THE LETTERS OF LUCIA TO A LONELY SOLDIER.

Sun (Christchurch), Volume III, Issue 764, 22 July 1916, Page 6

THE LETTERS OF LUCIA TO A LONELY SOLDIER.

[Written for THE SUN for the benefit o{ any soldier feeling- lonely while on active service. ] By the Avon, July 21. | Dear Lonesome Soldier, — i We're still in the throes of Pleasure! 'and Profit- parties, ami almost every ' afternoon betake ourselves to one, duly i accompanied by a parcel or package desI tined to ameliorate the lot of a lonely I sailor. Soldiers aren't the only pebbles' on the beach, don't you know. There's the lads in navy blue to be comforted with cigarettes and sustained with j socks, too—sure, when the war is over ; we'll be lost entirely for someone to I look after. Especially as the Anzacs | seem disposed to present French and j English girls with the steady job of j darning their socks and sitting up o'j nights for them. "Designing cats! " as a girl said to me the other day when discussing the situation. If her best) beloved escapes flermnn bullets, she j fears that he may fall a victim to | French guile, and she is fully convinced I that the Government ought to pass some j legislation about it, instead of muddling j their time away over what they call high finance, and early (dosing, and no- I account things like that. Ah, if women j were only in Parliament, how much better these things would be managed! j

We've had a "Pinafore" revival this week—a company of amateurs called by facetious persons the Olee and Mad Wriggle Society put it ou for us. A crowded house and much resonant applause was the order of things on the opening night, with blushing, stagedazzled amateurs singing their way through the opera with conscientious faithfulness, and bouquets appearing unexpectedly now and again from somewhere in the region of the orchestra box. That reminds me of a malicious little story that someone told me, with much rejoicing, of a lady recently seen making her way to some entertainment at which she was to give her services. "She was in a cab, my dear, and it was simply full of bouquets' No, no, she, wasn't coming home, she was going. After that"-

The dark, T suppose. Then we had a' really charming little concert towards the end of the week, a function which witnessed the debut of more t an one promising youug singer. A young man of a stern and serious cast of countenance, rejoicing in the name of Alan Shrimpton, was a real find. lie sang the splendid and stirring "Border Ballad" in a way that thrilled me to to the pin feathers of my soul —and I have no Scotch blood in me,

either. And then there was a dear little lady, with the prettiest face and the daintiest grace imaginable. When you add to that a voice that makes you think of moonbeams ami pearls and silver and rose scent all mixed up in a glorious pot-pourri of delight, you get a faint idea of what a 1 appy circumstance she was. She has a husband in the background, by the way, and when the susceptible gentlemen in the audience bestowed toe much open admiration upon her, feminine belongings gently but firmly drew their attention to the "Mrs"' preceding her name on the programme, and thus nipped romantic dreams firmly in the bud.

r don't know what there'll be left for you to do when you come home, 1 'in sure. We've seized the opportunity of your absence to plant both feet firmly on heaps of jobs you previously eontrolled, you lordly men persons. You should have been with me the other morning when I went to see a little army of girls being initiated into the mysteries of telegraphy. Pretty girls and plain girls, plump girls and thin girls sat there tip-tapping away at the funny little instruments for dear life, and soon they're going to be able to send real live messages. A mere man cynically observed that no woman should be a telegraphist because she can't keep a secret, but that is an old fiction which is quite exploded. Besides, a secret has just got to he told now and again, or where would be the use of it, I should like to know?

I to' 1 you in a previous letter of the wicked ways of Mr Payne, the member for Grey Lynn, whose heated utterances had been threatening to set the House on fire. Well, Mr Payne has been persisting in his naughtiness, and has brought down upon himself the awful I judgment of the Speaker, by whom he has been Named. I am not quite sure what hidden meaning lurks behind this 'simple word, except that it is something | very terrifying and awful. Jfe was I Named, and suspended —not by the neck, I which would indeed have been annoying—but from the sitting, which is j nearly as bad. I told you that we'd I vet. hear of him using Words, and 10, I j am a true prophetess, for Mr Payne has j been indulging in a "big, big D ." He has. It was Sir Joseph Ward who | roused him to this pitch of frenzy, and j goodness only knows what next wc shall I hear of him.

I Our city has become so bedazzlingly I bright since the advent of electric lighti ing that the shade of the sheltering | palm is nowhere. The bright little elecj trie beam penetrates everywl ere. Social I workers regard every new light as a factor in their forward progress, and ! view darkness of the soul as s'ynonv- | mous with darkness of the city. But j Little Brother Electricity proves a broken reed at times. One of those times - | happened on Monday night, when the | light suddenly petered out anil remained j there for some miimt.es. The first performance of ''Pinafore'' was in \ progress at the time, and the theatre was plunged in inky blackness. 1 heard : of a young man who was there with his best girl and her chum, and he seized the opportunity to possess himself of a hand and hold it tenderly during the ! period of blessed blackness. It lay eonj iidingly in his own, and even returned

;his gentle squeeze with an answering I pressure. The light flashed bark before anyone was ready for it, and then lie discovered that lie had been holding the wrong hand! Recriminations, tears, ! explanations, shattered friendships, love's: young dream busted up! And all along o' that pesky eleetririty! LUCIA.