South of the Straits

Ladies' Mirror, Volume V, Issue 6, 1 December 1926, Page 8

South of the Straits

Jt was ever thus. The wayward son is nearest the parents’ hearts, and a certain pride underlies the recital of the previous doings of Bad Brother Ben. It was the prodigal son who was clasped to his father’s bosom, and regaled upon stuffed veal. The little Avon moves innocently between its circumscribed banks, but it is the naughty Waimak (note the affectionate abbreviation that is the pride of Canterbury's heart. Full of the ebullience of youth, and of water, it brooks no control, and in search of high adventure explores the surrounding country, to the great inconvenience of the settlers. Lately it has set its heart on a trip through the Cathedral City, and only the vigilance of the River Trust has prevented it from dropping in to call. In its playful exuberance it has flooded far and wide, and washed away wheat and drowned the potato supply. But prodigal sons were ever thus—bless their hearts! pup Week has come and gone once again, and our hardearned savings have disappeared into the capacious maw of the totalisator. Perhaps our sympathetic nature inspires us to select the poor little neglected horses. Still, there was consolation in our race frock, so discreet with its sleeves and its collar. Last year these ad-

juncts were missing, and this season the material has been removed from the hems of our skirts to allow for them. No mountaineer walks lighter than we. “Dresses on the Lawn,” say the papers, and describe the frocking with enthusiasm. Presumably, the proletariat, outside the sacred enclosure, attends the function very lightly garbed. q Vegetables and frocks have both gone up for the races. In November our local market gardeners hope to extract an honest penny

/ oj two cmuifcn. from the hungry hordes who descend upon us in Carnival Week—to be fleeced or to fleece. And talking of fleeces, brings us to the Agricultural and Pastoral Association’s Show, the greatest event of its kind in New Zealand. The Annual Show is as much a part of Christchurch as the far-famed ’Nor’wcster, and dates from the day when the concourse consisted of five pioneers and a pig. This year, though the unjust may have drawn the deluge that descended from rolling, thunderous clouds, the just dripped just as freely. Protesting cattle paraded through slush, led by a Pipe Band

that blew bubbles, and little dogs yapped vainly for Noah and an ark. q working for others, why shouldn't we seize a little snick of pleasure for ourselves? A deep and pure motive can underlay the evolutions of the Charleston, and deserving causes will be none the worse because we have jazzed merrily for the augmenting of their funds. Race week gaieties were not without their meed of thought for others, and two orphanages— St. George’s Hospital, and the Lady Truby King Fellowship— the worthy objects round which we made our philanthropic gyrations. Much thought and some generous impulse, had gone towards the fashioning of the. Spanish cabaret only the toreador and the bullfight were needed to give it the final realistic touch. At the Truby King dance, roses, donated by a Plunket enthusiast, subtly suggested the scent of the Fuller’s Earth, beloved in the nursery. «I r J , he Lady Truby King Fellowship is Canterbury’s own particular child. Trillv, the rest of the Dominion has taken our little nursling to its heart, but wc cannot forget that the idea was born and cradled in our

own home town. As the star of St. George’s Hospital sets in mortar, and days loom dark without a prop on which to hang our terpsichorean philanthropy, the thought of the £2,000 to be provided for the establishment of the Fellowship gleams comfortingly ahead. We shall dance, cook, eat and stitch that Fellowship into being. q X ime was when Mary and Josephine tripped it modestly in flowered muslin. Nowadays the muslin has been dispensed with, and a few flowers remain to lend decorative effect to the performers in the modern dance solo. The season of dance recitals is upon us, and though Grandmother’s eyebrows would have become entangled in her hair at the vision presented by the younger generation, we lap it up in admiration. No more for us the good old-fashioned high kick that removed father’s top hat. We express chiefly an abstract idea or an impulse with the poetry of movement. “Spinach at Eventide” may portray the great green living world drifting into a sunset of young ladies veiled in hectic tulle and melody. The modern child, to hold its prestige, must learn to dance. I* or they, while their companions slept, were kicking upwards in the night.” q “p or the want of a nail the horseshoe was lost, lor the want of a horseshoe .... and so on, till a kingdom fell. For the want of •i comma our Mayor lost his beauty sleep, and travelled down to Dunedin to rout out a troublesome little matter of punctuation, or to demand pistols and coffee for two. So much may depend on a mere comma ! W ith a desire for grammatical accuracy, which is surely praiseworthy, a certain religious body sat two hours deliberating on a comma. Our local Pooh Bah, who combines ably the church and civics, laid this to their charge. They were hurt, and said so. Hence the midnight joy ride! q “T° a man of many parts nothing comes amiss, whether it is a sermon or a good-bye kiss. Our Mayor preaches Sundays, and between whiles farewells blushing beauties. Who wouldn't hold high office? No wonder an optimistic note colours his speeches. A successful candidate in a beauty competition, leaving on a triumphal trip, was favoured with a chaste Mayoral osculation. We are tempted to hope that the habit is confirmed; it would add a light Continental touch to those _ erstwhile heavy functions—receptions of royalties, farewells of football teams, and speeches to touring generals. A bygone Duchess of Gordon kissed a whole regiment into being. What may not our Mayor, by assiduous practice, achieve ? q parking Lizzie with due solicitude, we recently ambled to the Olympia Motor Show. Elizabeth loves to talk of her cousin Rolls Joyce, and her uncle Willys Knight, but we notice they never toot their horns to Lizzie in the street. The

Show was held in the King Edward Barracks, a building which in its day Has welcomed the Prince of Wales, and which, with spiritual impartiality, may next week “get religion” in its creaky timbers and rheumaticy joints through the medium of Gipsy Smith. Some noble cars were displayed in the Olympia, ranging from the aristocrat of the road to the strong, virile sons of the soil, the motor lorries.' he display closed with a concerted effort of motor horns. Was it not Chesterton who declared that his last earthy words would be an appeal for “More noise! More noise!” ? Even he would have been satisfied to go heavenwards on such a blast. n clergyman, with up-to-date views, flung a verbal cracker into the deliberations of a blackcoated assembly of assorted sectarian opinions the other day. "To dig, or not to dig,” that was the question. He himself grubbed out the humble potato on the Sabbath morn, and found his sermon improved by the exercise. His exhortation, as disturbing as a double peppermint in a box of milk chocolate, was not received with favour by the pastors of the Council of Christian Congregations. One woman sponsored him, but good Presbyterian voices were raised in solemn protest. Not on horticultural Sabbaths were the good cld Covenanters raised. q X ,K boating season has opened lo the splash of oars, and the stirring up of river weeds in the little Avon. A procession of decolated boats meandered down the stream, and youthful boaters blacked their laces and fell in and mu of the water, to the huge joy °1 the assembled small fry of the neighbourhood. Boating was one of the first sports in which our pilgrim fathers excelled, and the opening day dates back into the dim past. Ladies with bustles once stood where their descendants with abbreviated skirts take their stand but only the clothes have changed. ”1 he old pioneer could tell of many previous gatherings. By the way, the reminiscences in a local paper is some times rather embarrassing. W e do not care to hear of the butcher s shop I remember at the corner of Smith’s Street." when our grandfathers dissected the dripping joints. And it is so awkward to sec mention of the “little grocery store round the corner,” when auntie weighed out the flour. q A coloratura soprano, Miss Gladys Lorimer, has opened like a rose in our midst. We hardly suspected the hud, and find the blossom. T hat is the Continental way with singers. A pupil of Signor Xotariello, Miss Lorimer appeared for the first time at the Theatre Royal the other evening. The programme was operatic and ambitious—Melba herself raved before our protruding eyes in “Lucia de Laminermoor.” A future’ is predicted for the singer. Come to think of it, we all have futures; where and how we will spend them is another matter.

Qrin and Bear It W llcn a . toutli is fiercely jumping-, when your head is throbbing, bumping, when lumbago, p raps, has got you in its hold, it doesn’t 'nakn you cheerful, it s apt to make you tearful, to hear a friend exclaim in accents hold, "Grin and bear it, that's the best." And he says it with such zest! Grin and bear it! Silly duffer, if only lie might suffer, you'd like to see him put to such a test. . AH the same, we must confess it, "Grin and hear it" does express it, be it toothache or a sorrow or hard blow. For the trouble has no healing, except by our sure feeling that the verv nastv moment soon will go. So it's really good advice, though it may not sound quite nice, '' i n, its_ sympathy were seeking from a friend. Grin and bear it, pal o mine, clouds will roll away in time, each night-time brings the morrow and to sorrow there’s an end.