The Letters of Annabel Lee

Radio Record, Volume I, Issue 42, 4 May 1928, Page 6

The Letters of Annabel Lee

Shall I strew en thee rose, or rive, or laured, Brother, ow this that was. the veil of thee? Or quiet sea-flower, moulded by the sea? My dear Elisabeth: Truly and reverently on Anzac Day New Zealand honoured the noble dead. In the Capital City, the gimcrack Cenotaph was metamorphosed into a thing of beauty and dignity by the wealth of flowers, perhaps loveliest of all being the great circle of blue and green hydrangeas, which came, with a message of remembrance, from the scholars of Marsden School. The blooms ranged through all sorts and conditions, from an armful of dim, sweet rosemary to the beautiful artificiality of palm and _ laurel, coloured and gilded and dyed with loving ingenuity and art. Outstanding were the magnificence of an enormous and beautiful wreath sent by the Prime Minister and Members of Cabinet, and the wonderful tribute of the R.S.A. to the memory of lost comrades. Of a rare loveliness was the silver, scarlet and blue offering of the Army Nursing Service; the golden tribute from Wellington East Girls’ College; and the russet chrysanthemums and opalescent rosebuds from Miramar School. Black and White Cabs sent flowers; a sweet, blue-eyed girleen of seven summers gravely and with meticulous care placed upon the glowing pile a few stems of wilting blossoms, carefully tied together with string; and a tense moment came when the close crowd circling the Cenotaph slipped aside to allow a black-clad figure, with bowed head, to pass with a fragrant wreath of lavender and white blowing blossoms which, weeping, she had brought in memory of a young son, who fought a good fight and died at twenty-one years. Majestic the music, reverent the worshippers, inspired the preaching at the Memorial Service in the Town Hall. At this memorable gathering | the Salvation Army Band played those ,solemn marches which knock at the hearts of the most insensitive; the Toc H lamp, given in memory of a very gallant officer, was a light unto our spiritual path; and we thought long, long thoughts as we listened to the Rev. Fielden Taylor, beloved padre and true disciple of the good God, whose own life is a

definite exemplification of that ‘‘doing ovt the duty," in the face of all odds, which we like to think an essentially British attribute. As he told in simple, graphic words the old gallant story of our light-hearted New Zealand boys, and the heroism and selfless sacrifice of Flanders and Gallipoli, the years rolled back as each of us remembered with pride and humility some dear soldier who came home no more. Under the baton of Mr. Temple White, a choir of voices gave a beautiful rendering of Elgar’s great setting of ‘or the Fallen," Mrs. Woodward’s voice crystal clear in the solo; while later, for our consolation, Mrs. Wilfrid Andrews sang "O Rest in the Lord," and, as we all joined in the noble "Lead, Kindly Light" at the close of the service, it may be that there came a glimmering of some soul of goodness in things evil, a dim hope "that good shall fall, at last, far off, at last to all, and every winter change to spring." The reticence of his code, the obligation of honour, the creed of the schoolboy, these are dominant notes in a recent play by John van Druten. The fruit that is forbidden, the book that is suppressed, have an interest pereyinial for poor humanity; and now that the ban on "Young Woodley" has been removed, London is rushing to see the play, and wondering why any discussion arose. It is safe to predict that this production will win more than a passing popularity, for the series of episodes in the life of a boy is written from an unusual angle. The youthful pyrotagonist sticks to his guns, follows the gleam, lives up to his own decision; thereby standing in his own light and reliaquishing cherished ambitions, preferring, in the good old British way, to abide by his code, and bring upon himself the obloquy and eold shoulder of his world. Setting forth the idealistic love of "Young Woodley" for the wife of one of his masters, a spiritual attraction that is, of course, entirely misconstrued, the play is another exposition of that type of man, old or young, who refuses to say a word in his own defence, especially where She is concerned. It ig difficult to fathom the reason of the earlier ban, except, perhaps, that there is a certain frankness of discussion, quite usual among boys-

and girls too, for that matter. "Sangster’s Circus" has come to the films. A British production, this sereen version of Margaret Kennedy’s delightful novel, and an admirable one. Well and wisely has the play been cast; Ivor Novello, that Adonis of the kinema, being extremely charming as Lewis Dodd, the selfish and eccentric musical genius beloved by the constant nymph, and, interpreted by the handsome Novello, it is not difficult to understand the reason why. Whoever picked Miss Mabel Poulton for the part of the slim, pathetically precocious Tessa. knew what he was about. Fair and young and lawless, this maid of the mountains flits into view amid opening scenes of great beauty screened in the Austrian Tyrol. Pauline, Linda, Kate, and the rest of the inimitable family live and move before the enthralled audience, and the story moves to its true conclusion, not having been hacked to produce that happy ending so greatly desired by the inartistic, which has been a lamentable feature in the picturisation of certain literary masterpieces, notably Thomas Hardy’s imperishable "Tess of the D’Urbevilles," which in the film was ruined by its mawkish conclusion. In merrie England, at this stage of civilisation, it seems one can put a shilling in the slot, loll back in a chair, contemplate the scenery for a short space, with full liberty to fidget or chat; and lo, in ten minutes or so, one becomes proud possessor of a string of photographs, each about 2 inches square, depicting your dimpled charm, your perfect profile, in changing aspects more or less agreeable. All done on the spot by a machine yclept the. Photoman, which is propelled by a motor miracle, electric in character and lightning quick of action. The victim carries away half a dozen presentments of that boyish shingle, that naughty and nice, or plain and good countenance, as the case may be, which is the outward and visible envelope of the inward and spiritual beauty we all hope we possess. Very popular has this invention become in America, and no doubt ‘twill reach New Zealand one fine day, thereby adding somewhat to the fun of the fair. Your,

ANNABEL

LEE