THE MAYOR’S DAUGHTER.

South Canterbury Times, Issue 4984, 17 April 1889, Page 4

THE MAYOR’S DAUGHTER.

LITERATURE

PARI I. * Well, they’ll soon pass,’ replied Mi Bolitho, without the slightest attempl at abating his voice. * I was up at the station and saw the brave fellows arrive 5 and I’ve had a delightlul morning. I’ve cheered until 1 thought 3 had swallowed a nutmeg-grater ; and I’ve shaken their hands until I thought my arm was going to drop out of its socket. Capital fun ; first-rate fun !” ‘ I should like to shake hands with the whole regiment, from the colonel down to the smallest drummer.’ ‘ Mrs Buddlecome,’ said old Joe Bolitho, seizing bcth her hands, while Mr Buddlecombe’s paper rustled Ominously, * my dear Mrs Buddlecome, that sent! - mentdoes you honour. It is a sentiment which should fill the hearts of all the countrywomen of those men who have braved death by battle and pestilence in a noble and complete vindication of their country’s honour. The memory of their deeds should be vividly in our minds this day. How well I remember the graphic descriptions of the glorious fighting _ which appeared in our papers from time to time, and stirred the heart of old England to its very core. Something of this sort ; ‘ The Guards are hotly engaged ; the shots fly like hail ; the shell scream through the air ; the rattle ot musketry is incessant; but not a man wavers, except to fall, badly hit.’ Bravo. Well done. ‘ Up, Guards, and at ’em.’ Here old Joe Bolitho burst forth once more into a few notes of the ‘ British Grenadiers,’ after which he continued, with unbated zeal, «The rifles are on the right, hard pressed; they are in danger of being cut off, and are fighting against fearful odds.’ Well done Rifle Brigade. “ I am ninety-five, I am ninety-five, But to keep single I’ll contrive.” ‘ That’s the quick-march of the Rifle Brigade, Mrs Buddiecombe ; to which as the old 95th, they marched so often in the Peninsula to death and glory,’ said Mr Bolitho, who then resumed, with increased fire, * Bring up the guns ! Up they come : spendidly led.’ Ah, “ They’re the boys as minds no noise, Is the Eoyal Artilleree.” 1 Don’t mind a noise, eh ?’ said Mr Buddlecorabe, with a forced calmness. ‘Bolitho should join that corps. He’d be popularin it I dare say.’ ‘ The guns are in danger, ’ roared old Bolitho, quite unconscious in his excitement ot Mr Buddlecombe’s running commentary, and also becoming a little ‘ mixed ’ in his declamation. “ Highlanders to the rescue ! Scots wba hae wi’ Willie brew’d a peck o maut.’ Glorious, Glorious. Hoop-la! Bother it : I mean Hoot mon, ‘ A cheer run alongs the line : and on come the splendid fellows to the soul-stiring sounds of their bag-pipes,’ ‘Highland Laddie. Highland Laddie.” And here old Bolitho actually vented his enthusiasm by an imitation of the bagpipes. The effect on Mr Buddlecombe was fearful. He sprang to his feet, dashed his newspaper down lor the third time, strode up to Bolitho, planted himself in front of that worthy and poured, forth with the rush of a torrent, ‘Bolitho, Ro-litho, we were boys together 5 we knuckled down tight together ; we flew the garter together ; we fought together; we have grown np together ; we have grown grey together. But I must draw the line _somewhere. And I draw it at imitatatioos of the infernal national music of Scotland. That’s a thing which no one could stand who had’ut beeen weaned on Gleniivat.’ ‘ Ha, ha, ha,’ laughed Mr Bolitho. ‘You were brought up by hand, I should think, on a nice mild little mixture of cayenne-pepper, petroleum, and gun-cotton.’ ‘ What are 3 7 0 u to do with such a rhinoceros-hided old buffoon?’ said Mr Buddiecombe, turning on his heel with an air of the deepest disgust. ‘ Well, well, we shan’t quarrel about it, Buddie, my boy,’ said Mr Bolitho, soothingly ; ‘ you say we fought together as young boys. Well we won’t as old ones. But ior the life ot me, I can’t recollect this particular fight.’ ‘ Oh yes we had though Bolitho,’ ■ said Mr Buddlecorabe, as if he had not the slightest intention of allowing his laurels to be snatched from him. * Oh yes we had, and I whopped you. That was the term we used in those days—whopped. I mayn’t go about strutting and blowing trumpets and heating drums, and waving flags as your heroes do ; but nevertheless I whopped you Bolitho.’ ‘ Very well, so be it,’ said old Bolitho, laughing. History repeats itself, and I give in again. It always pleases him,’ added the hearty old fellow aside, ‘ I think he must have dreamed if.’ ‘Hush ! listen,’said Florence, gently, ‘ I think I hear the band.’ ‘ I don’t hear anything/ said Mrs Buddiecombe. ‘ Neither do I,’ said old Bolitho. ‘ Yes, I do hear it/ said Florence, getting as pale as a lily, and holding up a finger. Then Mr Buddiecombe, and Mrs Bolitho each held up a finger and stood intently listening, while Mr Buddiecombe glared over the top of his paper parapet at them with savage contempt. Florence was right. Love may be blind, but it can bear uncommonly well. Faintly, but unmistakably, the strains of a military band playing a quick march, mingled with tbs hoarse sound of distant cheering, fell on their ears.’ ‘ Yes there they are just/eaving the station/ said old Bolitho, excitedly, * We shall only just have time to get down to the lodge, and settle ourselves comfortably before they pass.’ Come along Mrs Buddiecombe, Come along Florry.’ And before Flocry had time to

answer or offer any resistance, her eccentric godfather snatched up the huge bouquet with one hand, seized her round the waist with the other, and ran her through the French window.

For the fourth time was the newspaper dashed to the floor, and Mr Buddiecombe rushed to the window. ‘ Florence. Come back, miss/ he shouted. ‘lf you so much as dare to look 0, she’s gone. She is clean off with that detonating old dotard/ And here Mr Buddlecome re-entered the room in a towering passion, and confronted his wife on her way to the open window. ‘ Joshua/ said Mrs Buddiecombe, ‘ you betray a deplorable want of tact and knowledge ot human nature. If you are anxious to predispose your daughter favourably towards these young officers, if, in plain language, you want her to fall overhead and ears in love with the first one she sees, you are, by abusing them, going exactly the right way to work. I speak from experience. I’m sure I never felt so much inclined to marry you as when my sainted and prophetic mother, —prophetic, Joshua, I use the term advisedly —as when my prophetic mother said she was quite convinced ycu would turn out a perfect brute.’ Having poured this raking broadside into her consort, Mrs Buddiecombe swept majestically from the room, and, as shestepped on to the verandah,looked over her shoulder, with a beaming s nile, and sweetly warbled : “ Oh, isn’t he a darling, The brave soldier-boy.’ ’ For several moments the worshipful Mayor of Puddleton stood in the centre of the room completely dumb-foundered.

{To he Continued. )