THE UNWORTHINESS OF MRS HYFEN BROWN.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 17158, 29 September 1923, Page 10

THE UNWORTHINESS OF MRS HYFEN BROWN.

(Written for the “ Star,”)

The Martha correspondent of a city paper sat in his study composing; a poem. He found the poem gave him much thought. Ilis last one, a sonnet, had only brought him in 2s Sd, and it still rankled. It was a fine poem, probably destined to ring its message down the ages, and he felt it was worth at least 3s 4d. “ No.” he said at last, “no more sonnets. This ten syllable line stuff may have done all right in the olden days, but now that poems are paid by the inch lengthways irrespective of width, the shorter the lines the longer I can make the verses and the more money 1 will be paid. Only by short lines can the economy of effort be conserved.” “it means more rhymes,” he . admitted, “but more bread." He wrote: O sweetheart, mine O Egaltine. He struck out Egaltine. He liked the word, but wjas not too sure whether he had spelt it right, or exactly what it was. lie was hunting for his dictionary when a visitor was announced, and a large, powerful looking woman entered. Her smile could be called beaming, her words sounded friendly, but her eyes were hard looking and stern. “ I just called,” she said. “ I see you are well —yes, I have quite recovered, quite. (She pronounced it kwait.) I have been very ill; very ill—you did not get the note my daughter sent round to you last week. I said to her,- ‘ I do not approve of too much publicity! ’ but my daughter insisted. ‘ Ma,’ she said. ‘ your position in Maruia is such that you must not think of yourself. You owe it as your duty to your great circle of friends to let them know the state of your health ’ —So 1 consented. As I could not see my name among your notes last week, I conchided my daughter’s note had gone astray.” The correspondent sighed.

“ Madam.” he said, “ I did receive your daughter’s note, but I had already decided that as the influenza was almost an epidemic it would take up too much space to mention all the sufferers. As you are no doubt aware, a great number of ladies ” “ Nobodies, quite nobody that matters.” “Still, madam, I thought with the influenza so prevalent it would be unwise to individualise.” “ I had pains all down my back, and my doctor said. ‘ My dear lady, you are a brave sufferer.’ “ I am sure of it,” the man agreed. “ I am not aware that your opinion was solicited,” the lady answered. “ You put in Mrs Ilyfen Brown when she made out she had the influenza—a woman, I can safely say, who has no culture, no refinement whatever; take away from her her brazen effrontery, her nerve, and what is left-—merely the widow of a retired greengrocer.” “ I will not discuss that phase of it.” the correspondent replied. “ I wish I could make you see this; that when Mrs Ilyfen Brown had the influenza it was not at all prevalent—there was very little about. If you had had any other complaint but just a bad cold I would have been only too pleased to chronicle it; a broken-er-arm or boils, anything but the ’flu." The lady snorted. “ She never knew to use forks for cakes till she saw them at my place, and then she copied it.” “My dear madam ” “ And sugar—-she used to put it in the tea with a spoon.” “ Excuse me, but I hardly see ” “ And only two sorts of cake—just two kinds—and she only had a two tier cake stand. Her daughter—got her taught singing—‘ voice production,’ she called it. My husband says if he had a daughter like that he’d wring her neck.” “ Madam, believe me, I hardly see “ Does my name go in?” “ If you insist.” “I do insist—not, as I said before, for any pleasure it gives me, but because I know my duty, and also I know my rights—my position, and my rights—l’ll wish you a good day.” The correspondent watched her sail majestically down the garden path, then turned again to his poem. “ O sweetheart mine, O Egaltine,” he said, “ shine—brine—dine-—fine—pine, ah! pine, pine, that sounds like a bird,” and he wrote with rapt expression:— O sweetheart mine, O Egaltine, For vou I pine, Will you be mine?