DROUGHT IN WINTER

Evening Post, Volume CXVI, Issue 24, 29 January 1934, Page 7

DROUGHT IN WINTER

FROZEN ENGLAND

PLIGHT OF THE POOR

[(Written for "The Post" by Nelle M. Scanlan.) LONDON, December 20. This moist England, this England of grey and weeping skies, that has long been the .subject of foreign jokes, climatically, is having a little Christmas jest of its .own. Hold in an Arctic grip (but, thank heaven, not nearly so severe as that which embraces Europe, wtih its frozen rivers barred to traffic, and its howling wolves creeping nearer the towns), we are being asked to conservo water. Thero is a drought in England in December. Water is being rationed in somo places. Even London,'with its reserve supply capable of serving its millions for two months, is urging a close watch on the dripping tap. You may freeze, but you are not permitted to drown. The Thames is still jfrozen above London, and even in the city you may see ice floes swept along in the muddy current among the shipping. When you v feel troubled and sore afflicted in New Zealand, just pause and count this one more blessing: you are never so cold that your rivers are frozen, and your people die of cold in the streets. There is an urgent cry of "Pity the poor!" "Under these conditions, the plight of the poor is pitiable. There are no stray' logs in cities for them to burn, and coal is half-a-crown a bag. SHELTER IN CHTJRCH CRYPT. After you have been to a theatre to see some merry entertainment, and have watched the crowd in silk and furs, and tailored perfection .-go off in their cars to a restaurant for supper, and to dance, go -down into the basement of St. Martins-in-the-Field. It will do you good. Here you will find the homeless and destitute, for in a great 'city, even in its most prosperous', years, there are always the poor—youth destitute, and age beyond work. Out of the icy cold of the brightly-Ht streets, they creep at midnight, these homeless ones, and find sanctuary for a few hours in the hospitable austerity of this old church crypt. A policewoman guards the door. She takes their names, and hears their, story. Three consecutive nights they are permitted to lie here, on the hard wooden benches, but it cannot offer them a permanent roof, even in the weather. And they must be out again before the grey dawn, which comes so late in London's winter. Leave your cast-oif coat here, for 'someone Will be glad of its oldfashioned warmth. Leave your discarded shoes; they won't mind if they are shabby, for they will keep out the wet and cold. Give a shilling or two, the small' sacrifice of your denied luxury; it will buy a few of them a cup, of hot tea in the morning—perhaps fheir .sole meal for Christmas Day. Is it their own fault? Perhaps it is, but even the foolish deserve our pity. Manjr are there through no f fault of 'their own-; hungry lads of unknown parentage, unskilled and untrained to face the keen battle for jobs. Old men and women, worn out with the struggle, their youth ; spent in the service of others, forgotten and alone. ' . THE CONTRAST., Champagne corks are popping, crackers are pulled, long queues line up at every post office with piJes of gay parcels to post,to their friends. I saw a chauffeur come into, one post office yesterday -with <&; large- 'clothes bag £lled with;-Christmas cards that.he was posting for his employer.- Holly and mistletoe and stacks of little fur trees r—Christmas trees on which to hang gay trimmings and packets tied with ribbon -^-are outside shop doors awaiting purchasers. Smithfield is full of Norfolk turkeys at ls.6d a pound; thousands of them hang in;rows, head downwards.' Dark brown,: hams, with paper frills like pierrots, crackers as tall as a 1 man, toys that cost pounds,: and cakes iced like Swiss mountains. The buying goes on, feverishly. Men and women, hung with parcels, struggle from shop to shop, and rush for buses. Money is; spent that keeps -the- factories going, and keeps people employed. If the rich did not spend freely, the poor •' would be poorer, .and the destitute no less destitute. ■-' Today 30,000 school boys have been released from school, and special trains are disgorging these happy youngsters into London. Their appetites are enormous, their curiosity insatiable, their energy inexhaustible. Mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles are busy feeding, amusing, entertaining them. The pantomimes are packed. The demand for fancy costumes and comic hats is beyonil previous - years. On Saturday the shops will remain open while there is anyone left to buy, at least, that is the promise of those not ruled by a hard-bitten conservatism. Christmas Day is Monday, and that means a long weekend. . By Sunday, London will be deserted, the streets empty. Ten times every eyening carols are sung under your window, a lone, cracked voice; a group of enterprising small boys in search" of pocket-money, a choir of women, a quartet of unemployed men, a scratch .band of disabled ex-soldiers. The door bell rings. "Thank you, a merry Christmas." , Postmen call six times a day, staggering under sacks of letters, or propelling handcarts of packages. The big parcels come later in a motor-van. The first post, befpre eight in the morning, and the, last post, after nine at night, are the most prolific. There will be one delivery on Christmas morning—the Jast until after. Boxing Day. TIPPING TIME. ' Now you lay in. a stock of half'crowns. You must tip the dustman for his year's service; you also reward the milkman for his early morning sacrifice to have your milk on the step before eight. The postman, too, receives his annual rewardi for faithful service. The telegraph boy who brings you a wire or cable of greeting, lingers on the step, hopefully. And so "A merry Christmas." . Automatic warning lights of ttie type ■used in streets, are the latest Safety device at level crossings in Germany. "Worked by the trains, they supplement ordinary barriers and gates. The German State Railways are erecting these lights at more than 80 crossings.