THE PARTY

Timaru Herald, Volume CXLIV, Issue 20966, 19 February 1938, Page 5

THE PARTY

By

JAMES J. MONTAGUE

I have had a profound respect for the late Herbert Spencer ever since I read in a piece of his that people who think children are all little angels don't know what they are talking about. The great philosopher, I am convinced, must, in some period of his life, have attended a children’s party. From the day when my grandchild made her debut in a kindergarten she began to look forward to the time when she might be invited to one of these affairs. She talked about them constantly. When left by herself she spread out napkins on the dining-

room table, deposited on them dabs of butter and bits of cheese, and insisted that the other members of the family partake of the good cheer which she had provided. Two or three times I suggested co her mother that her craving to broadcast hospitality might be indulged. “You certainly can spare a few biscuits and a pitcher of lemonade,*’ I said. “She can’t make her self sick on that kind of fare. Give the kid a break. She’ll only be young once. Why don’t you loosen up and give her a real party? Invite some of her little pals. If you’re thinking of the cost ”

“It isn’t the cost, and you know it. But if she gives a party all the other youngsters in her school will be giving them, and I will get in bad with other mothers for starting the custom. Wait till she is older. She’s only six, and her table manners are perfectly terrible. I’d be ashamed of her, snatching and grabbing the way she does if people could see her. And you know what cats some of these women in the neighbourhood are. And how they would talk.” “Never mind the other women, they’ve got their own children and they are the same kind as yours.” “But parties, if they are nice ones, are expensive. You just can’t give youngsters sandwiches and milk. There’ll have to be contests and things, and they run into money.” “I’ll take care of that. The decorations won’t bankrupt me. We’ll get some balloons for them to break and some confetti to throw at one another, and then we’ll just herd them into the living room. Then we can go on with our own affairs and drop them from our minds until it is time to go home. Come on, now, I’m getting a little excited already. Don’t be a kill-joy. You were a child once yourself. I can’t understand what has come over you.” “Well,” she said, “if you will be here to keep them from breaking the furniture and hire a plain clothes policeman to keep them from startin riot, I’ll consent.” < The extent of my aid as I remember it consisted of wandering vaguely around and listening to an uproar. Now and then I walked through the room, murmured, “There seems to be a lot of children here,” and walked out again. My wife and daughter appeared to unoccupied with hordes of shouting urchins. To my bewildered eyes there seemed to be no system or order. “Can’t you do anything?” I shouted. “We’re playing games,” my daughter shrieked at the top of her voice.

But it looked more like a demonstration by a mob. I retreated to my upstairs study and barred the door. This affair seemed to me to be something with which I could not cope, so I shamelessly fled the field.

I was not to enjoy my privacy for long. An imperative knocking at the door led me to open it cautiously. My daughter slid in. "The little friends are demanding prizes for every game,” she wailed "What shall we do?” "Tell them there aren’t any,” I snarled. "Oh, I can’t do that, or the whole party will be spoiled. And after I’ve gone to so much trouble. I just simply can’t face them. Haven’t you anything that you could use?” I turned out my pockets, which yielded a metal pencil, a fountain pen, and a knife. It was with difficulty that I saved my watch from her snatching fingers. "We can use the Jack Horner pie present from the little boy who has chicken pox and couldn’t come,” she said, “and after this we’ll just play •London Bridge is falling down. There can’t be any prizes for that.” “Isn’t it nearly time for food?” I inquired hopefully. “Not for twenty minutes, and that’s equivalent to a century in this situation.” I went down later to see the little darlings, at the table. Ruins of the Jack Horner pie strewed the board, paper caps were scattered on the floor and there was a scene of general devastation. I gathered from the observation of the young visitors that they did not approve of the sandwich fillings, while general discontent was voiced because the ice cream was not chocolate. Aside from these criticisms the conversation at the table consisted of parties attended in th? past where motion picture magicians were offered as entertainment for the guests. While these remarks were offered only as dinner table chat, I could not escape the conviction that there was a slight intimation that other entertainments provided in the past had been more enjoyable. “How did they like the prizes?” I whispered to my daughter. “Hush,” she said. “I’m not going to present them until the winners are outsid' the front door. Let ’em take them home and open them. If they’re disappointed it’s too late, that’s all.” The time of waiting for the last child to be gathered in seemed interminable. But it finally passed, and we saw the last guest handed over to its parent. “We’ve given our party,” I said, and if these little demons want another one, and expect us to provide it, it will ju~t be too bad, that’s all.” “Oh they will,” said my daughter. "That kind of children always do.” As the last visitor departed I remarked to the weary members of my family: “There may be occasions when parting is such sweet sorrow/ but this isn’t one of them.” (Copyright)