DOWN PETTICOAT LANE.

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 73, Issue 98, 28 April 1930, Page 3

DOWN PETTICOAT LANE.

A Charming custom. A little Wellington bride whose birth-place, like that of her bridegroom, was bonny Scotland, adopted a charming custom for her wedding. Her first name was the very pretty one of Heather —and beside the chair of every guest at her reception was placed a tiny spray of “lucky’’ white heather, which had travelled all the way from Scotland. The bouquets of bride and bridesmaids were of heather, and the bridal group wore gowns of white and pink—the colours of Scotland’s flower. The bridegroom wasn’t behind in racial patriotism—he made what many men would consider the last great sacrifice. In place of the usual uninteresting white affair, he wore a tartan tic in the colour of his clan.

From “Nutland.” Margot is a coward as regards Wanganui’s production of nuts. A few days ago, she wrote a plaintive paragraph enquiring why Wanganui shops didn’t make more of a feature of chestnuts —not the kind that politicians tell at dinner parties, but the cheering sort that you “pop” at winter fires. However, the ink was* no sooner dry on her pen, when a huge bag of nuts, with the pleasant title “Fom Nutland” arrived at her address. The fattest chestnuts Margot has ever had the honour to meet were included in the gathering, not to mention walnuts of w’hich any tree might be proud. Margot, having partaken of both, can only “take it all back” about the paucity of Wanganui’s nuts, and admit that “Nut-

land” is as fine a place for chestnuts as .any in New Zealand.

Rosemary. It has been the endeavour this year to “strike a note of brightness” in the Anzac Services. But the flowers brought by friends and relatives of “the boys” strike the same sweet note of memory, and this year they seemed lovelier than ever The poppies still keep the foremost place that they won on the fields of Flanders and the bronze laurel leaves, chosen for the ancient tradition of heroism and victory, were there to show that the modern age has lost nothing of its pride in soldierhood. Besides the enduring memorials of stones, perhaps the flowers are an even sweeter memorial—a living token to an ever-living memory. Enters the Waist. Alack! And well-a-day! for our nice, trim, unbroken, silhouettes! You may think the return of the waist is merely an eccentric dress designer’s bad idea of a joke—but in Wellington, even the wax models have them. There was one coy young thing, her blonde hair unbobbed who wore just the very same type of skirt that determined Edwardian spinsters have stuck to, with bulldog tenacity, for upwards of 30 years. And into the belt of this creation was tucked a white blouse which would certainly burst its buttons with indignation if asked to fit a “25” waist. The simper with which the wax model looked down at her tiny waist bespeaks more obsolete horrors—of manners as well as modes—its descent upon us in the near future.

Admiral Byrd’s Farewell. “There’s something about a sailor,” and very many New Zealanders were sorry to wave goodbye to Admiral Byrd, that splendid American who. is so well liked that all who meet him can’t help wishing he was a New Zealander. Admiral Byrd was one of those to pay a tribute at the Wellington cenotaph to the memory of our soldiers. Another nice American to whom wc also bid farewell with regret, is the Admiral’s mascot fox terrier, “Igloo,” who went everywhere, even to theatres, with his master, and was personally introduced to, and photographed in company with, Lady Bledisloe.