Mundane Musings

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 275, 10 February 1928, Page 4

Mundane Musings

Red Deer (Written for THE SUN.) The Little Scotch Lady was telling me a story. It was one she liad read in a magazine, and it started wiieh the youngest daughter of a wealthy American banker fell in love with a penniless Scotch artist; married him, and -went to live in a small cottage in sight of the hills where dwelt the red deer. The Little Lady loved the story she was telling me. It was the kind of thing that appealed to her, and moved her strangely, Tor it was full of the primitive emotions of man; love, hate, sorrow; pain and passion; and the love of a poet for the beautiful in the range of emotional art. “The old man was glad to see his daughter marry the boy,” she said, “for he realised that the artificial life his wife and other daughters were living was not life at all. He wanted the young girl to have some of the things that really mattered, and when 'she went off with the bright’, clever, genuine Scotch laddie he was glad for her sake. “Well, life went well with her until she went home for a holiday, and then the things that she had ieft suddenly seemed very desirable. The wealth, the beauty of her mother’s home made her own little house shoddy, and she wanted the soft silks and carpets that her other sisters had. She decided to stay at home, and not go back to the boy in Scotland. She stayed, and a little son was born to her. Her lover —her husband—she had not heard from for some time, and she did not bother to find out where he was. And the years crept on. “For four years she lived a life of luxury, until one day she came across her little boy drawing red deer on a piece of paper. The lines he drew were perfect, and they stirred emotions in her that she thought dead. She started to tell him about his daddy who had made a great and wonderful ' name for himself by drawing red deer, and she told him stories of the Highlands. “The child listened, and grew to love the land where the big mists came down over the hills, and where the big deer wandered over the rugged country. He wanted to go and see for himself, and liis mother, awake at last to the love that she knew for Jher dear Scotch boy, took lier baby back to the little house under the mountains, where she and her David first lived. “She told the little David, stories of red deer. Always red deer; their lives and their haunts and the great hills they could see from the little windows. Baby David, with the heart of an adventurer beating under his little suit, made up. his mind that he would go and see for. himself the great animals his daddy had painted and written about, so he crept out of bed one morning and wandered into the hills. Just as the morning light was tinting the mists he reached the top of a great rock, and found a baby deer asleep in the heather in a sheltered nook. He was tired, so lay down by it and slept. When the mother deer came to feed her baby she was not afraid of the wee mortal, and he was not afraid of her, for had not his daddy loved these big beasties? He stroked the little baby one, and curled up beside it again. “He was lying with his arm round the neck of the tiny deer when a man found him. It was strange to him to see a tiny man baby asleep with a tiny deer baby, and he woke the little boy and questioned him. What was his name? David, the little boy said. Did he love the little red deer? Yes, for his daddy loved them. Who was his daddy? A great man who painted red deer, and who loved them as much as David. How long had he been on the mountain? Well, it had got light, and then dark. Light again, and dark again. Light once more, and it was getting dark now. And little David was not afraid? No not with the red deer. . . . “The man gathered little David in his arms, for his name was David, too, and he painted red deer. . . . He orice had lived on the mountain and had a dear wife, but he thought she had died. He was going to see the little house where he took her as a bride. . . .” The Little Scotch Lady paused. “Oh,” she said, “it was a pretty story. But when I got there to where David and his wee David were descending through the gathering mists, the hangdashed last page was off the magazine, and I couldna see the end of it. I slung the book across the- room, I was so angry.” “But you know how the end happened.” “Aye, but I wanted to read it. It was such a pretty story. . . . Well, I may find it sometime, for I am still looking for that back/page. Wouldna she he pleased to see. her PINK NOT SO POPULAR FEMININE COLOURS ARE QUIETER Pink has for a great length of time held the reputation of being the most feminine of all shades of colour. Bowls of pink roses, pink wallpaper, pink carpets, matching slightly the design in a pink bedspread, and a tiny desk wherein is a pile of pale pink notepaper—all this has made up the traditional, truly feminine boudoir. Poets have let their hearts overflow at the sight of pink envelopes tied with silk ribbon. Around pink sunshades romances have been woven by the hundreds. * Dainty Lampshades As for a room whose lights were enclosed with pink lampshades—why, nothing could more show to what delicate feminine heights the mind of the occupant soared. No longer has the modern miss longings for pink lampshades or pink envelopes. Rather does she prefer shades of blue and mauve. There seems to be now no essentially feminine colour. For the boudoir, however, creamybeige, faint delphinium blue, or mauve are very popular. i