Sydney—as Seen by an Incoming Islander.

GREY seas, grey clouds, grey head lands, grey gulls, the grey fin of a shark.

The Heads!

A rift in the heavy clouds —the sun. the vitalising Australian sun! Spark ling blue water under a golden shaft, a glint on the roof of the Cardinal’s Palace. Wooded slopes, little islands, garden points—an angle of The Bridge.

Ocean-going liners, ferry-boats, in solent little sailing craft running daringly under the forefoot of arrogant ships, jetties, a fat woman in a pink dress eating an apple on an empty wharf.

The landing; dingy Customs sheds, blue-roofed taxi dodging hesitant foot passengers. Circular Quay fruit-stalls burgeoning with colour—apples from woody Tasmania, yellow bananas from dark Fiji, paw paws from the stinking North, grapes from fragrant Mildura, peaches from cool Victoria, pears from Leeton orchards.

Noise! Trams, trains, motor ’buses; buildings shaken as with a convulsion by the tumultuous machinery within.

People! Working folk, well-to-do’s!

A pale, aristocratic woman leaning from a blue car awaiting the “go” signal from a traffic policeman whose arms move like those of an Island dancer.

Dirty trams hooked together; patches of colour from gorgeously dressed shop-windows.

Smells! The fragrance of women — the fruity odour of cellared beer — hunger-making perfumes of food —hot bitumen —grapey odours from wine bars.

Flower stalls outside the G.P.O.

Roses, carnations, waratah! “That’s right, lady Look at ’em, love ’em and leave ’em!”

Skyscrapers shoving rudely against Victorian Sydney; banks like the palaces of the ancient Doges; factories erupting centipedes of laughing girls.

People! Hard city people, vacant-eyed country people seeing the sights. Faces like flowers, like red moons, passionate angry faces, calm meditative ones.

Motors! A 1916 Ford holding up a Vauxhall in Art Moderne. Beggars! A blind man holding out his hat. “Don’t pass a poor blind man, don’t pass him by! Blind through no fault of his own! Don't pass him by. (Sotto voice) Oh, you ’ave; you allus do, blast it!”

Colour! Violet splashes from news stalls; gleam of gold in jewellers’ win dows; red mail-vans, black police-vans; State Lottery ticket-sellers’ stalls.

The taste of new foods. Filet Mig non at the Cafe Latin, where a Norman Lindsay adorns the walls and Toti Dal Monte smiles at the Chinese merchant in the silken robe, and the young re porter going Bohemian. An omelette fines herbes at the Claremont —bamboo shoots at the Shanghai—coffee and liqueurs at Tatersalls —a glimpse at the famous undressed ladies of the Marble Bar.

Night! Dazzling Neon signs under shop verandahs; the jewelled string of the Bridge, the flood-lit towers and palaces of modern Sydney, the misty illumination of the Archibald Memorial

Fountain —a handful of Communists laying down some law to a reluctant convert —two young people as closely clasped in each other’s arms as if they were in some specially designed heaven of their own —a pale young man fur tively dining off some greasy scraps of fish wrapped in a torn newspaper— a group of out-of-works playing euchre on the grass.

The Botanical Gardens —lapped by the starlit water of Sydney’s pride. A slow footed policeman, clearing the grounds, pauses suspiciously to watch the move ments of an old woman. She is creeping about the grass, near some shubbery calling softly, “puss, puss.” Presently a motherly grey cat emerges from her hide-away, followed by gangling-legged kittens. The woman produces some food from a little basket and the cat and her family dine daintily while the policeman mutters, “’Struth.”

Into the streets again, nearly falling over a man who isi writing with a piece of chalk on the smooth bitumen —“God is Love.” A tall woman walking im patiently up and down, up and down, her hard eyes searching, searching.

Glare of light from talkie houses, taxi after taxi discharging glossy men and smoothly-groomed women at the doors of hotels and restaurants; jewels, furs, satins, and gleam of tended skin.

Impatient men in doorways joined by late-coming ladies; lovers arm in arm; graver folk doing their nightly saunter to gaze into the wonder of the l shops.

Sydney, sparkling, luring the populace to her dusty feet. Sydney—half a little London and half a little New York.

Sydney —a Metropolis!

A.C.T.