REPORT ON THE SIXTH COMPETITION

The Editor offered a prize of £5 for a Reminiscence in more than 500 words of prose. not

WE should like to include as many contributions as we can and our remarks shall be cut short. We shall say only that many entries have shown us how difficult it is to communicate even the strongest and most overwhelming experiences. It may happen that amongst his memories one man will recall with most wonder a particular sunset, a particular intoxication with the air of spring ; yet he will have no means to convey his emotion to others, and a statement of fact will sound bare and unreal. It is much to the credit of Mr. G. C. Hope that he made us, too, feel startled and amazed when he describes how, as a small boy, he was taken from his bed to see Donati's comet, " which seemed to occupy a quarter of the sky."

Mrs. Lambart tells about her grandfather, one of the last of the Roumanian Boyars, Konstantin Kretzulesco. He was a scholar and an eccentric ; one of his eccentricities " took the form of an undeviating rectitude of conduct "—Roumanian politics were " Oriental in their convolutions." During one political upheaval he was offered the crown.

But he refused it for reasons which he considered good and sufficient. He appeared on the balcony, rather bewildered and rather impatient at being so violently recalled to the World of Reality. What was all this noise about ? Why did they disturb him ? And when it was explained : " My children, I have no time to spare for you and your affairs. You have interrupted me. I am at this moment engaged in reading the Bible in English. Ah, what a Poem ! What a Monument of Literature ! Do not detain me. I can do nothing for you. Leave me, leave me." They left him accordingly, and he returned to his study of the Scriptures in the language of the Elizabethans.

THE COMING OF THE RAINS.

In the Gulf Country of North Queensland the thirsty earth lay waiting for the rains. One day I found a Soak whose waters had just failed. Knowing that Brumbies—wild horses—watered there, I lay in wait, among the bushes, to see what they would do. It was evening. Presently they came. Silently they trotted up with airy steps out of the bush, and hesitated awhile on the bank. Then a willowy chestnut stepped lightly down and smelt along the damp sand. With a graceful, impatient movement it struck the ground with a forehoof, beating the sand out, again and again, at the same spot. Suddenly a powerful bay darted down. Biting at the chestnut, it drove it away, and began to paw vigorously, first with one hoof, then the other. When water appeared, it desisted, and, bending on trembling knees, sipped delicately till satisfied. Other horses did the same, further on, until, content, they suddenly scampered off, whinnying and biting. Then the clumsy cattle lumbered down in an endeavour to drink. They quickly trod the holes in, and stood about, bellowing mournfully. Rain came, however, in a few days. It was near Christmas, and the oppressive glare became overcast with slowly gathering cloud, Distant thunders boomed and mumbled, their lightnings flickering on the far horizon. Suddenly the suspense broke. The upgathered thuinders burst in a shattering storm of tropical violence. Sheaves of rain, downcast, scattered in twisting waters, foaniing on the earth. The whole air smoked with wet. A smell as of a chilled furnace struck the nostrils, and shivering beasts stumbled away before a fury which they could not withstand.

Then a strange unrest set in. Excited herds, with one consent, began a general onward movement, following the rain. Nothing could stay them, nothing turn them back. Hour by hour they passed in scattered files—always following the storm. Then stockmen and travellers dashed out into the cold deluge to, catch their mounts and claso-hobble them, lest they should he lost. Only the lulling of the storm would calm the movement, for here were no fences. The cattle simply cline, by habit, to their birthplace. Within a day where all had been parched and bleached, a film of greenest herbage quickly sprang, not to be seen on looking directly down—it was too "fine—but revealing itself ahead. This swiftly covered the wet-darkened earth, like a green mist. In a feW days the plains were the colour of an English spring, the promise of a rich season.

FRANK PENN SMITH.

ONE JUNE Molucrxo.

The winter of 1918 was unusually severe in the north of Russia, and it was not .until the end of Juno that a warm sun lit up the Petrograd streets. We were standing in a bread queue in a narrow street leading down to the Fontanka Canal. The queue was composed of ragged women, old men and children ; among them a few foreigners and Russians of the intelligent class hid their genteel appearance under faded shawls and crooked boots. The queue had begun to form about 2 o'clock at night, for the window of the wooden shelter from which the government bread was sold opened bef-ween 12. and. ag- d 'ernly the' first-few in the line would be lucky enough to receive halls pound of the dirty mixture called breed, except in the event of some special dispensation, on which the others reckoned. The night was cold, but the morning unusually bright and spring-like. Some distance behind me stood a woman' with two children, one on her arm arid the other, inaybe five years old; beside her. She was 'complaining aloud of her husband's illness which, by the symptoms she recounted, was probably typhus. Her neighbours in the queue showed no anxiety about the case, each dilating on his or her own misfortunes. But suddenly the woman decided to go home for a moment, leaving behind her the elder child to keep her place. After a moment of silence the sound of a dispute reached my ears. "He is a thief, though a child. This half rouble in his hands is mine. When I crouched down and slept for a moment he took it." The queue waved to and fro., " Lynch the fruit of sin !" shouted the accuser. Her words were echoed by others, and before I realized what was going on, the queue behind me disappeared in the direction of the canal Fontanka, giving forth shouts and threats. And then, from a neighbouring house, the mother of the child crept out. Those remaining in the queue greeted her with uplifted fists and the words, " The mother of the thief." Shrieks and shouts commenced, swelled by those of the triumphant crowd returning from the canal, the accuser at its head. The mother threw herself at her and a fierce fight began, " Yes," cried an old man's voice. " It's she that is the thief. I saw the mother giving the money to the child. It's she who took it from him." " To the canal with her !" shouted the crowd. And this time the whole queue, except the shadows of intelligentsia,

ran with its second victim towards the water. Lu. I

During the War " Salamander's " Cousin Elizabeth kept a " Zeppelin bag " in which she packed the things she would need if raided out of her home : securities, a little money,' brandy, stockings, soap, comb, candle and matches. She felt she should take one book, too, and chose the Apocrypha; The bag was packed and put in an accessible corner.

For some weeks nothing happened. Then one night came a Zeppelin raid. After the three-fold alarm of the buzzer, the maid, a girl friend and I met in the hall, in various states of undress. After a few minutes, with her usual calm, emergency, dignity, Cousin Elizabeth paced downstairs. It was pitch dark,' but we knew she was full dressed. " I'm so glad," she said, " that I have a habit of keeping my teeth, toupee, spectacles, rings and watch by my bedside. Clothes and fur coat quite near the door. They couldn't easily catch me unawares." There was a dull, distant thud. The windows rattled. We all sat very close together at the foot of the stairs. The maid's teeth , chattered, and the visitor's knees trembled. " I'm not in the least afraid," said the latter. " It just seems to have gone into my legs." " Neither am• I, miss," said the maid. " It just seems to have gone into my teeth." Cousin Elisabeth sat on the bottom step but one, her. Zepp. bag on her knee. She took out the brandy flask, and bade us put our lips to it. Then she dealt us a biscuit each. Very fusty it was, but nibbling passed the time. We were very cold and stiff, and bored. Cousin Elizabeth would not allow even a flashlight.; All was very dark and still for hours. She suggested that some- one should recite by way of diversion. We could remember nothing. " You give us a recitation," we said. " There's one thing I could never forget," said she. " I'll say it, if you like." She did, with never a moment's hesitation. We listened solemnly— to the vows of god-parents, to the Ten Commandments. " My. duty towards my neighbour . " went on the calm voice. " Bang ! " said a bomb very near. . . . " Is to love him . . . " " Bang ! Bang ! Bang ! " said a few more bombs very near indeed:' I am ashamed to say we were very nearly in hysterics while, through everything, Cousin Elizabeth's steady voice went on. Her only sign of agitation was the father frequent snapping and unsnapping of this bag, all the time on her knee. At last the Catechism was over ; so were the bombs. Another long spell, then the safety: buzzer sounded, the bag was put in its place, and we all wont to bed again. Next morning we learned the bombs had fallen quite near, but harmlessly, in a ploughed field.

In addition to the contributors whom we have mentioned

this week and last we compliment and thank F. F. Montresor, " Kynrnon,” Thomas Carr, Arthur Blanden, John Campbell, Marjorie M. Pelle, David Williamson, " Equator," " A. May. G.," P. Fooks, M. M. McCuaig, H. P. Marshall, Janet

Milne Rae, " Veritas," " A Moukden Resident," Maud Mont- gomery, " Conar," " Octogenarian," and " Four-leaved Shamrock." The prize is divided between Miss Beatrix Lehmann (Fieldhead, Bourne End, Bucks) and Mrs. Acheson (28 Crystal Palace Park Road, Sydenham).

ONE MORNING IN SPRING.

A few years ago I was in Paris, and the first notes of spring music; sung falteringly by a bird on the gutter outside my bedroom window, had drawn me out for a walk in the Bois de Boulogne. It was early in the day, and only a few people were about. The inevitable cyclist, bowed over handle-bars, chased the miles with do-or-die determination imprinted on his countenance. And an English governess or two with pupils looking like bumble bees in their fur coats, trotting and stumbling to keep up with the stride of a nation that knows how 'to walk. I left the main thoroughfare and turned into one of the railed-in paths that run through the heart of the wood. A green down of young leaves was on the spruces, and went happily forward in that light-hearted, empty-headed way one has when the weather smiles. I had not gone far when I saw, a little way ahead, a young -woman sitting on a bench by the path, •

She was knitting, and before her stood a pram which she rocked with her foot. I heard her humming softly—some French nursery song. As I passed I glanced casually under the raised hood. The pillow was white and smooth, the blanket was turned down over a pink shawl, but the pram was empty. And the further I walked the more I wondered. Could anybody have stolen the baby under the woman's nose . . . Perhaps it had wriggled under the coverlets. Or it might be old enough to walk and was playing behind the t bench. At last I stopped and turned, and, like a person at night who becomes more and more convinced that the creaking on the stairs is not the cat, I decided to investigate. As I approached this time I scanned the surrounding wood. There was not a sign of anybody. I walked slowly past the pram again, glanced swiftly and saw that my eyes had not deceived me. The young woman hummed her song, rocked the pram and clicked her knitting needles and never even glanced at me. By now my imagination was painting frightful pictures of kidnapping and murder, and anxiety got the upper hand of customary shyness. I sat down beside her and, blushing scarlet, blurted out in vile French : " There is no baby in your pram." She started as if I had let off a gun behind her, and then, rising majestically, answered in perfect English : "Mind your own business." And I sat regretfully watching her depart, pushing the pram violently before her. When she got to the turn of the path she evidently imagined she was out of sight, for she suddenly slackened her pace, and between the trunks of the trees I saw her sauntering, pushing the pram with her body, her fingers busy with the knitting again. And on the still air came the faint humming of a French nursery song.

BLACK WATERS.

It was in the third year of the Great War. We were four days out from Southampton on our way to India. The night was clear and very dark, with a heavy ocean swell on the water, when we suddenly heard from the look-out, " Submarine ahead, Sir ! " Instantly there was a rush of people down the corridors, some carrying little children, some jewel cases' or other precious pos- sessions, some hurriedly tying on lifebelts, all anxious to get up on deck. I had just reached the top of the companion when a torpedo struck us amidships, wrecking most of the engines and causing a hideous explosion. The deck was soon awash and the ship sinking at the stern. As I made my way to the side of the ship to try my luck in'the water, I saw a young lady following me. She was holding a small boy by the hand and was accompanied by a nurse with an infant in her arms. Just at that moment the lady turned to speak to the nurse, and I saw her start. She took the baby from the nurse's arms and placed her ear against its heart.

saw then a dark stain on the white clothing near to the infant's neck. The poor, wee mite had been struck by some flying missile and was already beyond human help. The stricken mother kissed the little, white, unconscious face and laid the little body gently down on some sailcloth near us, saying, " She is dead, nurse. We can do nothing for her." Then she lifted the small boy and placed him in my arms, saying, " Will you hold him for a moment, please." . Taking her own lifebelt off she tied it with shaking fingers round the nurse, saying, " Don't be afraid, nurse, someone is sure to save you." She took her scarf off and turned to me. " Please tie the boy on my back," she said, briefly, "I swim well." I did as I was bid. The water was already up to our knees and there was not a moment to be lost. I tied the boy as firmly as I could, and she turned to . me, saying bravely, " Au revoir," then, to the child, Now Dick, be a brave boy, we are going to swim to daddy," and slipped over the side. Almost as she disappeared the vessel lurched heavily and sank slowly, stern foremost, into the black waters of the ocean. My last conscious thought was a hope that the brave young mother had not been caught in the whirlpool created when we went down. For the next few hours I had enough trouble on my hands, but I. ' was eventually picked up by one of our patrol boats, and I learned with great pleasure that the lady and her child were also saved. All the other children on board were drowned.

BEATRIX LEHMANN, *TESS'S ACHESON.