CHRISTMAS PARADE

Auckland Star, Volume LXX, Issue 303, 23 December 1939, Page 2 (Supplement)

CHRISTMAS PARADE

First Prize Story

T INK, said the Family •I Optimist, known variously and sometimes irreverently as the Old Man, the Bread-winner, the Cheer Germ, or merely '•Dad," "I think, seeing this is the Centennial Year and there's a bit of a war on, we'll do something special in the way of Christmas celebrations." "Allowing for the fact that it's not the Centennial Year, and such a beastly thing as a war does not call for a song and dance, your idea is quite a sound one," conceded his 'laughter Nancy. "Don't tease your father, dear," rebuked her mother mildly, "toll us about it, dad." Tliis man of hers was iilwavs burning with schemes, most of thrm impracticable but all of them altruistic, but she thought indulgently, "Why damp his pleasure? Men are only children, anyhow!" "To answer first things first," said Mr. Burnett, throwing down his dinner napkin in a crumpled ball, "admitted this 4 year is not actually Centennial year, but by the timo Christmas, 1940 comcs we'll have had our fill of celebrations and Christmas will fall flat. Then in war time, I believe in everyone keeping up their moral as we learned In the Great War—business as usual—and pleasure as usual, too!" "What's the big idea, dad?" asked his *on Boh, and the 14-year-old Jack remarked apprehensively, "Not a rotten Christmas tree, dad—we're none of us kids now." "But some of us are cheeky little monkeys/' his sister reproved him. "01 ad you recognise yourself, Nance," retorted the nimble-witted Jack. "Bull's-eye," remarked Bob oat of the corner of his month, but keening a straight face, and in spite of herself Nancy limpled. "Order! Order 1" said dad, rapping the table with his fork, and he went on to expound his ideas. He intended to rent the big old dilapidated beach bouse where they often spent their holidays, and invite certain guests who would be representative of different periods in the history of New Zealand. On Christmas day there would be a pageant embodying the changing scenes in ths Ufa of the colony from 1840 to 1940. "11l collect the old timers," said dad with enthusiasm, "you, Bob and Nancy 'muet provide the bright young things of your generation, and Jack will And the 'kids." "Stop," cried Nancy, "how in the world are yon going to collect an 1840 exhibit. They're all dead and in graves, I should hope, for their own sake."

, 7*!s* J* l wrong," Mid triumphantly, "l4a made a find— picked him up m tha water-front feeding won't say fas's actually 1840 vintage, bat he's so old he's forgotten when he was born but ha remembers as a child tha eaok of Kororareka—and the whaling days la tha North—a rough diamond—" "Exhibit A," remarked Bob, "some ripe old remlaiacmMi there." "Then there's old Colonel Hoft and his during the Maori wars of the '(My*—hie father took part in tha eiege of Orakau. Then your mother and I will represent ths to Wt period—the rest I leave to you children." Tfcey all looked resignedly at each other. Bed was off on ons of his hobby horses, and there wsa no reining him in. After a pause hie wife eaid gently, "That sounds very nice, dear." *

4- * if 4: llie beach house was a rambling old plass which had onos been a fine old colonial mansion, such a survival as one sasa tare and there in our Dominion with ao old-time dignity of, its own even in dwjßt poverty, built in the grand style with roomy verandahs, spacious room*, high ceilings, and vault-like kitchens. Ths house overlooked a magnificent awesp j>{ the blue Paeillc where ths ocean roller* earns thundering, in to shatter themsalvea in cataracts of foam on ths hard yellow sands. There wars plenty of fcedrooma, roughly hut sufficiently furnished for holiday us*, aad there had been soma diacussion as to whether ths "best" guestroom ahould b* given to "exhibit A," as ratl,#r pieturaaqua old villain, looking Ilka a cross between a tramp and a pirate—or the Holta, ths deaf and irritable old Colonel and hie deaf, meek wife. "Exhibit A," on aeeonnt of hie venerable age and the fact that he was an "openair man"—"lronstone Jsck," he said he was called, though hs had forgotten whyseemed to qualify for ths honour of a large, bright, lofty room with plenty of fresh air and sunlight, but on ths other hand—though Mrs. Burnett was no snob ur Holts were naturally • accustomed to refinements, and it seemed the obvious thing to do to offer them the best one had Ironstone Jack, himself settled the matter °y declaring the guest-room aa far too arge and light and airy for him. "Give me a does-down in a corner, missue" he said in his hoarse voice, "I can't abide draught* Wowln' in on me find that ple?tty mornin' sunlight pourin* n fair r|l« me. I like to He snug." Greatlv relieved Mrs. Burnett gave him <1 dark little room up under the eaves to his grest content. 'Vriirtt dreadful old man," she called him privately, but Dad took great delight and pride in his odd/.rough, unpolished pruest. Bob.called him ths "beachcomber" mid Nancy Hhe "Ancient Mariner." Ironstone Jack seemed to havs been a bit of ovcrything in hie time — aoldier, sailor, tinker, drover, gumdigger,' prospector. His wit 9 were remarkably clear and his memory

8y... Isabel M. Cluett

for detail prodigious, and his reminiscences, highly coloured as they were, were highly entertaining, even if his table manners left much to be desired. Poor old Colonel Holt, though many years younger, could ti ust his memory far less and was apt to halt in the middle of a story and question himself whether he was right, though it infuriated him to be corrected by Ironstone Jack. The other guests wera Millicent Lir.ley, Nancy's friend and contemporary, anu L>-»b"'s friend, Kicky Manners. Jack had invited a couple of schoolboys, Wally and Tim Heine, and Mrs. Burnett in the tenderness of her heart had not liked to leave their ten-year-old sister Mavis out of it, and so had included her. The weather was glorious, the young people bathed and hiked or sun bathed in the hot, dry sand or la-cod on the cliffs under the shade of the gnarled pohutukawas, now immense bouquets of crimson blossom alive with rejoicing b<:es. Mr. Burnett, had planned his New Zealand pageant for Christmas Day. There was to be a parade in a large field behind the house, and every phase life in the Dominion's trades and industries from its earliest times was to be represented by children in fancy ditss. The Masqturaders Spectators were roped off all round the field, in the centre of which was a platform for the speakers, and precisely to the hour arranged on the steps of this platform appeared a boy and girl dresßed in the regalia of court heralds, and with a flourish of trumpets they announced that the procession was about to start. And through the gates at the' far end of the field pretty little masqueraders, children in fancy dress representing New Zealand life and industry. Here c-uue sailors, fishermen and whalers in rough' nautical garb carrying their formidable flensing knives; there were gumdiggers in corduroys with long spears in their hands and gunny-bags on their shoulders, then a section of goldminers splendidly apparelled in gold tunics and carrying gilded picks, followed by containers in smoke-grey tunics edged with flame-colour and bracing safety lajnps; there were miniature bushmen with bright axes on their shoulders, farmers in white and green smocks leading mild-eyed oxen or great massive draught horses and one tiny girl dressed like Boleep leading a pet lamb on a long blue ribbon; there were youthful drovers in pioneer shirts and hip-high leggings riding with w b'PS in their hands and rosy-chceked bullockies, the foremost pair leading two docile bullocks yoked together and dragging a log on chains; then, came railway men dragging a toy locomotive with a most realistic whistle 'which the engine-driver operated almost without ceasing. As each section approached the dais the heralds raised their long gilt trumpets and announced the period the group rcpresented; the second section represented trades and and the third the professions; and how everyone laughed and clapped to see round; rosy childish faces incongruously crowned by an academic mortar board, a lawyer's manifold-curled wig or * doctor'* glistening stopper." Then J 1 "?- a T n,y ' Victorian redcoats walking side by side with native children in the swinging piupiu and feathered headtbeMaorl; khaki-dad soldiers of theßoer War, the Great War and the lament conflict, and youthful airmen in w orc « blue and spread wings. At<the end of this procession of male youth cams a dainty parade of little ladies, mid-Victorian \bustles and skirts and tiny to the present day styles. ' housewives got a great ovation I£tJr #y swung their long ekirta and fringed parasols. "Mb mi Co." Then came the display of vehicles, an old-fashioned coach, borrowed from a museum of antiques and labelled Cobb and * j , rm wagon heaped with hay and manned by a laughing crew of boys and girls, a dog-cart with a fast trotter, a modern motor car. These were followed 1 a ,™ ot,e y collection of bicycles which actually featured one of the penny-farthing type. It was a huge success, life and colour and movement in the bright sunshine, and youth triumphant everywhere. The band played the airs familiar to ekch period and the procession ended by all the paradera being grouped about the dais and singing "God Defend New Zealand," Then came the speeches, none of which wss to be prepared and each' speaker was announced by his period and not his name,, delivered by the youthful heralds, followed * fanfare on the gilded trumpets. 1840 to 1800"—and old Ironside Jaok was /'WeU, folks," he began, turning the quid of tobacco he was seldom without in his leathery cheek; he spat into the sand. "I'm no good at speechifyin'— but 111 spin a bit of a yarn about the early days . . . days when the whale ships come into the northern harbours filled with their rip-rarln' wild crews, ready to sing a song, or down a drop o' grog, or stick a knife in a man just ss ths fancy took em. Phew—an' the stink—blood and blubber aim grease and the try-pots' black smoke—but lots o* fun as well—songs snd drinks and ysrns round ths fires makin' the beaches red aa hell-lire itself. I was a kid then when Hone Heke cut down the flagstaff for the third time—a clever dev'l-wss Heke, fsr too clever for the British, but the redcoats got him in the end. Bullets flyin' like bees round the little church and the women and kids Iyin' ' on the floor. Whoosh, whoosh, came the shells from Her Majesty's ship lyin' out on the bay. When the township was burnin' the Maoris ran amok in the' grassy streets wavin' their muskets and yellin' for pakeba blood. Early days, eh; I've lived a long time and seen a mort of happenings, 'but I ain't seen nothin' prettier than the bay, blue like the inside of a flower, with all the little green islands stickin' their heads out o' the clean water and a ship in full sail walkin' in. That's all, folks, I've nothin' more to say." He spat into the sand again and stalked off. "1850 to 1870" chanted the heralds, and old Colonel Holt x rose. He was dressed for his period in a full-tailed frock coat, and grey trousers and a tall pearl-grey bell-topper. His wife wore an old-fashioned black silk gown, a coal scuttle bonnet and bright Paisley shawl. "Ladies and. gentlemen," began the colonel in his high, thin old voice. "I was a lad when ths Maori wars of the sixties broke out. My father wss in chsrge of certain Militia forces and took part in the fighting at historic Orakau, where that king of warriors, Rewi Manlapoto, took his last stand. At 14 I joined up and saw the last of the figbt-

ing. (Cheers). Many historic events have happened in my time ... the birth of Parliament in New Zealand . . . great gold discoveries—in the Thames gold rush it' was thought that this country was to become the world's El Dorado . . . the first railways in New Zealand began . after years of bullock transport" in the backblocks . . . the first telegraph, and the first cable was laid down ... I have seen sail give way to steam in these waters and can remember the immigrant ships arriving packed 'tween decks with men, women and children. And now to-day on the eve of completing New Zealand's first century my dear wife and I are proud and glad to have been spared to see such amazing changes." The old man bowed and sat down. "1880 to 1920," chanted the heralds, and Mr. Burnett rose, with his wife on his arm, both dressed in the rather floral style of the eighties. He bowed again and again to the hearty cheering. ° "Friends," he said, "my wife and I thank you . . . this is our Centennial gesture, a pageant of the years of growth in our loved little country. We are here to speak for the eighties to the nineties—indeed, into the new century. I was born in seventy-four, so can't remember much previous to that date or for some time 'after (Laughter), but I've lived under four sovereigns and great things have happened to New Zealand in my time ... a marvellous age to live in. One of our greatest milestones was when frozen meat was first sent overseas in 1882 and in the following year direct steam communication was made between here and the old Country. Then We got vote* for women in my time, though I don't take any credit for that, nor for the old Age Pensions Bill (Laughter), but I say hate off to the memory of King Dick Seddon. (Cheere.) There were tragedies too—the terrible eruption of Tarawera—and tragic earthquakes of later years—our losses in tha Boer War and the Great War—but all the while we were forging ahead. Oil lumps 11 °?£ ct ". g ?Y e w *y to ***■ ~ I remember the illuminations in the town to celebrate that- event, and now we've scrapped gaslight for electricity, and scrapped our old horse-trazns for electric ones, some of our trains, too, a far cry from pack horses and bullock teams. In the naughty nineties, as they call them, my wife and I were boy and girl. What fun we had, dances and the dear old sunbonnet picnics when the girls looked such darlings with nothing on their fages which Nature hadn t, given them, except perhaps a spot of powder on a fhiny nose. (Claps and cheers). "We had magic-lantern show* and a talking machine—the phonograph, and the moving pictures came in; such wonders, even if they did flicker and appear in a perpetual waterfall. Our dusty streets were macadamised, then laid down in woodblocks; big handsofhe buildings took the place of small shops and now— almost in a flash—the "new" century is almost half over and we have arrived at our Centennial—:loo years of progress from the day of the Maori and the untrodden bush down to to-day with our fine cities and prosperous farms, from the day of tha bullock team to the era of the motor car . . . the day of the windjammer to luxury . liners . . . marvellous progress . . . marvellous country ..." He suddenly sat down, too moved to say more. The young heralds sang "1920 to 1940," and Bob rose from the midst of a number of young people in modern sports, clothes. He had been chosen as their spokesman. - "I speak for modern youth and the things 'of to-day," he said. "We didn't know a time when there were no motor cars in this country, but we have seen- the aeroplane come in and develop into the marvel it is to-day ... we didn't know the backblocks when there was bullock transport . . . but we have been on pretty awful roads when we had chains on- the cars, and now we hum along on miles of concrete as smooth as paint. We remember the old gramo-

phones, of course, but we've all got tireless sets now . . . and the telephone is a matter of course . . . and the movi«-s axe now the talkies. We believe in spori and keeping fit and wearing natural clothing ... we believe in enjoyment, too—we're out for a good time—and in speed, too—wo pep it up all the time, but we haven J t let our intellects run to seed. Our universities are filled with young men and women slogging away at the professions . . . and i suppose" (Bob looked slightly selfconscious) "we think just as much of this darned little country as the other generations did . . . and now there's a war on we re—er—prepared to do what is—er— necessary about it without any hi-falutin' or banging of the big drum. I don't think ive any more to say except that we're all glad to be here at the end qf li't-tle old New Zealand's First Hundred Years, and glad she's made her century and carried her bat out." Bof> returned to his amid the laughter and ironical cheers of his contemporaries. Then came the Christmas feast ... . hams turkeys, plum-puddings, mince pies, all according to tradition. A vast Centennial 1 ie, cut open, yielded gay paper cape, tiny flags balloons and crackers, souvenirs for all the guests. What a sight to see the Colonels bald head adorned with a granny s bonnet and his gentle little wife with a red, white and blue tricorne ... an admiral's cocked hat set rakishly on Ironstone Jack's rusty but still thick locks looked more in keeping. Romantic Epilogue Last scene of all as a huge honev-coloured moon was rising out of the wave*. Colonel and Airs. Holt were preparing for bed Amanda, my love,'? said the Colonel sentimentally, taking her little cold mittened claw in his dry withered hand with its swollen veins. ."What * remarkable Christmas Day. Do you remember that Christmas Day forty—of wasjtfifty—jtears ago, when I drove the two bays for the first time— fine bit of horse flesh—a very smart turnout and you looking smart as paint in a bonnet with flowers under the brim, and a hew flounced poplin t" "Foulard, my dear," she shouted into hl « ear. "Bine, with white flowers. •Don't argue, my love—a bad habit," fmfc as she bent her grey head submissively he kissed the stringy little hand and added gently, "Foulard—perhaps it was . . . anyhow you were charming . . . and still are to me. "Well," said Mr. Burnett to his wife, another Christmas Day over. Do you remember, Mary, it was a Christmas Day I first proposed to you—a quarter of a century ago. Dear me. And you said— saucy baggage—you'd eaten too much goose and plum pudding to think about love?" "But that wasn't the last thin& I heard of it," murmured Mary demurely, and kissed his ear. ''Dad, you are an old dear." Bob and Millicent were strolling on the deserted sands, where the waves Were quickly and quietly obliterating every 1 mark left by the restless humans. "Gorgeous moon," said Millicent, "and a gorgeous Christmas." "Gorgeous girl," retorted Bob. "You know how it is with me, Mill—head over heels—l've no money, but I'm a whale for love. Well, what about it?" "And then what?" demanded Millicent, as she yielded her lips to his. "I'll' have Nancy for bridesmaid." "She'll probably be -cast for the role of, bride herself by then,". Bob, remarked. "Have you noticed Ricky? Fathoms deep." Ironstone Jack was wedged in between his two favourite rocks, turning his quid in his cheek, gazing at the tumbling wastes of silvered water and mumbling to himself as he often did. "And that was Christmas Day—sun goin' down as red as blood . . . and- she a little bit of a thing in a canoe with a red portocower flower stuck in her tumblin* black hair . . . and she says in her soft lingo . . . they was comin' to tattoo h'er lips in the mornin', 'count of her bein' high caste Maori, and she was to marry a chief's son. She had full soft lips like —like a big dark rose and she says, 'Me afraid ... me love you, Pakeha Jack . . . take me away for Jesuschris' sake. His mercy, on His birthday like the missionary say ..." And so I took her away . . . Ngahuia . . . little dark rose . . . sixty years ago."