HALCOMBE.

Rangitikei Advocate and Manawatu Argus, Volume XXXIII, Issue 9115, 7 April 1908, Page 6

HALCOMBE.

From Our Own Correspondent.

Oar ever-obliging station-master (Mr Morton) is enjoiyng a short re- ( apite’from his lahonrs at Since Mr Morton came to na some - 2% [years ago, the local railway ; post and telegraph and other busi- v. ness has more than doubled. This ; speaks loudly for the district- and the Dominion. Few people I think have any idea of the amount and variety of work a country station- . master has to do; those who do - must admire the uniform courtesy and cool headedness of these men when having to attend to a dozen things and answer as many questions at once. I do not know ji Halcombe has been specially favoured, but certainly if the statioumasters we have had [here during the past 20 years are a fair specimen of the whole, then I would claim for them the civil service cake.

Miss Drew was here on Thursday last to see if. an art class in connection with our other technical teaching, would ‘receive the necessary support. Twelve is the minimum number required and as the cost to each pupil would be 12s (5d per quarter (less than half the usual charge) there should be no difficulty in that direction. Drawing and painting are not merely delightful accomplishments, but a knowledge of those arts enables the possessor more fully [to understand to appreciate the beauties of nature and the wonderful work of the old and modern masters.

A snake story that recalls the days when I was young, came to me from South Africa. A neighbour’s three-year-old daughter was sitting on the back door step eating grapes and watching the Indian sweeping the yard, when presently the little one called' mummy, mummy, snakey eatin my grapes. The Coolie heard and acted promptly, and when mummy arrived she beheld a satirised child, a dead “night adder” and a jubilant darkie.

Charles Nuttall in “Life” with facile pen and pencil describes a visit to “Mines,” one of the most famous bowery playhouses, where the performers, men and women, who fail to please the audience are hooked off the stage with a long bamboo used from the wings.

The splendid Amazonian creature “Maisie” stood her captain the comedian. “Maisie” said he* pointing ;to the blase youth in the O.P. box, kiss that man. A sickly pallor overspread the young man’s face, his cigarette dropped into the hair of a woman in the stalls below. Maisie strode forward and reached for him—to refuse would, have been the greater shame. Maisie planted kisses upon his white cheeks and twitching mouth to the accompaniment of delighted roars from the house. Maisie returned and stood beside the comedian The eyes of that worthy were seeking another victim, then his gaze fell upon me. “What about him, Maisie,” said the fiend, pointing. Maisie looked me over. Cold chills ran up fmy spine. “Nothin doin,” drawled the beauty and returned to her place, and while the delirious uproar that followed was at its height, I wished rhat I were a god—a fifteen cent one. Then Tom Oardello was to sing selections from Italian Operas. A grim hush fell upon the crowd ; the “dago” is not popular in America, and the set sternness of the faces in “Miners” ;audience showed little sympathy with the [promised efforts of Tom, but !a different spirit pervaded the little group of instrumentalists. Delicate attention was paid to their instruments and the frayed couductorjiustructed his band, in stage whispers. A storky blackeyed Italian boy, dressed in striped shirt and loose trousers walked on, trampling heavily in his clumsy boots, a cap set jauntily on his head, and he kept his hands in his pockets as he stooped ami whispered to the conductor. There was dead silence throughout the theatre, a few low notes from the orchestra, and then the place was filled with a flood of beautiful goldeu music. “Non ti scorda dime.” The boy’s bead was held high exposing the round olive throat and into the blackness filled with dull stupid faces dimly seen he poured a wealth ot liquid melody, tender, passionate, appealing, triumphant. The grimy theatre was a rose garden, the yellow patch on the drop scene was the summer moon, and the sound of the voice was the song of the nightingale singing his love to his mate in the laurels. Every artist—yes and every worker—knows the glorious intoxication which accompanies work well doue. The hoy knew that his work was good, knew that his faultless voice thrilled some who felt and understood the impression that his untaught instinct prompted him to convey and the artist finds some reward, even when he alone understands his appeal to the finer instincts of his kind. ”