South of the Straits

Ladies' Mirror, Volume V, Issue 2, 2 August 1926, Page 5

South of the Straits

Oomewhere in the world a baby laughed, and from the broken pieces of his mirth fairies were born. So Sir James Barrie has it, and we would fain believe it true. No fairies, but 'flu germs, were the outcome of the first sneeze that reechoed over the universe, shattering its calm. An airy will-o'-the-wisp is the 'flu germ, capricious in her visitations, deserting us for a while, then when we are rejoicing in our freedom, sweeping down with a cough and a groan, and eyes that wee]) for us in sympathy. She is indeed the perfect guest, who Answered by return of post The invitation of her host. In her capacity as hostess. Christchurch is now entertaining the 'tin germ, and has prepared for her the guest chamber, mixed lemon drinks for her delectation, upheld her with gruel, and dosed her with quinine. Meanwhile, the city welters in one huge sneeze. (J till, the worst is over, and the best k ~'is yet to come. The shortest day has run past with a sparkle of diamonds on the grass, and our own particular little six-minute murky night, that lingers always between the plains and the harbour, is losing its terrors. Sixty years ago the Lyttelton tunnel was considered something of a miracle by our pilgrim fathers; today, the miracle is that so long we have endured its smoky horror. We are a long-suffering people, slow to anger, and equally slow in catching the eye of northern Premiers. Vet at last our own little hole in the hill has succeeded in imprinting itself upon the retina of the "man who gets things done." He travelled through it when he came to tell tis how much we needed him. Now we enjoy the

reward of our virtuously cast votes. Our first electric passenger car is running between the port and the pains, while the old puffing, choughing steam engine, conscious of the writing on the wall, glowers in advance of goods trucks.

A story of a dear old Dean, be- ■£*■ lovedi n Christchurch, and a land boom in the country across the 'fasman: They took him for a land shark, but the kindly old man was equal to the occasion. "Gentlemen." he said, "1 am merely an agent for the Better band." There are those among us who recognise that the agents for the Better Land give an

uplift to any assembly, even to such gladiatorial contests as football matches. A discussion has recently arisen in the City of the Mains, among the gentlemen on the various athletic boards, who wish to give the clergymen an opportunity of vicari-

ous pugnacity before an eternity of twanging on harps. Some members objected on the plea that, as free passes were not issued for the next world, the agents should not be provided with complimentary tickets for the good things of this. We heatthat other cities find it expedient to add tone to athletic displays by encouraging the presence of pastors and preachers. We still charge!

Opeaking of gladiatorial contests, we have just witnessed the historic event of the scholastic year: the Christ's College—High School football match. Nearly three decades have passed since this fixture was first instituted, and fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, uncles, cousins, and maiden aunts still turn out in force, seeing in every muddy member of the team an All Black in embryo. Yards of ribbon flutter above the flapper's heart, which is torn by the sight of the Captain, dishevelled and splendid, leading his men on to victory—or defeat. Old boys swell the ranks and the roar, and a dignified sixty, without the aid of monkey glands, slips back to the ecstasy of fourteen. College lads averaged a stone and a-half heavier than the High School boys, hut victory went to the lighter team. It was a race against time, and well might the High School coach, standing watch in hand, pray like another famous general, on a well-fought held, for "night or Blucher." JV you know how much the coun--1 J try is paying for scent?" No, hut the Women's Section of the Canterbury Industrial Association can tell you. They are on the warpath in the interests of New Zealand trade, and the story of our iniquities is loud in the city, the suburbs, and the outlying districts. We brush our hair with English and American brushes. when patriotic New Zealand bristles will produce the same lustre. We wash our faces with overseas soap when we could keep "that schoolgirl complexion" at a cheaper rate, with cosmetics of New Zealand manufacture. We wear English and American slims, when our corns could he as comfortably housed in the local

product; and we eat imported pork and beans when our own little toheroas lie in their sandy bed yearning for our gustatory appreciation. Our New Zealand women will change all this. Born in New Zealand, educated in New Zealand, dressed in New Zealand goods, fed in New Zealand, buried in New Zealand trappings—what a patriotic and truly fitting end for every Solomon Grundy.

Imagination fails before the picture of the Utopia the. Industrial Association presents. London has her British Model Mouse —New Zealand has led the way in votes for women, Kaiapoi rugs, the Plunket Society, and railway deficicnces : why should she not evolve her own exclusive models? Why these Tutankhamen embroideries? Let us have our own borderings of typical New Zealand tikis, with their characteristic green apple expression. A fig for the osprey, when a toe toe plume will lie as gracefully on the brim of a 'picture bat. Away with those silken shawls, when a blanket, simply draped, is in keeping with the history of the land. And why the perishable powder and paint, when a dainty pattern of scrolls, guaranteed to resist the ravages of time, can be engraved on every charming New Zealand countenance ?

S peaking of pigs —1 wish to marry Dinah!" And speaking of modes brings a vision of the bob and the shingle. Rumour hath it that the managers of the various large shops in our city have issued a decree that the sheep must no longer be shorn; that the silken tresses, dear to Pavlova's heart, must again shine on the heads of the lassies behind the counters. Should this be so, three months hence Christchurch will be supplied with a long-felt want. We have no Zoo, but imitation is the smeerest form of flattery, and we may even hope to attract some tourists by our unique collection. In spite of discouraging results, and the front row of the orchestral stalls, men are still obsessed with the morning shave idea, and the impression that hair grows in a night. Tresses long treasured in a bottom drawer will see the light of day. regardless of the fact that they now differ in colour from the parent stock. But there is an interim that nothing, not even a switch, can bridge. The suggestion has awakened resentment on the part of the sheep, and hasty denial from the shepherds, but where there is smoke there is usually lire somewhere, and the next few months should produce something interesting in the abodes of calico and ribbons.

was no doubt an asJ tute young lady, and though history docs not relate her answer, the modern maiden would probably have returned a very decided negative to the pressing invitation to .S'/7 on a cushion, and sew a fine scam. Sewing line seams was the work of the old days, and doubtless the swain, had he been honest, and less poetic, would have put it more plainly : Sit on a hard-backed chair. . hid put a (/asset in my shirt. Curleylocks, of those days, was. without doubt, a diligent young wo-

man, and examples of her work, fine and exquisite, were on view at a recent exhibition held at the Women’s Glut). Yet had our grandmothers no backbones that rows of mammoth linen buttons did not incommode their slumbers ? Hours of patient work had been put into yards of crochet lace; weary eyes had been strained over embroidery; and Satan would have been hard put to it to find mischief tor hands so worthily and well employed. In marked contrasts were the arts and crafts of the present day. No sitting on a cushion, and sewing a fine seam for the present miss! Mother docs it more quickly on the Singer. Slap, dash, and colour, and a result, pleasing, sometime blatant, and always effective.

Trancing is in full swing now, and ■*—' we are all jig-jogging merrily. The season of staff dances is upon us, and once more the manager, the office boy, the typiste, and the sweeper-out meet in the fraternising bonds of the jazz and the one-step. To-day our local soap factory employees trip it lightly on a well greased floor ; to-morrow, the financial giants of our hanks gather in the self-same hall. Even our Government officers unbend, and, cutting the red tape of officialdom, go gay, with determination and good intent. Lofty or low, there are a few general distinguishing characteristics—the committee, in evening garb, and a worried expression ; the manager, benevolently condescending, and en-

deavouring to mix on pleasantly condescending terms with the man whom he may bereave of a billet on the morrow; and the pleasant interest taken by the whole staff in the question of "who's your lady friend?" A h, 'tis a merry life we lead! In ■L *• order that we may purchase our yard of print or our jumper of Shetland wool in peace and without preliminary expense, the draper will refund our 'bus or tram fare to the city. Sale-time bargains are to be seen on the counters, and the lame, the halt, and the blind, in the shape of articles that have lingered overlong in their own home shop, are given an airing, and marked at fancifully reduced prices to trap the unwary. Perchance the Maoris, who at present are in Christchurch, presenting their claim to a share of the odd hundreds of thousands recently granted to them for a transaction concerning- land carried out some half a century ago, may liven things a little in the haberdashery line. But not for us the jumper, the ensemble suit, the coat of unique design! We have been bitten by a 'Hue germ, and are on our way to seek the consolations of quinine and Cone. Every day, in every way, we arc growing worser and worser.