THE SKETCHER

Otago Witness, Issue 3958, 21 January 1930, Page 63

THE SKETCHER

CINDERELLA. Tn the Poet’s Corner The Prentice Magicians Practise incantations. They have seen Cinderella Sitting in the ashes, And the Fairy Godmother Appearing with her wand. The Fairy Godmother Sends Cinderella To the garden for a pumpkin (The finest she can gather) ; To the traps for a rat And six little grey mice. From behind the watering-pot She bids her bring Six bright-eyed lizards. Then the Fairy Godmother Waves her hand, and behold! — The pumpkin turns into a coach, And the rat into a fat coachman; The six mice become dapple-grey horses. And the lizards six footmen. .And Cinderella is dressed like a princess, With the loveliest glass slippers in the world. So, the Prentice Magicians Fetch a pumpkin from the garden, And a rat from the rat-trap, And six mice from the mouse-trap, And from behind the watering-pot Six bright-eyed lizards, And they waved their wands. But the pumpkin remains a pumpkin, And the rat stolidly a rat, And the mice are nothing but mice, And the lizards only lizards. And Cinderella Still sits in the ashes, A little drudge, Rather down at heel — In spite of the incantations Of the Prentice Magicians In the Poet's Corner. —M. O’B., in the Irish Statesman. IS THE MODERN MAN INADEQUATE? By Godfrey Winn. It seems to me the title of this article is only another way of asking, “Am I, myself, inadequate?” for I am certainly a modern young man. So I suggest that I am put into the dock, and you, my fair readers, constitute yourselves a self-appointed jury. And now let’s examine the evidence for and against us poor much-abused young men. I suppose it is inevitable that the trial should begin and end with love. For, though I am only too willing to admit my ignorance on all sorts of subjects, I have learnt one thing in my short experience of life, and that is that there is nothing in this world of otirs that doesn’t connect up with love somehow or other! So it comes to this: Is the modern young man an inadequate lover? Am I myself an inadequate lover? Well, it ail depends what it is exactly the modern young woman wants from love. Does she want romance (either with a capital or even a small “r”? Does she want protection? Does she want a heman to “ treat her rough,” or does she merely desire a companion who is a suitable background for her thoughts, amusements, and sports? Well, if she wants a he-man, she will have a hard time finding one these days. He has become almost as extinct as the dodo. You can search from Berkeley Square to Land’s End, and you will he lucky if you find half a dozen. Certainly I am not one of them, thank heaven! So if it is a he-man you want, I am thoroughly inadequate.

But do you? Do you really nourish tender thoughts for one of those breezy, hearty fellows with a bass voice, who insist on calling their favourite girl “little woman”; who paw you clumsily like a high-spirited dog; who make up in sheer noise for what they lack in brains; whose conversation consists of monosyllables, or at the best, “ 1 wonder what’s won the three-thirty?” and who can only lie considered attractive if you like beetroot complexions, hot, sticky hands, and a strong odour of tobacco? If that’s your idea of romance, I am jolly glad I am inadequate. “ But, no,” you protest, “it isn’t at all. We don't want to be protected, we want to be free.'’ I believe you. Liberty is the battle cry of the modern young woman. Romance has perished on the altar of freedom.

No, what you really want, what you consider adequate- is—some charming, hut I am afraid, rather characterless, backboneless, young man, who has beautiful manners, an even temper, and an inexhaustible supply of money; who is always at hand when you want him, and never when you don't; who isn’t jealous or possessive, and even believes you when he sees you

alone in a taxi with another man, and is told that it is a country cousin you are showing round. Perhaps 1 am old-fashioned and not modern, after all; but it seems to me that if the modern young woman persists in demanding the terms she does at present, it isn’t very surprising if the modern young man fails to come up to scratch and refuses to sign his name on the marriage contract. Now, you protest in a shrill chorus- “ But we don't want husbands, you silly creature! Don't you realise we earn our own livings? We are quite independent, thank you.” That's true enough! But please don't misunderstand me. lam not blaming you in the least for your wish to earn your own living and do men’s jobs. On the contrary, I think it is an excellent plan. Oompetition is always a healthy thing. But you mustn't be surprised if, under these circumstances, we young men choose to treat you no longer as the lovely, intoxicating creatures you actually are, but just as if you were merely—business acquaintances. I suppose that's why we are inadequate. You want to eat your cake and have it. And when we no longer show our admiration as we used to, when we no longer lie down like worms beneath your charming feet and entreat you to trample on us, we are told that the modern young man has lost his manhood. Well, if the refusal to be treated as a kind of amateur gigolo means the loss of my manhood, lam glad. lam sure all the rest of my sex will agree with me. You see, we are sick and tired of walking down a lover's lane and finding that it always ends in a cul-de-sac; we are

tired of having our evening clothes used as a sort of dark background for milady’s chiffons and velvets, but only a background which has to keep its distance; we are tired of asking girls to become our life partners and being put off with an invitation to be at the tennis club to-morrow afternoon at 3 o’clock, and being treated for the rest of our acquaintance with you as if we are inadequate. Have we? Are we? Am I? I don't believe it. And nor do you, fair ladies of the jury, deep in your hearts. —Home Chat. TELLING THE TALE. “So that is all there is to it.” He ended His story: tapped his briar on the hob To clear it; tilled it once again with shag; And then sat smoking contemplatively. And though I knew that he had not intended To hold back aught essential, or to rob His hearers of the clue, I watched the hag Who'd sat with eyes fixed on his face, while he Had told the tale; and, as he stopped, she drew Again into her corner with a leer Of satisfaction. Then I surely knew, Although his lips had moved, and his slow’ tongue The solemn words had uttered, it was she Who'd told the tale that she would have us hear: That, while she lived, no one would ever learn Aught but his mother's version of how his young And newly-wedded wife had come to die: That he was but a puppet to twist and turn With life-like motions and talk mechanically Under the evil spell of her one eye. —Wilfrid Gibson, in the Nation and Athenaeum.

THE HISTORY OF FIREWORKS. Although the association of fireworks with the Gunpowder Plot gots no farther back than the reign of William 111 they have for centuries been among the most popular forms of public and private entertainment. In Pepys’s time they were an everday amusement, as when he went “ about 9 o’clock to Mrs Mercer’s gate, where her son had provided abundance of serpents and rockets; and there mighty merry till about twelve at nitrht, Hinging our fireworks and burning one another and the people over the way.” The Crace Collection in the print room of the British Museum contains many wonderful pictures of the national displays from the coronation of James II to the peace celebrations after the Crimean War, during which period fireworks were manufactured and supplied by the Ordnance Department. Tradition says that fireworks originated in ancient China. Certainly they were known to the Romans, for Vopiscus relates how they were used in honour of Diocletian, while .Claudian gives a vivid description of a set-piece of wheels

and fountains. There is no informa tion, however, as to the materials whic were used before the invention of gut powder.

After the fall of the Western Empire, fireworks apparently fell into disuse in Europe until the returning Crusaders reintroduced them, after which they became a recognised feature of public celebrations and pageants, a favourite set-piece being “ Hell’s Mouth,” from which Hames and rockets emeiged—presumably as a timely warning to heretics and sinners! In Rome firework displays heralded the election of each pope, and it is recorded that in Paris on one occasion the “fire” was lit by the King of France himself. Hall records that in the river carnival on the marriage of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn “ there went before the lord mayor’s barge a foyst full of ordnance, which foyst carried a great red dragon that spouted out wild lire, and round about were terrible monstrous and wild men casting fire.” Henry VIII frequently ordered firework displays as crowning gaieties to the jousts and tourneys.

During the sixteenth century “firecombats ” became the vogue, the performers wearing helmets from which “ flames ” issued and wielding clubs which emitted sparks at every stroke. These gave place to more pictentious set-pieces, and during the seventeenth century many books appeared, giving descriptions of notable displays and discussing the respective merits of Roman candles, stars, and “serpents”; one German work being specially translated into English by order of the Board of Ordnance.

For two centuries in England the displays on occasions of peace celebrations or national rejoicings were organised by the Government. The Ordnance Department also supplied fireworks for such places of entertainment as Vauxhall and Ranelagh, but with the closing down of Vauxhall their manufacture was left solely to private enterprise. The demand is nowadays so great that the industry has developed to large pi oportions, not only in the Home counties but also in other parts of the country, notablv Yorkshire.—John o’ London’s Weekly.

POET. Ol’ Buck and me Used to ride the range together; We slept on saddle blankets Out there on the bald prairie And listened to the coyotes . . . Sometimes we would talk . . . 01’ Buck always wuz a nutty Sort uv a chap . . . Sleepin’ out there on the prairie We would look at the stars And the moon . . . I'd see the moon jes’ as it wuz. But ol’ Buck, bein’ sort o’ nutty, Jes’ looked up there And saw all sorts uv things— Said the moon wuz a pirate ship Sailin’ west in search of gold —- Can you beat that? . . pore nut . . . He saw a lot uv other things, too . . Onct we wuz snoozin’ and he woke up And started talkin’ sorter nutty to me; Said the ol’ cactus, that stood near our camp Wuz an ol’ sage, whatever that is . . A sage wearing a shadow fer a robe! Then he talked ’bout the stars laughin’ at him And he said the big thundercloud in the west Wuz a frigate uv old leading a fleet . . Jes’ talked plumb nutty . . . plumb nutty! One day ol’ Buck jes’ rode away . . . Must have gone plumb crazy! Ain’t seen Buck in a long time . . . Hear he's writin’ pieces fer the papers. . And them city fellers call him a poet! Somebody even said he wrote some sort Uv a book that's full of pieces of poetry And a lot uv other stuff . . . Pore Buck, he’s a good sort uv a feller ’Cept he always wuz sorter nutty! —William Allen Ward, in Westward.

TAKE CARE OF BABY’S SIGHT. Because it is an emblem of purity as well as a symbol of perfect cleanliness, most mothers like to keep their babies in white.

Also, when they are preparing for the coming of a baby, the prospective mothers generally have the bedclothes, drapery, and almost everything around pure white. A leading eye specialist, however, after many test cases, has voiced his opinion that the reason why so many of our children now have defective sight and are compelled to wear glasses is because they were constantly confronted with a blaze of white during their babyhood. The nurse's cap and apron is white, and this eye specialist avows that young

eyes cannot stand the strain of white on all sides.

Few’ mothers would think of giving their babies’ legs or arms more work to do than they could stand. Why, then, should the most delicate of all organs be forced to gaze upon whiteness, which common sense tells us must be more than trying ?

How often do we see a mother or nurse shield a child's eyes from the light while- it is sleeping? This is quite the right thing to do, of course, but it is just as important that a baby should not open its eyes to see only the white cot clothes. As a matter of fact, any mass of colour is bad for young babies, and any who have an idea of the science of the eye will tell you that delicate greys, greens, browns, or even pale*pinks are the best colours with which to surround the delicate visions of babies. Those who have to dress and handle young babie.s should wear unbleached aprons or aprons of the colours just mentioned.

An eminent physician stated recently that only 30 per cent, of the people who wear glasses to-day would have been called upon to do so if they had not been forced when the eye was young and delicate to meet white at every turn. Babies’ eyes are not sufficiently developed for the ordeal.

Long ago very little interest was taken in the sight of children. Because they were young it was presumed that they had good sight. Only in advancing years was it supposed to fade. Since the advent of medical inspection in schools we find tiny tots, barely out of the nursery, forced to wear glasses. Taken in time, it often happens that these glasses may be discarded later on, but if care is taken of the eyes from the time a child is born, there would be little need for them at all. An ounce of caution is worth a. ton of regret.—Lillie Ross Clyne, in the Glasgow Weekly Herald. ROADS ALSO SLEEP. M hen the moon has set The night is a deep Mantle of velvet For roads that sleep. Highways that weave In a mystic skein Like fingers of peace Over cragmoor and plain. Forgotten are workaday Travail and zest Of freightage and commerce— Roads, too, must rest. No roar of motors No headlight’s beam Lightens their slumber— Perhaps they dream. Dreams of a day When their hard flint rang With hoof beats of pintos And of men who sang Strange wild songs As they thundered down To a pay day spree ■ In the lurid town — Or of Redmen riding In single file, With faces immutable Mile after mile. When the last headlight Has followed its gleam Into the darkness Roads sleep—and dream. - —Glenn T. Neville, in an exchange. OBEY THE DOCTOR. Obeying the doctor's orders in times of illness sounds one of the most reasonable and simple of duties, yet how many people with illness in the house listen to all the doctor’s instructions and olx>y his orders to the letter? If the patient does not get on and the doctor inquires whether his orders have been carried out, he will often be told. “ Oh, doctor, you didn’t tell me that,” or “ I don’t remember you saying such a thing.” Many people in their anxiety to get back to the patient and get on with the nursing fail to take in all the doctor has to say, which is often of greater importance than the actual giving of the medicine he sends. Obey the doctor’s orders in everything. A doctor never talks for the sake of talking, and he may have a special reason for ordering a certain diet or a particular position for the patient, a reason fie cannot always stop to explain. A* If a doctor orders nothing but liquids don’t think it does not matter if the patient has a lightly poached egg or a piece of sponge-cake. Many patients lose I their lives through the mistaken kina ness of friends, who cannot bear to “ see them starved.” Better to starve and get well than eat what is not ordered and die.

A little girl with a pain in her stomach was ordered to bed by the doctor, who said she was to be given nothing but a few sips of water. Her mother could not hear such treatment, so the next day she gave the child a sponge-cake. The little one died of appendicitis before she could be operated upon. If a doctor says “ No solids,” be sure he has good cause for saying such a thing. In all intestinal complaints, such as colitis, inflammation of the bowels, typhoid fever, appendicitis, and so on, the great thing is to allow no residue of waste to pass along the intestinal tract for a certain length of time.

When this is accomplished the patient can be sure of getting better; otherwise grave danger is set up. It is well to remember that anything which is eaten must leave a residue to pass along the intestinal tract, and a residue left when the intestinal tract should have nothing at all to deal with is more often than not too much for Nature to cope with.

If the doctor orders warm drinks, do not give the drinks very hot or when they have become too cold. A boy recovering from pneumonia failed to make the progress the doctor had expected to sec in him. On questioning the mother, he found that the child was given a large cup of boiling milk which he could not drink, and often dozed before it cooled sufficiently for him to take, with the result that when he woke up he was in the habit of drinking it cold. It was only just in time that the doctor discovered why the child was dwindling away and saved the little one s life.

If a doctor orders the patient to be kept quiet, do not think that a “cheering up ” will help things along. There are some patients whose nerves are so highly strung and sensitive that the slightest touch on the bed by an unaccustomed hand is torture to them, and the so-called cheerful talk of the neighbour who pops in to “ cheer you up. you know,” is nothing less than a hideous nightmare. NANCY HANKS: LINCOLN’S MOTHER. Meekly as Mary came to Bethlehem. But with her mother's mission half fulfilled. She came into the wood. And over them—» Her plodding mate, herself, her son—was spilled, Through verdant groins and arches far aloft, Largess of sunshine, honey-sweet and soft. Humble as Mary’s manger was her bed ; Lowly her life and station; but her dreams — Her mother dreams—soared to the stars o'erhead And searched unseen horizons for their themes. Thus, building stately castles for her child, She lived in squalor and was reconciled. And so she lived in patient solitude, And so she passed away, without complaint, Drudging and dreaming in the silent wood, A pioneer, a mother, and a saint, Solaced and satisfied for that her son Might some day scale the heights her vision won. They buried her, there, in the forest gloom, Mourned her a space, then stolidly moved on And left the winds to strew her lonely’ tomb With withered leaves and drifting snow, anon. But, sleeping there, perhaps —perhaps she knew When all her mother drcams at last came true. E. O. Laughlin, in the DailyTribune. LANES. The lanes I love are winding lanes Threading the countryside like veins Whose dancing youthful sap can run Down quickening hedges in the sun, Or like the whorls within a shell, Or pleasures unforgettable When music threads a twisting lane To the core of joy and back again; They’ seem Earth’s brain which eonvolutes In windings where we sense her thoughts. The songs of Pan, the songs that most Elude us—nearly caught, then lost; Such songs as now I chase and miss In such a fresh green lane as this. —Camilla Doyle, in the Spectator.