COUNTRY PUB AND COUNTRY SHOW

New Zealand Listener, Volume 10, Issue 250, 6 April 1944, Page 8

COUNTRY PUB AND COUNTRY SHOW

AVE you ever tried to get into a country pub at 20 minutes to three on a Saturday morning? A much more difficult feat, believe me, than the same at 20 minutes to three on a Saturday afternoon. It was bright moonlight, but even so we didn’t discover till much later that the door we gave most attention to was labelled Private Entrance Only. We chose that door because all the others seemed to be gigantic advertisements, a hollow mockery, we had ‘no doubt, for various kinds of whisky. So W. danced hard on the heels of her riding boots and I knocked timidly, and then less timidly; but no one stirred; not even a dog. In the end, we walked in a

"You're late." That was the only comment. Late! Twenty minutes to three on a bright moonlight Saturday morning. Late! And we'd walked those horses over 25 miles of hills since a dusky seven o'clock on Friday evening, a long time ago. All right. Late. And glad of those demure white beds in a school dormitory of a room with windows got at from a step ladder. And late for breakfast (scrambled egg or mince on toast): and late down to the showgrounds. ... * * * "CHAKE a leg, you girls, we've still got these two horses to clean. Here, you také Joe and Pop down to the water and wash the paspalum off. Mind you make a job of Joe’s white sock. And don’t leave that brush lying around. I lose a couple of dandy brushes every time I come to a show. Now don’t stand there gawping. Haven’t you seen a horse before?" Then I remembered that it must be 10 years since I'd been to a country show. No wonder I was dazed at the sight of so many horses all at once. The rope ring with the tethers extraordinarily close together-yet I didn’t see a single kicking match-the patches of chaff eaten from the ground, the overalls, the brushes put carefully into the sugar bags, the saddles up-turned, the oilskins on the posts, the constant undercurrent of swearing’ over paspalum stickiness, the air of brittle excitement hanging over the ring as the man with the loudspeaker says it is now 10 to 10, and class 11 will be wanted in the judging ring at 10 o’clock sharp, we’ve got hundreds of horses to put through

to-day, and if you all want prizes, you'll have to make it snappy, thank GOUr ss as * * * ARE suitable for breeding military remounts, the schedule said. (There’s no charge for the schedule; but I saw one man pay 32/- for entrance fees for two ponies; and neither of those ponies won a red, a blue, or a yellow ribbon). So the mares suitable for breeding remounts went into the ring and the judge looked at them. I looked at them, too. They would, it didn’t matter what the judge decided, be the dams of the future farm hacks of the district; a few of them were stylish dames, visitors used to the hunting fields; but most of them came home yesterday on dusty roads with sheep from 10 or 15 miles away, or carted the cream down to the roadend, or stood with reins hanging waiting till the boss had finished fixing the well, or did a turn in the mower for the third cut off the lucerne, or jogged the four or five miles for the mail, for the bread, for the half-sheep from next door... . Most of them were fit-lookirg, but

without that satin polish you associate with horses hard fed and con-f stantly rugged. Good sturdy farm horses whose breeding you couldn’t discover if you tried for a month; but you won't find a farmer, who'll sell one-. the only way you'll

get one is by waiting four years till it’s a three-year-old. .... Ominous phrase: "suitable for breeding military remounts." So are they planning more wars and more wats, breeding new horses to work and die in those wars? If they must settle in for war ad infinitum, let them leave the horses out of it. * * . ONIES in the ring. That means very small girls and very small boys, a whole battalion of sticks and whips, and an occasional managing parent. A bad show, to have a managing parent along; if the little brute pitches you and you get on again and stay on, you probably ‘get the prize out of simple force of popularity; if the little brute tries to pitch you and doesn’t, you probably get

the prize and a round of applause as well; whereas with a managing parent along, the judge absolutely fails to see you, you might as well not be there, it’s no fun, the other kids jeer at you, the pony is as smug as a poodle

and the whole thing’s a washout. (Note: Managing Parents kindly stay out.) + Some judges have a funny idea that a pony is going along fine under its own steam. Just let him come on the outside of the ring and see the view. He will see (a) the battalion of sticks in (Continued on next page)

(Continued from previous page) fuil flailing force, (b) every right heel doing double time, helping out the sticks to keep the little brute going on someone else’s steam, and (c) a line of parents at the rail doing mouth-working, knee-bends, thigh-slapping, and various other exhausting exercises in the attempt to keep the little brutes going at the walk or trot or canter that happens to be required of them. The relaxation all round when the ribbon is tied on is terrific-only less terrific than the amount of good advice available free and unasked, to all judges in general and this one in particular,

J.