Wairarapa Jottings.

Free Lance, Volume I, Issue 38, 23 March 1901, Page 16

Wairarapa Jottings.

ARTIST IRVINE scores again. Tins time, lucky man, ho was in touch with the Salvation Army, which was entirely correct. These energetic battlers for the regeneration of the lost— including, of course, pressmen and aritsts — being about to hold an up-to-date Harvest Home, commissioned the artist to paint a suitable scene for the stage of their hall. The man with the lightning brush had but three days to carry out the order and the result has been so satisfactory that the commander of the Army contemplates making a tour for the good of his cult, having; the 'Harvest scene for chiei attraction. • • * The picture describes a harvest scene ideally taken from some rich squatter's homestead in the Mackenzie country. Artist Irvine had better be careful. If he goes on at this rate, one of these days he will paint the town, and then the band, fresh from Wanganui glories, can nlav the classic strains of "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay." Given a decent brush, and a bucket of paint, w riter will back Artist Irvine to pamt more and better than any knight of the art since Noah of old, the father of the babes, Shem, Ham, and Japhcth, adorned the famous Ark, within and without, with pitch! • • • Gregg's system of shorthand has many exponents in Masterton. It is wonderful how many enthusiasts take up the "winged art'" — more wonderful still what a huge percentage of them never bring it within measureable distance of practical utility. However, a young lady of Masterton, to wit Miss J. M. Smithson, has proved an exception, by gaining a certificate in the light line. Her '-coach," if one may speak of a lad" as such, though assuredly never a slow one, Miss Richards, deserves considerable commendation, though her snecial powers are. too well known hereabouts to need a line from this writer. • • • While on the subject of "coaches" and " coaching," it may also be mentioned that friend Dolan wears a further feather in his cap. in the shape of Nelson Bunting. Now, that is not to be taken literally. Brought down to the substratum of hard and commonplace facts, this metaphoric allusion simply means that, Monsignior Dolan (accent on the last syllable, please) has successfully passed Mr. Bunting for the South Kensington examination in inorganic chemistry. • • • The cablehar has been coming it strong over that Queensland opal. Writer has a fairly intimate knowledge of opals, especially from Queensland, and he is not prepared to swallow this one for its alleged value— £so,ooo. Anyhow, it is not likely the donor of such a magnificent stone to the King would remain shrouded in anonymity! The highest art in lying is to enwrap the talle&t whoppers in an appearance of veracity. There is one man in Mastorton who has reached this stage. His name is — ah, now that's a conundrum for you to solve. • • ♦ Mr. Ernest Matthews, already wellknown in Masterton, and hereabouts, has come for a period to the town as representative of Jenkinson and Co., Ltd., the well-known cycle firm. The display the energetic Ernest has already got under way in Mr. Dixon's showroom, Queen-street, has attracted the attention of all who stride the iron, rubber-shod, conveyance of modern times. The firm could have no better little man to represent them. Mr. Matthews is affable, pushing, and, of course, ernest. However, lie will find his work before hrm, for the cycle men already here are not slow. Are you listening, George ? • • • Wellington must be a dreadful place l The raison d'etre of that remark is a story told writer by a recent lady visitor from the Wairarapa to the Empire City. It may be true, and, then again, it may not. With that preliminary observation, by way of relieving writer from responsibility, here it is. A masher of the most approved stamp introduced his fiancee, not to Ins mother, but to his mother's parlour, for a mild refresher. Tea was ordered, and introduced. The squire and host passingly called the lady's attention to a picture behind her seat. She rose to look at it, and, by means of a glass on the wall, a la Captain Marryatt, observed him slipping a powder into her cup. • • » Controlling her feelings with an effort, she resumed her seat, and took up the thread of small talk for a minute or two. She next objected to the cake, and asked him to order bread and butter. He left the room to do so, when the lady promptly exchanged cups. The gay Lothario drank his

tea, and waited developments. They came. He foil asleep. The young lady lued to the telephone, and rang up her brothers. When they arrived the masher was aroused from his forty winks to receive a thrashing. It made an impression all right. • • • Last week Masteiton, foi a few days, was inundated with crowds of knowing gentlemen with tight trousers, slap-up collars, a power of conveisation that embraced one topic, and that only and a general air of doing pietty well with a minimum amount of trouble. Who on earth were they, whence came they. and whither do they exit ? They, O curious youth are the gentlemen who are of the horse, horsey. All day they think, speak, and speculate horse, and, if their dreams bear no resemblance to night-mare, it must be because they eat not horse. If racing: be "the sport of kings," it is to be regretted tlie kings of sport me so few and far between, and that the game cannot be far removed from the spindle-shanked fraternity that has as much true regard for the noblest of all animals a& an orphan bandicoot on a burnt ridge has for the uplifting of humanity.