Towards Winter.

March is an annoying month. Summer is still with us, but winter is trying out his breezes just around the corner. To prepare for him, we begin to plan ahead for warm and colourful fabrics.

Plan your winter wardrobe as a whole. Have a basic colour scheme to which may be added varying accessory shades. Is it to be black, navy, brown, green, russet?

If you are “tweedy,” remember brown and russet and the scarves in tawny colours which will add zest to your outfits.

If you do not “sport,” glance at the tantalizing hats. This black velvet toque, with the wide veil of off-white lace, falling from the back and draped artistically under the chin, is not for everyone, but it may be for you. You prefer, perhaps, to carry your summer penchant for the wide brim into winter, with a felt wide and decoratively perforated. Look also at the black felt which is a fitting cap, flattering the brow-line, with an attached halo. This will be a smart season!

Meantime, for street wear, you want a suit, or, better still, a tailored frock or two-piece which will be useful later on under a coat. Keep your eye on coats. Notice the princess line, with little-girl collar of fur; the box-jacket, probably paid, for wear with swinging skirts; the swirling hem-line, banded with fur and reminiscent of a cossack tunic. The general rule is, “Small hats with top-coats.”

* * *

The New Baby.
And the Older Child.

Do you remember when, before Billy was born, you had spoken to Mary about the prospect of having a new baby brother or sister to play with? Mary thoroughly approved of the idea. Another child to play with was one of the greatest goods you could offer her.

And then do you remember the day Mary first came in to see you and the baby? She was excited and a little scared of the hospital surroundings. She found even you a little strange after the period of absence. The baby brother was much smaller than she expected, and obviously was not yet ready to play with her; but she was interested.

Then you went home. Billy was certainly a bonny baby, and so said all your numerous callers. Billy took up a good deal of your time. He was inclined to be delicate at first. Somehow, you did not have as much time for Mary as you wished, but you lulled your conscience with the thought that she was quite a big girl now and seemed to be good at occupying herself with play in quiet corners of the house or garden.

Then, as Billy grew older, and commenced to toddle, you were disappointed at Mary's treatment of him. Mary regarded the minding of Billy as a task, and did not seem to want to play with him much. At times, they would be playing happily together, but if Billy presumed and grasped some toy or upset some arrangement of Mary's, she was angry, pushed him away, and would not have anything to do with him. You pointed out that she was a selfish little girl, that Billy was much smaller than she was, but your words seemed to do no good.

If visitors were there, and Billy, a happy-hearted little chap, was being made a fuss of, Mary would slip away by herself. You were a bit worried that she did not seem to like people.

Even now that Mary and Billy are much older, they are not the good friends you once hoped they would be. Why? Because Mary was jealous! Jealous? What a horrid word! Mary really has a very nice nature, etc., etc. Of course she has. She is a fine child. But you yourself were the cause of jealousy and the spoiling of relations between your children.

When Mary was an only child she received all your attention and care. When Billy came, she did not receive even a half portion. Unavoidable, you say. You certainly could not have given her as much of your time as previously, but you could at least have shown one hundred per cent. interest in her. A little girl-child like that would have loved to share the baby with you, to talk to you and plan with you about it. As long as she knew that her place was as warm in your heart as ever, she would have welcomed the baby brother eagerly. Why didn't you share him with her, instead of making her feel alone, and, to some extent, cast out. She doesn't know why she isn't terribly fond of Billy. But that's why—he's a usurper.

What can you do about it? Nothing. An impression so deep in early childhood is hard to eradicate. But you can at least make sure that your own relationship with her is right, and that she knows of your interest in and love for her.

* * *

Zweisamkeit.
Loneliness of Two.

Zweisamkeit was the most telling word used by our guest, the Swiss professor, as we stood on the lawn after dinner, while he talked and we listened.

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As I gazed at the dark trees or searched the heavens for the familiar constellations, marking them on my fingers as I found them, Orion's belt, the Pleiades, Taurus and the others, drifts of talk came intermittently to me.

“The world is moving towards chaos. Even in my own land men think only of money. This,” with a wide sweep of his hand towards my sky, “the impudence to use this to write advertisements on.”

His voice droned on while I dreamed. I shook myself in the coolness of the night and thought of suggesting going inside. But the Swiss professor was still talking.

“I am alone; einsamkeit. But the loneliness of one is nothing to the loneliness of two—zweisamkeit.” He turned the German word over on his tongue, flavouring it again. I regretted that I had not learnt German, that so exprssive language.

Talk continued, but I was left clinging to a word, realizing in pity for all unhappy people the loneliness of two.

What two? Not two friends, who have quarrelled, and can ease the hurt with the balm of other friendships. Not two lonely ones, who draw together in their loneliness to front a hostile world, such as those two men of middle years whom I remembered on a long sea voyage, years ago, made common cause against the waves of youth and femininity, and at their journey's end went each his way without having spoken once from the soul. But two who have been lovers and are so no longer; perhaps two who, in middle life, have found the friendship of the years finer than ecstasy—and yet have lost it. Bound still by common interests, convention, marriage lines, the two, divergent in thought and feeling, must face a world which considers them, as a pair, self-sufficient. And in pride they continue to give this impression, and dare not reach out for other friendship to replace that which they have lost, Such can be the “loneliness of two.”

The professor's voice carried on my thought. “But when one is there,” pointing with the left hand, “and one is there,” waving into the darkness with his right, “love letters soon pass again. Is it not so? If not, that is the end!”

The end? Probably. Yet if two, who have once opened their minds to each other, separate, and think, and wonder, there is little doubt that they will want to communicate, to explain just what they meant in that last talk, and to show that they were capable of appreciating the other person's argument, and soon—“love letters will pass again.”

A cold breeze was stirring the trees’ branches and the professor's long hair.

“Come. We will go in,” I said; but my heart still shook with pity at the thought of zweisamkeit.

* * *

Departure.

Retta and John have gone! It is only now, a couple of weeks later, that I know how I will miss her. Of course, it's only for eighteen months; but it was so good to know that Retta was there, and to be able to pop in to see her, and to know that any time she might be rushing in to our house, to show us her latest bargain, or with some plan for an outing, a party, an evening for the new young man in the neighbourhood, “who plays the violin marvellously. We'll have all our musical friends.”

I'll certainly feel very flat with Retta away. She's one of those people that things happen to. She's so eager, so active, so alive, that things can't help moving in her vicinity.

I'm calculating now when her first air-mail letter will arrive. Her mother will, of course, be glad to hand on the news, but I'm rather hoping for a letter to myself.

Dear Retta,—I'm so glad his firm has sent John for that eighteen months in London. Of course he won't be in London all the time, and Retta plans to accompany him on his trips round the country. They hope also to visit the Continent but are vague as to time (depending on John's holiday) and places.

Retta is interested in everything, including even these notes of mine every month. That's why I've rambled on about her—because I've asked her to tell me anything which she thinks will particularly appeal to New Zealand women. I'm hoping much from her letters. Retta loves clothes, and even more, she loves people. As to places, I don't know; it will be interesting to see how she reacts to this storied England of ours.

* * *

Health Notes.
Perspiration.

Some women perspire freely on very slight exercise. This is not a healthy sign as it usually means that they are “run down.” The hands, too, are often unpleasantly clammy and moist.

This state of affairs means that there is something wrong with diet and habits. A change is called for in the nature of an abundance of fresh air, wholesome food and also open air exercise—graduated walking is the best form of this exercise. In addition, it is advisable to drink freely between meals—water, milk, fruit drinks, etc.

A daily hot bath is another important factor in the desire to feel fresh and clean, and to have no qualms about the impression we give people, we must eliminate the trouble of stale perspiration. If the result of the change of diet and habits is not immediately forth-coming, a good tonic is needed for a few weeks.

* * *

After Dinner Rest a While.

If you try to work after a substantial meal, your digestion will suffer, the brain will work unwillingly, and the work will be poor in quality.

After a heavy meal at least an hour's rest is necessary for digestion. It is therefore advisable for those who have only an hour for lunch, to partake of a light meal.

When we consider the matter, it is easy to understand that when the brain is at work, that organ needs a large amount of blood. When digestion is going on after a substantial meal, the stomach and other digestive organs need a great deal, too.

* * *

“The Scrap Book.”

Preparing for picnics is considerably simplified by laying in stock plenty of grease-proof paper for packing food and a supply of cardboard plates and cartons. Rubber bands substituted for page 59 string in doing up packets for sandwiches save time both in packing and unpacking.

* * *

Recipes.
From America and England.

Waikato Winter Show.
“The Call,” 1938.

A very definite announcement of the near approach of the 1938 Winter Show and Industrial Exhibition to be held from June 1st to June 9th both days inclusive, is given in the publication of “The Call,” the official organ of the Waikato Winter Show. A new and attractive design for the cover this year, depicts the value of milk in the daily diet.

In keeping with the Association's slogan, bigger, brighter, better than ever, every section has again been thoroughly revised, and where necessary, enlarged, providing competition for practically every phase of production, art and talent.

To further propagate tree-planting, a tree-naming competition has been included for school children, which it is hoped will not only prompt the immediate planting of trees, but bring to the boys and girls of New Zealand, the desire now, and in later years, to see that the beautiful bush-clad mountains of their country are preserved.

A further innovation to “The Call” has been the addition of a classified list of Waikato business and professional firms who support their Show by way of donation to the prize list or by membership.

Copies of “The Call” together with any further information that may be required can be had on application to The Secretary, Box 91, Hamilton.

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