A BLIND SOLDIER.

Taranaki Herald, Volume LXIII, Issue 144842, 20 November 1915, Page 7

A BLIND SOLDIER.

LEARNING A TRADE. THE-WORK AT ST. DUNSTAN’S. A second time the -workman ran his fingers along the edges of the wood; the joint was straight and tnic. Then he took a half-inch French nail and carefully fingered it into position. Tap, tap, went the little hammer searching over the wood. Tap, tap, it had found the nail, and, witli many little tappings, drove it firmly home. “Good shot,” said the deeply-interested watcher. The workman turned his sightless face in the direction of the voice, and chuckled complacently. Then he fumbled for another nail. One would have liked to talk to him, but the motto of St. Dunstan’s on visiting days is. “Don’t speak to. the man at Ins'work” (writes “E. 1.,” in the Mauciioster Guardian). Visitors may go through the house, through the spacious room where the blinded soldiers are receiving first lessons in reading and writing Braille or practising _ typewriting with tho accuracy which is necessarily insisted on from the first. One may go into tho garden with its terraced lawn where Lord Lonsdale gave his famous garden party for tho Kaiser in Coronation year, or into tho workshops, but one must not do more than watch the men in silence. They must not be disturbed in tho serious business of learning tho trade which is to provide them with an interest in life as well as with an addition to the weekly income of 25s which tho Government allows. These men are the jolliest of all the wounded. “From the time they wake until they fall asleep,” says one who has lived at St. Uunstan’s, “there is no end to their jokes and laughter.” In the workshops they chatter and joke, among themselves incessantly. The Irish boy who was ranking his first doormat was intensely amused with the vagaries of his huge needle. No matter which way ho thrust it, it jabbed itself into his .finger. Ho expostulated with it in tho richest brogue, while a more experienced comrade at the table jeered at his efforts. “Sew it through your finger and out tho way it went,” said tho older man, drawing his own long-threaded needle out with such a flourish that it nearly wounded an unseen visitor leaning over the table beside him. There wore half-a-dozen visitors in the room, passing silently among tho workers, but so vivid was the impression of tho blinded men’s vitality that the watchers felt themselves shadows among the real. MENDING SOLDIERS’ BOOTS. The cobblers were busily employed putting tiie neatest patches on soldierly boots; it was evident that they had found a useful and paying trade. At the end of the room a dozen men were making baskets. The tnreo .Belgians worked quietly, but a huge youngster, physically very fit, was carrying on Hilariously with his mates. “Every time I look at you,” ho said lustily, hut broke off with a jest at tho man next to him. Like all tho others, ho was in civilian clothes, but his wide belt was studded with all his regimental buttons, badges, and the largo silver-gilt symbol of tho Cameronians. “Tho last Cnmoronian 1 met was in a hospital at Dunkirk,” said a visitor, breaking the silence rule. “Aye, there wore two of them shelled in a hospital at Dunkir-r-k,” said the man, looking up instinctively. “Mustn’t talk,” said tho escorting nurse sternly. “como away.” The most famous institution at St. Dunstan’s is tho poultry farm established by a blind man, Captain Webber, tho brilliant enthusiast who, merely by feeling it, can tell everything about a fowl’s race, health, condition, and general characteristics. There are now 18 poultry students, some of them very keen about starting little farms of tboir own, and the fowls on tho grounds are receiving more personal attention than ever fowls enjoyed before. They say it makes them vain as peacocks. A model fowlhouse, with surrounding yards divided by wire netting, is so arranged that a sightless man may feel his way about and without difficulty attend to all its furnishings or cultivate tho unused yards. The St. Dunstan’s managemcnthopcs, of course, that all the men under instruction will follow the craft they learn, and not lapse into the fatally tempting but tedious occunation of merely existing on tho 2os pension. THE AFTERNOON OFF. In the evening and on Saturday afternoons tho men are allowed to go out with, the regular visitors - their name is legion—who have offered their escort. They do not care about motor drives; they want above all things a long, brisk walk over cheerful-soiindinjr roads. “Take me whore there is noise,” is tho usual and pathetic request. Many of them enjoy concerts and plays —when the escort describes tho scene—hut they prefer the ordinary sounds of life, and they often find pleasure in pottering about the corner of tho Marble Arch where the many orators are heard. The thing they cannot endure is to bo asked about their war experiences. “All that is past,” they say, “and now we want to forgot it.