THE SKETCHER

Otago Witness, Issue 3912, 5 March 1929, Page 71

THE SKETCHER

CAPRICE.

It wasn’t intended that the cow should

find the poppies. (There are many, many places where

red poppies grow In the maize, in the wheat, in the green hay meadows; If you look in under, you can see them —so.)

The white cow went in there because the hedge was broken. (She was a milk-coloured cow with huge, brown eyes. And she smelled sweet as milk, as she walked with heavy udders.) She sniffed the hay meadow with pleased surprise.

She ate the green hay and she ate the red poppies ; She lay down to rest and to chew her cud, And to eat them again with reminiscent rapture— ; The popnv and the pod and the sheathed round bud.

Of course she dreamed —having eaten poppies ; She - walked the silver thoroughfare that is the Milky Way. She had never seen cypresses, but certainly cypresses Hemmed the road in, slender and gray,

And the sky was lavender, and dusty with mystery. She dreamed that she was 10, walking there In a shift of silk and a damask tunic With scarlet flowers in her long, gold hair. She knew that she was Io ! Dearie, dearie, She was so lovely and slim and white, That the god who looked on her loved her straightway, And leaned to caress her. Her heart was light

On her lips as she kissed him; but it seemed very quiet, And she wondered if his house had straw on the floor — It is wise for cows to avoid red poppies. She can never be hapnv any more. —Dorothy Stott Shaw, in the Lyric.

THE FAIRY TUNE. In a child’s story-book which has come into my hands, the fairies sought to confer a "gift upon poor humanity. They were sorry for the humans who were always tearing along in cars, or pouring in petrol, or mending punctures, or watering gardens, or “ listening-in,” Or having their hair cut. They wanted to give them a change. So they chose three children to whom they thought their gift would prove acceptable and beneficial, and they gave them a little bit of fairy time. This needs some explanation. These three children were set a task by their governess, and left by themselves to finish it. They were disobedient, and left their t sk and went down to the seashore instead —sufficient, you might argue, to justify the worst of punishments. But no, the fairies were on the side of the children, not of those in authority, who so carefully' measured out time. So they enticed them to a magic island, and showed them a magic castle, such as the children had dreamed of, with a beautiful garden which was pervaded by a haunting tune. The children, when they did go back to their lessons, found that, as mere mortals count it, they had beep away a very short time. But that extra bit of fairy time had amounted to a good deal, and" in it they had learned the tune that was to be their possession all their days.

Only' a child’s fairy tale, you may expostulate. But is there not a wider significance in that thought? Many of us would be grateful for that bit of fairy time, especially if it brought us a heavensent tune. For every day aren’t we hearing people make the excuse, “ 1 haven’t any time! ” Time, it might appear, is a priceless possession. When some of us shingled our hair, we said, by .the way of extenuation, Just think of the time it will save! ” (I imagine some of the unshingled wondered what was going to be done with the extra time; they are still wondering, I have no doubt!) Electric conveniences in the home—these will save this precious commodity. Electricity instead of paraffin lamps—it saves time. And what do we do with this extra time? Should the fairies bestow upon us this extra bit, should we make it an excuse for spending an extra hour in bed? —a habit which I heard a well-known authoress deprecating the other day, while proclaiming her own immunity from such indulgence. Our extra bit of fairy time would only be worth possessing if it gave us something infinitely precious, something that would contribute to our real happiness.

Are we any happier in this age that proclaims that it is saving so much time, and yet never has any to spare? It is questionable, indeed. Unceasingly we are pursuing pleasure, which we think spells happiness, refusing to acknowledge that

we cannot catch up with it. . “ Most peoule now do not wish to stay at home; they want to move about as far and as fast and as often as they can,” said a thinker the other day. By so doing, they would tell us they are trying to make the most of time.

At the risk of being written down as Early Victorian, one would ask if they were doing the best thing by thus trying- to escape from home. The magic tune is just likely to come to us there as on the high roads. (One is safer there, too, than joining this nerve-rack-ing rush from place to place, only I scarcely suppose that that would count!) Perhaps one heard the magic tune long ago in the days of childhood, as one sat on the hearthrug of an evening, the story book slipping from one’s fingers, one’s ears intent on the air, only less alluring than that which came to Mary Rose, which made one picture life as a realm of faeiy, and see the ordinary people of every day as denizens of a land of colour ard light and. happiness. And then the glory faded; one left it behind. One forgot it. One rushed about, pursuing this craze and that, seeking happiness in a childish kind of pursuit. Happiness?—“ It comes to us in brief snatches,” said someone in that appealing play “ Out of the Sea,” “ when we have learned to do without it.”

There are, perhaps, too many delusions about happiness spread out to mislead us. Some look for it nowhere else than in the dance hall. Life at home is grey, its duties unromantic—not that one would shirk them, but one does not expect, it is often argued, to find magic in them. Girls whose lives perhaps contain little happiness elsewhere seek to find it in the perusal of cheap novelettes. Others seek it on the highway', in the motor car, on the pillion—endlessly', persistently, never pausing to hear that

little tune. And when they have rushed until they are tired of rushing, they sleep and only’ wake up to rush again! And, perhaps, forgetting all about fairy tunes, one may’ at times feel inclined to envy them, until the fatuity, the utter aimlessness of it all strikes one anew.

Then one day, one meets someone who looks as though she were hearing that fairy tune all the time. There is a sweetness, a look of content about her face, that seems to tell us so—are our faces really’ so tell-tale as that we begin to ask ourselves. I am afraid they’ are! It can maintain that sweet yet competent look, one feels assured, in the midst of even domestic chaos. The home over which she presides cannot fail to be a happy’ one; its children might well hear the fairy music all the time. And then we meet someone in whose eyes there is a hard metallic look, and we feel that the fairies must have passed her by. Perhaps it is the good things of this world on which her eyes are so rigidly fixed, to the complete exclusion of the ideal garden with its music. Then, again, one meets someone whose heart is in her work, and she, too, is hearing fairy music all the time. A

little of the enthusiasm that lures her on her way' is always trickling over, so that everyone with whom she comes in contact may share in it. She will even lend a sympathetic ear to your recital of your interests, though they may be poles apart from her own. Is it just because the fairies whisper to her in the silences that she is so expert with her brush and her colours, even while the motor cars go rushing hither and thither on the high-roads? Surely the fairies have whispered to her about the composition of that picture—otherwise she cannot account for its manner of building up! . .

Haven’t you noticed the radiance that wraps about the people who listen to the fairy' tune? A great surgeon or a preacher may' exemplify it so it may a charwoman or a shopgirl. Yes, I think that little bit of fairy time, for the idea of which I have to thank Edith I. Elias, might be a most valuable concession could we but utilise it to the full, by doing “ something different,” and gleaning fresh insight into the things that matter. The artist, in whatever department of life, would, I think, know what to do with it, only we lesser mortals should beware lest we merely

make it an excuse for a longer motor car run or an extra turn at the “ pictures.”—Weekly Scotsman.

AUTUMN.

The sun is sinking slowly, Over the tree-clad hill"; My heart is bending lowly’, Serenely peaceful- and still. Day has been filled with glory, Amongst earth’s choicest flowers; Repeating the oft-told story Of summer’s passing hours.

As Nature bows in the twilight, To say her evening prayer,

My heart would be * all sunlight, And know no qualm or care. Shall not the same bright fullness, Appear in the East again ? To banish clouds and dullness, That threatens a day- of pain. Suns pass away in their setting, Quiet, majestic, and clear, Yet bring to my heart a begetting Of trust and freedom from fear. Autumn may go with its shadows, Winter’s wild gale rise and swell, But each in turn is proclaiming That “ God doeth all things well.” —Henry’ J. Wileman, in the Weekly Scotsman.

WALKING IN A GARDEN.

By Katharine Haviland Taylor

Garden, remember, and keep it in mind. Each of us is, and all of us are born to a garden; to a world that is enchanting. Now —sadly’—many of us have lost our way. We have changed our gardens to dark woods by chanting troubles that charge the air with the heaviness that presages a storm. I am not advocating a Pollyanna role for anyone, nor anything that is less than truth. I am, instead, advocating a care of our children’s mental diets as well as those that are physical. A care that will I keep the garden for them beyond the hour when it is usually lost. To be concrete, I will take the example of Mrs Brown. She has three boys who never have food which could possibly trouble the digestive processes. They have their Grade A milk and their hard toast, no coffe of course, and when the sweet arrives it is innocuous. Yet Mrs Brown forgets that happy' eating is part of a happy digestion, and they are fed—mentally—with such fods as would disturb the hardiest mental digestion. Mrs Brown will sit down with them to a perfect (dietetically) Grade A meal, and begin. She is worried about money; she doesn’t know how to get along until the end of the month. She is worried about Billy’s shoes, which have not worn as they should, and the boys hear that. She is worried about a very' unlikely infection that may come to the boys from swimming in the baths. Then—satisfied —she rises feeling that her boys have been fed. Mrs Smith is a mother who is more lax in a diet way. I don’t endorse her ideas of diet, but—her boys are the healthier. They eat between meals; they eat what they will; but they’ aren’t worried.

More and more our good physicians tell us that we cannot digest unless we are content. This is one side of the question. But one side, and perhaps, as I consider it, only a fourth of the big whole. And the big whole of the entire situation is made by the poison that accumulates in the mental intestines of those who are fed on the wrong mental diet.

If Mrs Brown’s boy’s grow pallid she will dose them with castor oil—or whatever her remedy’ is for accumulated waste which seeps energy and saps high spirits. She never’ realises that there is no purgative for the futile worries that she sets to going in those young minds -who hear her worrying. And she does not realise that she is dragging her sons into that dark -wood which we must all wander from time to time, and before they should realise that anything but the garden 'exists.

I hear objection? You say children should have responsibility? Quite right! But has responsibility anything to do with the useless worrying over a matter that cannot be righted by worrying? It has not. Children who wander the garden should not know it. Responsibility is understood through so many pennies which must last so long; through the care of raiment, and so oir. Responsibility is not ever taught by teaching a child the habit of fuming. All of us remember certain physical nauseas of childhood. One of my friends can’t eat cherries flow, because she was so ill from them at ten. Further illustration is not necessary. But—few people seem to realise that mental nauseas known in childhood last longer than those that are physical, and with more dangerous effect. On what are you feeding your child’s mind ?

Is he getting Grade A milk mixed with tlje fact, that you “ simply detest that horrid Mrs Smith”?

Not so many weeks ago I went pic-, nicking with a large family. It was an outing, I was told. The family of boys and girls looked forward to it with so much pleasure; whether they had it is doubtful, for everything was spoiled by a woman who looked downward and not upward, and who saw only ants and such menace of peace and food. I thought that

day—eating entirely digestible sandwiches—“ What is the use?” AnL what was the use of that mother’s planning a good time for her children, which she spoiled with her fussing. Riding yesterday with a pale little youngster, who is fed the right foods, but who will stay thin—we passed r. lovely spot of road which gave a view of a valley of unusual charm. Isn’t that pretty, Louise?” I said. “ Yes,” she agreed wanly, “ but I just hate passing here. Mother lost her green bag somewhere along this road, vou see—” And I did see.

Dorothy Canfield has an excellent story called “ The Homemaker,” which concerns a fuming woman who did not belong in a home and a husband who did. The mother provided the proper foods and the children grew thin. She was cross—cross; out of her element, knowing clean beds that would not stay made; and talking endlessly of what her temperament made her see. Well, the husband took charge and the diet was not so balanced, not so healthy, but the children thrived. And I knew they would, since happy eating makes happy digestion—a fact that is going to be chanted more and more by our medical men as the years roll by.

Make a test upon yourself. Do you digest well when you are harassed by some troubling question that is way beyond your solution? If you are angry when you eat, do you feel well after eating? If someone at the table is obviously depressed, do you enjoy your food? Do you get any benefit from food that is eaten in a storm or under a shadow?

Now, as I said before, many of us have lost the way to the garden, for the most part. But if we guard the children’s mental diet they can keep the garden longer and perhaps need never wander in the depths of the dark wood.

That dark wood is made—too often—by the dark, dank, depressing foliage of imaginings. “ What will happen if—” A general family ruling could be made of: “No talk of anything which is depressing and which cannot be remedied at meals or at any time.”

Too many of us depress ourselves and others by a consideration of the unpleasant which cannot be changed. And it is so unfair to those who should —walk in the garden! —in Home Chat. MODES AND MOODS. No, you can’t have Juliet on a balcony In knee-high skirts And be impressive. One must have the outward trappings of the inward mood, Else the scene falls short of harmony. A Juliet turned to Jule Strides the banister-rail with boyish grace And calls to Romeo—- “ I prithee, a light, Romeo, For my cigarette! ” —E. Elizabeth Hinson, in the Stratford Magazine. HOW OFTEN SHOULD HE VISIT HER? Don’t forget it’s the dancing class this' evening,” called Marion after the retreating figure of Maisie. Maisie turned a coy countenance and said:

“ Afraid I’m not coming.” “You are a slacker! Why, you weren’t there last week! ”

“ I shan’t be coming next week either; in fact, I’ve been meaning to tell you, Marion, I shan’t be coming at all now. Or to the debating club,” she added. “ What? Are you thinking of taking the veil ? ” “Don’t be silly! ” said Maisie with dignity. “ It’s—Jim. Y’ou see, we’re both working all day, and naturally we want to spend every single evening together. I’m sorry, but you do understand, dear, when one has other claims—” “Other claims!” snorted Marion, as the door closed behind Maisie. “ One other claim, she means! ”

“ Being together for every evening for ever and ever, I think it’s a beautiful thought,” said sentimental Sally, gazing into space.

“It may be a beautiful thought to think, but it’s an absolutely idiotic thing to do! ” said Marion decidedly. “ Look at Maisie. Ever since she and Jim have been keen on each other, she’s let everything else go. She used to be quite an amusing, useful member of society, ran a troop of brownies was keen as mustard on folk dancing, always came to the debates and was willing "to lend a hand with anything, cutting out a wrap-over skirt, or .making peppermint creams fol' the bazaar. Now she’s not a bit of use to anybody.” “ Except to Jim,” said sentimental Sally softly. “ She won’t be any use to him if she doesn’t pull up,” said Marion drily. “ She’s letting all her old friends go, she’s got fewer interests; in fact, her devotion’s making her dull. And what about Jim’s friends? Is he to lose them all? Isn’t he ever to have an evening off? How often should he visit her? I think I’ll suggest we have a debate on that.”

It is a debatable question. A girl who is working all day at an office, engaged, but without the prospect of getting married for two or three years, naturally wants to see as much of her boy friend as possible, and in the first flush of romantic love only -regrets that

there are only 365 evenings a year in which to see him. But is this wise? Won’t the visits looked forward to so joyfully as “ only two days till Saturday ” lose a little of their thrill when they become a matter of course, and isn’t there something a little shackling to a man to know that you expect to see him on the doorstep every single day as regularly as the milk or the newspaper? However much he loves you, remember that he has other claims, and he will respect you all the more if you are the one to remember this.—Sylvia ThornDrury, in Women’s Weekly. COTTAGE MUSK. Or in caprice or through neglect Gone is the Greengage, rusty-speck’d, Gone the Red Sage that once bedecked Our garden alleys. But most I miss the Musk, of yore That scented every cottage door And pathway of the labouring poor, —But sweetliest Sally’s. Hers was a life together lent With it and its belonging scent — God knows which way or why they went! — But you may go where You will, and search the countryside Where wavering clouds and waters glide— It died, the year that Sally died — You’ll find it nowhere. —Q., in the Spectator.

THE YOUNG SQUIRE COMES “

HOME.

By Captain Jocelyn Lvcas, M.C. A brace of merry little cocker spaniels and a steady old retriever are usually in evidence when the keeper comes up to the hall to welcome Master Jack—or the young squire as he prefers to call him —home for the holidays. The little cockers gave him an iiproarious welcome, for they associate him with the sport they love, but the old retriever merely condescends to give him a- friendly sniff and a wag of his tail, for though the friend of anyone with a gun. he has only one master. “Morning, Joe, how are you? And the dogs? Are my ferrets a>l right?” A dozen question are fired off ami answered. Then the all-important: “ Where shall we go this morning? A short discussion with the squire settles the matter, and the kcepei’ and his young charge set out tb work some hedgerows down which the cocks have been straving. “Be careful. Jack,” cautions his father as he wishes him luck. “lar better not to shoot than to risk hitting someone who might be in the line of shot. And don’t fire at a pheasant until he is well clear of the hedge or you’ll make Joe’s wife, a widow.-’ A few minutes’ walk and they reached a thick straggling fence. Watch the spaniels feathering, see how their tails go, there’s something about. Hallo, there he goes—an old cock pheasant, after running a couple of yards, rises with a flurry of wings. Bang-bang —both barrels. “ Too quick. Master Jack, steady before you lire,’ 1 admonishes the keeper, as the bird sails

away. A moment later a hen follows —a pause—Jack restrains himself, then hang!—the pheasant crumples up and falls stone dead, to lie gathered by the old retriever. “ Well done,” calls the keeper. Pity t’wasn’t the cock,” he adds to himself.

Yap! Yap! “Look out! Rabbit coming through the hedge.” Up goes Jack's gun as he sees the brambles move about 20 yards ahead; but he remembers his training and forebears to fire until he can see for certain what he is firing at. Then, as the bushes part, a spaniel’s head appears. “ Whew,” mutters Jack, going hot all over.

And he has learned another of the lessons that make the complete sportsman.—Daily Mail. AUTUMN REVERIES. Ido not know how such things be . . t I only know a maple tree In later autumn dims the eyes With sudden tears . . . that twilight skies Lie like a bruise upon my heart . . . That music stretches me apart. I do not know why such things

are . . . I only know a lonely star Is like a song dropt in the night, For just my ears alone . . . delight Is mine when harvest moon dips low To kiss a stunted pine and oh . . . I do not know the reason why. . . . —Muriel Rubert, in Independent Educator.