HOLIDAY HINTS

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 82, Issue 305, 24 December 1938, Page 24 (Supplement)

HOLIDAY HINTS

At this time of the year many people ; go away for a holiday. One" of the problems they have to face is what to do with pot plants and how to leave their flats or houses. If they follow hese hints the holiday will not be spoiled by the return to an untidy home, and all worry will be obviated. Place several sheets of newspaper on the bathroom floor, put the pot plants round a basin of water, and place cloths with one end in the water and the other in the pots. The water will seep through and so keep the plants damp. The kitchen should be cleaned thoroughly before leaving. AU perishable ioodstuffs should be disposed of. Mustard pots and salt and pepper castors should be emptied and washed before being packed away. The refrigerator should be cleaned I and all ice removed. i A store of tinned foods should be | left in the larder to be ready for the return. Beds could be freshly made if the holiday is a short one, and should be tucked in and covered with dust sheets or paper. All pails, etc., should be thoroughly washed with disinfectant, vases emptied and washed, and dish cloths laundered and put away. The daily milk and bread supply should be discontinued and an order given for the day of return. All windows should be closed and curtains drawn. Finally, the main switches of the electric and water supplies should be turned off. EPILOGUE Thirty, I thought, was the end of it all, When you saw the handwriting on the wall, And acquired that Witches of Endor look, And curled right up on the inglenook; When your sight grew dim and your pulse grew thin, And your nair fell out and your chest caved in, And you stayed at home huddled over the stove While the young folks went to the Coconut Grove. Thirty, I sighed —the end of the trail, When your mind grew faint as your frame grew frail! Turn in the key to your clubhouse locker; Make for the footstool, limp for the rocker; With anything new be vaguely vexed, And quaver, “What won’t they think of next?” Yours no longer the vine-leaf wreath— Or roasting ear, with your new store teeth; And no man asks is yours dry or sloe, On account of your blood pressure’s high or low. Thirty years on this old grey head; Old Man Time marches on, she said! But somehow my hair didn’t turn snow white As I turned the calendar, overnight; And only slowly, by starts and fits, Did I lose my teeth or even my wits; And I stiffened up in my joints and knees By the inperceptiblest degrees. How lax, how laggard, how slow in Fate; This outworn clay, how obdurate— At thirty-one still drawing breath! Old Age is such a lingering death. —Ethel Jacobson. %