While The Kettle Boils

New Zealand Listener, Volume 4, Issue 84, 31 January 1941, Page 43

While The Kettle Boils

Dear Friends, The highlight for some of us the other week was the Trentham races. For weeks beforehand race frocks had been carefully chosen, and the season’s latest hats’ were on gay parade, The result was all that could be desired. Trentham’s picturesque racecourse fluttered and glowed to the accompaniment of smartly frocked women. Simplicity was the keynote. Smart tailleurs, tailored silk frocks and matching accessories, Hats, with truly feminine instinct, refused to be standardised. They were of all sizes and descriptions, from tiny boaters to wide- brimmed picture hats, and the éffect was charming. To help things along, Trentham outdid itself with a typical summer’s day; blue sky, warm sunshine-and, let us whisper it softly, no wind, The peak of the racing programme, of. course, was the Wellington Cup. Not for several years has such a high-class field gone out to contest the golden cup. On paper the proposition looked hopeless. Every horse in the race had a winning chance, but the quickly changing figures of the totalisator soon sorted out the favourites. That grand stayer, Old Bill, had a faithful following, but it looked as though the sensational new discovery, Kindergarten, had things all his own way; and so it proved. In a thrilling race Kindergarten drew away from the field down the straight and won effortlessly, The victory was a popular one, and the champion trotted back to the enclosure amidst the enthusiastic plaudits of the crowd. There was one amusing little incident immediately following the race. Kindergarten was led round, admired and photographed, then interest focused on the presentation of the cup to the winner’s owner. Kindergarten, temporarily overshadowed, stood on the outskirts of the group. Then, with a bored air, he turned away and started to nibble the green. He was the hero of the hour--~and he didn’t know it. What did a gold cup of £3,000 matter-against a nice juicy patch of grass? Funny things, human beings, who clap and cheer and make funny noises over a few minutes frolic round the course. Such a fuss about nothing. Horse lovers had their fill at the Trentham Meeting. I know nothing about the finer points of racehorses, but I love the fine, well-bred look of them, their slender, high-stepping legs, their shining satin coats, and if I can find it — the "winning " look in their eyes. Believe it or not, I have unearthed more than one winner that way. There are numerous women, of course, who study form and bet accordingly, but there are many others who resort to all sorts of amusing tricks in order to pick a winner. Some are guided by lucky numbers or colours. Some are attracted by names. Next to me sat a woman who, armed with a formidable looking hat pin, was trying to pierce her race book. The pin went through the sketch of the finishing post on the back of the book, and each horse inside that bore the pin mark-also carried her 10/-. I wished her luck. I felt she needed it. On the question of horse lovers, did you know that Winston Churchill is an enthusiast? Here is his advice to parents | :

-tmore particularly parents who can afford to benefit by his advice: "Don’t give your son money, give him horses, No one ever came to grief-ex-cept honourable grief-through riding, No hour of life is lost that is spent in the saddle. Your men have often been ruined through owning horses, or through backing them, but never through riding

them, unless of course they break into a gallop, which, taken at a gallop, is a very good death to die." Yours cordially,

Cynthia