YULETIDE IN POLAND.

Taranaki Daily News, 18 December 1929, Page 6 (Supplement)

YULETIDE IN POLAND.

HORSES AND SLEIGHS. In terms of snow and. ice and of starstudded skies does Christmas come to you in Poland. Then there is, of course, the Christmas Eve supper,, .the so-called ‘wigilja,’ with straw and hay laid all over the table. But the real Christmas spirit comes to you when you are bent on a “kulig” and the madder ; the “kulig” the better it is. ~ /> “What is a “kulig?” Technically, a handful of friends (the more the merrier), getting into sleighs and driving far out into the country, there "to invade” some manor..or other, laying ‘‘siege” to it- with toy guns and demanding surrender, with innumerable •crackers, shot at the gates. These are., flung open, as a matter of course; the host and hostess shower generous hospitality, and honey-wine is drunk galore. J Yet all these proceedings, to my mind, are but secondary' details. The real thrill is the drive. What a drive!

“The stars are out! Now for the ‘kulig!’ Hey! Ara the sleighs there?” You throw a fur wrap over your fancy dress and you run down the stairs. A tall masked knight in shining silver armour helps you . into the sleigh, tucks the bear’s skin rug. all round you. The frost begins nipping at your cheeks. The horses’ hoofs champ the ice underneath. You just know it is Christmas because of the snow and. the frost and the stars. > • ■ •

"Where are we going this time-?” you ask breathlessly.

A place is mentioned and your heart leaps for joy. A twenty-five miles drive — through the forests most of it., A. twentyfive miles drive under the starry skies, with the trees still and hushed under their lace mantle of snow.

And suddenly laughter and singing are hushed. Bells, tied to harness, begin, their silver chiming. Off we go. The ice-prisoned road gleams like a ribbon of jewels, before you. The swinging lanterns add their roseate glory to the diamond radiance of the snow. The colour of winter grips your- very heart. What of the wind and the frost! Off you go, and on and on. The forest looms on the horizon, an enchanting forest, hiding magic in it. "Cold?” someone shouts in your ear. You just give an impatient shake with your furcapped head. Why bother about cold, anyway?

Horses seem untiring. They fly through space! Mile after mile is left behind. And the- still forest is all around, each tree like a cathedral spire with its traceries of glinting snow.

"Like it?”—your neighbour’s voice rises beyond the wind and you dismiss the superfluous question with a nod.

On and on. Now the huge wood is left behind, you fly through the open plain and the wind gets fiercer and you almost wish you could lift the bear-rug up to your chin. Suddenly, a grim, gray silhouette rears itself somewhere far, far away. The manor. You feel sorry for a moment, bu, quickly you remember there is still the drive home. At the gates—and the crackers and airguns almost deafen you. The heavy doors are thrown wide open. There is light and warmth and a brimful glass of wine for you. Somehow you don’t appraise these as you should; All your desire is back in the still snowy plains, where the spirit of Christmas stole right into your heart on the wings of the cold wind and in the radiance of green-rose ice.