THE MAYOR’S DAUGHTER.

South Canterbury Times, Issue 4981, 13 April 1889, Page 4

THE MAYOR’S DAUGHTER.

PART I. CHAPTER I. 1 Don’t talk, nonsense, Georgina ! I maintain that Puddleton is making itself utterly contemptible.’ Thus spake with considerable, though not unusual asperity, Mr Joshua Buddlecome, the worshipful mayor of Puddleton. Of course the reader has heard of Puddleton, The reader should have heard of Puddleton. Not to know Puddleton argues yourself, if not unknown, at all events ungrateful, for you owe a great deal to Puddleton. In the way of buttons. Buttons are the comparative trifles from which so mighty a result as Puddleton’s prosperit yhas sprung, and the personification ot that greatness was Puddleton’s Mayor, Mr Joshua Buddlecorabe. History repeats itself, and surely a Mayor who lives in history may do the same.

‘ Don’t talk nonsense, Georgina! I maintain that Puddleton is making itself utterly contemptible.’ As Mr Buddlecombe delivered this remark, he rose from his chair and stood on the hearthrug, which is to the domestic autocrat very much what the quar er deck is to the captain of a man-of-war.

‘ Notwithstanding all my efforts as Mayor of this town, notwithstanding indignation meetings convened by me, and protests, and petitions, and representations, Puddleton is made a military quarter ; and instead of resenting the injury, Puddleton dresses itself up in flags and determines upon giving a public welcome to these ‘ Crimean heroes,’ as it chooses to dub these red-coated, drumming and trumpeting individuals who have just been practising their legalised trade of whosesale murder on a pretty large scale,’

‘ Nonsense, Joshua, think of the glory,’ said Mrs Buddlecombe, waving a knitting needle with the air of a conquering heroine, ‘ Nonsense, Georgina ; think of the depression in the button trade ?’ rejoined Mr Buddlecome.

‘ How on earth can the war have effected the button trade ?’ said Mrs Buddlecombe. ‘I am sure I have not worn one button less since the declaration of hostilities, nor one button more since the conclusion of peace.’ ‘Georgina,’rejoined Mr Buddlecombe, loftily, ‘the state of the button-trade is not to be gauged bj the number of buttons, more or less, that you or any other people wear. If you cannot bring a little more intelligence to bear on the topic of burtons you had better leave it alone.

‘I am quite wilbng to leave it alone,’ retorted Mrs Buddlecotne, gradually warming to her words. ‘ And if you, Joshua, cannot bring a little more intelligence, as well as a little more tolerance, to bear on the military topic, you had better leave it alone.’ ‘ I shall not do anything of the sort,’ said Mr Buddlecombe. ‘lt. is my duty to denounce this festering sore on the face of civilisation wherever it crops up.’ ‘ Well, said Mrs Buddlecombe, ‘ I beg to state on my part, I am delighted to see that Puddleton takes a very different view of the matter. We should not be proud of our soldiers but we should be very grateful to them.’ ‘ Oh, do you know,’ said Mr Buddiecome, regarding his wife as if she had been a dose of the coldest-drawn castor oil, ‘ this turns one sick, positively sick. If the army were dressed like Quakers, and went about quietly when not engaged in slaughter, you would regard them with loathing. But simply because they bedizen themselves up in glaring colours, and bang a drum and blow their own trumpet, a large majority of your sex, and I blush to add, a foolish portion of mine, are taken in and think them great men. I could fancy savages impressed by a red rag and a tom-tom ;or chilren pleased with the too tooing of a trumpet. But civilised adults— Pshaw ! You place yourself, Georgina in the same intellectual category with children and savages, bear the voice of the charmer in the banging of a big drum, and your senses are aazzled with a red rag. Now, if you were only consistent in your childish and savage tastes, and derived ample amusement from a rattle, and thought a string of glass beads and a feather the height of personal adornment, I might find in the diminution of my current expenses some consolation for your fatuity. ‘ Eed, rag, indeed,’ exclaimed Mrs Buddlecombe. ‘I am sure the term is much more appropriate in your case, for the array is to you exactly what a red rag is to a bull. It drives you wild. Thank, you Joshua, for the hint. I shall call the army in future, your red rag.’ (To he Continued.)