PICNICS.

Southern Cross, Volume 2, Issue 36, 1 December 1894, Page 11

PICNICS.

Christmas is drawing near, and with thoughts of it come visions of sundry relics of barbarism in the shape of picnics, to which we will go in all the glory of our war-paint — clean muslin gowns, shady hats, wellfilled baskets and angelic tempers. Of the return we will say little, but we all know what it is like —dirty, not to say torn, dresses ; hats all awry, empty baskets, and tempers well, the less said about them the better. Because everybody else goes to picnics w-e must of course go too, for as well be out of the world as out of the fashion ; so we arrange for a party to go to the Bluff, Ocean Beach, Mokotua, “ The Retreat,” or some other rural nook we know of. On the sup position that the day fixed upon will be fine, we frizzle in a hot kitchen for days beforehand “ getting ready for the picnic.” The chances are that our cakes are heavy and our ham raw, because we want to show off before

some girl whose sponge-cake is light and jelly stiff. However, these are minor evils, and the eventful day dawns with skies “as blue as Aaron’s priestly robe appeared to Aaron when he took it off to die,” and we set off, gathering reinforcements on the way, till, arrived on the scene, we look like a little army. The boys of the party are despatched to look for wood, the information being duly imparted to them that as they are far from being ornamental, they had better make themselves useful ; these hindrances being got rid of for a short time, the girls proceed to unpack,; and such an unpacking ! Sixteen cakes and no bread, plenty of ham and chicken, but everybody depending upon somebody who has “ common” cutlery bringing the needful knives and forks, such articles are of course missing. The same with spoons. Everybody has an abundance of salt, but it is in Invercargill, and so fails to benefit us. But here come the lords of creation with the material for a fire, and the “billy” is soon boiling—not Mclvor’s patent, but a large one resembling a bucket, which has been in many a campaign.

The tea made, we sit down to enjoy the cup that cheers. Our tea we stir with a stick, because we prefer it that way; while the gentlemen’s knives are at a ransom, Eyerybody assures everybody else “ that they don’t care for salt ; indeed never take it,’ and we are all happy. All these are the troubles of the “ unattached,” but sorrow betides the woman who, with half a dozen olive branches, essays a picnic excursion. Up late at night mending stockings and ironing sunbonnets, she has hardly time to turn in bed when a subdued yell arouses her, and she uncloses one eye, to find the regiment wanting to know if it isn’t time for the picnic—this at four o’clock in the morning. This is the tribulation of preparation, but it is nothing in comparison to the trouble which follows when the battle begins and small boys adorn barbed wire fences with portions of their summer suits, and little girls get half drowned in the tea cauldron. However, the longest day comes to an end ; but it is an exasperated mother that turns her steps homeward, tired out, and with the cheering reflection that she has six cross, and ragged children to put to bed before she can sit down and say—- “ Well, I’ll never go to another picnic,” and neither she does—till the next time. E. B. S.