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The Brussels Post, 1960-07-21, Page 5 • kiloiiest,' Ma, I asked for d poorfie Cut and he wive rrie but shoving' *Yea; I said la' tail* a . Reilto Hello .6 a 4,°. BOYS OP NOTE Youthful choristers In ruffled collars blend their voices in open-mouthed song during a rehearsal at Westminster Abbey In London, They are port of the chorus which sang at the wedding of Princess Margaret and Antony Armstrong-Jonas. Memories Of "The Changing Seasons It has been said that god eave to memory so we might have a'oses in winter, How it enriches And Pills one with nostalgia to look back through the years and. remember the beauty of the changing seasons of one's life, Tn solatisernlinels, spring felt /Ilse a gentle hand on the land, to linger for weeks before it faded gradually into summer. It was a time busy with bird-song and bee-hum, Every yard in 'town had its quota of nodding tulips and sturdy hyacinths, and flowering fruit trees. Spring meant cherry poking and pitting, It meant steaming cobblers w i th flaky crusts, mounds of strawberry shortcake drowned with whipped cream, and stalks of fresh asparagus, Picnics were organized. These were primarily exploring expe- ditions to investigate the damage of the long winter, and. to see 'where the wild blackberries bloomed the thickest. Leaves' of the last fall were damp under foot; little wild things scurried Ito either side of our path, And the wildflowers! No "Do Not Pick" signs here, All returned with bouquets of spring beauties —Johnny-jump-ups and jack-in- the-pulpits, and sometimes May blossoms. Summer gave a sense of free- ,dom that no other season did. There were fishing expeditions, with six or eight families gather- ing with bulging picnic baskets en the banks of the river, The men would don bathing suite and etretoh across the river with their upright seine gripped firms I,y. Step by step they would ad- trance, calling back and forth. After a time those on the far edge would swing around to meet those across from them, and there, squirming in the sun- light would be the nicest "mess" of channel catfish. Soon the women would be frying 'them in cast-iron skillets, Meanwhile, there would ap- pear, on hastily improvised tables such goodies as to in- crease the already active hunger pangs of the insatiable young. Then there were the chicken and corn-on-the-cob parties. Here again the iron skillet was used. The children watched impati- ently as the pile of crisp brown chicken pieces in the center of the table grew until they could no longer see each other over it. I often wonder what has become. of the wishbone nowadays. No chicken in my day would have been caught without one! The full-kernel corn was never shocked until the huge pot was boiling. Into its depths went a quart of fresh milk, just before the shining ears were immersed, to cook for exactly four minutee Chins dripped butter all up and down the table. And I'm sure no one would have held rein on his appetite, even with the "hour after eating" ban on the old swimming hole. By the time the tables were cleared the music began. The whole outdoors was our ball- room. Somehow, without actu- ally planning it, there was al- ways an accordion, a violin, and a harmonica. After our dancing feet had had enough of "Turkey in the Straw," we gathered to harmonize the old songs: "Love's Old Sweet Song," "Let. Me Call You Sweetheart," "Dear Old. Girl," "DoWn by the Old. Mill Stream," and many ahem But it was fall that I remem- ber with particular warmth. This was a season when every- thing came into full fruit, Even MODERN ISRAEL While Chla ineitkbor still uses di horse.; sirecti pkw, this, Arai oitizeri Israel ha a ItiOderii tiocibr In work his :Heidi the milkweed pods in the fields opened to fling their silkV speare into the wind. Many's 1.he doll's pillow l stuffed with these, It was a time to drive to the orchards outside of town to buy a bushel or two of crisp Jona- than apples, What fun It was to watch while the farmer turned the huge wheel of the cider press And passed around mugs of the sweet beverage, I shall never forget the 'first. time I was aware of the intri- -eate beauty of frost on a win- dowpane, The woods were at their most beautiful for me, Into 'A this gigantic Van Gogh we went to gather nuts, Hickory nuts and black walnuts we pilfered them from the squirrels who sat in the trees and scolded us. The black walnuts seemed, to me, to have the best flavour in a plate of fudge. Fall was a time tor wiener roasts, hayrides, woodsmoke, ruddy cheeks, doughnuts, gin- gerbread, taffy pulls, and bowls of buttered popcorn. It meant yellow pears hanging ripe on propped branches, chimneys busy after a summer of idleness, and heaps of golden ppmpkins waiting to be carved out for Hallowe'en, And after the last jar of pears joined the others in its row in the fruit cellar, it meant a respite from gardening and canning. For it wasn't all parties and picnics naturally. There was wood to cut and stack to provide us with warmth and cooking fuel for the winter. In short, we "battened down our hatches." None boo soon either, because the last of November winter was upon us. Sleighing parties began with the first big snow- fall. Several bales of straw were spread on the floor of the sled and we piled aboard, each with his own blanket. A high-school teacher and his wife usually chaperoned these affairs, and we sang hymns to and from our destination, which was usually one of the homes. We would bob for apples, pop corn and make candy. How sweet it was to ride home through the frosty air, under a full moon and feel as for the first time awareness of the beauty of the nigh t, writes Esther Schneider Han- son in the Christian Science Monitor. Thanksgiving and Christmas ! What a time to remember! All the days of preparation. And finally the dinner. Mounds of fragrant sage dressing, platters of turkey, mashed 'potatoes swimming with giblet gravy, fruit salad spotted with marsh- mallows and apples and nuts, and molds of bittersweet cran- berry sauce, chilled thoroughly. And the pumpkin pie! Christmas meant more 'feast- ing. But there was something special in the cold, air as the old year neared the completion of its journey and slipped into memory. The gifts were few and simple in those days. My fondest memeory of Christmas was the one when I was introduced to Hans Christian Andersen for the first time. It was my only im- practical gift, but it opened a whole new world, The wonder of the Christmas tree, hung with popcorn and cranberry garlands, glimmering in its glory in the firelight of the early winter morning! How it hurt to see it taken down. After the New Year, the town settled &teen for the winter. Parties took on a more useful note, Dad played the bass violin with the civic orchestra and there were suppers after rehear- sal. Sometimes there were steaming kettles of oyster stew with huge bowls of. crackers. Or We might sit down to pungent chili with thick slices of home- made bread, Several of the women would bring cakes, There were quilting parties, or "sewing afternoon" for someone or other'town. Who needed help. It was a fund-raising time, And also a time for just plain "visiting." The women ekehang- del recipes; the men talked abOut hunting and fishing; and the children dashed off to skate on the pond, 'Winter had its cein- Pensatione. There were school plays, basketball garner, contests, and so on. And before we knew 'it, the year had rolled coMptete- les around and it was spring again. The treasures that One stave in memory never lose their luiss ter. The sights and sounds we encounter' today teithitid us of these yesteryears, sometimes When We least estpeet it, We see it child with a cone of cotton candy, and stidderily we can taste the 'Cloying sweetness of it Another child throws himself On the geese. and We Can aniell With him the green of growing thingS. He patises to look at bird aria we thrill again, as in childhood, to the.beauty of its stihg, Thus it goes, that neeer-eliding. association Of ideas. "SO we may have foiee in Whiter," the saying goes, f think it might be artierid, ed to teed, "So We may' have, roses a *held lifetime throughl" The Complete Story by Dudley Hays Inspector Proud felt irritable. His legs ached and his feet were sore. Stopping for breath, he surveyed the scene with the re- sentful eyes of a townsman who dislikes rough country. Granite outcrops, seas of bracken, bout- deny slopes, crags and ridges stretched as far as the skyline. He turned to George Dawth- waite, middle-aged and dour. "And this is where you parted with your brother?" "Aye." The inspector sniffed. Where they stood was a stony hummock no different from dozens they had passed. "All right, Mr. Dawthwaite. If you'd like to get back to your work , ." Dawthwaite plodded off to- wards Whinstead Farm, far be- low in the dale. The inspector sat down on a chunk of granite. Sergeant Joslin and young Hodg- son, the village policeman, wait- ed respectfully. "You fond of reading whod- units, Hodgson?" asked the in- spector. Pink and white Hodgson went pinker. "No, sir." "Um. The brothers own the farm jointly. Therefore when John Dawthwaite vanishes up here, your theory is that George Dawthwaite must have killed him?" The question was sar- donic. "But, sir, they didn't get en, and George is a queer chap," The stout, dark inspector's mouth gave a sarcastic twist, "And yet it was three days be- fore you suggested . . ," "But, sir, at first I suspected an accident, though I admit a local chap isn't likely to come to grief. It was when the dalefolk had done a deal of searching and found nothing that . . ." "That you tried another guess." Enviously the inspector was watching a buzzard glide to- wards the valley beneath. "If you ask me, the answer is searching and more searching." He grimaced at the tilted wild- erness. "It 'ud take an army to comb this area. We'll get in touch with some rambling club ask them to turn out at the week-end." Hodgson ventured to say: "John Dawthwaite knew this ground like the back of his hand, can hardly believe . .." "But it's possible, isn't it?" ‘`Yes, sir." "All right. What's the longest time anybody's been missing up here?" "Seventeen months, The poor ?hap fell into a ghyll." "A what?" "A ravine, oir." The inspector stood up, His smile was superior. "History has a trick of repeating itself, I don't see promotion for you in this affair ' Hodgson. Come along. We'll get down." They began to descend a knob- bly decline, the rebuked Hodg- son in the rear. Sergeant Joslin, a solid, kindly man, broke the painful Silence by pointing out some browsing Herdwick sheep and saying: "I don't know much about these things, but they look a poor lot to me." Hodgson said: "It's the bad grazing in these parts. 'Tis acid soil, without a particle of lime, and sheep need lime for their bones," "You might," said the inspec- tor, "have done better as a hill- farmer than a policeman." Hodgson gulped. He had done himself no good. Froud had in- fluence. Maybe he ought to have kept his suspicions to himself until he found out more, though on the face of things George Dawthwaite was inn ocent enough. His story, put over half a. dozen times without a- single variation, held the ring of truth. He and John had been up to gather the ewes for clipping. They had missed a few, gone aloft on a second gather, and rounded them up with the dogs. A long way off John had spotted a lame ewe. He went off to chivvy it back while George re- turned to the dale with the rest of the sheep and the dogs. That was the last George had seen of him, Down below, Hodgson explain- ed to his very young and sympa- thizing wife what a mess he had made of things. "All the same," he ended, his youthful jaw stubborn, "I'm go- ing on wonderin'." The summer drifted. by, the grass turning from middle green to jaded emerald, the heather from purple to brown, Search parties large and small ferreted about those heights and found nothing. Over and over again Hodgson asked himself the ques- tion: "Suppose George Dawth- waite buried his victim up there?" Always came the same an- swer, born of his local know- ledge, that made the theory seem silly. It would be mighty difficult, with only an inch or two of soil covering the rock, True, there were marshy spots here and there among the hol- lows, choked with sphagnum moss miller as a poodle's coat. But to drain them all and dig them over would require gangs of men. The doubting Proud and his bosses would never authorize the cost of the labour. By the following spring his conviction was weakening. "Maybe Proutt,was right," he told his wife despondently. "Maybe John Dawthwaite fell into a gyhll, and his body's washed under a boulder, out o' tight. I hear Frond's galling see the guessing yokel." On his next off-day he and his wife took sandwiches and went for a walk on the hills, The weather was cold and dry, and the scanty grazing, yellowish- grey, had been nibbled to the sod. Sheep were drifting far and wide, seeking out every preciohs, sapless blade to help stein their hunger. Crossing a rocky noddle, his wife happened to spy at least a dozen ewes grazing in a dank hollow. It was puzzling because the patch seemed to be nothing but sphagnum moss and even ravenous hill-sheep refused to touch the stuff, Yet they were nosing around there and picking greedily. Curiosity whetted by their farming background, the two hurried over to the hollow. A few minutes later, their eyes vivid with excitement, they were descending to the dale at a run. The reaction at headquarters to his 'phone message was scep- tical. In the end, Freud grudg- ingly agreed to.. take action. At eight o'clock the following. morn- ing .Proud. arrived .by oar. With him were the sergeant and two. constables, one of them s► photo- ilP.Vgsi I14,pudPv,clottrlire,i,isudd.ferrsH141:40egYsd. ?rgisin.ei:Wu. brought "Not altogther, Sir." "I hear you think We might find soMethine "Yes, sir." "For your sake,"• ,saitt. Frond vitriol in. his voice, "I hope we, do." dred steep feet to the scittelchy They Clumped 14p OW. hollow, rhuo- anki es IiWoadtgesronse seeping g to b scoop e t h the rake into the moss', hauling it away from the centre. Two constables plied their • spades carefully. The inspector watched from the dry .edge. "Hullo'. there's something!" ejaculated one of the constables. - They dug with more caution, Very soon Sergeant Joslin had An urge to be sick. The thing the spades revealed was certain- ly horrifying, Then the From hardness,atrugk ringing Whose . to what had been Dawthwaite It heaved up a spade :inscribed with Whineteed Farm, Proud grunted. "That pins d own George Dawthwaite, say that the day before he kill- ed his brother he hid it up here somewhere, Probably it made that crack in the skull. Then he used it to dig his victim..M, and shoved it In afterwards to bury the last bit of evidence." • The. wincing Joslin nodded, Proud went on: "Before we visit brother George down below, want a word with you, young Hodgson. How the devil did you guess he was here?" "It wasn't a guess, sir. Yes- terday some sheep were pick- ing at this moss. It didn't make sense, 'because they never touch it. So the wife and I came over and found what they were pipit- Mg at. Look here—and here.". He was pointing at odd moon. tarn bents sticking up through the seeping moss, "Maybe you wouldn't notice, sir, but they're a different green from usual, healthier. They've. been fertilized by limo and cal- cium. I asked myself where it could have come from. Then I thought—flesh and bone," To his credit, Proud smiled. broadly. "Young fellow," he said, "I can see you getting on!' —From "Tit-Bits." Gold loaf Md. Grinding Poverty During this apring of drought, the .countryside, from Teheran Ifooth to Isfahan is dry as dim,. At times the surface of the land. Is flat, at other limes broken by high dunes made. of hardpan and scree. Everywhere the landscape., is the color of dust, even to the dried-mud villages through, which the bumpy road passes. So the countryside remains, s, wilderness of emptiness, until, about seventy miles south of Teheran, ihe town of Qum lifts, itself from the sands. A town of crumbling mud walls and .abject poverty, yet one of the Most breath-taking sights in all Iran.; for soaring like a glory above the mud walls rises the great .golden dome of Qum's sacred mosqur'. Incredibly lovely, the on a floats above the town like .a bra- hant golden sun, while in ,the dirty crooked lanes below dark- robed women squat by The :open. qhanats (canals) to wash their laundry, and black-bearded many with hair close-cropped on their round heads; tend shop or urge on their donkeys through the streeta. What does their golden dome mean to the people of Quint Enough, at any rate, that I, as A non-Moslem, was advised not to stop in the town during the religious holidays then in pro- gress, so I did not, though drank in the scene with my eyes until the golden dome had faded in the etistance And the attirling dust of the desert road once more was all around, • Ahead lay Isfahan, and more glories Of the past. But for the moment my thoughts were filled with Qum, What a contrast be- tween the beaten gold leaf of that dome ...and the poverty of the streets below! In a way the scene typthed much of Iran — the home of architectural marvels almost-unmatched. in the world, eomb'ined with a grinding pove erty just beginning to 'be re- lieved. In. Teheran the young Shahine shah, ruler of Iran, on ceremon- ial occasions mounts the ancient. Peacock Throne; studded • with rubies, sapphires, emeralds. Or, in his Marble Palace whose. green marble walls. seem almost translucent In the sunlight, he receives distinguished guests in a Hall of Mirrors .whose wane and ceilings, .. every .inch, .are made of thousands of pieces of mosaic glass. Thus the Shah, cur- rent symbol: of the royal tradi- tion in Iran, lends continuity to the ancient spelndors. of Persia, writes. Harry B. Ellis in the Christian Science Monitor, Yet in his day-to-day task this. hard-working King is concerned. primarily with the betterment of his people, He knows that a men- tal revolution, with its roots laid in rural education, must stir Iran's peasantry before his coun- try's paradox of splendor and debasement can be erased. Block- ing his path in this great task, almost as tangible as the rugued mountains of Iran, are centuries of apathy and stolidity, in them- selves born of ienorance and enervating poverty. There is also the opposition to progress. from :some immensely wealthy Persians who, as absentee land- owners, stand to grin from the status quo. When I suggested to the Shah that Iralea greatest lack was human resourcea, he agreed vig-, orously. Because of that lack, and because the Shah is the focus- of all official action ire Irate the 'Slowness of progress and the 'ob- structionism of some bureaucrats tend to be blamed on him. It grieves the Shah tieeply that, deepite the staggerihg'prob- lefts his country faces. his own efforts at reform are Misunder- atood or overlooked, somewhat by his own people, even More by the outside world , Secret Of The Hollow phot °lung. m °IffIE PAST WARNS" — Portrotts of noted Jews of Germany from an unusual picture gallery, as a workman makes final prepay- cution.s for an exhibition in Berlin titled "The Past Worms.' Sponsored by the International Union for Human Rights, it dramatizes work of 'Germans of Jewish extractio n, nffnihIL&J.