NOISE

Southland Times, Issue 20831, 20 July 1929, Page 23

NOISE

(A Whole Day Of It.) —First Prize. — Ono bright summer’s morning when the family lay sleeping, Brindle, the cow strolled in at the open gate, and hearing snores floating through the air, went t< investigate. She walked lazily up, and, poking her head through the window, gavt vent to a blood-curdling “M-o-o-o-o-o,” right in father’s ear. Up jumped father with a yell of surprise. Mother screamed with fear, and baby’s shrill shrieks joined the chorus. What a hub-bub, just because Brindle insisted on saying good morning “What’s that blessed cow doing in here,” shouted father. “Who left the gate open i Get up Bob and Jack, and go and milk the brute.” The boys tumbled out, and soor there was another din, as they chased the cow round the garden. Meanwhile, mother got up, and putting on the porridge pot, went off to milk leaving one of the younger girls to look after it. When she reached the cowshed sh< found things rather lively, for there was Jack under the cow, instead of beside it His bucket was tipped up and milk everywhere. Bob was shouting at Jack, and Jacl was shouting at the cow. Mother rushed up and rescued Jack, who was drencher with milk. Mother had no sooner finished milking, when she heard shrieks from the house . and rushing inside, found the floor covered in porridge, and both children sobbint wildly. “What’s happened, Betty?” she cried. „ “Oh, mother, Teddy pulled the porridge pot over on himself, and he’s all burnt.” Mother ran for cloths and oil, and soon bound up the little fellow’s scalded hands though it was a long time before his crying ceased. After breakfast, to the disgust of the children, it began to rain. “No picnic for us to-day,” grumbled Bob, "what can we do?” “Tune up the gramophose,” said Jack, “we haven’t tried those new records yet.” “You're not going to play that gramophone this morning,” said mother, “there’: enough noise without it.” “Oh, mother, just let us try the new records,” pleaded Jack. “Besides it’ll am us: Teddy,” he added, as an afterthought. “All right, all right,” said mother, “but after that you must go and play ir the barn.” Somehow that morning everything seemed to go wrong. The boys fought, am broke two of the records, and Teddy distracted mother with his crying. Baby wtu cross and Betty would not leave off asking for toffee. Mother took baby, and a: she was doing her best to put her to sleep, she forgot the pudding, and it was burnt Jack got angry with Teddy for crying, and scolded him, which only made him worse and all the time Bob kept the gramophone going; The door opened, and father camo in. “What’s all this noise about? he demanded “Bob, stop that gramophone at once. Come here Betty, and don’t annoy mother Jack, you young scoundrel, you’ve broken three plates throwing that cushion about. “Oh, just listen to the thunder,” cried Bob, and the children all rushed out tc watch the flashes of lightning and see the hailstones come pelting down. “More noise,” sighed mother, who was rather afraid of thunder. “Come inside you children, and don’t get wet.” After dinner it cleared up a little, and Mrs Crocker and her two naughty children called on mother. Now, Mrs Crocker was the village gossip, and she talked, and talked, and talked until poor mother’s head ached. Mrs Crocker's two children were naughty and noisy. They quarrelled with Teddy and pulled Betty’s curls till she cried. Added to this the stone crusher was working just outside the gate, and lorries were running up and down the road. What a din there was. Tea time found mother worn out, but not so the boys. When the meal was over they played.soldiers, and with a few sticks and tins for drums they awoke the echoes. With a sigh mother pulled out her rattle trap of a machine and made a much-needed dress for baby. Then the boys came in, and after 'a few tunes on the gramophone they were sent to bed, but not to sleep. They sang and shouted, and carried on until father went in with the strap. “Oh, dear,” sighed mother as she snuggled down in the blankets a little while later, “if I have many more days like this I shall be driven crazy.” Dad’s answer was a snore. —5/- and 4 marks to Cousin May Heath (13), Dunrobin, via Heriot. —Second Prize.— Sunnydale was a quiet little farming and fishing town by l.>e sea. It consisted of two large farms and, a number of smaller ones, besides the space occupied by a row of small, whitewashed cottages owned by the fisherfolk, and a weather-beaten old church and vicarage overlooking the harbour front. The largest estate was the property of Squire Arlen, an Englishman by name, but a Scotchman by nature. He kept only one farm-hand, who did the work of six and received the pay of half a one. Squire Arlen’s brother, Sir Richard Arlen, owned the next largest portion of Sunnydale, but it must be said, to his credit, his nature differed vastly from that of his money-snatching brother. Four lazy village lads found a capital means of support by leaning on spade-handles and discussing the » latest source of interest or by sending the well-trained dog after the cows while they lay at peace in the midst of neighbouring bushes enjoying a quiet smoke until the cows came into sight. Sir Richard scarcely ever took the trouble to look into their doings, and even when he did catch them they always had a ready lie at the tip of their tongues, and on pay nights they would line up at his office door looking as though they were much underpaid for their strenuous labour. A very different life was led by Jack McDonald the honest, hard-working assistant employed by the squire. Jack was a huge framed, raw boned fellow with a quiet, cheerful nature, one of old Scotland’s true sons. He did his work thoroughly, especially when his master was not near, for Jack did not like anyone watching and criticizing him, and he accepted his small wages gratefully. Whenever anyone laughed at him for being so silly as to work himself to death for a few paltry shillings a week while there were plenty of easy jobs with higher wages awaiting him he would reply: “I am quite happy where I am, thank you. What do I want with more money? I am not in need of much and I .have no one dependant on me.’.’ This was quite true. Jack McDonald had no relations for whom to work. They had all preceded him on the journey across the great divine river—his mother, father, and little Flora, his only sister, and he was quite happy as long as he earned a scanty living and so long as his master did not object to his one pleasure, his music. This was Jack’s one consolation. He would slave like a nigger all day and half the night, and then next morning he would be up long before dawn and away among the hills with his bagpipes. Not one person in Sunnydale had the heart to complain, not even old Squire Arlen, who was afraid of losing such a good, easily handled worker, because although he did wake them up they had no need of alarm clocks, and they did have need to be up early. Many a woman, and man too, of Scottish birth would stand bare-headed outside their doors in these early hours listening until the strains had died away and the tears would flow unchecked as they thought of the glad days of old, when the hills had echoed and re-echoed with the sound of pipes as the good MacDougall and McDonald, Jack’s father, had led victorious clans home from the ware. It must not be thought, however, that all welcomed the pipes. The four lads from Sir Richard Arlen’s farm would have given a quarter of their wages to have every earthly creation resembling the bagpipes pitched into the top of an active volcano, there to smoulder in the burning lava. It was no fun to be hauled out of bed so early, for even if you had nothing to do it was much more pleasant in bed than outside. They never forgot to show their appreciation either, and Jack McDonald soon found that he had developed the cutting nickname of “Noise.” Thus life dragged on for many a dreary year until the thunderbolt came. It is amazing what fear can be installed in the human heart by a few words on paper. The following paragraph in the daily paper came as a blow to all in Sunnydale, and caused many a fond mother to weep heart-brokenly at the thought of parting forever with her son. Here it is:— The enemy is over the border. Men are urgently required from all towns, especially ’those along the coast. Will all towns mentioned below choose one strong, healthy lad from amongst them, one who can be most spared to join in with his countrymen in ridding this fair young land from heathen invaders. Of course, no one will bo made to fight against his will. Under this startling paragraph followed a list of towns, and at the bottom of this list was the name, Sunnydale. The squire, being the head man in the village, called a great meeting together in his huge barn and did all in his power to get the people of Sunnydale to find a willing lad to go and fight, and if need be, die for his country, but no offer was forthcoming. Jack McDonald had eagerly came to the fore and stated his desire to go, but the squire had been nearly frantic and had emphasized the point that it eaid a lad who could be most spared. “What could I do without you ?" he bawled, and then turning to his brother had asked him if one of his lazy boys could not go. Sir Arlen said that the best thing to do would be to put the five names on paper and then draw lots. The four lads from that gentleman’s estate turned white and declared that they would not go. Victor Johns, the most cowardly of them, turned to his fellows, and in a sneering voice said, “Why can’t ‘Noise’ go? He’d scare away the enemy with his old bundle of cats.” Jack heard this, but paid no attention to it. He was engaged in studying the loving face of Victor’s mother. Her eyes were full and her anxious gaze was directed at the aged Vicar who was drawing the names. This decided Jack. He strode boldly forward and in a firm, commanding voice told of his intentions. “To-morrow,” said he, “I join with my country’s defenders. I am,the man who can be most spared, because I have no relations on this earth to mourn for me if I am killed, and, if I should be killed I will join those who are dear to me. Squire Arlen,” he continued, looking into that respectful face, “will not detain me, I am sure, for Victor John’s brother has agreed to do my work for the same wage as I am receiving.” Having delivered this short speech, Jack departed amidst a thunderous applause, without even casting one glance at the shame-faced Victor Johns and company. The hour of midnight was growing old, the silver moon was scuttling in and out of a sea of black clouds, and a sprightly wind heaved the spray high above the angry waves as the newly enlisted soldier took a last look over the familiar scenes of his young life. There was too much to do to-night to spare any precious time in sleeping. He glanced once more at the angry sea and the small brown-sailed fishing boats tied to the harbour wall, for it was no night for fishing, and then made his way to the churchyard to pay a farewell visit to the graves of his ancestors. It was four o’clock when Jack McDonald took his friendly old pipes into the heather-covered hills, but it was nearly ten when he made his way to the vicarage

to receive the blessing of the aged Vicar before he left home to do his duty to his King and country, as his forefathers had done their duty to their Highland Chief and clan long ago. A little after noon a khaki-coloured uniform was sent to Sunnydale, and a tall, proud Jack McDonald joined in the ranks of a passing troop of soldiers. He strode forth boldly to the sound of a gay military drum and an army of clapping Sunnydale folk; but he could not help thinking of the bonny old highland music left behind, and he would much rather have been marching to the sound of his “noise” than he the harsh beating of a hundred brass drums; but had he known how many heartwrung prayers went up that night to seek safety and success for him he would have felt well paid for leaving his pipes behind. Another peculiar fact was that the four loafers who had once detested Jack’s music soon wished for it back again, as did many others who preferred the “noise” to the tingling new alarm clocks. In tho beginning of spring came the glad news that the heathen invaders had been entirely routed with but little loss of life to the defenders, but with this glad news came a most pathetic story of the bravery of an unknown soldier who had lost both of his legs and his left arm in a tussle with the foe. No one in Sunnydale connected this story with their hero until the day of the peace procession. It was a glorious day, the birds singing, the sun shining, and the air filled with the perfume of violets. People had been up half the night doing the next day’s work in order to be free to see the great procession. About two o’clock the sound of a triumphant band, and of trumpets, bugles, andthe sweet sound of bagpipes was heard, and the rays of the sun caught on some spectacle of dazzling pomp in the distance. It was the peace procession. In front was the great gilded peace chariot drawn by six coal-black, foamy-mouthed chargers, in which sat the two great victorious generals and all that was left of Jack McDonald —a head, a trunk and a right arm —but a great honour was pinned on to his gallant breast in the form of a Victoria Cross. Ten years later, in such another springtime, two ladies, both strangers to the town, are sitting on a seat beneath a weeping willow tree in the little weedy churchyard of Sunnydale. In front of them is the one well-kept grave in the whole cemetery. ■lt is a mass of violets and yellow primroses, surrounded by a low white fence and finished off with a magnificent headstone. It is the headstone they are looking at now. On ton of it is engraved a huge Victoria Cross, underneath which is a name and a date of death, and below that is a richly ornamented carving of the old bagpipes. The very bottom of the stone is occupied by a little verso telling of him who had given his life little by little for his country, and who had suffered all kinds of pain without making any noise because it was for his country’s good. “He can’t have been very old judging by the size of this plot. I wonder what use they have for such little fellows in the army? I wouldn’t let my boys go although they are twice as big as that! It’s downright murder to let such infante go to the war!” This remark is made by one of the strangers, whose companion immediately replies, “He must have been the drummer boy! What a little dear! Wouldn’t his mother be proud of such a tiny son winning a Victoria Cross?” With these staid views the pair moved on, but they were never to know that that tiny grave belonged to tall Jack McDonald, because they never bothered to ask any of the village folk, who all knew the sad story:—Jack McDonald had died a week after the famous procession, because without his hand and feet he could not go into the hills in the mornings or play his father's old clan tunes, and life for him was worth nothing when it did not mean his “noise.” —2/6 and 3 marks to Cousin Beatrice Witsey (16), Riverton.

—Highly Commended.— Noise is a wonderful creation, which is unseen, but not unheard. There are many different examples of noises in this world, for instance, those which are harsh and disagreeable to the ear, those which rumble and tumble in the distance, those which are agreeable to the ear, and those noises which thrill us with a curious feeling. I think the most disagreeable noise that there can be, is that of the rolling guns and bombs at war, playing havoc with the precious blood of brave nurses, brave soldiers, and brave doctors. Everyone should try to stamp out this disagreeable noise, and many countries are trying to stop it forever through the League of Nations. Then there is the noise of thunder, which seems to tumble and roll, like huge giants falling over each other, into the land beyond. Most of us are fear-stricken when thunder bellows its loud notes, but we should laugh, and imagine ourselves in the sky, seeing all the gods of the sky regions, growling and quarreling with each other. I have heard many different people say that they dislike the noise of the steamengine whistle, as it gives one shrill whine at the railway crossing. We should not be annoyed at this, but should think what would happen if the train had no whistle; why! we would be hearing of very serious accidents occurring nearly every minute. Little boys wandering home from school seem to me to like making squeaky noises, for they always have some very squeaky contraption, made to mock an old motor-car, and is composed chiefly of petrol-cases, old pram-handles, and four very rusty, squeaky wheels, which need a glance at an oilcan very badly. Some little boys have an ancient looking bicycle wheel, minus the tyre, while some smaller laddies are quite content with squeaky scooters to race about on. I do not know where the young lads find pleasure in these wild and noisy contrivances, but boys will be boys and I suppose it adds to their enjoyment, and that is always something. When on a sunny beach, we hear the noise of the great breakers, as they jump and toss about on their sandy bed. Then, in the distance, may be heard the joyous laughter of men, women, and children, as they jump over the noisy billows. 1 think I know the noise that schoolboys dislike (or like!) most, and that is the whizz of the cane, as it comes with some force from the schoolmaster’s brawny arms, on to the little boy’s rather grimy and chilblainy (?) hands. In our new inventions, we have the many different sounds of the old-fashioned and the new motor-cars, as they spin at some speed, along the long, white, road; and, in the air, we have the whirr of the great aeroplanes as they flash, like lightning over houses, bridges, and seas. Let us take a thought to the farm and farm houses. On the farm there are many noises, which seem to fit in perfectly with the open life. For instance, take the mooing of the cow, the baa-baa ing of the sheep, the miewing of the cats, and the continual song of the birds as they try to outdo each other in singing the sweetest song. In the homely farm-house, there is the clatter of dishes, knives, spoons, and forks, the stirring of pots, the poking of fires, and, altogether, the busy preparation of the country house-wife, as she makes appetising meals for the family. All music may not be exactly classed as noisy, but some decidedly is. Take for instance, a little child, waking on a Christmas morn, and finding his stockings filled with bugles, mouth organs, and such noisy instruments. In a few minutes there are •weird noises oozing from all directions and I am sure that in a short while, ‘Santa Claus’ will be sorry that he gave the rowdy one such “musical” presents; and again, take someone who knows nothing whatever about the ins and outs of violin playing, trying his or her skill at it—my! what a screech! To the musical ear the volume of sound from a large choir or a band is very agreeable, but to others it is just an annoyance, and they try to avoid loud music as much as they can., Sometimes if our speech is too loud, we create a noise which is not agreeable, and if we can subdue that, we make it a pleasure for everyone around us. 2 marks to Cousin Jean Nichol (13), 166 Clyde Street, Invercargill. —Highly Commended.— “Mary, surely it’s time to go now!” “Oh no, Ivy,” replied my sister from her perch on the elm branch above me. “But I do wish it were. I’m sure the clock has been going much more slowly to-day than it does at other times.” “I don’t see why we can’t go on, and let mother meet us afterwards. Come and ask if we may. I’ll race you there.” It was Christmas Eve, and mother had promised to take us down the street. We went nearly crazy with delight when mother said we might go, but we had to promise to meet her at the Post Office at eight o’clock. Off we raced out the gate and down the street like arrows. We hadn’t gone far when a loud bang brought us to a sudden halt. For a few moments we stood, wondering whether to. go on or back, till a puff of wind brought to our ears a' babel of sound, while another bang disturbed the quietness of the summer’s night. Then it dawned on us what it was —the crackers. We started off again, and did not pause till we turned, at length, into the main street. What a sight it was, with its hundreds of coloured lights, and streamers hung everywhere, the gaily decorated windows, and the ferns tied to the posts and veran- .

dabs. Even though it was still early crowds of people thronged everywhere while the amusements and side-shows were in full swing. And what a noise there was, everybody and everything contributing a share. Children were blowing trumpets, and letting off all sorts of crackers, while every now and then a rocket soared into the sky above us. A gramophone was reproducing the record “Jolly Coppersmith.” From a wireless loud-speaker attached to the verandah post of an electrician’s came the sound of a male choir singing Christmas carols. Above even these two, we could hear the bagpipe band playing “Scots Wha Ha’e.” As we got nearer we could hear the cheerful strains of the merry-go-round organ mingled with the laughter of its happy occupants. The side-show men were contributing their bit to the general tumult by calling: “This way for the magic caves.” “Longest rides given here for— —.” “Come on all you anglers, and .” “Come and have a look at the world’s biggest .” “Chocolates if you win, chocolates .” "Have a try at knocking old Bill’s teeth out, and win a .” “You must have your fortune told.” “ by having a ride on the big wheel.” “You can’t beat the chair-o-plane.” Then at the circus, the animals evidently freightened by the noise, began to grow restless. First a lion roared, then a tiger, then a wolf barked, and then an elephant gave a loud trumpet, which, for a moment drowned the sound of the brass band, which, at the minute, had just come round the corner. We slowly made our way along the crowded street, one minute looking in the shop windows, and the next watching the cars patiently wedge their way through the throng. At last we arrived at the Post Office, where, to our amazement, we found it was a quarter past eight, and mother was waiting for. us. How quickly the time passed and what fun we had—riding on the merry-go-round, and on the big wheel, blowing our trumpets and letting off crackers. At half-past ten mother said we must go home. We begged and begged her to let us stay just a little longer, till she consented to stay for half an hour longer. We made the most of that half hour. It was not till we arrived home we found how tired we were, and were glad to scramble into bed. One thing we both noticed. That was, how quiet everything was after the noise down the street. —2 marks to Cousin Unah Borland (15) Havelock street, Riverton. —Highly Commended.— It was twilight. Over in the western sky the rosy colours of the sunset still lingered, casting gold tints on the river. The birds were circling high in the heavens, before they dropped into the trees to rest. Noisily they twittered as if to re-assure themselves that all was well. Noisily the little stream clattered over the stones of its bed, as it leaped and eddied down the cliff, to the river in the gorge Below. On the top of a cliff was a pa with its strong blockades rising in three tiers, to keep back the foe. And inside.... Was everything quite as it should be at this hour when all men should be round the fires in the great whare listening awed to the chants of the tohungas? No! Loud was the commotion. Children shouted, women wept, and men flung out sharp commands to a noisy air. There was to be a raid on a neighbouring pa and all was in readiness even to the war canoes lying launched in tho river below. Now in the meeting place the men were assembled and for a while the clamour

hushed. Suddenly from the ranks of waiting men sprang out the leader and with hideous grimaces commenced the haka. Louder and louder rose the cries, and the wahines answered with shouts and urgings. The little children ran away behind some whares, and with sudden vigour, imitated their elders in an impromtu haka, with wild gestures and lusty howls. Soon the men ceased their stamping, and scrambled down the cliffs to the waiting canoes, after the tohungas had pronounced the omen with due ceremony from the cliff above, the wails of the wahines were heard, as the canoes started and were paddled swiftly down the river to the time of the ancient war song. After the men had disappeared round the bend and their chant melted into silence the wahines ceased their sobbing, sought their little ones as. they paraded up and down the pa like trained warriors, and gathering them into their arms each mother whispered a prayer that her son might become as great a man as his father. Still carrying them, their mothers hustled the sleepy children off to bed, and again silence reigned over the pa. Such was the noisy departure of a war party in the good old days of long ago. —2 marks to Cousin Dorothy Maslem (16) 314 Taranaki Street, Wellington. —Highly Commended.— It was 7 o’clock on Saturday night when dad was supposed to be home from Invercargill. He was late. Mother had gone down to the garage a half a mile away to meet him and help him carry up the parcels. Mother had locked the doors and left me in bed. Goodness! What was that? Two cats quarrelling, and we have only one cat. I seized my foccussing torch from under my pillow. I quickly dressed and ran down the stairs, still the snaps and snarls continued. I unbolted the door and peered outside. “Noise!” It was simply horrible! Suddenly my torch beam fell upon a yellow and grey thing in the grass. The yellow thing was up and away but the grey thing remained. It was our cat and she got ‘up |;

and walked sulkily away. I then returned to the dining room and seated myself comfortably against the fire. I must have dozed off to sleep for I was awakened by a terrible noise in the kitchen. I picked up a stick from the hearth and crept up to the door. I opened it just in time to see a yellow tail disappear along the passage into the shed. Pussy was sitting on the floor as if to say “Now, look what a lot of damage is done!” Pussy was true. There on the floor was several cups smashed and two or three plates, there was also the dish of porridge which had been left to soak. That yellow cat must have come in to steal and there must have been a fight up on the sink. This sight made me more frightened for I do not like to hear noise. I then began to think that the dog Bos would be a better watch than me so I let him loose. He does not like cats.

He found this yellow cat in a clump of fern outside the fence and started off after it. Now I had some traps set for rabbits. He stepped into the middle of one and the noise he made about, it was simply deafening. By this time the cat had escaped. I let him out and sat down on the steps to wait for mother and dad. Bos who had been sniffing round, looked up to me and then towards the road and then wagged his tail. It was mother and father and what do you think he had. He had my enrolment card my badge and the Saturday paper. The mess the cate had made was soon cleared up and then we retired to bed all very happy. Whenever I hear noise I am frightened. —2 marks to Cousin Richard English (10), Orepuki. —Highly Commended. — "What is a noise?” you ask. Allow me to try and explain. A confused mixture of sounds, or more especially a din. A pleasant noise is that of a gurgling stream, as it rushes on in never ceasing flow. How happy it sounds as it splashes over rocks and round sweeping bends, or, that sweet strain of music wafted across the water in the tranquillity of a summer’s evening. Let us imagine We are waiting to cross the street in some big city, and whilst idle for a moment note the various types of sounds created in this world of ours. Our attention is called to the buzz of motor traffic, the squeal of an approaching tram-car, the terrifying screech of a fire engine as it dashes at whirlwind speed, round a corner, or that penetrating grate of a car as the driver applies his brakes. How tiresome and nerve-wracking such sounds as these become to one. No tranquillity of mind seems to come over us, nothing but a craze and longing for a more joyful noise lies in our hearts. As we wander along admiring the sights around us, we are suddenly compelled by some feeling to stop. Hark! Our hearts beat faster, we hold our breath in expectation. A magnificient organ! Yes! and one who knew how to play an organ sat at it. The strains filled the building re-echoing far into the back of it. We stood aghast, while the owner of those deft fingers played with his whole mind filled with music. Our palpitating hearts seemed to cry out, “More! More!” but the organist did not hear and we crept out of the building with the noise of the organ surging through our veins. How terrible it is to hear the noise of the thunder storm. The shattering sounds of the

trees as the lightning strikes them and they are smitten to the ground. The roar and the angry peal of thunder like some huge beast ready to pounce on one. Our shuddering shrinking souls cower in fear as we listen to peal after peal. Why do such noises as these seem to act differently on man’s mind ? Perhaps it is the longing for something more placid and less nerve-wracking that seems to make a difference. The pleasant noises of life and nature add to the beauties about us, and if life was one long shrieking and buzzing season it would be most unpleasant for all beings. —2 marks to Cousin Hazel Boyd (16), Ontario Street, Gore.