THE SKETCHER

Otago Witness, Issue 4030, 9 June 1931, Page 63

THE SKETCHER

LONE HOUSE. Two old maids owned a ruined hut Upon a stormy hill; at night They crouched with all the shutters shut. Big eyed in gloomy candle light. One maid was thin, one maid was fat; The eyes of both were lonely wells. One owned a dove, one owned a cat; Each loved her pet, and nothing else. And hours and hours the thin one sat Beside her dove and whispered low; The fat one stroked her drowsy cat; Both felt they brought love nearer so. But one day while they sat in church, Consoled to hear that all is love, The cat leapt lithely to the perch, And lovingly consumed the dove; And when the thin maid tottered in Unribboning her dusty bonnet, A quill lay where her dove had been; A cat’s black paw was still upon it. At once she raised her stiff umbrella And pounded the black cat to death; The fat one entered screaming, “Ella. The cat was mine, 5 ’ then gasped for breath. Their sombre eyes ached sullen flames, They felt their loneliness like dread; They called each other hateful names; The only things they loved were dead. They wrung their shrivelled hands, they cleft The musty gloom with tetchy whines; They packed their mildewed bags, and left On separate roads, with rigid spines. And now the hut they left behind Leans drably on the wintry hill; Torn crows blow by, the dismal w’ind Hums ouside; inside, all is still. -—John Bryan, in the Virginia Quarterly Review.

VAMPS ARE BORN—NOT MADE.

To the earnest student of life as presented on the screen it would appear quite easy to be a vamp. You just sweep about in long, clinging, perfectlycut evening dresses, use a strange exotic perfume, keep flashing unfathomable glances from under your long-fringed eyelids, and the thing is done. Strong men wilt with passion at the scent of your hair, and babble diplomatic secrets at the touch of your hand. If you are one of those tall, willowy creatures who smoke doped cigarettes in jade holders, keep having secret assig nations with Mongolians in the shrubbery at night, and have a “ past,” these few simple words of womanly sympathy and adviee are not addressed ~to you. You are all right!

You can saunter through life surrounded by serried ranks of desperate lovers and leaving a trail of bleeding hearts in your wake. But for most of us things are not so easy. Nearly every girl at some time of her life feels she would like to be a vamp, and has dreams of power and the sweetness of swaying men to her will. But enchantresses are born—not made.

You cannot turn yourself into one by affecting a chalk-white face, pillar-box lips, and straight black hair, and dressing untidily in orange. You can sit as long as you will looking all enigmatic and temperamental, and when spoken to reply. “ I wonder! ” with a cryptic stare, or “Perhaps! ” with a weary smile, but nine times out of ten it won’t work a bit.

Real men seldom actually enjoy lipstick, and few of them would bother with a girl who wanted understanding, or who had assignations in shrubberies at midnight with Mongolians! You can’t apply stage methods to everyday life, because the fiery, passionate men who fall for vamps seem as difficult to find as the vamps themselves. It is the mystery and elusiveness of a vamp which is supposed to be attractive, but there is no mystery or illusion about the modern girl. A man knows exactly how much, of her is real and how much comes out of a make-up box, and she doesn’t end off at the waist and start again at the ankles as maidens did 50 years ago. x

Girls of to-day have legs, and they don’t care who knows it 1

When women shed their veils, their petticoats, and their voluminous skirts they lost their mystery—a very potent weapon. Bare legs and bare arms often made hideous by sunburn, scanty clothes which reveal every line of the body, have made young men so pleasantly familiar with feminine-charms that they are almost impervious to them. Nobody ever appreciates the obvious.

However loath we are to admit it, very, few of us are gifted with that fatal attraction for and power over men which seems the normal attribute of so many heroines of fiction and drama, but let us not lose heart on that account.

.At first sight it would seem that no girl with thick ankles, snub nose, or a tendency to fatness could be a successful vamp, but look around you and you will alter your opinion. Don't we all number among our friends or acquaintances some woman, apparently without a single charm, who has managed to attract the homage and affection, of a nice man, obviously miles too good for her? We have all wondered at such cases and speculated among ourselves as to what hidden quality of allure these apparently unattractive women have possessed.

Some rare charm, we argue, must be there to awaken such devotion. Not at all! Consider the limpet. Nobody could call limpets attractive—they’re just little masses of stiff jelly inside a conical shell, yet are they ever left to drift at the mercy of the waves? Never. And why? Because limpets cling. That’s the secret of vamping to-day. There are so many women, and nearly all of us look alike, and besides, look at the competition we have nowadays !

The longest eyelashes can never hope to compete with a really deep-faced niblick in power of attraction, and so many of the nicest men would rather hold the handle of a tennis racket than the softest feminine hand. The only thing to do is to imitate the limpet—if you cannot attract, adhere! Man is such a good-natured creature at heart and will seldom resist a determined clinger. Ninety-nine men out of .a hundred out of the kindness of their hearts will pity the frail feminine creature who clings to them for protection. The hundredth will see through her, and shake her off in horror. .You must just take your chance which kind of man you’ve got hold of, and cling blindly. And, broadly speaking, the_ girl who clings the tightest gets the boodle—or the noodle, as the case mav be.—Home Chat. ' TO AMUSE A SICK CHILD. The best way, of course, is not to let anyone catch the measles! But if you have been unlucky, and already there is some seasonable complaint in your house, don’t be despondent; there are ways of keeping children happy and amused, even though you are so busy that you can’t be with them all the time. Convalescence is the difficult time, when the patient need no longer be kept in bed, yet warmth and a certain amount of quiet are essential. Probably all the story-books have been read, toys are proving poor consolation, and “ What shall 1 do, mummy?” is an hourly cry. The purchase of a small tin of modelling paste will solve the problem for quite a little while. It is a prepared clay, which dries hard like w’ood, but it is not messy and crumbly like ordinary elay, neither is it greasy and sticky as are so many modelling mediums; and it has the added advantage that it can be painted with the ordinary water-colour paints which are in every child’s paint-box. Moreover, it can be purchased at a very moderate cost from any shop which deals in artists’ materials. There are several makes of this modelling paste or clay on the market. They are all good, and for a young craftsman serve the same purpose. “What shall I make?” will be the next question, and, for a child with nimble finger-tips, the matter is easily settled, for anything is suitable which is a fairly massed shape and has a firm base. Things with thin legs and sharp corners should be avoided. A rabbit in a crouching position is'easy; a snail, or a bird sitting on its nest, an apple or a banana—all offer possible subjects. There is pleasure, too, for the child who finds “ making things ” more difficult. Small pieces of clay can be rolled into balls by anyone, and if these are left to dry, pierced through with a fine steel knitting-needle, you have beads for a necklace in the making! The balls placed in front of the fire over-night, but hot too near, will be dry enough to paint next day. This should be done with brilliant colours. If the paint appears too thin, use more colour, mixed with white to thicken it. When the colour is absolutely dry, cover each painted ball with a coat of any clear, quick-drying varnish, and they will turn into real beads. But be sure to leave the knitting-needle through them, so that the varnish will not close up the holes. When the beads are threaded and worn round mother’s neck any child will feel proud of having made them.

word of advice and warning! If the clay and painted is easy and effective, and can be turned into all kinds of grotesque shapes if a little ingenuity is exercised.

But be sure to moisten the pencil first and press the clay well down, otherwise it will not stick to the wood. Boxes, or anything wooden, can be decorated in this way, and will help to pass many a happy hour for a small invalid. To re-decorate an old and shabby pencil-box always gives special pleasure. These prepared clays are sold in a condition ready for use, and directions are given with every tin. But just a word of advice and warning! If the clay gets too hard pour a little water into the tin and let it stand for twenty-four hours, then pour off any water not sorbed, and the clay should be quite soft again. But if it has now become too wet, and sticks to your fingers, as well as to everything it touches, half an hour’s exposure in a warm, dry room will soon restore it to good condition.— Answers.

THE WEE BROON MAN.

The day grows cauld an’ the win’ blaws snell; The whaups by the shore are cryin’ sair; The dark creeps owre the moor an’ fell; The bairns are beddit twa boors an’ mair. Wheesht! Wheesht! As quiet’s ye can. It s near the time for the “ wee broon man.” For wha dae ye keep the three-legged stool °° That nane dare sit on frac morn till nicht, An the rug by the fire o’ lambs’ guid wool; The glimmerin’ peep o’ the lantern licht? Wheesht? Wheesht? As quiet’s ye can, They’re there for the use o’ the “ wee broon man.” The nicht grows dark an’ the win’ blaws cauld; The door should be ticht wi’ sneck an’ key: The sheep lie warm within the fauld; , T bor wba ae s" e leave the door agee? Wheesht! Wheesht! As quiet’s y e can. Its open tae welcome the “wee broon man.” What gars ye sit roon’ the wee stool there, In your clean bare feet, as the Word is read, While your father pits up his lang, laim prayer, o ° Af °i’e ye gang tae your ain wee bed? Wheesht. Wheesht! As quiet’s ye can. We dae it tae humour the “ we e broon man.” W’hyjnix ™ ail J hrose a’ warm an’ new, An set it wi’ milk on the stool, When a’ are at hame an’ support fit* An’ happit snug i’ the sheep’s skft wool ? Wheesht! Wheesht! As quiet’s ye can. We daurna forget the “wee broon man.”

There s mornin’ licht, an’ the dav comes fast, ,„. The , br ? se , frae the bowl is lickit clean, ■the lambs wool rug is turned and tasked. Wheesht! Wheesht! As quiet’s ye can. I m glad we hae sheltered the “ wee broon man.” An wha. wad want his wee laigh stool. An who wad steek the door sae tich An wha wad forget his bed o’ wool, An his sup o brose, an’ his peen o’ lieht ? Wheesht? Wheesht? As quiet’s ye ean For we need the luck o’ the “ wee broon man.” ’ Robert Watson, in the Queen’s Qua rterly.

81-CENTENARY OF DANIEL DEFOE.

The bicentenary of the death of Daniel Defoe, which fell on April 26, was a reminder that the famous author of “ Robinson Crusoe ” paid a visit to Gias gow in 1723. and in his book, "A Tour Through that Part of Great Britain Called Scotland,” gives a vivid picture of Glasgow as it was 200 years ago. In those days Scotland was still a land of mystery and wonder to the average Englishman, and doubtless Defoe felt he had undertaken a great adventure when he journeyed to Glasgow. But his first impressions were extremely favourable, for he tells us “Glasgow is a large, stately, well-built city, in a irianne’ four square, and the four principal streets are the fairest for breadth, and the finest built that I have ever see - in one city together.” ' Defoe was filled with admiration for the Cathedral “ which surprises the beholders with its stupendous bigness and the worknianship of the artisan the Guildhall, “which is new rebuilt in a very magnificent manner ”• the Tolbooth,

with a very lofty tower and melodious hourly chimes”; and especially with the University, “ the chief ornament of the city, a most magnificent and stately fabric consisting of several courts.” Defoe was not content merely to look at the; principal buildings, but made a searching investigation into the trade of Glasgow. He was much impressed with the fact that Glasgow carried on a considerable foreign as well as home trade, and remarks, “Nay, I mav say, ’tis the only city in Scotland at this time that apparently increases in both.”

He visited Port Glasgow, too, and was greatly interested when he beheld “a harbour for ships of the greatest burden,” fine wharves _where ships were loaded and unloaded,"and where they could als be repaired or fitted out, for “ work is well done and labour cheap.” Other Glasgow industries mentioned by Defoe as flourishing two hundred years ago include the manufacture of plaiding, “ a stuff cross-striped with yellow, red, and other mixtures, for the plaids and veils worn by the women in Scotland.” .Apparently Glasgow’ also excelled in making linens of various kinds, and damasks and muslins, which he says “ are very acceptable and cheaper than in England.’ He. makes, some curious comments on the kidnapping and transporting of men and women, a trade now’ regarded as a dark blot on Scottish history, but which Defoe regards in the favourable fashion of his time, and these are best given in his own words:

Another article, which is very considerable here, is servants, whom they’ can transport in greater plenty and upon better terms than the English, for the poor people offer themselves fast enough, and think it to their advantage, as it certainly is, to serve out their times soberly in the foreign plantations and then become diligent planters themselves.”

Altogether Daniel Defoe enjoyed himself immensely during his visit"to Glasand when he made his reluctant farewell he wrote —“ In a word,' ’tis one of the cleanliest, most beautiful, and best built cities in Great Britain.”—Margaret Hillman, in the Glasgow Weekly Herald.

DO WOMEN DRESS TO PLEASE MEN?

This is an old and vexed and unsettled question. Some men, feeling impregnable in their masculine conceit, assert without" a quaver or a blush that a woman never puts a hat on her head without wondering what effect it will have upon the men she may meet, while others, less sure of themselves and perhaps a trifle acid on • that account, declare that the only thought in her head is a hope that she may throw all her women friends into a state of anger and envy. I doubt myself if there is much in either of these theories, although I would not denv that there is something. I believe that the average woman, when she buys a hat or any other article of dress or adornment, thinks only of its effect on herself, and is not greatly interested in its effect on other people. “Do I look nice in this hat? Does this dress make me feel nice ? ” Sure are the questions that a woman, consciously or subconsciously, puts to herself when she buys a hat or puts on a new frock. lam very'certain that women could not possibly wear some of the astonishing things they do wear or keep the habits that some of them have, if their first or only thought were of pleasing men. If that were their first or only thought, when women must be the world’s worst psychologists, for many of them have habits that are mt merely displeasing to men, but positively revolting to them. Let me take the small instance of nails; human nails, not iron nails. Many women, especially those who devote much time to the culture of their bodies, have their nails trimmed to a iong, sharp point, and reddened with varmsJi. I have never met a man who was not utterly disgusted by this horrible habit. I have met men who cannot bear to look at long, sharp, red nails, which, tm-v roughly and rudely assert, remind them of bloody talons. “ They look like claws dripping with blood!” is what a man once said of them in my presence. I believe that if a canvass of men’s opinions on this subject were taken, not one man would lie found to say that he admired long, sharpened, reddened nails on women; I am certain that all men would proclaim their loathing for' them. Yet. a remarkable number of women are addicted to tins fashionable habit. They cannot be trying to please men with it. Whom, then, are they trying to please? Do they think that nails trimmed into that shape and stained to the colour of blood are beautiful.—St. John Ervine, in Good Housekeeping.

1N BERLIN.

There is a point in time and space where East and West and past and future meet, blending into a great metropolis. Its air is flavoured with the Russian cold, its landscapes modelled with the Russian forests and flat lakes, its streets be-statued and. imperialised with Russian lavishness. The droschke drivers wear fur caps and collars in the winter. The business men flaunt fur-lined coats, and every woman, snow’ or no snow, wears snow-boots. Berlin is no city of the remoter past. You will find her palaces and coloured marble churches, together with her Siegesalle edged with countless ponderous monuments, the heavy mausoleums of a spirit dead but yesterday. Breath comes more freely in the modern streets of Friedrichstadt, where lights, depart-

ment stores, and traffic are the apothesis of to-day. But in Neuer Westen in Kurfurstendamm and in the district of the Zoo, that strange expressionist Tomorrow stalks the streets, taking the breath away again with his bright vistas of the future. And if you will but follow the beckoning qf his finger you will be led past facades overlined and remodelled by powder-blue or sun-red tube-lights, to his bold sketches in the modern architecture based on fear.

The trees of the Unter den Linden, and of the Tiergarten that flourishes, astoundingly sylvan, under the malignant frown of the Reichstag, in the heart of the city, promise their summer beauty. The sun is now a crimson witch-ball, poised but a few’ feet above the Spree, but when it has regained its summer vigour those unexpected leagues of pines and firs that stand like a green and silent ocean at the very gates of the city will lose their wintry, alpine solitude. The snow that glints, between their orange trunks will give its place to flowers. You will go down then with all the youth of Germany to the green Niklassee or to the Wannsee, where 10,000 bathers offer brown bodies to the sun, and explore the woods that almost hide the smaller lakes from view. But now, in winter’s grip the bone-white birches stretch their skeleton fingers over the grey-green, freezing river, and the orange villas, gay with green shutters, stand like enamelled tovs against the steel-blue sky. As night conics Berlin opens wide eyes to dazzle you, and her streets become fireworks that scintillate against the heavens. There are a hundred theatres and a thousand cabarets, but you must first choose one of the three opera-houses. —Edward Richardson, in the Woman’s Journal.

TROUBLE AT BEDTIME.

This is a subject that appeals very strongly to those parents who, after a hard day’s work (the father at business, the mother with the usual hundred and one little jobs that make up her day), want a quiet evening. This very necessary restful hour is impossible if the young children are not taught to go to bed at an early hour. I am writing this at the request of a mother of a boy of five years of age, who “ rules the roost.” The scenes at bedtime, the screams and shrieks of this most unruly child when put to bed at the proper time were such as to" lead her neighbours to believe that the boy was being grievously ill-treated. Now if the parents of the child had made up their minds that, determined as he was, they were more so, the trouble would have been over ami the battle won. So exhausted did they become, however, with din and fruitless effort, that for the sake of so-called peace the child now sits up till his parents go to bed, and as he is too young to sit down quietly and read, he effectually prevents their doing so by keeping up an incessant chatter and noise, even rendering ordinary conversation impossible. Putting that on one side, it is very necessary to emphasise the importance of plenty of sleep for the growing child; it is as necessary for their growth as is food; and oh! the weary, old little faces I sometimes see when children are going to school in the morning.

The young subject of this paragraph ought to be in bed by 6, or G. 30 at the latest. He is now of school age, and needs even more sleep than before. Let no excuse keep him up later. I strongly advise my correspondent to begin over again, and, no matter how strongly the little rebel protests, vocally or physically, persevere. Put him into bed, and make him stay there. It may be a tiring job, but it will be worth It. And do not be afraid to administed the good, oldfashioned punishment for naughty conduct.

One hint more; never threaten to send a child to bed as a punishment. This is a great mistake, and the cause of many a child hating bed-time. Make bed-time a jolly time—a header into bed; a bounce on the spring mattress. Then a few moments to quieten down before “Our Father ” is repeated by the sweet innocent lips. Patience will do it.—An exchange.