VANITY FAIR

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 72, Issue 199, 22 August 1929, Page 2

VANITY FAIR

"Chronicle” Office, Wanganui, August 22nd, 1929. There are some things, of course, that a fellow cant say. And one of them, in the very best circles, is, "Fine weather, don't you think?” or, conversely, "Rotten day.” Conversation about the weather is becoming strictly taboo, because said weather works on principles of sheer spite; you know how, if you take out a life insurance policy for a thousand pounds or so, you immediately get set in a stonewall innings, and live to such an enormous age that your wife and children die of sheer disgust? Well, it's like that with the weather. Button up the last inch of your gumboots, grasp your umbrella, and the sun will burst gaily forth, birds will start symphony orchestras in the branches, and so on. But remark on the comparative decency of the day, and it pours. Still, Margot does think that the Moonlight Picnic should go down to history, because there are some object lessons that history really oughtn't to miss. There was a bright and early little crescent moon, the sky was just that sort of blue that they paint on theatre scenery in "Chu Chin Chow” and suchlike exotic productions, and, moreover, just outside irie windows of the big house, there was a pear tree, all white with blossom. Everybody sniffed ecstatically and said "Spring is here,” and finally, somebody had the sheer brass-bound nerve to suggest that, Spring's coming having been authoritatively vouched for, the least We could do was io Welcome the lass. We should have a moonlight picnic. Margot was one of the more or less innocent victims. The little party sat out under the pear tree and quoted bits from Shakespeare and Ella Wheeler Wilcox about the comeliness of the moon, and an enthusiastic young woman did Greek dances, using a large bath-towel because nobody could find a gauze scarf. However, the effect was elaborate, as the picture people say, and so were the large and complicated colds which gradually began to blossom forth in the audience. When half a dozen influenza victims are gathered together, it's quite a quaint little game finding out whether you've a bass or a contralto sneeze. Of course, nobody gave in without a struggle. Margot herself did her utmost to look like one continual whirl of pleasure, but gave it up when she lost her hanky and nobody could spare another. Deceitful, that's what Nature is. More in anger than in sorrow, MARGOT.