one thing is there that no mother of sous can contemplate in quiet. That is war! All round us there is talk of war. Have we mothers of sous brought our children into the world to be killed as other mothers’ sons were killed not so very long ago, in battles that the light of further- exxperience has made some of us fear were all about nothing. Are we going to have all the misery and wastage and agony over again J

No, and no! Women have got to stand shoulder to shoulder against that, all -he world over. There are times when it is a cheerful thing to remember that, after all, there are more women in the world than men.

For the power to stop all these miseries does not lie in any parliament or peace conference, nor is .written in any book. All the world over it lies, hardly realised in many cases yet, in the hands of mothers of sons. Sons who are as yet little and helpless in their cradles, or listening, in the evening, nor yet grown out of the safe warmness of home, to fairy tales round the fire.—Dorothy Black, in Home Chat. BELEAGUERED CITIES. Build our houses, build your houses build your towns, ’ ■ Fell the woodland, to a gutter turn th a brook, Pave the meadows, pave the meadows, pave the downs, Plant your bricks and mortar where the grasses shook, The wind-swept grasses shook. Build, build your Babels black against the sky ; But mark yon small green blade, your stones between, The single spy Of that uncounted host you have outcast; For with their tiny pennons waving green They shall storm your streets at°last.

Build your houses, build your hous?s, build your slums, Drive your drains where once the rabbits used to lurk, Let there be no song now save the wind that hums Through the idle wires while dumb men tramp to work, Tramp to their idle work. .Silent the siege ; non§ notes it ; yet one day Men from your walls shall watch the woods once more Close round their prey. Build, build the ramparts of your gianttown ; Yet they shall crumble to the dust before The battering thistle-down. —F. L. Lucas, in the New Statesman. “I’LL DO IT TO-MORROW.” That’s all right. I’ll do it to-mor-row! ” Everyone knows the girl who always says this when you ask her to do anything. I think it must be a particularly feminine weakness. I don’t seem to remember ever hearing a man saying it, but I know quite a little army of women who invariably put off to-day what can be left till to-morrow.

It is a most insidious habit to get into, for if you are not very careful it will grow and grow until you never do anything that you are not almost forced to do. Nearly everything can be put off till to-morrow if you get into that state of mind of not caring two hoots about anybody’s comfort but your own.

And aren’t these *' I’ll do it to-morrow ” people maddening to live with? - You can never ask them to do anything for you—even the most important thing will be casually left till to-morrow and with the “ nut offs ” to-morrow never comes at all!

Take Kitty, for example. The worst of it is that there is invariably somebody in the family who feels responsible for Kitty’s lack of purpose. Mother will keep an eye on Kitty all the time, noting the things she hasn’t done and generally seeing that one of the other girls does them for her.

“ Have you cut out your frock for our party next week? ” asks mother. “ No,” replied Kitty, “ to-morrow will do for that.”

But by to-morrow still nothing is done, and so in desperation her mother or one of her sisters will cut out the material and. most likely, make the frock up as well.

“ It is easier to do the thing yourself than make Kitty get to work,” they say. Kitty will also excuse herself by saying, “ I can’t be home to-day. but I could manage to-morrow if that would do,” knowing perfectly well that tomorrow would not do!

“ Would Kitty really oblige to-morrow if to-morrow would do ? ” I asked Kitty’s sister one dav.

“ Oh. yes, I think so,” said Helen, a little doubtfully. “Then why not manoeuvre a little,”" I suggested, “ and give her the chance of helping? You want to go to a dance on I’hursday if Kitty will stay in and look after the children. Well, ask her if she can be in on Wednesday, and see what happens!

-cThe trick worked, for Kitty gave her usual reply: “ Oh, I am so sorry, I am going out on Wednesday, but I am quite free on Thursday.” “ You have made a mistake, Helen,” I chipped iu; “the dance is on Thursday.”

You should have seen Kitty’s face! It was a picture of annoyance! _ Since then Helen has been more diplomatic, and often manages to make Kitty’s “ I’ll do it to-morrow ” really come off.

It is curing Kitty, too, of saying it quite so frequently!—Women’s Weekly.