THE JUMBLE SALE.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVI, Issue 170, 20 July 1935, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE JUMBLE SALE.

LOVE OF A BARGAIN.

A LEAN PURSE AND LIGHT HEART.

(By MARY L. SMEE.)

One frequently hears it said that a jumble sale is a good thing because it "helps the poor to keep their selfrespect," though just how and why it does this is generally left unexplained. Be that as it may, a jumble sale is well worth attending if only for the good of one's soul.

Hie scene Is always one of feverish activity and what at first appears to be hopeless confusion, but when the eye becomes accustomed to the straggling trestle tables with their overflowing burden of garments, the heaps of assorted goods and the piles of brown paper littering the floor, a vague orderliness becomes apparent.

Hats at threepence each fill one corner of the hall. Hats once the pride and joy of their neatly coiffured owners and now, alas, heaped indiscriminately one on top of the other, displaying in every dejected dent and rakish tilt an overwhelming consciousness of their fall from grace. Heavy battered gardening boots stand cheek by jowl with dainty brocade evening slippers, silk stockings lie beside hand-knitted bedsocks. Jars of pickle and preserves, a gramophone with a broken spring, several pairs of ladies' corsets, a skooter—untold treasures.

The moment for opening the sale approaches; a certain tenseness can be felt in the atmosphere and at their tables helpers take a firm grip on their cash boxes. From behind the closed and barred doors at the end of the hall comes the impatient murmur of a crowd that has been collecting for the last two hours. "All ready ?"—The bar is raised and the doors burst open at the impact of a solid wedge of humanity.

The Surging Crowd. Pushing, shoving, sliding, silent and intent the crowd pours in. First the women, capacious shopping kits on their arms and the light of battle in their eyes. Then a staring throng of youngsters dragging their little brothers and sisters by the hand, or manoeuvring perambulators to the public danger. A sprinkling of men bring up the rear, who slouch about in a purposeless way watching the struggles of their womenfolk with a curious air of detachment.

It is the men's and boys' stall that seems to be the one common objective and here a jostling crowd forms. Garments are snatched up, dropped and caught up again at a speed that completely bewilders the saleswomen, who, mindful of their instructions not to let anything out of their sight look on with dismay and growing alarm. One helper, wise from many jumble sales, has taken the precaution of attaching a piece of string to each of the garments on her table and stands with the ends knotted firmly to her waist band. People surge against the tables until the goods are swept to the floor and trampled underfoot, later to be rescued and sold at halfprice.

It is impossible to generalise upon the typo of person that attends a jumble sale. Every type is represented, from the city typist who drops in during her lunch hour to the mother with a large family to provide for, from the secondhand dealer in fearch of bargains to the street loafer. Faces glimpsed for a second or two in the crowd tell their own story. Sallow, drawn faces with tired eyes and tight, unsmiling lips are all too frequent, the faces of women who have found little of joy in life, women for whom the future holds only an ugly, distorted reflection of the present, the present that means a grim, monotonous struggle to feed and clothe a family.

Faces old and incredibly wrinkled bend over the oddment table, trembling fingers search among the litter of collars and scarves, lingering over a piece of torn lace, caressing the silky fringe of a shawl, searching, hesitating, relinquishing. Young mothers carrying their fretful babies on aching arms wander from stall to stall an. ious and undecided. In a far corner a motherly little girl does her best to fit out her three younger sisters with hats. She ranges them in a row, crams a hat on each unprotesting head and studies the upturned faces with a worried frown.

Colourful Glimpses. Here a handsome full-bosomed halfcaste with swinging ear-rings and white, smiling teeth knots a scarlet handkerchief round her smooth neck, laughs and studies her image in a little mirror with the frank pleasure of a child. There an aproned woman from the nearest eating house stands with muscular arms akimbo, haggling the price of a blouse, a glint of humour in her fine dark eyes and a touch of bravado in the lift of her chin.

The sale is in full swing. The little hoards of threepences and sixpences that represent weeks of careful saving for just such an occasion as this are rapidly dwindling and prices are being lowered to match the slimmer purses. It seems as if a lean purse makes for a light heart —indeed what woman does not feel happier for a good day's shopping, even though she has spent her last penny? The whole atmosphere of the sale lias changed. Strained faces relax, tired eyes brighten and lips quiver into unexpected smiles. Snatches of good-natured banter are exchanged. The joy of buying, so dear to the heart of every woman no matter what her station in life, lias begun to work its age-old magic. There is no pleasure quite like that of a woman who feels that she has bought both well and wisely, no balm to a broken spirit like that which comes from a successful bargain hunt, and after all a bargain is always a bargain, though it is only a threepenny hat at a jumble sale.