THE SKETCHER

Otago Witness, Issue 4041, 25 August 1931, Page 66

THE SKETCHER

FARM FOLKS. My father puzzles me — • He goes about his work so soberly. He looks down at the ground, And never seems to hear a single sound, Or see the grasses stir, Or how the pasture's blowing edges blur He never hears the breeze Fretting and pulling at the new-green trees.

One morning in the spring, Across the field I thought I heard him

smg; But when our plough-rounds crossed, He only fussed about the time I’d lost, Then hustled up his team And said, “ Now Sonny, don’t stand there

and dream, With all this work to do.” But I work better when I dream —don’t you?

Sometimes I ask him why He never stops to watch the windy sky, Or lets his horses rest, While he goes hunting for a blackbird’s

nest. He puckers up his face — “Someone must make a living at this place!” He seems to think it’s tough— But these warm days I just can't live enough!

My father puzzles me— But mother laughs, and says some day

I’ll see He just puts all that on To set a good example for his son; That, if ’twas not for her, Sometimes he’d not go near that field —

no, sir! But, if he had his way, He’d take me fishing every other day. —K. A. G., in the Southern Agriculturist. GRANNY’S WIRELESS. Granny is eighty-two and very frail. Her longest journey lies between her bed and her armchair. She cannot read now, and is “ rale pleased,” to use her own expression, when anyone comes to sec her. But there are long weary hours when no one comes, and she sits at the fireside gazing into the red coals, and seeing visions of the past. Sometimes these pictures cheer and sometimes they sadden her. So, to provide a substitute, we saved up our pennies and brought her a wireless set. And now we wonder why we did not think of it long ago, for granny has emerged from the shadows Df" the past, and life has again become a thing of vivid interest.

We expected at first to be bombarded with questions, as to who was speaking, and from where. But no, granny, like a little child, accepted the marvellous without comment. Then we made the amazing discovery that she imagined the announcer sustained the chief part of every programme, and that he spoke directly to her. And, being a polite old lady, she must needs reply.

Now that “ lie ” will be expecting her, granny rises betimes to greet him, and the conversation begins this-wise: — “ Good morning, everybody.” “ Good morning, sir, I hope you slept weel.”

Getting no reply does not perturb granny in the least, and she proceeds to listen-in to the daily service with reverent attention.

“He must be a good-livin’ lad. He aye begins the day wi’ a prayer and a bit readin’ frae the Bible. It’s a peety there’s no mair like him,” she remarks at the conclusion.

The domestic talks do not interest her much —Granny’s days of housekeeping are done —but she listens attentively nevertheless.

“ Well, Granny,” I said, coming in one day, “did you get any useful hints?” Wheesht! ” she said, speaking low so that “he” might not hear. “It was just hoo tae mak’ milk poodin’s. He must think I dae the cookin’!”

“ But surely he doesn’t know how to make milk puddings?” “No, but he had a ledy wi’ him that kent a’ aboot it. But ” and here granny dropped her voice—“ I think I could mak’ a. better poodin’ masel’.” She chuckled softly to herself, and then, with a sigh of satisfaction, remarked —“ That’s him sing in’ noo. I must listen.” ¥ * * Sometimes at the conclusion of a song or a violin solo we hear her say softly, “ Thank ye, sir. I liked that ane rale weel.” The other night when the vaudeville programme was on granny looked at me with obvious distress. “ I dinna like it,” she whispered. “ Then we’ll switch it off.” “But are ye sure he’ll no’ mind?” “ Not in the least. You see, he’s talking to others as well.”

“Oh, is he?” and her tone was relieved. “ but he’ll expect me to tell him what I think o’ it." “And what will you say, granny?”

“I’ll just say”—and her face assumed the aspect of one determined to perform an unpleasant duty—“ that I’m surprised at a good-livin’ lad like him takiii’ up wi’ time theatrical folk.”

That night, as I was helping her to bed, Granny remarked —“ 1 would like rale weel t’ hae a photo o’ that nice lad —juist t’ ken what he’s like.” Was it coincidence or did the editor of the radio paper receive a telepathic message? It matters little, but granny's wish was gratified. Before the week was out a photograph of the announcer appeared in print. Granny was delighted. She gazed long and earnestly at the pleasant face. “He’s a braw lad.” she said at length; “his mother maun be rale prood o’ him.” The photograph, now in a silver frame, supports grandpa’s on her mantelpiece.

It is beautiful to see the smile of complete happiness that overspreads the worn old features when something particularly pleasing is on the programme. She simply radiates contentment. “Are ye quite sure ye pay him enough?” she asked anxiously one day.

I explained that we paid 10s a year She was horrified.

“That's not nearly enough —you must give him more,” said she. I tried to explain that others paid too, but granny was not' satisfied. “ I would like to give him something masel',” she said —“ just a wee bit pre sent.”

A few days later granny caught a chill and became so ill that we feared we were going to lose her. She lay with closed eyes, not asking for anything. I was sitting by her bed when, quite suddenly, she spoke. I leaned forward, for her voice had sunk to a whisper. “ Lassie,” she said. “ there's a wee box ower there you might bring to me.” She pointed to a little black lacquer box that stood on her dressing table and held the few trinkets she possessed. With eager hands she fingered the contents till she found what she wanted—a tiny gold locket which, I knew, contained an early portrait of herself and a lock of her hair. She put it into my hand.

“Ye’ll send it to that nice lad when I’m awa’, and tell him it’s just a wee bit mindin’ frae an auld body he’s been guid tae.”

Granny is with us still, but I have the wee locket in safe keeping against the day, which cannot be far off, when she “ gaes awa'.”—Glasgow Weekly Herald. KEEPING HIS LOVE. “ Three months since we were married, and I am sure Jimmy has cooled off.” So sighs Mrs Newlywed when the ecstatic days of their honeymoon are over and they are settling down to an everyday sort of existence. At first she had thought mother’s advice so unnecessary! Remarks about “ after the honeymoon ” had surely nothing to do with them; their marriage was different to everyone else’s and would be just a perpetual honeymoon.

Poor Mrs Newlywed; she thought so then, but now that “He ” catches the 8.25 to town every morning and “ She ” racks her brain to think of a pudding that differs from yesterday’s, well, somehow or other the glamour begins to fade. “Marriage brings disillusionment,” she tells herself, and one or two tears spot the whiteness of Mrs Beeton’s cookery book.

If we look round on the matrimonial failures of our friends we find that in nine out of every ten cases it is the little things that cause the trouble.

Why will a woman nag when her husband diffidently suggests an evening with a friend, or, worse still, tell him with tears in her eyes that she is sure he has ceased to love her? It is such a silly mistake to suppose that because they T are married he will never want to see his bachelor friends again! Real love is not all billing and cooing, and there are times when a man prefers a substantial meal, the evening paper, and a quiet smoke to an outward display of affection, and however much he may love his wife he would some times far rather tell her of the worries of the day than admire her dress or the style of her hair.

It is up to you, too, Mrs Newlywed, to keep alive that vital spark of romance by being just as careful over those little things that used to form such an important part of your courtship days! Remember there was a time when you would not dream of letting him see you wearing a soiled blouse or with a smut adorning your nose. Why, then, because you are married adopt that “ it doesn’t matter now ” sort of manner? He still loves to think that you dress for him, and it has a far greater effect than you think.

One last word! Don’t expect him to remember the anniversary of your engagement or the date when you first

met! Women are incurably romantic, and it is good that they should be, but men are usually too content with to-day to remember the happenings of yesterday. Cultivate a sense of humour, it helps over many a rough road; and above all leave pride entirely out of the question. There should be no such thing as pride between a man and woman who truly love!—An exchange. GUARD YOUR CHARM Three weeks ago Peggy went on a week-end mixed “ hiking ” tour. Peggy is the girl-next-door. A very modern product—Peggy! Emminently efficient at her job. courageously independent, absolutely reliable, she is the kind of whom her friends say: “A jolly good sort! No nonsense about Peggy!”

And yet it was Peggy herself who, after a taciturn week’s silence regarding that “ hiking ” party, burst out one night into unwonted confidences!

“ D’you know, I’m simply sick of being treated as a ‘no nonsense’ girl!” “ Why, Peggy ” I began, gazing amazed at the good-looking, self-con-tained girl I had imagined to be one of the happiest mortals of my acquaintance.

“ You can stare,” went on Peggy, breaking into a flood of words, “ But it’s a fact I didn’t enjoy that ‘ hike ’ one scrap. I was only’ girl of the bunch that wasn’t ‘fussed’ over. Oh, I know, I hate ‘ fussing ’ ' usually, but it hurt a bit seeing all the other females being consulted so tenderly about the distances we should walk at one time, and their wishes obtained about mealtimes, and all that. Nobody dreamed of asking me if I was tired or hungry!” “ But, my dear, you’ve always been so proud of being able to walk as far as a man and go without food.” “I know! I know!” interrupted Peggy’ quickly, the fine colour springing into her well-featured face. “ I’ve never seemed to mind before, but this time I did.” Her colour deepened. “ Y'ou see, Tony’ Phillips was with us. He’s rather decent, and I’d hoped we’d walk together. But he chose Mildred Wilkinson. or rather she ‘ bagged ’ him, and he had his time cut out looking after her. tying up her shoe when it came undone—it always seemed to be coming undone —putting her pack straight when it got too heavy. He even took some of her things to lighten it. And he seemed to like it!”

I had never heard Peggy's voice so despondent. I said gently:

Peggy, my’ dear, if you’re the clever girl I think you are, you’ve got to take yourself in hand and make yourself over from a ‘ no-nonsense ’ imitation of a man into a genuinely feminine specimen of a girl, if you really wish to get what you want in this world, and hold y’our own against the girls who have learnt the art of femininity from their cradles! ” A* A" j, Peggy took this preliminary’ “cut” stoically, and merely said: “Go on!” “No man in the world is really attracted by an independent woman,” I told her. “ Later on he may learn to lean on that independence—as you will find when you gain experience of Life—but in the beginning the true masculine heart is forever captured by’ the feminine ‘ wiles ’of the natural Eve. A real man —the man who is going to make a good husband and a perfect father—is irresistibly drawn to the essentially feminine woman who, although perhaps not clinging by nature, knows how’ to draw out of him the protectiveness which is as balm to his male vanity. If you want to be happy as girl and woman, you must remember it may’ be a world of ‘hikes’ and ‘ campings-out,’ when one might think a man would appreciate the companionship of a ‘ no-nonsense ’ type of girl; yet it is forever the same old world of men and women wherein femininity still counts! If a man wants to banish the element from his existence, he will ‘ hike ’ alone, or with masculine companions, you may be sure!” So if you take my advice, you will be as feminine as you can. Peggy’s comment was laconic.

“You’re right! I will!” She has. Last Sunday evening Peggy returned from a “ hike ” engaged to Tony Phillips. She winked at me when announcing the engagement in the family circle.

Tony is, I’m afraid, the sort that will hang on to Peggy’s sturdy’ independence and reliability later on.

But all that matters at the moment is I’eggv’s ecstatic happiness!—Women’s Weekly. -

HOW TO BE HAPPY—THOUGH UNMARRIED. If you have an ache in your heart, you can be happy’ if you know how. Don't be so foolish as to peak and pine and waste away. If you have nothing to do, your thoughts are sure to return to the past, and back will come those vain regrets and wonders about the “ might have been.” It doesn’t pay! Even though you have badly desired marriage, are you really unhappier single? Bring common sense to your aid and consider the problem dispassionately.

Marriage, unless you really’ love, is, after all, worth nothing, and you have missed nothing at all by escaping it. If the right man has never entered your life and stolen the whole of your heart, you are much better off single. So make the best of things by directing your energies—and emotions —into suitable channels.

Create something! Creation is very satisfying. Whether it is a new dish, a new dress design, or an emotional novel doesn't essentially matter. What matters is that you should afford your unsatisfied instincts release. The vital creative instinct must never be bottled up. Social welfare and the care of children provide many unmarried women with a happy, contented life. An active and busy occupation with adequate sparetime exrcise in the open air is the only healthy and effective compromise. ¥ ¥ -5 It is most important to preserve your physical health. If you allow your body to lose tone, your mind will also lose tone —and you will fret the more. Keep doing something and keep going. Have an aim in life and an ideal, and strive to live up to it. Achievement aim the contentment it brings is a certain antidote to retrospect and dissatisfaction. Seek the company of other unmarried women. Share your aspirations and seek a mutual philosophy of life. And you will find that you can get a great deal

of happiness and a lot of fun out of living, even though you are unmarried. Don’t, please, make the common mistake of telling the world that you never wished to get married. People see through this form of “sour grapes” and will laugh inwardly at your rather pathetic pretences. It is much better to say nothing and let your actions talk for you. If they see you looking smiling and happy, they will need no other assurance that you are genuinely con tented with your present state.—Home Chat. PREDESTINED GROOVES. “ I can’t understand these modern girls,” complains granny. “ When I was young I was perfectly contented with my own little home and the children. There was always plenty to do, mending, and making marmalade. I never had an idle moment.”

In the same way, mother is hurt and uncomprehending because Jack wants to live in rooms and be on his own, while Jill is regarded as a monster of ingratitude because she wants to get a job in an office, instead of helping at home.

“Not want any? I thought you always said you loved steak and kidney pie,” says Mrs Brown reproachfully to her husband.

“ I used to love dill-water,” retorts Mr Brown.

It is neither kind nor polite, but then steak and kidney pie has been appearing as regularly as Monday, just because Mrs Brown is “ pot bound,” and won’t realise that one’s tastes change, that one outgrows old ideas and opinions just as one outgrew boots and pinafores. “ I thought you said you’d never go to a concert. Y’ou used to be so keen on your stamp collection, and now you hardly look at it.” Reproachful voices condemn you as “changeable”; reproving eyes show plainly that they think you are “ discontented,” when the truth is that no human being is static, and change is merely growth. These complaints are as unreasonable as expecting mother to wear a bustle, just because her mother did!

It’s so much more sensible to realise that change is inevitable, to allow Jack to take a room of his own, and Jill to learn shorthand and typing, and not be aggrieved that Tom is now mad about talkies.

Don’t be “ pot bound.” Determine to do a little mental re-potting, even if it’s only changing your newspaper or going to a picture gallery. —An exchange. FIRST DAFFODIL. First daffodil, you are a pale still flame. Under the dun trees, a bright chill flame Too cold for love, too cold and far too bright. Yours is the shining of the northern light Swinging through frozen skies, sharpness of the moon when it is

new’ And lone; the sweet unearthly hue Of earliest dawn behind a distant hill. And round about you swaying to your

will ’ The thin strong lances stand, your certain guard, Your sign of highest royalty, these, Green as the deep, deep ice of Arctic

seas, Who first did pierce the wintry hearted earth,

That you, Spring’s proudest daughter, might have birth. —Nina Condron, in an exchange.