DR. FRANK CRANE’S DAILY EDITORIAL

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 130, 23 August 1927, Page 14

DR. FRANK CRANE’S DAILY EDITORIAL

ANNIVERSARIES

(Copyright, 1927)

PT'HE Italo-Hibernian poet, Tomaschellt, has written: "*■ “I think that the meanest historian on earth Is the one who recorded the day of one’s birth.” If your life has not been particularly happy or lucky, why should people observe the anniversary of your birthday? Some people make much of birthdays and some newspapers give a list of the birthdays of prominent men every day, but there are two opinions about that. Young ladies of a certain age get one birthday and stick to it. They are twenty-two, for instance, until they reach thirty-five, and then they begin to go back. A good plan when you begin to be old is to select a certain age and keep it. Why get any older? As for me, I would prefer to celebrate anniversaries other than my birthday. I would like to recall the first time I fell in love, if I could, or the first view of the sea. The first good view of a tree would be also worth remembering, or an orchard in full bloom. The first good investment I ever made, or the first examination successfully passed, or the first time I escaped a merited punishment. I remember the first day I was converted to Wagner, and the first time that the full appreciation of the old masters in painting dawned on me. These are epochs in one’s existence, divine enlargements to the house of life, and commendable as well as commemorable. The first pay day also adds to one’s superiority complex. If we are going in for celebrating, these might be worthy celebrations. But just to record that you have lived some sixty years—of what good is that? Life is a pleasant thing, perhaps, and it is good to see the sun and to function otherwise, and one would not willingly give it all up. But not very much of the time are we glad we were ever born. Perhaps we ought to be, but the mulligrubs are too busy with most of us and our life is hardly successful enough for us to celebrate continuously. It is very complimentary for our friends to say that they are glad we were born and they hope we will live a thousand years, but we sometimes question whether they really mean ft. Some of us have reached the declining years. When somebody asks us to have a cocktail or a highball we decline, and if certain forms of food are put before us we must also refuse because the doctor says so. Our present ailments and limitations are sufficient without calling up those of the past. We would not render ourselves public nuisances by continually rehearsing our calamities. Let us forget them. About the best thing we can all do with the past is to forget it and look forward to the future. That may be better, and again it may not be, but at least it has the advantage of being untried, and we are justified in looking forward to it hopefully. HZHSHEHEHSHSMES€XBiEH3IiSIigBa

there’s our old romance, which Cora’s brother can be compelled—reluctantly, perhaps—to testify that he put a stop to by threatening- me. There is also the fact that you are here in my rooms at this present moment ” “Stop!” Nora exclaimed. “All you’re saying is utter nonsense. And nobody knows I’m here. It was a trick, anyway.” She broke off as the door bell pealed long and loudly, and made an involuntary movement as though to stop Connover, as he turned and unlocked the door. “Who is it?” she demanded, in a frightened whisper. “Will anybody answer?” He shook his head. “My man is out. I’ll just see.” “No, please !” “I’ll see—but I won’t be seen,” he assured her with his malicious downturned smile. He ran softly up the steps to the little gallery and peered with caution out of the oval window that overlooked the corridor. Then he turned to Nora and. beckoned. “It’s Cora —my wife,” he said. “Perhaps you’d like to come up and see for yourself.” CHAPTER XXVII. Nora was terrified, but at the same time sceptical enough to accept Connover’s invitation to see for herself. She was shaking from head to foot as she mounted the shallow flight of stairs, and had to cling hard to the balustrade. At the top he took her arm, and led her to the window just as the bell pealed for the second time. Looking down, Nora saw the top of Cora Methune’s head, and enough of her profile to show that Mrs. Metliune was annoyed at being kept waiting. She was banging on the door now with her fists, and calling out: “Let me in. Conny* I know you’re there—let me in.” Nora crept down the sairs again, moaning under her breath. “Oh, what shall I do —what shall I do?” Connover followed, her, and pointed to the room off the gallery. “If you like, you can wait in there,”

lady, and she might elect to stand guard downstairs for a bit.” Nora did not reply, but went to a window, and looked into the street, which being a cul-de-sac, was quiet and free of traffic. But immediately she drew back with an exclamation of dismay, although the window' was shielded by net curtains, and she could not be seen from the outside. “What is it?” Connover asked. Had Nora’s attention been free to give to him she might havi observed a cowardly note of alarm in his voice. She turned and faced him. “Raymond,” she replied briefly. In a second Connover was beside her, peering over her shoulder. On the pavement in front of the house stood Raymond Clayton and Mrs. Methune talking earnestly together. Possibly Clayton had been there all the time she was upstairs trying to get in. Connover said something under This breath which might be taken for one mode of expressing regret at the situation which a few moments before had afforded him such satisfaction. “They’re both coming in now!” Nora cried. 1 must hide. Go up to that room,” Connover said in a shaking voice. “I don’t know what the devil this means, but ” “No, I shall face it out,” Nora interrupted. “I shall tell Raymond exactly what happened. He may believe me or not, but it’s the only way.” “Ha! And what about me? That brute of a husband of yours isn’t here for any good purpose.” “I don’t know about that.” Nora smiled coldly. “If he gives you another hiding it might serve an excellent purpose. There’s the bell again. Will you go to the door, or shall I?” “Neither of us,” Connover whispered fiercely. “Oh, yes ” Nora made as though to dash past him, but he caught her by one arm and pulled her back. Then with his free hand he tugged at a drawer of the desk and took out a revolver. (To be Continued.)