The Ladles' Magazine.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2580, 14 August 1909, Page 4 (Supplement)

The Ladles ' Magazine.

MARRIAGB AND MIDDLE AGE.

'l’ho following shrewd reflections, taken out of that popular new: book, “The Ideas of a Plain Country woman,” bear on a subject of perennial, though mournful, interest to women: liow to grow old with dignity and grace. “Most women after marriage lose their youthful charm. They look married. ‘They lose interest xn preening their feathers, and the cares of a family soon rub off the downy, elusive, seductive charm of the young girl. “Sometimes this seems a pity, hut we who know' life as it- is know that it is well. The little mother must go in sober guise. She must walk softly and gravely along and she must he shielded and guarded—there must bo dozens of reasons why the door of youth, once closed upon her, shall not re-open. “A thousand little tendernesses and loyalties bind her husband to her. If her cheeks are a little w'an and the curl falls out of her pretty hair, it is for his sake, and if I were a man the last thing I would deliberately choose would he a°very handsome and attractive wife.

“The real test or love comes at middle age. I have long. ago ceased to question Divine intelligence, hut I do wonder why the most crucial cares of a woman’s life come to her at a time when she is least able to bear them. “I have noticed in my brief span of years that if a man is going to make a fool of himself at all he generally does it at middle age. “He is seized with a sudden terror lest life should/ get away without his having made the most of it. “"When I see a man taking this kind of a turn at a time when nothing on earth but sobriety, devotion to his family and to the ties. of domestic life can preserve his dignity and tide him safely over into venerable grand old age, I almost believe in a personal devil. It is such a clever move for th© tempter to whisper in his ear.

The bird of life is singing in the sun, Short is his song—nor only iust begun A call, a thrill, a rapture, then so soon A silence, and the song is done, is done. “This strikes upon the ear of middle age with poignant .meaning. Perhaps we have not heard the sweetest notes of that song—perhaps, oh, maddening thought' —life has not unfolded to us the dearest page —we feel a sense of nonfulfilment and the shuddering thought that one is so long dead !

“At such a time common-sense .is a jewel beyond price, and if there isn’t a large lump of it around in- the family there is likely to he a ‘muss.’ “‘Men and women should know that love, more than any other thing, is a duty. It is a thing to be cultivated and guarded, and the man who by slow neglect and indifference allows the impassable wall of a woman’s pride to grow between him and her is the greatest fool on. earth. “He should, for selfish motives if for no higher ones, have kept her love so well that when the temptations—the weaknesses that ai’e so purely masculine, and which men so fatally mistake for strength—assail him, he can fly to her as the Hebrews of old ran to their cities of refuge, and she is but a poor wife if there is not enough of the maternal in her love to receive him with forbearance, patience and pardon, rather than the pride and bitterness of a slighted love. “At middle age a woman is likely to assume a slighted and downtrodden air because she feels so strongly the change in her own appearance. “She is on the look out for neglect, she feels a horrid jealousy of younger, prettier women. Frequently she puts treasonable ideas into her husband’s head by reiterating the question if he loves her as 'lie used to do. “The truth is, women change but little in their husband’s eyes. Think of your mother’s face and say whether you noticed when it changed from youth to age—was it not your mother’s face all through the years, and when you saw it for the last time in her coffin, was it not as beautiful as when your baby eyes first beheld it, .long and long ago? . . . “So most men feel towards their wives; it is the real women that they lovo, the gracious and comforting presence, the confidence, the nearness that means home and rest and peace.

“By the time a woman reaches middle age sho should have provided herself with a thousand resources of purely personal interest. She should be a woman of affairs, an independent citizen of the commonwealth, an intelligent denizen of the world. She should have cultivated individuality with success. “I think a little spice of the ‘Old Kick’ is as good a thing as such a woman can keep about her. “It is well enough for husband and children to have to ‘hunt their holes’ sometimes and to know that this gracious person who can make such excellent coffee, such incomparable biscuits, such strawberry jam, and can so deliciously soothe an aching head, can on occasion go on a ‘rampage.’ “A sense of humor should he cherishas a means of grace. A mail hates ridicule and lie dreads the keen steel of his wife’s penetrating glance when she sees straight through him and he knows it. “The rear view of a man as he slinks away, knowing that his wife is laughing at him, is a sight of mingled humor and pathos, there is such a suggestion of caudal appendage, meekly disposed in canine fashion, that the Jaiigh melts to tenderness —maternal tenderness for eternal boyhood, and she will cook something good for his supper as sure as the world.”

THE LETTER BOX. •

The postman was' late, and I felt more than a trifle impatient as I waited on the verandah for his whistle. It , was a wet and miserable morning that was quite in. accord with my feelings. A soaking downpour drenched the garden until the poor flowers looked quite wrecked, and the road and oven the footpath were reduced to sloughs of mud, while a nipping wind swept savagely down the rain-soaked street. At last I heard the -amiliar whistle, and the postman came in sight. I watched him with a growing impatience 'as ho clodded from one side of the street to the other, and vaguely wondered if his horse ever suffered from giddiness. But indeed lie seemed to dawdle at each gate waiting for the inmates to make a tai'dy response to his whistle. The rain poured remorselessly down, and the biting wind made the horse keep turning. I fumed and fretted; should I ever get my letter ? I should certainly miss my boat, while he dawdled in front of each house. Slowly he meandered down the road enveloped in the driving rain. Then he paused at a villa, whose inmates are either deaf or absent. He whistled and whistled, then finally and with very evident 'reluctance dismounted, and splashed up the path to the door. Someone was actually in, and took the letter from the postman, apparently apologising for their lack of response, since it was so very wet!

-Meanwhile, his horse, a very sorry looking steed (I suppose that a postman’s horse has not time to grow pro-sperous-looking), patiently waited in the chilly rain. The next house was better, there was a post-box, and his stop was for a second oniv, just to drop the letter in and whistle." But at the next house there was a similar wait, until finally a little girl came splashing through the rain, enveloped in a cloak, umbrella, and rain shoes, which it had taken nearly five minutes to find and for her to don. Meanwhile the postman waited in the rain. A similar wait at the next two houses, then a couple of post-boxes, and finally to me. But my impatience had died down.- Another ancl stronger feeling had risen up as 1 stood and watched his ungrateful work. “It’s cold out?” I ventured as 1 took my letter from bis moist hand. “Rather,” he answered with an involuntary shiver. The rain dripped from every point of his coat, and ran in little trickles down his face and off his boots, while his horse looked correspondingly downhearted.

“I suppose if everyone had a postbox it would be easier?” He shrugged his shoulder as cynically as is consistent in a postman. ‘‘Easier! It would bo half the work. Most people are either deaf or lazy on a wet morning, and goodness only knows our hours, are long enough as it is.” He “clucked” his shivering horse and moved away. I felt a twinge of conscience. Never till that morning had I ever given it a thought, for I had always looked upon the postman as a piece of human mechanism, that, as it were, was wound up every morning. But as I sat in front of my fire, the wind and the rain beating against the window made me feel uncomfortable, so that I made a resolution, and the result was that the next morning our gate boasted a letter-box. In accordance with the vagaries of our climate the sun was shining, the breeze "was warm and spring-like, and everything was the antithesis of the previous day. Even the postman s horse seemed reinvigorated, and galloped up quite jauntily. Yet I think the postman understood, for lie gave me an appreciative smile as he dropped my letter in the brand new letter-box. With a little persuasion I induced half a dozen of my neighbors to follow suit, and fix np letter-boxes.' It is only a little thing, and costs but a trifle, but all these trifles mean the sum total of at least one man’s “daily round.” . M.U.L.

FASHION NOTES.

THE NEW MILLINERY

Although the mid-winter sales are still in full swing, one or two- of the shops are already giving private views of the new goods which are to gladden or sadden our hearts in the spring, says a writer in the “Sydney Morning Herald.” It is rather early days to be thinking about our new spring dresses, but it never seems too early to consider our hats, for the days when a woman bought her dress and then looked round for a hat “to go with it” are over, and we altogether reverse the order of things. One can always have a dress made to fit in with a hat, but hats arc inspirations, which cannot be forced. So nowadays the, big shops always show their hats first, and the loading milliners are displaying spring confections the while furs and coats are still being sold.

The most noticeable thing about the new millinery is not its startling newness, but its evolution from the hats of last season. The mushroom shape is as much in evidence as it has been for the past year and more, and this is not to be wondered at, for there is no shape so universally becoming as that with the drooping brim. It casts a becoming shadow over the eyes, and softens the color of the face: And to make the utmost use of its kindly aid. Fashion has decreed that the brim shall no longer hide the back of the, neck, but shall be worn with a forward tilt The real pudding basin hat is apparently relegated to its proper place, but the height of the crowns is even more noticeable than ever.. For with the hat worn low down on the forehead, the high crown is necessary. As we have remarked, the brim of the moment decidedly .droops. Even when it is turned up it droops -first, so that the face may not lose thesoftening influence of its shadow, and quite a number of new models have turned-up brims. The “avalier,” which is the hat of the moment in London, is caught up on the left side against the high crown, while the brim on the right sweeps down almost to the shoulder. To the woman who can wear it, no shape is more becoming, but it is not a hat for everyone, nor for everyday wear. The toque, too, that friend of the woman who has passed her first youth, is much seen, generally made of soft, crushable straw, and with an enormous crown.

Speaking of straws one cannot omit to mention Tagal, which is the straw of the moment, and quite a large majority of the new models are made of it. A very striking bat was a black Tagal, with a high crown rising like a tower from the narrow brim, which was folded fiat against it on the left, while it was trimmed and lined wuli a dull blue velvet in a steely tone, and a great panache of feathers in a paler and more greenish color fell over it like the spray of a fountain. Crinoline is also seen in many of the new models, and the over-popular leghorn figures in some of the most picturesque hats. One of the prettiest modeis seen was a large log-liorn in the new poke bonnet shape. It was simply trimmed with a band of lettuce green ribbon velvet round the high crown, and strings of the same, while a huge bunch of many-sized daisies was massed on the left side. It sounds as simple as it looked, but it was of a. simplicity which only the Parisian really grasps. For harder wear, the coarse straw known as paiilasson is most seen, and it is. as thick and uncompromising as the roughest basket ever woven by peasant bands, and yet wonderfully attractive in its special place, In the matter of trimming, it seems to be roses all the way, in every shade and size, but still always roses. The stiff, flat “tapestry” rose is the favorite of the season, though ordinary garden beauties are also popular, and the tiny baby rose is not neglected, though "it is almost solely seen in the small “market garden” bunches. Ribbon velvet is on every hat, whether in strings to the poke bonnet or in stiff, flat bows of the mushroom. Field flowers are also seen, while grasses of all kinds seem likely to take the place of the osprey, a fact which will be received with pleasure by our readers. To the woman who, in spite of her humanity, still hankers after the iforbidden plumes, these soft feathery grasses will come as a welcome substitute. Nothing would be more graceful and becoming’ than a hat seen at one of our leading shops. It was of deeptoned leghorn, with the brim lifted ever so slightly on the left side, and lined with black patin, while the pretty basket-shaped crown was almost hidden under a mass of wheat, barley, and grass in all tones, from the delicate green of the young blade to the deep reddish shade of the ripe ear. 'the grass was caught down in front by a how of black satin ribbon, which was the only other trimming.