WOMEN’S CORNER.

Temuka Leader, Issue 10976, 12 August 1926, Page 4

WOMEN’S CORNER.

(By “Arnica”). (All correspondence to be addressed to “Arnica,” C/o. this office. Letters to be written on only one side of the paper, and name and address to be attached as guarantee of good faith).

“Arnica” will be pleased to receive any items in regard to social activities, personals, holiday jaunts, dances, and so on.

The engagement is announced of Edith Constance, second daughter of Mr and Mrs S. H, Pemberton, Claudeboye, to Hugh Maxwell, youngest son of Mrs Charles Homersham and the late Mr Charles Homersham, of Aukopae, Taumarunui, formerly of Otorhanga. The Misses Hall, Saltwater Creek, Timaru, spent the week-end with Mrs! J. C. Walker, King street, Temuka.

ON PLAYTHINGS. Not so long ago, came to me—somehow, somewhere —a report of a lecture by a famous scientist in the Old Country. During the course of his address he deeply deplored the fact that, nowadays, children have far too many toys given to them, the direct result of which is not only to deaden that priceless gift—imagination—but also to destroy any latent ingenuity they may possess merely because there is nothing to call it out.

Great inventors are rarely born of wealthy parents—very infrequently even of middle-class people. It is, as a rule, to the very poor we have to turn for these, and the answer is simple. Lacking the money to buy things, they have to invent such substitutes as active brains can devise, and it is largely owing to this cause, that civilisation has advanced so far to-day. Children are very imaginative. An old saddle on a log of wood, and they are prepared to range the world in quest adventure; or tell them that the sofa is- a gallant ship, and they’ll sail any sea. Left to their own devices, their ingenuity is at times almost beyond belief, and they are rarely other than busy, happy little souls. Can as much be said of the child tvho is loaded with toys ‘Such children are often selfish and discontented, tiring quickly of each new plaything that comes along. “There’s never a day so sunny But a little cloud appears. There’s -never a lip so happy But hag its time for tears.” WEARY THE WAITING. There’s an end to all toiling some clay; (But its weary the waiting—weary!) There’s a harbour, somewhere, in a peaceful bay, Where the sails will be furled and the ship will lay At anchor —somewhere in the far abvay. (But its weary the waiting—weary!) There’s an end to the trouble of souls oppressed; (But its weary the waiting—weary!) Some time in the future, when God thinks best, He’ll lay us tenderly down to rest, And rose s will grow from the thorns in the breast; (But its weary the waiting—weary!) There’s an end to the world with its stormy frown; (But its weary the waiting—weary!) There’s a light somewhere that no dark can drown, And where life’s sad burdens are all laid down. A Crown —thank God —for each Cross, a Crown! (But its weary the waiting—weary!) VERSES BY CHILDREN. (A. B. Crowther, in the “New Nation Magazine”). Perhaps, no stronger argument for reincarnation can be advanced than the existence of infant prodigies. In a universe where there is no accident, where the simplest

happenings are governed by neverfailing laws, it would seem that there must be some other lav/ than that of heredity ruling the coming of the child genius and of the child of small brain-power; for it is well known that the genius is not always born of parents and ancestors who account for his cleverness. But if one looks upon all human beings as being at different stages of development in a long evolution one begins to see a glimmer of light upon what otherwise would seem to be one of the greatest injustices of manifested life, It would not be at all surprising that a reincarnated poet should write poetry in his extreme youth; nor that a great musician, coming back, should bring with him sub-conscious know ledge of his art. In America there is a girl poet j called Hilda Colliding. Here is a poem Hilda told her mother when I she was four years old; her mother wrote it down, and very sweet it is; [ ‘d will sing you a song, } Sweet-of-my-heart, * With love in it, (How I love you!) And a rose to swing in the wind, The wind that swings roses! Will you love me to-morrow after next, As if I had a bird’s way of singing?” Another poem written by the same child later on puts a very sweet thought into words which carry with them a strong appeal: ‘‘Oh, my hazel-eyed mother, I looked behind the mulberry bush And saw you standing there. You were all in white With a star on your forehead. “Oh, my hazel-eyed mother, I do not remember what you said to me, But the light floating above you ‘Was your love for your little girl.” An American child of eleven, who has published a book called “The Janitor’s Boy,” and who hag interviewed many editors, wrote: “ ‘The History of Honey’—by an aged mandarin, And I bought it for the pictures of the burnished bees within; For the dainty revelations; masquerading up and down, For the odour of the sandalwood that talked of Chinatown.” And this charming little poem: OH, ROGER JONES. Oh, Roger Jones! Oh, Roger Jones, Oh Prince! 0 Knight! Ah, me! We used to play at keeping house Beneath an old oak tree. Your hair was red, your eyes, were brown, You had a freckled nose; You were the father of my dolls, My husband, I suppose. Oh, Roger! You were only nine, And I was half-past eight; It really was romantic, ©r As good at any rate. Then there is Helen Douglas Adam, of Dundee, now nearly thirteen, who composed, at the age of two, to her doll: — “I picked her up, I laid her down, ' I went and warmed her mighty gowny I tucked her in, and sang so low That she went off to peep-a-bo.” When one thinks of the development of the average child at two and at four, these productions take away, one’s breath. Dr. Hutton, of Glasgow, vouches for the bona tides of the work of Helen, who has published a book of her poems. Winifred Maitland Shaw, one of our own girl poets, published at fourteen this beautiful little poem: “ EPITAPH. Here lies one, the Dancer he was called. The blue summer sea Was in his eyes, and his light feet Were carved of ivory; His voice as honeycomb wag sweet, And now is hushed eternally, And on his tomb the poppies lone Spring through the’ cracked and broken stone. And this little song: “Golden heart you now may wander Past the moon to westward setting, Past the dawn star rising yonder Bright beyond the heart’s forgetting. “You who climb the Stairs of Heaven, Drop, I pray, some rosy token Through the veils of moon or even, To his hand whose heart is broken.”