There'll be a hush over London as the last few minutes of the Old Year tick away. Then, from the four orange faces of Big Ben will come the first chimes of midnight, slow and reverberating, creeping from radio sets into every waiting home in the land. A new energy stirs. In the shadowy silence of St. Paul's Cathedral the Watch Night congregation will bend more fervently. At Piccadilly, amid the hooters and factory sirens that will mingle with all the city's bells, young men and girls will surge around Eros, wildly yelling, singing, dancing. Less riotously, nearly 8,000,000 Londoners (provided they have been lucky enough to secure a bottle) will drink a family toast around their firesides. A few, hailing from England's northern counties, will keep their old annual customs.

The author of this paragraph, TIME Correspondent Honor Balfour, will herself keep an old custom of her native Lancashire by sallying forth with a hunk of bread, a nugget of coal and a handful of salt jammed into a pocket of her thickest coat to parade London's streets "till 1949 is well and truly born." Then, she will "first-foot" it back home, bearing the bread, coal and salt that are symbolic of warmth and prosperity for the coming year. Being a brunette, she will then go on to first-foot it for other Lancastrians who have the misfortune to be blonde (an unlucky omen for anyone who has to first-foot for a household). This means that each time she arrives at a home bearing her good omens there will be a glass of wine and a slice of bun loaf awaiting her.

Allowing for different customs and conditions, it would be much the same this week with most of TIME Inc.'s 278 members overseas. For them, the celebration of 1949's advent will be tempered by the responsibility of reporting the as yet unborn events of the coming year and by the hardships of the peoples among whom they live and work.

From Paris, Bureau Chief Andre Laguerre reported that inasmuch as New Year's Day falls on Saturday, normally the heaviest work day of the week for overseas bureau-men, any undue celebrating the night before would automatically bring its own punishment. In Madrid, Correspondent Piero Saporiti expected to join the crowd in the Puerta del Sol (Madrid's Times Square), dodging the used electric light bulbs that Madridians store away for this occasion, whirring a wooden zambomba which gives out a deafening clack, and brandishing a bunch of grapes over his head (you eat twelve grapes as the New Year comes in, one for each stroke of the clock).

Although the traditional whole roast ham will be rationed to a few slices, Stockholm Stringer E. Michael Salzer cabled that the customary lutfisk and schnapps were plentiful. As usual, he planned to be on hand for the huge bonfire on Skansen, the famous open-air museum overlooking the city, and the annual rendition of Tennyson's New Year's poem by Veteran Actor Anders de Wahl. Along with other male Dubliner's, Stringer Alan Montgomery may kiss as many girls as he can during the five minutes after midnight.

Elsewhere, except in Latin America, where New Year's is likely to be one of the hottest days of summer, celebrations will be mainly on a catch-as-catch-can basis. In Athens, the Robert Lows could figure on no central heating after ten o'clock, candlelight after 1 a.m., and no dancing at all (forbidden because of Greece's "cold war"). In divided, blockaded Berlin, under the now familiar drone of the airlift planes, most bureau-men planned to spend New Year's quietly at home, or, more likely, out covering the news. In Shanghai, where no one could plan more than a few days ahead, TIME Inc.'s staff could not be sure of celebrating at all. A month from now, if Shanghai still stands, Chinese staff members will celebrate their New Year by paying their debts, visiting relatives, giving children lucky money in red envelopes, feasting on shrimp for happiness and chicken for peace.

Cordially yours,

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