Sunday Night in Town

Evening Star, Issue 19329, 16 August 1926, Page 7

Sunday Night in Town

ONE PHASE PROMENADING PRINCES STREET WHERE LIFE IS YOUNG. From the campaniles and belfries the notes_ of the church bells come dancing lightly over the suburbs and city. Not to be awakened from its week-end slumber, tiie city hides itself under the darkness and behind the sporadic splashes of light. It is Sunday night, and the city must sleep on till the morrow, for it is decreed that there shall be no gaiety. “ What shall we do to-night?” asks Father of Mother as ho slices tho cream sponge—making ita Meekly appearance at the tea table. It is Sunday night, and that is the-proper question to ask on Sunday night. “What shall we do to-night?” They ask it at home; Romeo ’phones his Juliet to ask her; the lads discuss the question on their stroll through tho rhododendron dell in the afternoon. Only the regular churchgoers do not ask "it. _ ■ Dunedin is a dull city on Sunday night; after all, what city is bright then? None. For each has its decrees, and the edict is against gaiety Or the life that makes a city a city. No pictures, no theatres, no vaudeville, no cabarets. “Remember tho Sabbath day, to keep it holy . . . the seventh clay is the Sabbath of tho Lord thy God ” reads the Book ol* Books, and the text is followed in the decrees of the City Council. So Mother takes her Sunday costume from the wardrobe and Father unscrews the press holding his best trousers. Dolly is made pretty in her blue and pink frills and ribbons, and Little Willie is carefully placed inside his neatest suit and boots, polished like a coin straight from tho mint. The church bells arc ringing. They go to church. The young folk come to town, for there is nothing else to do. On summer nights they will go to St. Clair or St. Kilda to see tho Pacific crashing on tho sands and to stroll along_ the promenade and beach. On winter nights they must come to town, go to church, or stay at home. So thou"lands, come to town. At best, on a fine night, Princes and Seorgo streets are unlovely promenades an Sundays. Last night tho rain dripped down, making the streets their worst. Sealed by window blinds and

barred doors, Princes and George streets were lifeless. Blots of darkness under tbe black verandahs were pierced with the lights from other windows. Bnt life filed past. They were going to the band concert. Life drifted by.

They did not walk-; they idled along, drifting with others. They were going nowhere in particular; it was their Sunday night in town. A bevy of flappers passed the Stock Exchange. Being Sunday night it was the time for their hunting. and playing the old game of “ catching.” And four boys were ready to be “caught.” The quick glance and roll of eyes was the bait. The boys bit. “Are you going to ‘hook one?’” asked one. “ There should be some fun.”

“Too right” ilio others agreed. They disappeared, following the fisher girls. Lounging by the verandah posts and ostensibly discussing Southland’s showing against Otago, the “boys” were on the watch. Boys, they shall be, for, to the Sunday night flapper, all men are “hoys”; and to the men all flappers and women are “ girls.” Supported by the post, they took the march-past. Smart girls, dowdy girls, small girls, big girls, young girls, and old girls paraded by. The tall man with the cane raised his hat to a girl in a green coat and hat. “Do you know her, Ted?” Yes, Ted knew her. But Bill was told that she lived “over the Valley,” which settled that, as Bill was ‘‘Never on your life for that walk.” Those hoys were waiting., And the awaited arrived-y-qnite a bright little thing, sweet nineteen at a guess, showing two other girls how' to “do Princes street.” Bill winked; she winked hack. Bill moved away from the post, Ted followed; and the third, too, needed no invitation. “Great night, girls.” Bill introduced himself breezily, as he courteously lifted his hat, as a gentleman should do when meeting a young lady. Tho girls giggled. Miss Nineteen said “Yes,” and nudged tho girls by her

sides. “Taking a walk down the streets?” asked Bill. Again “Yes.” His mates gathered round. They talked. And the six went walking. Sunday night is the night for tho young folk who want life and yearn for the companionship of the other sex. On “ Glad-oyo Walk,” or Princes street, they find both. Many are the new friendships made on Sunday night; maybe they are only passing friendships, till tho last cars leave for the

suburbs. Others are more permanent, tho. boys say. They walk homp with the girls, and" “meets”—the promenaders’ term for future rencontres —are made.

“Catching” is an old game—or an art. Those engaging need couragesome will say audacity—to make a “hit.” The vernacijlar was heard in Princes street last night. Faint heart never Avon fair lady, and an untidy hoy is not* favorable to the modern flapper. Types were seen in scores. There were the five boys, just out of short trousers, strolling behind an equal force of girls. The boys’ comments were loud. “ What do yer think of it?” “Isn’t she nifty?” “Say, Sis, whatcher doing to-night?” “light Be nasty and don’t speak.” The girls would not speak. “ They’re no good,” the boys commented, and, nothing daunted, they turned and retraced their track on the hnnt for “ some nice girls.” • She was waiting by the Moray place Irani stop. He came along by himself Wid took a stand behind. He coughed and she coughed. He took two steps forward and she stood still, and coughed again. Ho moved level and she turned towards him. They spoke not orally, hut with eyes that circumnavigated their sockets. Ho raised his hat and she smiled. It was all over. Both had succeeded. Other “ boys ” stood in dark doordays, whistling fragments of Alford’s ‘ Colonel Bogey,’ ‘ Valencia,’ and when a pair of girls walked past one doorday ‘Chick, Chick, Chick’ was hummed. The misses twisted their ankles in a movement of the ‘ Charleston.’ The- walked on. Boys in dark doorways didn’t appeal to them, although the Jazz selection had appealed in a flash. If the boys had whispered “Chic” there might have been a different story to .tell. But the “glad-eyers” were not everybody. Some went to town _ last night, as on every otlipr,Sunday night, just for the fun of it. TJife was bright, though the rain was coming down in spasms. Watching the boys and girls was fun (always was), and the corners provided amusement to the boys. Pleading in crescendo voice which dropped to diminuendo and then surged upwards again in fervent rhetoric took a crowd of “ lads ” to one city corner. “ You stand there to-night and laugh.” The voice was soft. It increased in volume. “ But do you know where you will be next Sunday night? Do you know for a certainty that you will bo standing at this corner?” The demand was emphatic. The “lads” laughted.

The possessor of the voice faced them. “I have been jeered at, insulted, thrown out of public bars into which I have gone to preach the Gospel. But you have to face the true words.” His fervor amused the hoys out for fun.. Tho man of the voice pointed to a row of seven men. “ They are saved. One was saved throe years ago. Why not you? In the name of The Normanby car passed noisily. Sunday night in town was enjoyable, for all were looking for enjoyment—the flapper, the hoy, the man, the wife, and the husband. And Sunday night is tbo night when Dunedin and the rest of tho world goes to bed early. So tho observer left the man at the corner wooing the boys to be saved, and, ns Samuel Pepys would have it. “To home.”