THE SKETCHER

Otago Witness, Issue 4032, 23 June 1931, Page 66

THE SKETCHER

DISGRUNTLED GHOSTS. [According to the Rector of Exeter College, Oxford, the power of seeing ghosts is extremely rare.] Though I have heard a psychic’s boasts Of contact with the unseen hosts, It seems the power of seeing ghosts To-day is very rare. And though I sometimes wake at night All damp and dithering with fright, I never yet have seen a sight To stir my rising hair. The figure of Sir Alured Has never stood beside my bed Holding his grim and gory head Beneath his ghostly arm But if it had I’m bound to say I should discount the fact next day, Though at the time such visions may Occasion -some alarm. We of to-day’s degenerate race, Although we meet a genuine case, Are yet too cowardly to face The hearer’s pitying smile, The sceptic’s devastating sniff, And is it then a wonder if The spooks that scared our forbears stiff Find business not worth while? —Touchstone, in the London Morning Post. A HEART IN THE HIGHLANDS. I was going north by the 8.30, and the grill-room at King’s Cross was unusually crowded. It was an evening in early August, and the rush north had already begun. I was a little vexed at being unable to find a table to myself, as the waiter, with many apologies, bowed me to the companionship of a somewhat shabbily* dressed man who might have been 60 years of age, with a lined and interesting face.

We could hardly sit together at the little table without speaking, so I asked him if he was going north. “No,” he replied rather wistfully; “ no, I wish I was. The fact is I have only come to see the others go. I suppose I have been to Scotland as much as most people in my time, but now I have to live in London and have fallen on rather small days—and, well, such things are over for me. Still, I like to come here sometimes and see the trains off. It carries roe back to old days. I live near by, in Bloomsbury, and there is not much to do in the evenings, so I sometimes drop in here for a chop and a pint of Beaune and try to pretend I am going north.” His tired mouth smiled, and the lean brown fingers pulled a heavy moustache as he raised his glass of cheap wine thoughtfully.

“ I like to see the names on the carriages,” he went on after a pause “ Perth, Glasgow, Inverness, FortWilliam—l know them all so well—they mean a lot to me. In the old days I used to go to Scotland two or three times a year, staying at different houses. I’ve had ripping good times there, shooting and fishing, and stalking too. I never missed a * Twelfth ’ for over twenty years when I was a young man, when a friend had the Glenlyon shootings; and I used to go to Deeside every spring for the salmon as well. There always 'seemed to me a charm about the journey north; I always loved it; the bustle and noise of it all still appeals to me, and I like to watch the trains pull out almost as much as I did when a boy. I like the smell of a train, and to walk down the corridors and peep into the sleepers and see the guns and rods on the raeks. I like to see the dogs too—l know a good dog when I see one. Sometimes I meet an old friend who is going north, and sometimes I can help some women or lads who do not know the station. The porters mostly know me” —here a look of' simple pride came over his face—“they let me on to the platform without a ticket.”

“No,” he continued presently, tipping up the bottle with a hand that trembled slightly, “ I do not suppose I shall ever go t° Scotland again. You see, I can’t afford it, for one thing. But I should like to go—once more —if I was rich. I would like to go just once first-class, and see Perth and see Aviemote and Inverness again, and wake up in the morning at Gretna and see the grouse fly off the stone walls in the lowlands and the snow on the Grampians. I always went third-class myself, and that’s good enough for me, but I do rather envy chaps who can afford to do it well.” So he talked on, through our little meal, of places he knew in Scotland and things he had seen from the train, and of bygone exploits with rod and gun; and when I told him I was going to Dalwhinnie he said he would come and find my carriage for me. So we had a glass of port together and drank a toast to Dalwhinnie. He called it “ the darling of the Highlands.”

As we rose to move on to the platform he pulled on a light brown ulster—and no longer looked shabby. He also donned one of those old-fashioned tweed caps with flaps that tie up over the head, such as you see in pictures of stalkers in Punch and Badminton. “Your berth will be a’ong here, opposite the booking office,” he said, taking up my bundle of rods and regarding them with a professional eye. “ The driver to-night is a man called Robertson—from Glasgow; you ought to a good run with Robertson. The guard—ah. Benson, good-evening ” —here the guard passed by and touched his hat with a smile of recognition. Arriving opposite the “ sleepers,” my companion took my hand and ■we said “ Good-bye.” “ The best of luck to you,” he added ungrudgingly; “you ought to hold some good fish with that greenheart of yours.’ ¥ ¥ ¥ I watched the tall but round-shoul-dered figure thread its way down the crowded platform, and as the whistle blew and the train slowly and smoothly glided along the platform I felt sorry for the lonely man who had just bidden me farewell and whose heart was ever in the Highlands to which I was speeding.— “ Seapie,” in the Glasgow Weekly Herald. SONG OF DAY AND NIGHT. Hear ye the dawn, with the music of morning? Thundering over the hilltops—it comes! Shivering silvers gleam bright in its baldric, Crimson and scarlet beat alternate drums! The mountains shout gladly and echo their greeting, The valleys are bright with a yellowing ray; Hear ye the dawn, with the music of morning? It’s morning, it’s morning! Hear ye, ’tis day! —Walter P. Bowman, in the Bowdoin Quill.

UNLUCKY IN LOVE. “ Well, at any rate, I ought to be lucky at cards,” remarks Hilda lugubriously, with a sigh fraught with meaning. The other three seated round the cardtable looked rather uncomfortable, but Hilda was well away on her favourite subject. “Johnny Jones let me down terribly. Really, it makes one lose one’s faith in people. Rang up just before the office dance to say he couldn’t possibly take me, as he was down with ’flu. I don’t believe it for a minute. It was just an excuse to get out of going—men are all the same!” ¥ ¥ ¥ If it isn’t the deflection of Johnny, or Charlie, it’s the way Harry behaved, or Reggie didn't! Hilda’s heart is perpetually being fractured. She is continually loving and losing and being forsaken—and telling everyone all about it. “ My dear, have you heard about the way Harold behaved to me?” she will sob. “ After asking me for six dances at the tennis hop, and inviting me to go to the talkies, he’s simply disappeared —vanished—and I haven’t heard a word since. Not one word, and that’s three months ago.” The sensible girl who has suffered a real, or fancied slight, has pride enough, or commonsense, to keep quiet about it. But silly Hilda believes in exhibiting every crack and scratch on a heart that is permanently ■worn on her sleeve. “ You can’t trust men. They’re all the same. They always let you down in the end. I never to get a square deal. All my love affairs seem to go wrong.”

Somehow or other I’m not surprised to ' hear it, for Hilda, by her perpetual poor-little-me attitude and her certain expectation-of bad luck, is practising a particularly disastrous form of suggestion. She is “simply asking” men to be faithless, heartless, and neglectful. She may think she is appealing to the latent chivalry of men, but in reality she’s being a bore. And for one man who will greet her wails with, “You poor little thing, did that brute deceive you?” there will be a dozen who will be incredulous, bored, or anxious to make A get-away before they, too, are marked down for the villain of the piece. ¥ ¥ ¥ There are heaps of girls like Hilda, who seem to think that any hard-luck story that involves a man must necessarily be “ interesting,” and though they would be ashamed to keep on complaining of their luck at cards, or over a job, they will tell all and sundry how unlucky they are in love. It’s such a mistake.

If Jack did jilt you two years ago, or Cuthbert cool off unaccountably, and Tom

do the disappearing trick better than Maskelyne himself, don’t keep on brooding over it and talking about it. It won’t do you any good, and it may do you a lot of harm. Your love-luck may be dead out at the moment, but it’s bound to turn, so be wise, and make your little love drama silent, rather than a talkie like Hilda’s! —Women’s Weeklj’. EXILE. Will you remember that when next you write me, It is of little things I long to hear. All the small happenings that you hold so lightly, I hold so dear. Are you still busy in your garden daily? What are you reading now? "What do you sew? And do you hum your little songs as gaily As long ago? Are the larks singing now at dawn’s awaking. In the green meadow where wild pansies grow In clusters, free for any traveller's taking? ' Tell me such things as these; my heart is breaking, Dear, just to know. —Maud Stewart, in the Canadian Bookman. TEACH THEM TO HELP. Poor little, over-tired mother, stooping to pick up toys, clothes, all the paraphernalia of the evening toilet. Bobby is in bed at last, after throwing his wet rubber duck into the coal-scuttle; Barbara is dancing before the fire, clad in a towel, and—crash—there is the work-basket over, and cotton reels and needle-case rolling to the four corners of the room!

By the time they are collected, you will be too fagged to make the special sauce John loves with his pudding, and when the Smiths’ call later on it will be quite an ordeal instead of a pleasure. And you, dear, hard-worked older woman, putting golf-clubs into the rack; drying football boots, and brushing that suit left over the chair in Dick’s bedroom. You will spend the afternoon ironing out the crushed folds of Joan’s frock, and after dinner you will nod over the paper, because you cannot concentrate on that book you so wanted to read.

But, my dears, don’t you realise that you ought not to do it? Think on, as they say in Yorkshire! If Bobby and Barbara are allowed to put away toys, fold up clothes, and pick up cottons “as a game,” they will save you innumerable steps, and will lay the foundations of much-improved characters. No one wants children to be prigs or prudes, but Bobby will love to put his duck “ to bed nice and comfy ” if he is encouraged to do so; and Barbara will take a real pride in tidying, if you allow her to help. ¥ ¥ ¥ Dick only wants asking to carry his boots outside, and Joan had plenty of time to see to her dress before she went out to tea. But I know exactly what you two mothers are going to answer—-“ It’s so much quicker and easier to do it myself.” It is just now. But the children won’t have you always; Bobby and Barbara will find it very difficult when they go to school, and resentfully collect “ order marks ”; Dick’s wife will call him “ spoiled,” and Joan, at college, will wonder why her clothes so soon lose their smartness. Do let them help, right from their babyhood! It is trying at times; one’s fingers itch to take over the jobs, but in justice to yourselves—and the children —make them clear up. It’s usually the unselfish mothers that let things happen like I’ve said, and they are the folk who have horrid, selfish children —so for your children’s sakes in the future make them fend for themselves from the beginning.—Home Chat.

DON’T FOOL YOURSELF. Do you boast that you are smart? Don’t fool yourself! That you play a lordly part? Don’t fool yourself! Strut about as handsome, tall, Think you really know it all? Pride oft goes before a fall— Don’t Fool Yourself! Do you speculate in stocks? Don’t fool yourself! Be prepared for tragic shocks, Don’t fool yourself! Little lambs are easily shorn, Innocents are daily born,

Money gone and you forlorn— Don’t ’• Fool Yourself! Do you covet worldly fame? Don’t fool yourself! Want to make a public name? Don’t fool yourself! Quiet things are best, they say, Ostentation docs not pay, Live the simple life to-day— DON’T FOOL YOURSELF! —Grenville Kleiser, in Public Opinion. THE CYNIC’S DICTIONARY. Here are some old words with a new twist to their meaning. But some of the definitions are only too accurate. Admiration.—A feeling which leads to a man giving.his heart to a woman and afterwards not being able to call his soul his own. Always.—A period of undying love which usually pxtends to about three weeks after the honeymoon. Barber. —A loquacious individual who talks glibly about racehorses, but never about his own “ hacks.” Block. —An impediment to progress, such as a permanent official whom all the blasting in the world won’t shift until he is moved to retire. Caution.—What a woman calls her husband when she is pleased with him, and what he uses when she isn’t. Civilisation.—A state which keeps us from killing the people we’d like to. Depression.—The Air Ministry’s contribution to the “ Come to Britain ” movement. It usually leaves holiday-makers cold. Domicile.—Often an undesirable sight built on a desirable site. Duet.—A game of bawl in which two people do their best to throw each other out. Easter.—The time seaside landladies start rubbing their hands, although the weather isn’t cold, and write to say they can have you. And they do. Empty .—Election promises, political heads, bullies’ threats, air-pockets on dry days, and my pockets on most days. Farmer.—A man who never observes close seasons, since he has his grouse all the year round. Fat.—The salaries earned by the “ slim.” Also the adipose tissue a woman hopes to work off by working on. Ghost.—That which walks in theatrical circles on pay night enveloped in white. Grapes.—A fruit bought for invalids and eaten by those who call to cheer them up. Hash.—The farewell appearance of last Sunday’s joint. Hunger.—A thing which assails a disappointed author and makes him feel there is nothing in his works. Impudence.—Any labour-saving idea—if it comes from the office-boy. . Institution.—A place where many people are right in their element but wrong in their heads. Jay-Walker.—A person who steps straight off the kerb into heaven. Juggler.—A financier who can keep many things in the air at the same time without them upsetting his balance. Kiss.—The face-lifter of a short woman. Knocker-Up.—A disturbing individual who arrives just as we are telling the boss we intend to take the day off and be hanged to him. Lighter.—An invention -designed to assist those who wish to cut down their smoking. Lively.—A dancer before he meets his fate, and the tune he has to dance to after. Marriage.—A ceremony during which many a bridegroom gets a fright at the altar with which he afterwards has to live. Money.—A commodity which is thrown about chiefly by the sons of those who had to scramble for it. Nervous. —The state of a clerk who, when asking for a rise, fears he may be dropped. Nectar.—A short drink after listening to a long temperance lecture. Offertory.—A long hymn to which a capable composer sets a touching refrain. Opportunity.—A fine thing—something so fine that it is difficult to see. Patriot.—One who fights and is afterwards bled for his country. Ploughman.—The only man who makes a living by following horses. Quick. —An elderly spinster’s acceptance of a presumed offer of marriage which wasn’t what the fellow proposed. Reveille.—The morning call which commands soldiers to show a leg. Not needed by Hollywood bathing belles. Romeo. —The term applied to a romantic lover who sometimes becomes an unromantic Shylock. Signal.—The sign given by a lady motorist to denote what she is going to do after she has done it. Steer.—A beast which, after being cut down in the prime of life, is cut up into prime joints. Tricky.—Those people who figure to deceive the Income Tax authorities. Typist.—A girl who gets on by exercising her intelligence and using her eyes to the best advantage. Unreliable. —The man for whom there is no credit in letters. 3

Unwanted.—The uninvited guest who blows in to get a cheap blow-out. ’Varsity.—A seat of learning to which the uneducated rich send their sons in order that they may be able to speak without embarrassment.

Vicious. —The woman who snaps at her husband if he answers her and bites his head off when he doesn’t.

Wealth. —The riches that come to a man who makes the grindstone his joywheel. ” Witness. —The butt of counsel, who make him sit up before telling him to stand down. X-Ray.—An invention which will show if there is any metal in your body, but not if there is any money in your betting system. Xylophone.—A musical instrument from which sounds are produced by using sticks. Provides sticky accompaniments to sugary love songs. Yacht.—A vessel which, while stationary, will run away with a lot of money, and may land you on the rocks before you set sail. Yak.—A beast of burden often found staggering under a crushing yoke. The British species is known as the taxpayer. Zephyr.—A balmy breeze which wafts the scent of spring flowers to balmy couples.—in an exchange. MORNING ON THE HASTINGS HILLS. There is a golden spell upon the sea, A path of liquid light, As if the Maidens of the Dawn have sped Too swiftly after Night; And flying thus from crystal goblets clear Have spilled upon the way Some of the precious nectar that they bore To quench the thirst of Day. There is a sweet wild wind upon the hills That comes from off the sea, Bearing some hidden charm upon its wings, Some thrill of ecstasy, As if a young and ardent god had flown After those Maids of Dawn, And from his wings, that swiftly beat the air, Some strange sweet breath was born.

If Fate and Time should call me from this place „ They ne’er will take from me The memory of that splash of golden light Upon the morning sea; I shall recall, whatever may betide, With one glad thrill of joy, The laughing Maidens of the Dawn-time chased By Day, the flying boy. —Maude Gurney Tyler, in the Sussex County Magazine.