South of the Straits

Ladies' Mirror, Volume 5, Issue 5, 1 November 1926, Page 5

South of the Straits

The Rt. Rev. Campbell IVesl-tl atson, the new Bishop of Christchurch, comes from England, although his name betokens Scotch ancestry. He is the third Bishop to guide the destinies of the most truly English diocese in the Dominion. His personality has already icon a place for him in the affection of the Canterbury community. -1 frs. JVesf-lVafson. zchose portrait appears on page S. wife of the Bishop of Christchurch, brings to her new home a charm of manner, a ready tael, and a happy knack of always saying the right thing in the right place. Though an Englishwoman zvith a deep lore of the Motherland, she is quite at home in the Dominion.

TTWergreen as the suburbs of a j Christchurch City, the weather forms the chief topic of conversation in the South. The weather clerk, in humorous mood, has unloaded a few surprises upon long-suffering-citizens, and a vista of wind-swept, rain-washed streets is broken only by the gaiety of rainbow-tinted mackintoshes. Time was when the mackintosh was sober and utilitarian, but the prevailing frivolity of the day is echoed even in the garments designed to keep out the damp. Blue and red and pink dominate the streets. Even the plaid walks unashamed. "Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled” sally forth in patriotic tartan, with fashionable stumpy umbrellas in startling design. These arc peaceful days, but even after an interval of two hundred years the clan spirit dies hard, and we may yet witness the spectacle of Mrs. Jones, clad in the tartan of the Macdonald Clan, of Glencoe fame, meeting Mrs. Thompson, arrayed in Campbell tartan, and feeling suddenly constrained to stab her to the heart with her Macdonald-hued umbrella. But away with such fancies! The evolution of the mackintosh has provided a happy note in the dull streets on a wet day. A ml, talking about the weather, it is a sad heart that does not rejoice with the farmer this springtime. The rain may fall, and the snow may flurry, hut the crops will spring, and the little bees will buzz and provide us with honey, and all will be well with the world. Meanwhile, the sports bodies lament, and sandwiches prepared for opening ceremonies are salted with tears. In spite of the depressing daily weather bulletin“barometer falling, snow in high country, heavy rain general”— the schools —remembering that Waterloo was fought on the playing fields of Eton and that Wellington failed to gain the favour of the weather clerk and did his hit on a wet day—have boldly made their fixtures. That day of days in the school year—sports anniversary has come and gone for Christ’s College and High School. There is a cheerful similarity about these occasions, save that where grandmothers formerly came gracefully gowned with trailing skirts, they now wear them up to the knees. With this trifling change, the spectators might be witnessing the school sports of our pilgrim forefathers. Tommy still runs his hardest, fondly watched by admiring mothers, maiden aunts, and flapper sisters. Dad, with his air of boredom, adds weight to the assembly. r I 'he muddied oaf arrived at his goal a few days ago. Very muddied and very weary he was. and even his mother would have found it difficult to discern his features beneath the stratas of rich Canterbury soil. The annual Timaru-to-Christchurch road race is one of the cycling events of the year, and nonsporting weather usually greets the occasion with showers of rain or blustering nor'-wester. This year ‘ rain’s our choice," and the competitors wheeled up from the south through rivers of mud. A cheerful assembly of citizens gathered to greet them on the show grounds, but it was long before a figure, disguised as a gigantic mud-pic dug his way into the town. Cheers and a

hastily-contributed prize were the portion of a veteran of sixty summers who. on an old-fashioned bicycle. pushed his way with a stout heart in the rear of his younger competitors. Hope of his ultimate arrival had been abandoned, and a proposal for a memorial square were being mooted, when two eyes were seen shining in an encrusted heap at the door of the room where festivities were in progress. What acute perception sportsmen have! They recognised the hero, and with a joy-

ful shout bore down upon the undaunted pillar of Canterbury's earth and shouldered him to the place of the honoured guest. A nother uplift guest has been ■*- wafted our way. These angel visitors drop down on us at intervals. beautify our shores and enlighten our minds for a brief few weeks, then swarm up Jacob's ladder to their own heavens again. We are always grateful for their ideas —particularly if we have cultivated

our sense of humour. This particular shining one came to us from the land where coal is rationed and women given away overseas in batches c.i.f. and e. to any Dominion that will accept delivery. Samples of domestic workers, land girls, trained stenographers and teachers have for long been submitted for our consideration, but a new line cultured mothers’ helps for the backblocks —has recently been opened up, and good business is anticipated by the hopeful vendors. T n addressing the local Victoria -*• League this particular Empire commercial traveller emphasised the utilitarian as well as the ornamental value of her latest goods. The cultured mother's help, delivered as per sample at the home of the bush farmer, will, we are assured, rise above loneliness on the wings of her own culture. With intellectual resources and a mind well stored, her life will be full, even if the nearest eligible bachelor is fifty mles away and the papa road fallen to the foot of the precipice. Rising with the lark, she will, should circumstances and the bush mother demand it,, don gum boots and fare forth to see the "lowing kine,” who, instead of "winding slowly o’er the lea.’’ arc standing knee-deep in oozy mud. "A book of verse ... a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, anc thou’’ will supply the necessary rustic flavour for digging potatoes for dinner —even if “thou” is still unattainable. At "twilight and evening bell” the cultured one will again proceed to the cowshed, and a dip into "Paradise Lost" while the farmer and his wife discuss the price of bullocks will revive memories of days in far-away London. Yet, why all this talk of England's surplus women? Would it not be as well for the far-seeing Briton to export a few of his muddleheaded statesmen? Surplus, indeed, they are, hut they might eke out a useful living as share-milkers or “fathers’ helps” on the backblocks farms. A s men may rise on steppingstones of their dead selves to higher things, so a hospital may be raised on a foundation of gift cakes, plain sewing, vanishing teas, jazz parties, bridge evenings, and markets. An ephemeral assortment, my sisters, but a strong substratum of idealism ossifies these unsubstantial building materials. All honour to the orginator of the idea, who this month materialises his dream of a hospital from a mirage of the future into the comforting reality of a vice-regally-laid foundation stone. St. George's Hospital will he an Anglican Hospital, without Anglican prejudice, wherein we may be safely restored—either to this world or another. Wien we were very young"— more than a few moons past the thrill of a year lay in the birthday party, with its iced cake, its jam tart, and smiling mammas. Even a kindergarten may have its birthday now. and several of these charming little schools, where tiny tots up to the mature age of five are instructed in the arts of singing, paper work, and games, arc celebrating their yearly festivals. The Christchurch Free Kindcrgar-

ten Association, with very littl trumpet blare, supports five free kindergartens, and their unobtrusive work deserves more publicity than it receives. At the last birthday party the wee pupils, with great solemnity, watered flowers out of an empty watering can, danced as fairies, and romped as flowers. One small laddie, with a domestic instinct that boded well for his bride twenty years hence, refused to be torn from the washing tub, and the envied of all was the lady who worked the mangle. A dado of smiling mothers drank tea, and beamed upon the small performers. HPhat there may be “not a possible doubt, no possible, probable shadow of doubt” of reclining on plush-covered chairs, a serpent-like procession of plutocrats waited outside a music shop in the early grey hours of a Canterbury springtime morning. Like William Shakespeare, Gilbert and Sullivan have been elevated to a pinnacle of respectability, and many who never frequent the theatre on ordinary occasion, resurrect their fascinators and rejoice in the melody offered for their approval. Music in the morn is usually associated with the lark, but the waiting line raised up voice in harmonious reminiscences, and snatches of “Flowers that bloom in the spring,” and “Take a pair of sparkling eyes” floated out to delight the

ears of the early morning milkman, and the itinerant paper vendor. On the morrow a still longer trail will adorn the metal and chilly steps leading to that purgatory of the penurious—the gallery of the theatre. There is a murmur among our city authorities, and rumour of backs to be provided to the supremely uncomfortable benches of this same gallery; at present, tier upon tier, we wipe our collective feet on our neighbour’s coat tails. 'VXT'c have just passed through the '' trials of Health Week, and obeying the dictates of the authorities have opened wide our windows, and let in the air, which, owing to a drop in the thermometer is particularly fresh: we have crept into our airy hutches and eaten lettuces ; we have scooped up our back yard : and swatted the happy little spring fly. We have studied the subject in all its branches, and have familiarised ourselves with the preliminary symptoms of every known disease. W e know how to cure them all—and fortunately, too —since we have developed the preliminary symptoms of no less than five complaints, all with a fatal termination. We arc deeply aggrived ; we have not vet contracted nettle rash. Still, we have hopes—and now that Health Week is over, we shall have leisure to attend to our accumulated complaints. Next month we are to be Educated —mark the capital!— under the aegis of an Education Week Committee. Fearing the worst, we make our adieu while we may, in words of two syllables— Good-bve.