ST. PATRICK'S DAY AT PAEROA.

Observer, Volume XXVIII, Issue 28, 28 March 1908, Page 18

ST. PATRICK'S DAY AT PAEROA.

THE patron saint of Ohinemuri goldtields is without any doubt

St. Patrick. So March 17th sees all and sundry bedecked in their best, and the sheen of green everywhere. But it is on the Paeroa racecourse that the majority of the holiday-makers let themselves go, and it is there you will meet character in all shapes and

forms. First and foremost, early on the course, comes the president, Mr Coote. With a beaming pink face, framed in a shiny black topper, and mounted above an immacnlate frock coat, Mr Coote does credit, as a pioneer of Ohinemuri, to St. Patrick and

Paeroa. Hugh Poland, M.P., the Racing Club's secretary, beams with hospitality and business, and keeps a keen eye for stray votes, and a firm fist on complimentary tickets. The tickets

are extremely limited. Clerk of the Course Shaw lends elegance to the landscape. Both mounted . and on foot, his wasp-like back view is the. admiration of tbe fair sex.

Willie Niccol, one of the pioneers of the club, rakes his race card fore and aft to capture a winner, but softly smiles, capture or no capture. Willie is one of Paeroa's princes, and has no

need to worry. Chairman Nathan glowers at all and sundry from beneath his bushy brows, and keenly detects roguery wherever it lurks. What an excellent detective Paeroa Nathan would make ! The bees hum, the sun shines, and the

corks fly when George Crosby enters the course, with his bonny bunch of green, with an Irish harp embedded in its folds, and his token of membership hanging gaily from tbe lapel of his coat. Ob, yes, the Royal Mail is all right. George waves his ivory- headed stick across bis Bnowy waistcoat, and smiles through his ebony whiskers to

all and sundry. Paeroa's Council is represented by its whiskered member, whose flow of language would fit the intelligent member for a seat in the highest legislature of the land. One of Hughie Poland's strongest barrackers.

Rotokohu's laird is there, smiling and gay, with his flapping coat-tails and cheery brogue. There is a wealth of information about Ohinemuri's history stored away in his canny noddle, and he winks and blinks, for he knows he is the father ot one of Ohinemuri's most popular hostesses. Paeroa's

brewer extends his rotund chest on Pat's Day. McPherson is a Scotchman, and as a Scot he wishes to let the world see that there are other patron saints, but only one good

drinK — Paeroa beer. Billy Tregoweth, the coming multi-millionaire — when

the Comstock comes home to roost with a crop of pure gold bullion — takes the bait again and tries a bite at racehorse flesh. Billy has sworn off: every race meeting for twenty years, bat always comes up smiling. Mr Trego weth's one great object is to die 1 rich enough to leave a fund to establish a free billiard saloon, with champions for teachers, and Waihi Barry as manager. But Billy will never die, we hope, for many and many a year.

Little Harry Moore, an old Thames boy, who has anchored in Paeroa to dispense meat and drink and comfoits to wayßide travellers and all friends, looks fresher and younger than ever, and his beady black eyes shine and blink like stars that lead the thirsty one to life. Kopu is represented by

its lord aud master, Joe Williaas. What would Kopu be without the evergreen — or ever black and never grey — Joe Williams? Joe is the owner of racing stock, and is eagerly awaiting the blue riband, but lives for the sport of the game. Stop at his little wayside pub. at Kopu and listen to his stories, and if his whisky combined with his yarns do not take you to dreamland, then, indeed, you are doomed. All Waihi is there — nt any rate, all Waiheathens who patronize racing, from Mayor Gilmoar to " Shang." Spoiled from enjoying their own local races by a heavier wet than even the Waiheathens are used to, the Waihi train pours out its contributions, all making for the course, headed by Mrs Harry Meyer, with ber cab load of beautiful butterflies, turning the heads of the callow youth and hoary-headed sinner alike. All are ready for the fray and careless of the consequences. John Kelly, the burly boniface, looks ruddier than ever, chesting up his lump of green

with the best of them. Bert Power, the Secretary of the Waiki . Racing Club, not yet satisfied with his fill of racing from the preceding week, follows the game up with vigour. You will find him here, sketched in a bro wn Btndy. TiJki^g^.

of a brown study, Val, Brown ''knows far more of timber than horse flesh, but he cannot resist the temptation that chases so many sterling Dominionites. Failing to pick the winner with the naked eye, good old Val tries to peer into the future through his trusty

spectacles. Jim Wrigley, Waibi's wonder, and the representative of Waihi's Daily Telegraph, wonders through his wistful, wily, wicked windows why he always picks the horse that will not win. But, then, Jim is a great-hearted lad, and always divides his bad luck with bis bosom friends. And the ladies wonder why their press boy will not marry. Cunning Jim !

Proud as a peacock, Waihi's champion whip spreads his beauty before all, sailing gracefully across the velvety lawn, treating the fair ladies with a liberal supply of manly front. But it

i% when Harry Meyer, the champion Japanese wrestler and sturdy Boniface from Waihi, strikes the course, followed by his faithful "Little Billy," that all tongues wag. For they always wag when Harry is out on the loose, and it is always at Harry's expense. The hair will never grow on the back of his hands, for they are always moving through tweed for shouting powder. Harry had a lot of trouble with "Little Billy," whose stonethrowing nearly caused a riot, but, luckily, Mrs Harry .Meyer came to yyr light with 7 a:liberar lunch, and. made

things sweet again. Little O'Connor, the starter, claims the attention of many with his quiet, unassuming style. Mounted on his sturdy moke, he lookß every inch a starter.

The Maori ia a great holiday-seeker, and is very much in evidence. One Thames old gentleman, with a love for dumb animals, took his kuri out for an airing and a view of racing humanity, which the dog did not seem

to appreciate. A blushing wahine, clad in the latest fashion, blushed at the admiring male eyes her tout

ensemble attracted. Black Bob was there, as he is wherever there is a bookmaker or country race gathering. He knows a lot, does Bob, and that, perhaps, is why he is always found on the most expensive part of the race course. And so the tote bells ting-ting

as the well-favoured ringer does his ring-ring, and so the game goes merrily on until the moonlight- reminds the revellers that their patron Saint's holiday has vanished, and- stern duty ; - palls them baottp^hard^Wt. ;