Threads of Grey and Gold - Reed Myrtle

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account.

      In the Chinese quarter of the large cities, the New Year celebrations are dreaded by the police, since where there is so much revelry there is sure to be trouble. In the native country, the rejoicings absorb fully a month, during the first part of which no hunger is allowed to exist within the Empire.

      The refreshments are light in kind – peanuts, watermelon seeds, sweetmeats, oranges, tea and cakes. Presents of food are given to the poor, and “brilliant cakes,” supposed to help the children in their studies, are distributed from the temples.

      The poor little Chinamen must sadly need some assistance, in view of the fact that every word in their language has a distinct root, and their alphabet contains over twenty thousand letters.

      At an early hour on New Year’s morning, which according to their calendar comes between the twenty-first of January and the nineteenth of February, they propitiate heaven and earth with offerings of rice, vegetables, tea, wine, oranges, and imitation of paper money which they burn with incense, joss-sticks, and candles.

      Strips of scarlet paper, bearing mottoes, which look like Chinese laundry checks, are pasted around and over doors and windows. Blue strips among the red, mean that a death has occurred in the family since the last celebration.

      New Year’s calls are much in vogue in China, where every denizen of the Empire pays a visit to each of his superiors, and receives them from all of his inferiors. Sometimes cards are sent, and, as with us, this takes the place of a call.

      Images of gods are carried in procession to the beating of a deafening gong, and mandarins go by hundreds to the Emperor and the Dowager Empress, with congratulatory addresses. Their robes are gorgeously embroidered and are sometimes heavy with gold. After this, they worship their household gods.

      Illuminations and fireworks make the streets gorgeous at night, and a monstrous Chinese dragon, spouting flame, is drawn through the streets.

      People salute each other with cries of “Kung-hi! Kung-hi!” meaning I humbly wish you joy, or “Sin-hi! Sin-hi!” May joy be yours.

      Many amusements in the way of theatricals and illumination are provided for the public.

      In both China and Japan, all debts must be paid and all grudges settled before the opening of the New Year. Every one is supposed to have new clothes for the occasion, and those who cannot obtain them remain hidden in their houses.

      In Japan, the conventional New Year costume is light blue cotton, and every one starts out to make calls. Letters on rice paper are sent to those in distant places, conveying appropriate greetings.

      The Japanese also go to their favourite tea gardens where bands play, and wax figures are sold. Presents of cooked rice and roasted peas, oranges, and figs are offered to every one. The peas are scattered about the houses to frighten away the evil spirits, and on the fourth day of the New Year, the decorations of lobster, signifying reproduction, cabbages indicating riches, and oranges, meaning good luck, are taken down and replaced with boughs of fruit trees and flowers.

      Strange indeed is the country in which the milestones of Time pass unheeded. In spite of all the mirth and feasting, there is an undercurrent of sadness which has been most fitly expressed by Charles Lamb:

      “Of all the sounds, the most solemn and touching is the peal which rings out the old year. I never hear it without gathering up in my mind a concentration of all the images that have been diffused over the past twelve months; all that I have done or suffered, performed, or neglected, in that regretted time. I begin to know its worth as when a person dies. It takes a personal colour, nor was it a poetical flight in a contemporary, when he exclaimed: ‘I saw the skirts of the departing year!’”

      The Two Years

      Tread softly, ye throngs with hurrying feet,

      Look down, O ye stars, in your flight,

      And bid ye farewell to a time that was sweet,

      For the year lies a-dying to-night.

      In a shroud of pure snow lie the quickly-fled hours —

      The children of Time and of Light;

      Stoop down, ye fair moon, and scatter sweet flowers,

      For the year lies a-dying to-night.

      Hush, O ye rivers that sweep to the sea,

      From hill and from blue mountain height;

      The flood of your song should be sorrow, not glee,

      For the year lies a-dying to-night.

      Good night, and good-bye, dear, mellow, old year,

      The new is beginning to dawn.

      But we’ll turn and drop on thy white grave a tear,

      For the sake of the friend that is gone.

      All hail to the New! He is coming with gladness,

      From the East, where in light he reposes;

      He is bringing a year free from pain and from sadness,

      He is bringing a June with her roses.

      A burst of sweet music, the listeners hear,

      The stars and the angels give warning —

      He is coming in beauty, this joyful New Year,

      O’er the flower-strewn stairs of the morning.

      He is bringing a day with glad pulses beating,

      For the sorrow and passion are gone,

      And Love and Life have a rapturous meeting

      In the rush and the gladness of dawn.

      The Old has gone out with a crown that is hoary,

      The New in his brightness draws near;

      Then let us look up in the light and the glory,

      And welcome this royal New Year.

      The Courtship of George Washington

      The quaint old steel engraving which shows George and Martha Washington sitting by a table, while the Custis children stand dutifully by, is a familiar picture in many households, yet few of us remember that the first Lady of the White House was not always first in the heart of her husband.

      The years have brought us, as a people, a growing reverence for him who was in truth the “Father of His Country.” Time has invested him with godlike attributes, yet, none the less, he was a man among men, and the hot blood of youth ran tumultuously in his veins.

      At the age of fifteen, like many another schoolboy, Washington fell in love. The man who was destined to be the Commander of the Revolutionary Army, wandered through the shady groves of Mount Vernon composing verses which, from a critical standpoint, were very bad. Scraps of verse were later mingled with notes of surveys, and interspersed with the accounts which that methodical statesman kept from his school-days until the year of his death.

      In the archives of the Capitol on a yellowed page, in Washington’s own handwriting, these lines are still to be read:

      “Oh, Ye Gods, why should my Poor Resistless Heart

      Stand to oppose thy might and Power,

      At last surrender to Cupid’s feather’d Dart,

      And now lays bleeding every Hour

      For her that’s Pityless of my grief and Woes,

      And will not on me, pity take.

      I’ll sleep amongst my most inveterate Foes,

      And with gladness never wish to wake.

      In deluding sleepings let my Eyelids close,

      That in an enraptured Dream I may

      In a soft lulling sleep and gentle repose

      Possess those joys denied by Day.”

      Among these boyish fragments there

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