Evening star., 1936-10-27
BYI. WILLIAM HILL.

Stan Correspondent of the Star.
- XETER, England.-It was Z
l. am. We were sitting In the
dining room of small and
A unpretentious English hotel.
A man In white tie and tails ap-
proa ched. All, we thought, in our
misty early morning way, a gay dol"
about to taper off an all-night spree
with eggs and coffee.
But no. 1t was the waiter. He
placed a menu before us, for which
he said thank you" He brought our
grapefruit, for which he thanked us.
Ditto for our fish, our eggs, our cof-
fee. even our jam. Always thank
you and thank you" again. 1t was
unbelievable, this dignified courtesy
at am. We began to think any,
thing was possible in England. There
fore, when we heard of the white
Witch of Devonshire" We were not
surprised.
Post Cards as Guides.
A Plymouth post card seller told us,
when you are in a small and un-
familiar foreign town, and the
thought of purchasing a cumbersome
guide book is disheartening. it Is
good idea to spend 10 minutes in a
post card shop Looking at the pic
lures for that length of time will
give you very good idea of what
you want to see. On this occasion
we began talking with the proprietor,
discussing places and things that
might make stories.
We had in mind visiting sthe town
OF Administer, home of the Administer
carpet But 1t turned out Administer
hadnt made carpets since 1885. The
factory had become club and the
town was busily engaged in manufac-
turing toothbrushes.
But the post card seller was help
full. He suggested Arlington, where
laborers who have brought up their
families without aid from their parish
throughout the year are given calico
at Easter. Or Beer-that was where
the lace for Queen Victoria's wedding
dress was made. Or Dunsford-
where lived the Fulfords of Great
Fulford, the last English family to
keep lester about the house. That
sounded as though it might have posi-
bilities, until it developed the last
Jester died 800 years ago. Centuries
mean so little to these people.
The Magical Witch.
Then the post card seller men,
toned the white witch.
How long ago did she die?" we
asked with some skepticiSm.
IT'S a man, sir, and he's still liv-
ing. I'm sure. He wears white metal
button and you'll find him in Exeter.
Devon farmers for hundreds of years
have brought their troubles to the
white witch. A broken arm-ailing
cattle, perhaps. 1t is no matter. The
white witch speaks strange words.
The farmers go away. Soon all is
welt"
That was enough. OFF We trundled
BY bus from Plymouth. Except for
the white duster the driver wore, the
bus might have been an American
one. Not so the 40 miles of country
between Plymouth and Exeter. For
some reason it gave us the impress
sion of being miniature. This was
probably because the entire country
side appeared to be laid out by de-
sign, like a garden. The fields were
square and fenced evenly and SYM
metrically. Each house had its lawn,
not of grass but of red, yellow and
white flowers, so arranged that with
out them the eye would have senSed
something lacking. The road itself
was narrow, often overhung with
trees, and the miniature impression
vas increased by the smallness of
most British automobiles, which, of
course, are taxed for their horsepower.