Here and There.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIII, Issue XVIII, 29 October 1904, Page 13

Here and There.

There was recently a letter in a London morning paper claiming for its writer a record in the fact that she was a grandmother at thirty-four. It is an interesting fact that one of the best-known ladies in London society, Mrs Cornwallis West, lias only failed to equal this record by two years. Married at seventeen, she was the mother of three children before she was twenty-one. Her eldest daughter, now Princess Henry of Pless, was married at eighteen, and had a child just before she was nineteen, with the result that Mrs Cornwallis West was a grandmother at thirty-six.

Taking the Cake.—ln an interview in the “Daily Mail” with Captain Voss, who has made a voyage round the world in a dug-out, the gallant mariner says:—“l wished to put into the Cocos Islands in the Indian Ocean, because an old lady in Nelson, New Zealand, had entrusted me with a fruit cake which she had made for her son, who is employed at the cable station in the Cocos. But unfortunately the wind failed, and the currents drifted me out of my course.” The last sentence is, of course, a mistake. It sliould run: “But unfortunately the currants failed, and the wind drifted me out of my course.” —-“Punch.”

At a dinner given to Sir Alfred Harmswwth, in commemoration of his recent knighting, one of the editors of the “Daily Mail” said of the guest of honour: “Our friend llarmsworth, as a schoolboy, was shy and quiet. One day, to his horror, an inspector called hiui up before the class. ‘l'ou appear to be a elever lad,’ the inspector said; ‘what do five and one make?’ The little fellow made no answer. ‘Come, now,’ said the inspector; ‘suppose I gave you five rabbits, and then another rabbit, how many rabbits would you have?’ ‘Seven,’ said llarmsworth. ‘How do you make that out?' ‘I have a rabbit of my own at home.’ ”

The old method of lifting heavy weights, such as iron girders, or armour plates, by means of chains and ropes is gradually being superseded by the use of the electro-magnet. When well designed and constructed, and successfully operated, it has an advantage over the old method of lifting of saving a vast’ amount of manual labour- and a great deal of time. Ropes and chains have always been employed heretofore for attaching the load to the hook of the crane, and this required the services of at least two or three men, on account of the heavy and awkward pieces of metal that have to be carried from one part of the foundry or iron and steel works to another.

By its means only one man is required where three or more were formerly necessary. The crane driver simply lowers the magnet on to the piece of metal to be lifted, and excites it by means of the switch, which is placed near at hand. He lowers the load, and when it reaches the spot where it is desired, the current from the magnet is switched off, and the hook and magnet are again raised by the crane, and moved along for the next load. A load may be picked up in a very short space of time.

When we speak of rice as the staple food of India we are wrong; we mean millet. A cereal of widely distributed growth, it attains during the short summer in Manchuria a height which, by the beginning of next month, will be ten feet. That is why the Japanese complain that they cannot scout properly because of the millet, in happier days it serves its purpose well. It is the food of man in Manchuria, of poor man, that is. Give a Manchurian labourer four pounds of millet a day, meat twice, a month, and a little coarse flour of wheat-on another couple of days in the month, and he will flourish exceedingly. With the leaves of the plant hs will make mats, thatch ricks and cottages; with the straws make brushes, employ them in the making of fences and bridge-building, and as fuel. Also they will chop up the stales as cattle

fodder, for which purpose, in time of plenty, the whole grain, unhusked, will serve. Even the roots have their purpose, and make capital fuel. There is no grain in the world more thoroughly well used than millet, anil a Manchurian gets half a ton of it for every half score pounds he sows in an acre of rough wheat.

The young man who writes poetry was standing out in the night gazing at the sky when a friend joined him. “ What are you doing? Studying astronomy? ” “Go away and don’t disturb me. I am gazing into infinite distance.” “ I don’t see what satisfaction you find in that.” “ That’s because you never had any experience with editors. You don’t know what a comfort it is to find some place where nothing is crowded out for lack of space.”

After experimenting on the cracks and fissures that appear in cylinders and spheres subjected to pressure, M. A. Baumann, an engineer of Zurich, Switzerland, has an explanation of the markings on the planet Mars, ordinarily known as “canals.” When the planet cools after great beat, contraction takes place, and the outer layeryields little by little to the pressure. In places where the pressure is greatest cracks appear. It is possible that afterwards, by the intervention of living beings, the edges of these cracks may have been removed so as to form canals. But the same result might follow from the progressive enlargement of small fissures.

A new and novel method of treating consumption is shortly to be tried by Dr. Sohon, who proposes taking his patients on a trip in a hospital ship to the ice-floes of Greenland. Dr. Solion was one of the party that accompanied Lieut. Peary on his last Arctic expedition, and he noted how rapidly another member of the party who was suffering from consumption became cured. He therefore came to the conclusion that a consumption sanatorium might be established in what is at present a practically worthless country. lie is confident the trip will restore invalids to health. It will at the same time isolate them from their healthier companions, which may possibly also prove a good thing for the community.

A curious fact has just come under notice in connection with that wellknown and oft-sung song, “The Holy City.” It appears that the famous Mrs Maybrick, who was recently released, after serving fifteen years’ imprisonment on a charge of husband-murder, was the first person who ever sang the song. It happened thus: The song was the work of the younger brother of the man Mrs Maybrick was convicted of poisoning, his nom de plume being “Stephen Adams.” He was her most relentless enemy, and was mainly instrumental in securing her conviction. Mrs Maybrick was a good musician, had a great liking for music, an excellent voice, and a love of conviviality. Her husband owned a fine yacht, a feature of which was a music-saloon. Michael Maybrick, who had just leaped into fame as the composer of “Nancy Lee,” was present, nt one of these musical evenings, while the yacht was anchored in the Mersey. He produced from his pocket a manuscript song, which he said he had written that afternoon, while dreaming the time away in his cabin, and listening to the plash of the waters. He had caught the inspiration of Weatherly’s words, but the voice part only had been jotted down. The accompaniment had still to be filled in. Sitting at the piano he vamped an introduction, and asked his sister-in-law, Mrs Florence Maybrick, to sing ‘ The Holy City” from the voice part. She was an excellent reader, and readily did this, he filling in an extemporised accompaniment. Thus it was her voice which, for the first time, stirred the air with strains destined to become as well known as Sullivan's “Lost Chord” pr Faure'u “The Palms.”

Quite a new occupation for women has just been started by a young lady, who goes to children’s parties, and keeps them amused by relating fairytales, quaint legends, and other such stories as the young folks love.

In Japan story-telling is an old and popular calling. The professional storytellers have their particular halls, where at the present moment hundreds congregate to listen to the war news. True.. the Japanese story teller does not attract the more refined or highly educated people; but so popular is he with the. masses—who can seldom afford to attend the theatre—that he may be classed among the most interesting of those who live to please and instruct. The Japanese news narrators of the present time arc among the most popular men of the cities in which they ply their strange vocation. There verbal war bulletins and vocal dispensers of information upon the great conflict now raging between Japan and Russia serve the masses, after the fashion of newspaper “extras,” and the smaller the. community where they hold forth, the greater is the importance of the professional purveyor of war intelligence and picturesque narrative.

Iff shee noo bow i wnrkt to gett thatt dime. How i wuz swetten nettle awl thee time i washt thee stepps aim polisht thee fruut dore i wander iff sliced luv me ennymoar Wenn shee is drluken lemim nade with i hav bott fore bur. Shee nose thatt itt wood bi fishlines ur topps nr tuarbnls with i node Butt no. I doo nott hi run. No indede. i onley think uv hur arm my grate luv ann wander sunrtimes wott shetz thinken uv. iff shee rood sea thee blissturs on mi hand frum taken burns O wood shee under stand thatt evry time shee stopps ami slants too draw Hur breth slices drawer: munney thioo thee straw. O luv how eezy u mark us foargett thee way wee wurk we hilsslur arm wee swett Too gett a Ilttul munney wenn wee pass a stand ware lennnenade is five a gins. Wenn are gm 1 look up aft u offle s'.i ann sez O henury doaut itt nialk u dri. O Inv n are a mitey mttcy powr wee wurk fore munney menney a wcery our butt lett a girl gelt thnrsty ann ills gone befoar n hardlie say Jack rohtson. thee nnilyunair spennds thousands butt he nose thares lotts moar in his pokket wenn itt goze butt wenn I spenr.d mi dime fore lemmenado Itts awl ive gott. Butt lev is nott afrnda Uy povverty. Arm evry bretb shee draws bringgs happynes upp too me throo them st raws. “Sonnet of the self-denial of true love," In Life's "Songs of Schooldays."

The East is steadily coming to the front, and it behooves all who wish to understand tlie most important movements of their time to make the acquaintance of the Eastern peoples (says Mr. Hamilton W. Mabie, in speaking of the need to read about Japan). We have niisunderstool them almost as much as they have misunderstood us. It is only within very recent years th’.’ we have begun to have any adequate ideas of their religion, art and home life. We have too long and too often classed the Japanese, the Chinese, and the Hindus with the other “heathen,” and dismissed them from our minds with a calm feeling of superiority and a contribution to missions.

The East is to-day the scene of a very dramatic war, of immensely important, commercial movements, and of vast social and political changes which are to be of the. first, importance in the history of the coming years. Japan has made herself the executive head of the East, and is likely to have the foremost place in reorganising the older world. She will have, in any event, immense influence in China; and her wonderful growth along modern lines, and her success in handling Western instruments of war, have made a profound impression in all parts of the East. The most artistic of modern peoples, she is also one of the most efficient in the arts of peace and of war. To understand Japanese character ami life, to comprehend h r sudden development in government and arms, involves careful study of her history, her civilisation and art.

There is a large and deeply interesting literature accessible to students; and there is also a considerable group of books of great interest to the average reader. A selection from these books may be useful nt this time as a general introduction to any course of reading on the East. The following books will aid

Id any endeavour to understand tie genius of Japan: “Murray’s Story of Japan” (Stories of the Nations Series), Brownell’s “Heart of Japan,” Knapp’s “Feudal and Modern Japan,” Bacon’s “Japanese Girls and Women,” Hearn’s “Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan,” Okaklira’s “Ideals of the East,” Mrs. Fraser’s “Letters From Japan,” Milford’s “Tales of Old Japan.” “A marriage is arranged between Miss Diana Dashington and Lord Broadacres.” Bu< li announcements should occasionally be foi’owed by the reflections of lhe unshc<*e«Bful lady competitor, says “Punch/- anil proceeds to evolve th * following: — The rare of the season is over; I've lost and Diana has won; Kho’s feasting on Broadacnes’ clover, And I am right out of the fun. Though Di was the one to ’begin it, She soon found me making th° pace; I thought ah along I should win it, And only backed h r for a place. At Ascot Diana was leading; At Henley 1 spurted ahead: At <’ow<*s side by side we wore speeding; At Trouvilie I fancy I led. Neck to nock we ran. shoulder to shoulder, The pace was too killing to last — the weather had only born Colder!) — I flagged, and Diana shot past. My heart's not by any means broken; I hope I'm not wanting in pluck; A tear or two, low be it spoken. Then I kissed her and wished her good luck. DI won the rare fairly ns stated: But when her attractions are reckon d My own must not be underrated — 1 finished a very good second!

The Koreans tell an amusing story in explanation of the enmity which prevails between cats and dogs. There was once, they say, an old man in Korea who possessed a magic stone which had been given to him by a passing wayfarer whom Jie had befriended. One sad day the stone disappeared, and the old man's cat and dog, who were as much concerned over the loss as their master, set off on their owji account to find it.

After a long and weary search they discovered it, and started to return. As they had to cross a river, ihe dog told the eat to take the gem in her mouth and climb on his back and he would swim with her.

As the two were crossing, some children seeing the strange sight laughed loud and long. This annoyed the dog as be struggled along with his burden, but it greatly amused Puss, who, sitting high and dry on his back, began to shake with laughter. The result was that the poor dog swallowed a lot of water in trying to keep his head up, at which the wicked cat burst into such a guffaw that, she dropped the magic stone into the river! The story goes on to tell how the faithful dog eventually caught n fish, in the inside of which the gem was found, inrt ever afterwards lie cherished against the eat a bitter animosity which ■was handed down to their descendant®.

No man of letters was less understood (as regards his personality) than the late George Gissing. whom popular fancy painted as a realist with a elever, lint drab-coloured imagination, ami little breadth of outlook. Mr IL G. Wells, who knew him well writes differently of him in the “Monthly Review”: “Two of his friends spent a spring-time holiday with him and his sister at Budleigh Salterton, in 1897. He was then no longer the glorious, indefatigable, impracticable youth of the London flat, but a damaged and ailing man, full of ill advised precautions against the imaginary illnesses that were his interpretation of a general malaise. As much as anything lie was homesick for Italy. He was not actively writing then, but be had two or three great Lafin tomes in which he read and dreamt: he was annotating the works of Caci-iodorus. edicts and proclamations and letters written for Theodorie the Goth, and full of light, upon the manners and daily life of the time. And as the friends wandered in the Devonshire lanes or along the red Devonshire cliffs he talked of Itnjy. His friends had not seen Italy. To all three of them . Italy was as fur almost, as it had been for all the English world in 1800. There Was a day when they sat together by Lui worth CoVe. He had been mourning the Italy lie fancied lie would never see again, and then he drew suddenly from his pocket an old pocket book, and showed, treasured as One treasures the little things of those WO love, a few scraps of paper that jour-

ney had left him—the empty cover of his railway tickets home, a flattened blossom from Hadrian's villa, a ticket for the Vatican Library, were chief among these things. He spoke as one speaks of a lost paradise. Yet before another year was over he had been through these experiences he has told so perfectly in 'By the lonian Sea,’ and all three of these friends had met again in Rome. In Rome he had forgotten most of his illnesses; he went about proudly as one goes about one's dearly-beloved native city. There were tramps in the Campagna, in the Alban Hills, along the .Via Clodia, and so forth, merry meals with the good red wine of Velletri or Grottu Fcrrata; and now the romance was more fully conceived, and in the Forum, on the Palatine Hill, upon the Appian Way, he could talk of the closing chapters that will never now be written—of Rome plague-stricken and deserted, Rome absolutely desolate under the fear of the Gothic king.”

Mr E. J. Lupson, of Great Yarmouth, who has. attended over 11,000 weddings as a parish clerk and given away about 1,200 brides of ages ranging from sixteen to sixty, has published under the title of “Cupid’s Pupils,” a record of his experiences, relating many interesting and quaint marriage incidents. He recalls one marriage that was solemnised eight years after the banns were first published. It was postponed from 187(1 to 1884.

Among “romantic marriages"’ Mr Lupson mentions those of a clergyman's son to a poor country labourer's daughter, and of the rector of a parish to the daughter of a farm labourer forty-two years younger than himself. A comely girl of eighteen, who carried a negro, is referred to.

A queer wedding party was that in which the bridegroom was a weak stripling, the bride six feet high, and her brother, who accompanied her, a giant of 7ft. flin., weighing 34st. Among the brides whom Mr Lupson has given away have been-two spinsters married to dying men, and a spinster from a workhouse married 4o a tramp. Mr Lupson recalls the fact that one Sunday morning the clergyman had to publish the banns of fifty-eight couples. He tells of quaint blunders by brides and bridegrooms: of a couple who found they had not enough to pay the marriage fees, and had to postpone the wedding; of a bridegroom who borrowed money from his friends at the last moment; and of others who paid the fees in coppers.

A member of a waiting wedding party was once found smoking his pipe as he listened attentively to the prayers of the communion service; and in another ease the bridegroom urged Mr Lupson to tell the clergyman to hurry up as he was perishing of cold. One unworthy bridegroom was so drunk that he had to see a chemist and take a long sleep before the clergyman would unite him to the girl of his choice.

Be cheerful. It's not only a great mistake, but very wrong indeed, to be anything else. And remember that nothing is worth striving for unless it requires an effort to get it. That is why we should be thankful that the conditions surrounding us to-day are such as to make cheerfulness such a laudable and desirable thing. When the doctor has carelessly removed a portion of your interior and found out there was nothing in it, do not give Way to your feelings,-or show that you are all put out. On the contrary, smile gladly,- and say: “Doctor, my only regret is .that. I have but one appendix to give to my country.’.’ ■ • . When the head of the syndicate that for the past two years has been undermining your credit and driving yon out of business, conies in one morning and says: “I guess it’s about time for you to lay down,” be cheerful. Don’t give way to your feelings. Don't squirm. Hand over what cash there is left and smile gaily. Rise above these petty things. Be cheerful. It is your duty so to be. When your Best Girl—the one whom so long you have adored, whom you have held in your arms night after night, and just knew, as you looked into her gazelle eyes, was the most perfect creature in the world— comes to you and says: “Darling, we may as well understand

each other. The conditions of our modern life, to say nothing of my standing in chureh, demand that I have at least, five thousand a year to dress on. and I have decided to make a sure' thing of it, and take another man instead of you,” be cheerful.

Don’t get mad. Don’t let your angry passions rise. Smile sweetly and reply, “My dear, thank you so much for your kind words.”

That is to say, be cheerful, for yog must remember that this is the time when you need to be cheerful, if you are ever going to be.—“ Life,” N.Y.

O, Husli-n-By Laud is a beautiful place For a sleepy small people ,to go, And the Rock-a-By Route is the favourite one With a certain wee laddie I know.

The track lies on sleepers and feathers and down, No accidents ever take place; Though there’s ouly one track, there is only one train, But it runs at a wonderful pace.

There are beautiful tilings ta ba seen on this route. If you re good you may take just a peep; But strange as it seems, they are seen best in dreams: So be sure that you soon go to slo p.

Say good-night to the Sun. for he's off to bed too—"He can’t hear you, so just wave your hand; The Moon and the Stars they will light up the ears As you travel to Husli-a-By Land.

So, quick, jump aboard, it is time to be off,

You have nothing to pay. yon young elf; Just think of the luxury, laddie, you’ll have— A whole sleeping-car to yourself!

Tlie "Sunset. Limited,” by Frederic B. Hodgkins. In "Booklover's Magazine.**

When King Edward and Queen Alexandra were much younger than they are now, “confession albums,” as they were called, were very much in fashion, and the Society of that day, bitten with the prevalent craze for putting down and setting forth nil their tastes, preferences, prejudices, cte., victimised and terrorised all their friends into doing the sanie. No respecter of persons, the Society mondaifie or belle invited all and sundry to contribute their quota of sense or nonsense to her Confession Book, and princes and peers, painters and poets, politicians and pork merchants, found their effusions ranged alongside those of silly school girls, budding belles, fashionable actresses, professional beauties, or celebrated authoresses. Most of the “confessions” were banal in the extreme, or so they appear to modern eyes, but no doubt it was difficult to be sincere without seeming dull and prosy, or smart without appearing flippant, or perhaps vulgar. When the Prince and Prineess of Wales of that time (our King and Queen to-day) visited the then Duke of Rutland at Belvoir Castle they each filled a page in the ducal confession book, and it is pleasing to note that they both avoided

the Scylla of would be smartness as well »s the- Chaaybdis of tbe commonplace. One ramiot h<lp thinking, however, tjiat the King would set" down one or two items rather differently jn the present year of grace. His favourite King, for instance, was Leopold, King of the Belgians; his favourite occupation, “Improving my- mind;” and his favourite locality, “SaiuLwich - Islands”—in the Duke’s confession book. Nowadays, probably he would put “Myself” for the first, “Bridge” for the second, and “London” for the third. His favourite Queen, . at. that time, . was “Mary, Queen of Scots;” his favourite hero, “Nelson;” poet," “Byron;” artist, "Raphael;” author, “Macaulay;” colour, “I Zingari;” dish, “Truffes aux Perigord;” flower, “Rose;” name, “Louise;” amusement, “Hunting; virtue, “Honesty;” motto, “leh Dien;” and ambition, “To obtain fame without seeking it.” His ambition, by the way, seems to have been realised, for he is universally popular, and lias become famous all over the world for his savoir-faire, skilful diplomacy, tact, and common sense. And how let us turn to' tlfe “confessions” of his gentle, consort, the graceful Alexandra. “Richard Ooeiir de Lion” is her favourite King, and “Queen Dagrnar” her favourite Queen. Her favourite hero is “Marlborough;” poet, “Shakespeare;” artist, “Rubens;” author, “Charles Dickens;” virtue, “Charity;” colour, “True Blue;” flower, “Forget-me-not;” name, “Edward;” amusement, “Riding;” occupation, “Playing the piano;” dish. “Yorkshire pudding;” motto, “Honi soit qui mal y pense;” dislike, "Slander;” favourite locality. “Great 1 Britain;” and ambition, “Non-interference in other people’s business.” Is not this a faithful record of some of the opinions, tastes, etc., of Queen Alexandra, as many at this later day can prove? ’

The reading public have little idea of the difficulties that authors have to overcome before they are able to select a. suitable title for their romances. Some authors write their story first, and find, the title aferwards’; others, on the other hand,'cannot settle down to write their novel until the name of it is decided. For instance, it took Charles Dickens a long time to choose a title for his books, and then it had to be done before they were commenced. It is a wellknown fact that Dickens had a large library of dummy books, to which he had given imaginary titles. It took him a considerable amount of time and thought to settle upon the name of “The Chimes” as a title for his celebrated Christmas story. Writing to a friend about it, he says: “It is a great thing to have my title and see my way how to work the bells.” Writing again in 1859, he describes exactly his feelings about titles. He says: “My determination to settle the title arises out-of my knowledge that I shall never be able to do anything for the work until it has a fixed name; also out of my observations that the. same odd feeling affects everyone else.” All his titles were carefully thought out and sub-

tnittej to his friend and biographer, Forster, for approval. To take one book—beiora the title , cf “The Tale of Two Cities’’ was finally determined, the following were thought of:—“Buried Aiive,” “One of These Days,” “The Thread of Gold,” “The Doctor of Beauvais,” “Time,” “The Leaves of the Foiest,” “Scattered Leaves,” “The Great .Wheel,” “Round and Round,” “ Old Leaves,” “Long Ago,” “Far Apart,” “Fallen Leaves,” “Five-and Twenty Years,” “Years and Years," “Day After Day,” *1 tiled Trees,” “Memory Cotton,” “Rolling Stones,” “Two Generations.” “Hard Times,” was chosen from the following list: —“According to Cocker,” ‘Trove It,” “Stubborn Tilings,” “Mr Gradgrind’s Facts,” “The Grindstone,” “Hard Times,” “Two and Two arc Four,” “Something Tangible,” “Our Hard-headed Friend.” “Rust and Dust,” “oimple Arithmetic,” “A Matter of Calculation,” “A Mere Question of Figures,” “The Gradgrind Philosophy.”

Mr Will Ogilvie, whose happy facility with verse full of the Australian atmosphere and pleasant sentiment was demonstrated so effectively a few years ago With “Fair Girls and Grey Horses,” is on the bookstalls anew with “Hearts of Gold and Other Verses,’' published by the “Bulletin” Newspaper Company, Limited. Though this time the poet has not been so happy in his choice of a title, yet he is just as successful as ever with his verses. Dip where we will In the pages of Hie new collection, we And the same easy command of method and materials, says a contemporary. Here is nis “White Man”:— There was a man on the Western side With a heart us bllr as his lands were wide; For his squatter friends ,he had open door; And a helping hand for this weak and poor; He was the heir of an ancient race, With a flrm hand grip and a laughing face, And n courtly style and a record fait. And they call him The White Man everywhere. And the swagm°u passing at any hour Had their pound of. meat and their pint of flour; And the drivers bogged on the black s< it plain Never asked for The White Man’s- Help in vain. For the famous team with the spade bar brand Would slew them out to the nearest sand; And Ihe teamsters swore as they took the track; “He Is the Whitest Man out back.” But the droughts made'havoc o' glass and sheep, And Hued his forehead and wrecked h’s sleep; And troubles enme to him one by one, Till the bank took over Iris river run. And left him one paddock that men might - sav . • They had not taken bis all away: And he tolled at the’ plough behind the hill. But the bushmen knew him a White Man still. And there came a day when The White Man died. And the neighbours gathered from far and wiile — From far and wide and the fenceless West— To foi'ow their friend to his last 1< ng rest: And the bushnien crowded from far and : near, Brown cheeks wet with a silent tear. For out in the laud of the sunsets red They know how to honour a.White Mau dead. And they burled him down where the Watties grow, By the road where the wool teams come and go, . , ■Where the night is a splendid silence, save For the curlews calling across his grave: And. stumbling under their world old load, The swagnien turn from the dusty road To the truth of the head stone's earven scroll: •Tie was a While Man; rest his soul.”

Edith Sellers occupies several pages in a recent issue of the “Ecletic Magazine” comparing the Danish and Russian homes for the aged with similar institltioiis in England, much to the disadvantage of the latter. She says the heartiest burst of laughter she heard in St. Petersburg came from an inmate of an old age honic. No praise seems 100 good for the Copenhagen homes. The following extract from her article certainly brings before the mind’s eye something very ■ different from what we are used to in New Zealand:—

“The model old age home for all Denmark is the new home in Copenhagen, which was built and organised under the direction of Herr Jacobi, who, as chief of the Poor Department, has done more than any other man in Europe to make the world imderstnrtd that all ■ohemes for believing the condition of

the respectable poor are foredoomed unless based on classification. It is sheer waste of time, he declares —and no one can speak with more authority on the subject—trying to make decent old folk comfortable if you shut them up with folk who are not decent. The new home is a fine building, standing iu a large, beautiful garden and with another garden lying just beyond. All tlie rooms are bright and cheerful looking, well warmed iu winter and well supplied with fresh air in summer; they are prettily furnished, too, although a. simply and inexpensively as possible. The inmates —there are some four hundred of them—are allowed ta take with them when they go any of their own little belongings to which they are especially' attached; and these things give to the place a pleasant touch of homeliness which contributes not a little to the comfort of those who live there. The old men are on one side of the building; the old women on the other; while the married couples have special quarters of their own. There are no dormitories in any of ghc Danish homes. In the eyes of the Danish, as of the English poor, dormitories are the very abomination of abominations. In this special home all the inmates sleep in bedrooms -—two of them in some rooms, three, five or six in others. These are their own private apartments, the smokingroom and sitting-rooms being, of course, common property.

In all the Danish old age homes the food is excellent: but in the Copenhagen home it is better even than elsewhere, as the cooking of it is watched over by an expert, the former chef of a great restaurant, who takes immense pride intlie dainty dishes he serves tip for the city’s old pensioners. Where he to sec the haunches of hard beef that in English workhouses are placed before toothless old men and women he would be horrified at our extravagance as well as at our inhumanity. The lucky old folk for whom he caters have every day dinners that they can eat in comfort, teeth or no teeth, dinners made up of stews and broths and cunningly devised concoctions of such things as sheep’s heads and tripe—all at once cheaper and more nutritious than beef. The dishes arc always highly seasoned,-just as the class for whom they are provided like them; and they are served quite hot. In English workhouses the food is at best lukewarm. Then there are sweets as well as savouries, not heavy suet puddings, but real sweets, soft and light, made with milk and covered with jam sometimes. And these .dinners cost less than the midday meal in work-

houses; for there is no limit to the miracles that may be wrought by good cooking ami skilful management. The inmates of the homes have their; own little stores of provisions and find great pleasure therein. Twice every week a supply of bread, white, grey ami brown, is dealt out to them, as well as a supply of butter ami cheese; and evgyy day they are each given half a bottle of beer. First thing in the morning, at seven o’clock, huge cups of hot milk arc brought round to them in their own jooms. At elevon they make

coffee for themselves, unless they be too feeble, in which case it is made for them; at twelve they have dinner; at three they again make coffee for themselves: and at five they have tea with cakes and whatever else the cook may supply. And they are as well clothed as they arc fed, and as well supplied with amusement. A military band is told off to play for them in their garden, and there is a special theatre to which they are admitted free. Little wonder they sleep well o’ nights and face the world cheerily during the day.”

There was once a poor woman whose life had been such a bitter one that she wanted her memory taken away. Ho to whom she had given the love of her young heart had not fulfilled the promises of his youth; his weaknesses had developed crimes, so that he was compelled to flee for his life; ami the sons and daughters she had borne and brought up bud repaid her care and kindness with neglc;t and abuse, and at last, one by one, had wandered far from her fireside. So the heart of the poor woman was broken, and she passed, a sad and desolate soul, down the dark valley of the shadow of death. She came at last to a river, and asked the boatman to take her over,

‘"This is the river of forgetfulncss,”said the boatman. "Will-you Mop and drink before you cross?” The woman's face brightened, and her voice was full of eager longing. “Yes,” she said, “I will drink; I will forget then that my hopes have failed.” “You will forget that you ever hoped,” replied the boatman.

The woman drew back, then she bent forward once more. “I will forget that 1 came to hate him so,” she said.

"You will forget that you ever loved him.” came the response.

The words seemed to stir a far-away memory. There was a long pause. Then the woman leaned forward to drink. “I will forget that my little ones left my arms. 1 will forget how I wept for them in the darkness when they did not return at night. 1 will forget that they lost the right path ami wandered away, never to return to me.” “Yes,” said the boatman, “you will forget that you ever pressed them to your bosom, forget that you ever felt the tiny lingers wandering caressingly over your face. You will forget the visions you saw. the fond hopes yon cherished as you used to rock them to sleep at night.” ' The woman was not stooping by the river now: she had raised herself, and was walking towards the boat.

“You may row me across," she said “I shall not drink of the waters of for getfulness.”

Have you ever said, dear reader, in a moment of despair, “There is nothing in all my past to bo thankful for?” Never say it again. Have you ever wished that you might drink of the waters of forgetfulness? Never wish it again.—“ The London.”

We were deep in gloom and fog somewhere oil' Gloucester, with the sea below niurking from inkly green to absinthe, and our trim little craft was bucking down to it. digging her wav down into the seas, and anon pointing skyward. We had of course Ihe hatches battened- down, all the staysails and topsails clewed up, a new coat of tar on the r’gging, the belayin’ pirns set and all the lights out; for, spite of being in track of the liners, we coukln t afford to give away the company’s business in the offing. Sandy Mcßainsgatc was at the helium, ami as the seas broke over him pictur-esquely-he squinted at me from his weather eve.

"I'm thinking,’’ said Sandy, “that I smell the sand dunes to looward ” We hove the lead and sounded for eight fathoms, and then the lookout, who was sitting iu an easy chair on the end pf. the jibboom, s.ung. out there was a, vessel on the port bow, bearing three .points down and labouring much. “Ken you her odor?” asked Sandy, while I waited, in breathless suspense, knowing that no fish bad come into port for over two weeks, and realising that if we were the first one in it meant a fortune for the Company and glory enough for all. While, if we were beat, someone else would have sinuggies of coin slithered up in their teapots afore the weaklier broke again. “It’s Raftery’s smell.” says the lookout; and then we knew the worst, for the Matilda Pratt Smith of Gloucester was our sooperibr in more ways than one, and Raftery was mean enough for

anything. “What’s adooin’, Sandy?” f savs; but Sandy made no reply for some time, fur

he wa» ex er a man of few words. '1 hen 1 saw a look of determination come into his face, and 1 knew that Raftery would never beat us in. “Here. mon.” said Sandy, ‘‘take your ti“ick at the wheel, while I go nsboro for a tug.”

I gazed at him in amazement. Bit It is face was ever imperturbable. ‘‘A tug,” I shouted, sweeping away the lug at ween us so that he could hear. “Man alive, but you can’t swim in such a seaway. Think of the ground swells that’s on and the slithering gai€ b’owin'.”

But Sandy only smiled. “The Company ne’er would forgee me,” he said. ‘ and there be no help for it. hut I must go ashore and get a tug, and then. mon. we’ll be towed into port under lUflcry’s 11030.”

And before I had the keen sense tj stop him, he was overboard, oilskins and sou’-wester, breasting the heavy seas—otF toward Gloucester, wlire the Company’s clerks sat before waini tiros.

And so I took the helm an’ warted with Raftery looming up two points to 100 ward, and me keeping her up in the eye of the gale labouring and pounding as she was.

The night wore on apace, and the hail came down, with icebergs forming all around us. 1 thought of the stiff cargo of fish beneath my feet, and if [ ever prayed, 1 done so that night, with the scent of the sand dunes mingling with Raftery’s.

Toward morning the sky broke somewhat, and, thinks I. Sandy must have missed his footir-, and failed somehow to make his way into the harbour. And 1 thought uf the trim wife and chikier waiting for him in the little low cottage just beyond the moetin’-house.

And then f looked up and saw a light bobbing through the mist, and it wn-i but & moment more afore the tug wes alongside, with Sandy throwing us the hawser. Then he jumped aboard, aui as we steamed down close by Kaftciy, emotionless as my temperament is and stiff as my arms were, what with hold in’ tiie wheel fourteen hours, I clasped Sandy to my breast.

“You were a long time a-sea, Sandy,” I said, with the hot tears a-freer.iu* my eves.

“A wee I,” said Sandy, “ye ken, mon, I had to stop several times to .ight mt* poipe.”

And that’s how the Company’s honour was saved off Gloucester on -that dark night in February.

—“Our Old Friend the Sea Story.” by Tom Masson in his amusing series of “Modern Shtort Stories.”