The Annotations of Annabel

Radio Record, Volume II, Issue 5, 17 August 1928, Page 12

The Annotations of Annabel

DEAREST 3 Gaily the troubadour of spring twangs his harp in the air, and through clear atmosphere of August days are faintly detected the first thrilling whispers, those intimations of immortality that come with the recurring seasons, bringing with them a hope that lives eternal. Why do we mourn the days that goFor the same sun shines each day, Ever a spring her primrose hath, And ever a May her may. Do we not too return, we men, As ever the round earth whirls ? Never a head is limned with grey But another is sunned with curls ? ‘And, resolutely latching the door of our hearts against the wistful close of the old songAh, but alas for the smile of smiles That never but one face wore. 4h, for the voice that has flown away Like a bird to an unseen shore... we forget there are soaking streets yet to be encountered, unkindly blasts to rattle our windows and our bones; and go forth convinced that our star will smile again. GHOWS in the shops are still tentative in the matter of millinery, the new line of coat and gown remaining unexploited. The aftermath of sales drags itself out, but amid oddments and left-overs and duds of drapery are to be discovered some attractive garments for the 1928 willow-wand of girlhood. In black or some dim, sweet hue, fashioned of taffetas, flared from waist, with here and there an unexpected nosegay perched, sleeveless small frocks are to be had, if not exactly for a song of sixpence, for the by: no means exorbitant price of a pound sterling. One such I acquired for Noreen, who is poor, pretty and seventeen, with plenty of wit, which is fortunate, as She will have to work her way in life. I suspect her, however, with all her

intelligence, of being deficient in the acquisitive sense, that greedy eye on the main chance; so she will probably be outstripped in the race by some blond and brainless Lorelei, who possesses the inestimable quality of Always Getting the Best of It. N England recentiy, one of society’s youthful glad girls forsook the ancestral palace of peace, boldly challenged competition, and established herself in a shop in a big London thoroughfare, stocking it with elegant volumes de luxe, paper-bound thrillers, ancient and modern literature. A venture of considerable attraction, and some of us would fain follow in her footsteps. She is backed, however, by a sympathetic and generous relation, who, believing in her, is prepared to spend his ample income to finance her venture until such time as she makes good. So there’s no particular risk, and all the fun of the fair; money, as usual, clearing the air, dissipating the clouds, scooping the pool. OF the making of books there is no end, but a special welcome awaits such a one as the Memoirs of Judge Alpers. In the troublous days of youth a staunch, undismayed battler with the austerity of fate, in later years a treader of the path of high honour and achievement; the author has written a wise and witty chronicle of those years of breathless endeavour, incidentally telling many a good story of protagonists known and unknown to fame. Now the labourer’s task is o’er; but he has left behince him a book of remembrance, which is an unconscious revelation of noble courage and endurance in the "fell touch of circumstances." Many a youthful struggler who has hitched his wagon to a star will tackle the fray with unflinching zest when he remembers this record of a man so brave and gay in the face of life and of death. Your

ANNABEL

LEE