THE SKETCHER

Otago Witness, Issue 4031, 16 June 1931, Page 63

THE SKETCHER

WINTER. This is winter, and zero weather; This is a season of less, not more. But better get ready the empty manger, Pitchfork straw on the draughty floor. A pretty time for a cow to be calving. What does she think will become of her young? But bolt the door from the flying snowflakes, Slam it‘to where the sill has sprung. Am I to fetch clover as I fetch water, With ice on the pasture, ice on the sedge ? But though cold as a barn, this needn’t be colder, Stuff an old shirt in the window ledge. You'd think she’d know there was nothing to grow on; That frosty hay is poor fodder for milk. But lift the oil' lamp to the furthermost corner Eyes like stars and a coat like silk. Where has the heart of winter a warm spot For any creature so newly born? But look at the milk-white breath of the cattle, The warm white breath of the lowing cattle, Taking the chill off of winter morn. —Margaret Emerson Bailey, in Harper’s. MILKMAIDS AND SWEEPS. In London thirty years ago, When pretty milkmaids went about, It was a goodly sight to see Their May Day pageant all drawn out. This in allusion to an old and all-but forgotten usage, common upon May Day to the milkmaids of London, of. which a long dead poet sings. For in those earlier, more simple days May Day would not have been May Day had it not brought in its train this bevy of youthful maidenhood, all decked out in their best. Acting on the theory that '•'all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,” Jill at this time also claimed her quota of universal fun. And it must have been a charming enough sight in those far-off early May dawnings, when not only the world at large but the grey old city of London itself was so much simpler and younger, to see the pretty, joyful band set out upon their own particular “Maying” intent: —

Themselves in comely colours drest; Their shining garland in the middle, A pipe and tabor on before, Or else the foot-inspiring fiddle. They stopt at houses, where it was Their custom to cry ‘Milk below!’ And, while the music play’d, with smiles Joined hands, and pointed toe to toe. The “garland” here referred to, and forming the very apex and centre of those May merrymakings, was a “ garland” only in name, being, as one of the period writes, “ a pyramidical frame, covered with damask, glittering on each side with polished silver plate and adorned with knots of gay-coloured ribbons and posies of fresh flowers surmounted by a silver urn or tankard. The garland, placed on a wooden horse, was carried by two men, sometimes preceded by a pipe or tabor, but more frequently a fiddle; the gayest milkmaids followed the music—others followed the garland—and they stopped at, their customers’ doors and danced.” Thus they tripp’d on till from the door, The hoped-for annual present sent; A signal came, to curtsey low, And at the door cease merriment.

But, if the milkmaids, thus held high holiday upon the auspicious First of May, neither did those equally “ early birds,” the sweeps, overlook its observance. With their jackets and hats decked with gilt and tinsel paper, their faces, erstwhile black, coloured a cheerful and enlivening “Dutch pink,” and their shovels and brushes painted to match, those dark-hued brethren of toil likewise held high revelry. They, too, •had their garland, their dances, and, in old annals of May Day, a hundred odd vears ago, we read that “ a clown a la Grimaldi” was added, who “grimaces • with all hie might, walks before Jack-in-the-green on his hands and feet, as may be most convenient, and practises every antic and trick that his ingenuity can devise, to promote the interest of the party. . . While of the child-sweep—-that poor, little early toiler—one. has written: —

Who once a year bade all his griefs depart, On May’s sweet morn would doubly cheer his heart; Washed was his little form, his shirt was clean, On that one day his real face was seen. And because “golden lads and lasses must, as chimney sweepers, come to dust,” Charles Lamb, that kindly Elia, has, too, his word to say of those merry and light-hearted folk of a long dead day. “ I have a kindly yearning towards those dim specks, poor blots, innocent blacknesses,” he writes; “I reverence those young Africans of our own growth —if thou meetest one in ' thy early rambles, it is good to give him a penny. It is better to give him twopence.” One can still picture the “ little sootikins,” as the old narrator terms

them, holding up their shovels for the expected bounty when their display of dancing was completed, “ the smallest donations ” being thankfully received by all the sable fraternity.” But gone now are the merry, innocent days when milkmaids and chimney sweeps, with many another, went out to greet and do honour to the glad coming of Queen May. Gone the garlands and the flowers —gone the laughing and flatting, the quip and jest, which kept joyous those sunny hours. And gone, long since, he, of their generation, who, recalling those merry scenes and faces, gone for ever, half-wistfully as he must, who has seen much that he loves. most dearly depart, wrote:—

Such scenes and sounds once blest my eyes And charmed my ears—but all have vanish’d 1 On May Day now no garlands go, For milkmaids and their dance are banish’d. My recollection of these sights Annihilates both time and space ; I’m boy enough to wish them back, And think their absence out of place. —M. E. Jamieson, in the Glasgow Weekly Herald. CLIMBING THE HILLS. Far over the steep hillside it wound, The path where his feet must go, The road that summer knew blossomsweet Now covered with ice and snow. And he sighed, this lad, as he strove to set His feet on the ice-bound track, “ Oh, the hardest part of climbing a hill Is to keep from slipping back.” I thought, as I watched him trudge along, Of the hills we all must climb, Whether the pathway be blossom-starred Or white with the winter’s rime, And one and all we shall find this true, As we follow the upward track, That the hardest part of climbing a hill Is to keep from slipping back. —Florence Jones Hadley, in the New Outlook.

THE THIEF OF TIME. The inspiring suggestion was made in a popular magazine that “ the only way to do a thing is—to do it ” —having begun it, to get on with it until finished. It is not enough to be lost in admiration of what the splendour of it would be if ii were done. In Baring Gould’s “ Broom Squire ” we make the acquaintance of that lethargic fish, the carp. “ Sleeping on the surface of the water, the carp lies, and will not be scared save by a stone thrown into the still water in which it dreams away its life.” All very well for the carp, for he is said to live sometimes for 200 years. So he can afford more time for dreaming than you or I. Unless we cultivate prompt action, we die before achieving anything. Impetuosity has its dangers—but it is a sign of life. What can be deadlier than prolonged delay? For whilst we wait, enthusiasm wanes.

Yet who has not experienced that paralysed grave-clothes-bound state in which he cannot raise a finger toward setting about the very thing he most desires to do? Even if the work is begun, it is too easily abandoned—unfinished.

Giant of resolution as he was, Sir Walter Scott had this “ sleepy sickness ” [ of the will, which doctors call aboulia. He describes in his fascinating journal the pathetic struggles he had with it. When he wins, we hear his shout of victory, “Wrote my task” in spite of a tyrannical desire to quit his desk and go and cut down trees on his plantation. What is this subtle influence that hypnotises us with its evil whispers, “Later on!” “Another time; you are too tired, too busy now ” ? How can we break away from it? Is it reasonable that, in spite of our will-power, and our intellect, we should be so enslaved? If we do not carry out our intentions fairly speedily after forming them, the circumstances will have become quite different. When Rip Van Winkle awoke after his twenty years of slumber, his wife was dead, his daughter married, his comrades scattered in all directions. Hardly a soul recognised him. To delay visiting the sick, or helping the needy is not only detrimental to our own characters, but when at last we do bestir ourselves, the sick may be dead or recovered, and the needy may have been helped, but not by us. “It is the first step that costs,” says our French friends. It seems to-be much

the same in Germany, for Goethe writes: — Lose this day loitering, 'twill be the same story To-morrow, and the next more dilatory. Delay is cumulative, will-weakening.

“If you had the abilities of all the great men, past and present,” says Charles Dickens, “ you could do nothing well without sincerely meaning it, and setting about it.” Then, having begun—the first flush of enthusiasm over—there is the keeping on and on until, like the frog gyrating in the milk-churn, we at last find ourselves sitting on a pat of butter—the consolidation of our efforts. We need to carry energy to a definite issue. “ Half the failures in life arise from pulling in one's horse as he is leaping.” Impossible as it may be to make an immediate start on all the things we either ought to do, or desire to do, we can do this. Make a list of all the undertakings calling aloud to us to be done. Put them in the order of their importance, so far as may be. Work faithfully through the list, -ticking off the items one by one, as done. Bring forward on to a new list those which are unperformed. We must carry our “ agenda ” with us wherever we go and often look at it —a sort of concrete conscience. We shall get so heartily sick oi seeing some of these things still appealing to us, day after day, week after week, for execution, that, muttering “Hang it all, let’s do it!” we shall start out and execute them. We might never have attempted them even then, had we not first given them an existence on paper where they confront us daily, instead of allowing them to float about nebulously in our brains. Little duties, still put off, End in “ never done.” —Ellen L. Brown, in the Weekly Scotsman. DECREPITUDE. No matter if you live to be A hundred weary winters old, With great grandchildren on your knee. And long white whiskers they can hold; No matter if in senile dreams You flee a world grown drab and dirty, You’ll never know how old it seems To be a pugilist at thirty.

Old age for woman now has shifted To well beyond the former limit. She has her face re-re-relifted And strives to keep her figure slim. It Is only when she’s bent and slow She yields the game and fails to strive; But here is age few women know— A movie queen at thirty-five.

Parrots, they say, wax full of years, And tortoises attain great ages, Stolidly watching brief compeers Decline and pass to history’s pages. Aged may be the elephant Or monster lizard, lithe and warty. Compared with one their days are scant — A baseball pitcher nearing forty. —Jerry Benedict, in the New York Times.

ARE YOU ENJOYING YOURSELF? Are you, Anne and Mary and Felicia, going to parties and dances and enjoying every moment of your time? Or do you say “ Yes, going to a ‘ do ’ at Kathie’s to-night. Oh no, I’m not a bit thrilled! Awfully giggly crowd! But then, one must go.” And so you do, but you don’t enjoy yourself. You feel all stiff and self-conscious laughing at the things you realty don’t think a bit funny; you talk to people who bore you stiff.

It’s the same when that rather tonguetied young man takes you out. You don’t really want to go, but your motto is: “ Never refuse an invitation.” You don’t realise that, by accepting every one, you don’t give yourself a chance to remain free for anything that might be more thrilling. You comfort yourself with the thought that you are out with a young man.

You don’t realise that you are wasting two people’s time—his and yours. He might have gone out with some girl who wasn’t bored with him if you hadn’t snatched at the opportunity, knowing you’d be bored! And you might have been at home when father brought in his newly-made friend at the club —and that friend’s son. They’re going abroad soon, so you won’t have an opportunity to meet him now.

Then, you went to' the party whicli was boring. But then, you declare, it would have been much more boring had you stayed at home, because an old friend of mother’s was coming round. Mother hadn’t seen her for ages. She lives in the country, but her young people have such* a good time. But you won’t get invited because she was rather hurt that you didn’t wait in for just five minutes to see her.

Had you been sensible and said: “ I’m not going to that party, it’s a waste of time; the people are so dull or so giggly,” or whatever it is you don’t care for about them, well, you could have spent your evening in a way that might have been more thrilling. Spending a lazy evening reading—and, incidentally,

meeting the son of daddy’s new friend. Greeting mother’s old friend, and, incidentally, being asked down to the bungalow to meet the young folk. — Don’t look in the wrong direction for happiness. When you play “ hunt the thimble ” you don’t look for your object in the most likely place, do you?—Home Chat. SHE IS SO ENTERTAINING. Which are you ? Do you listen in or do you want to be listened to? Poppy’s a prize example of a loud speaker. The minute she sees you it’s like turning on the wireless. She’s under way with a non-stop flow of chatty anecdotes, bright bits of gossip, and witty wisecracks. “ Poppy Brown’s so entertaining,” says Eva Robinson admiringly, meeting her fox- the first time and envying her her fund of amusing stories, airy persiflage, and the fact that she is never at a loss for a word. I sometimes wonder whether Poppy isn’t so busy entertaining that she forgets to ask herself whether her audience is being entertained. People get tired of listening to a ceaseless stream of anecdotes, however witty, and that screamingly funny story of Poppy’s adventure on the wrong bus may result in suppressed yawns rather than screams of laughter. ¥ * ¥ Remember that what is page one stuff to you is probably a very minoi - news item to your listeners, and be very chary of recounting the endless trouble you had matching that coral ribbon for your hat, and how will your second cousin Emily’s been with jaundice, and how Joan said something about the chief at the office that just.made the othex - girls shriek. Don’t, in your anxiety to keep the conversational ball rolling, be afraid of pauses. Give the other fellow a chance. He or she’s probably just bursting to tell you something, if you’ll only listen. Why not try being a “ mike ” for a change and registering other people’s ideas and voices, instead of announcing your own? You’ve no idea how popularyou’ll be!

Letty’s a “ mike.” Always ready to receive other people’s confidences, to listen to their troubles and register their ambitions, and, strange to say, “quiet little Letty’s ” popularity fax - exceeds that of the more “entertaining” Poppy, especially with men. The average man doesn’t care much for what she said and then what you said to her. And, believe me, you’ll never become popular with the opposite sex by sitting round and talking about yourself and your girl friends, however amusingly. Common politeness will force your listener to throw on a fixed smile and pretend to follow you, but in his heart he is bored stiff. Quiet little Letty stays quiet and listens while he takes the centre of the stage, makes all the hits and gets all the bouquets, while she merely applauds and demands an encore! Letty has mastered the great truth that, conversationally, it is often more blessed to receive than give! Don’t worry about what to say, listen! Don’t rack your brains for amusing stories. A sympathetic listener is faxmore welcome than an amusing talkeii Don’t be discouraged if you can’t keep the table in a roar, or be afraid that you are “ dull ” ox - “ boring ” because you are a listener! Remember the loud speaker couldn’t entertain without the aid of the “mike”!—Silvia Thorn-Drury, in Women’s Weekly.

A BALLAD OF THE FLOE.

The noddy lay sick-a-bed; The bread was low in the bin; The dogs howled all night long And the ice-pans drifted in. The white fog heaved with the sound— The crash and thunder and grind; The landwash flinched at the shock, And the mad seas roared behind. The noddy turned in his pain, And tumbled his narrow bed. “ The b’ys be away to-morry Fox- bert’s at the swilin,” he said. He saw the wife at his side, And the feax’ by the wan smile hid. “ The swilers will sail widout me. I grieves fox - yerself an’ the kid.” “ The swilers bes off to-morry, To steam an’ drift an’ kill: They’ll catch the white-coats nappin’—But I’ll make nary a bill.” “ Hush,” said the woman, “ hush. There bes bread an’, fixins to spare.” She straightened his shabby blanket And smoothed his bedraggled hair. “ They’ll find the swile i’ the Straits. . . Log-loaded off Signal Hill. . . . The b’ys will be drinkin’ at Tobin’s. . . . An’ I’ll have nary a bill.” “ Hush,” said the woman. “ Hush.” She stroked the hand on the sheet. Her heart was here in the room, But his was out with the fleet. The woman came from the storm, Her blown shawl over her head. “ The mail has come to the harbour - Wid news from the swilin,” she said, “ The Walrus made S’int Jolm’s On Sunday mornin’ at ten — “ Log-loaded—she stooped above him—

“Log-loaded wid frozen men!* The noddy turned in his pain, Rocking the narrow bed. “An meself was fox - sailin’ wid Bartlett To make ye a bill,” he said. —Theodore Goodridge Roberts, in Acadie. (“ Swilers ” mentioned in the poem are sealers. The following note accompanies: “ The money earned by the Newfoundland sealers during the spring expedition ‘to the ice’ is always called the ‘bill.’ A ‘ log-loaded ’ ship means a good bill for every man of that ship’s company and bills in proportion fox- owners and captain. —T. G. R.”) “ANY OLD CLO’?” Old clothes and their satisfactory disposal are problems to all but the very rich. By old clothes one does not mean, of course, realty’ old clothes, fox- these obviously can only be given away. No, it is the clothes which still look nice, but which we do not really need, that are the trouble. We have grown weary of some coat ox - suit or we are lucky enough to have others to take their place and so have, perhaps, more than we require. It is a mistake for the average person to keep too extensive a wardrobe, just as it is a mistake to go on wearing things of which you have grown weary. Your weariness in your clothes will reflect itself in your attitude to life, even in youx - face, and, if possible, you should have a change. It may seem smallminded to let a new hat enliven one’s whole horizon. The fact remains that it often does.

It is during these same dark days that you can begin sorting out your clothes and deciding what you really want. Your sorting-out this year will'in all probability be more drastic than usual, for fashions have undergone some radical changes, and much that you made do last year will not pass muster this year. When fashions only seem to be modified ox - undergo slight changes last season's frocks and coats may often b e altered, or even left as they are to “do a turn” another year. When, however, Dame Fashion makes any definite or big changes, as she is doing at present, it is best for you also to make as many changes as possible. But unless you can solve your particular “old clo’ ” problem, this is going to prove rathex- an expensive matter.

Some people manage to sell their castoff clothes privately, and this is probably the best plan. Maids ox - charwomen fire often glad of the opportunity of buying or disposing of clothes, but'the mafter must be approached with great tact. Friends, too, are sometimes glad of doing a little exchanging or a little buying and selling, but naturally, not of getting oldfashioned garments into the bargain!

Those who sell privately often make two mistakes: of selling at the wrong time and of asking too high prices. It is, for instance, a bad time to sell just before or just after the sales, or just after a big holiday, when a good deal of money obviously must have been spent. In suggesting prices, it is always well to remember that anything in the way of clothes second-hand is always worth considerably less than half-price, and to bear in mind the prices of similar new articles in the sales. These two facts should help you to fix a price which is fair to yourself and the prospective buyer.

Wardrobe dealers or dress agencies seldom give very much for cast-off clothing. After all, they have to sell again and show a profit. And before parting with clothes at what seems a considerable loss, it is well to consider carefully whether it would not pay you better to take out of those still good clothes the occasional wear they offer you, or even convert them into something that will be of use to you.

Coats and frocks are difficult of conversion just now, but summer or thin frocks at least hold possibilities. Many of last year’s summer frocks will be too short for you this year, but they will bear making into petticoats. A good silk slip is worth more to you than the few shillings you might get for that frock by selling. Remember this, and remember, too, the jumble sales and bazaars which welcome cast-off clothing. It is at least more satisfying to give away - , axxd xxnless those few slxillings mean a great deal to. you, try the happier notion of presenting your cast-off clothes to. someone who cannot afford new things.—Answers.