Matrons' Ball

Ballad Of The

THE Matrons of Port Moresby recently enter tained the Spinsters and Bachelors of that town at a ball, the invitation to which was couched in the form of a graceful limerick: “The Matrons of Moresby aren’t done.

Like you all they are x-eady for fun,” etc.

It was merely the invitation, not the ball itseli, which inspired the following lines. Since they were written some time in advance of the even', it goes without saying that the three characters and the brief rencontre in which they become Involved are all imaginary.

THE Matrons of Moresby declare they aren’t done; Like ourselves, they are ready and anxious for fun.

A bold declaration, howe’er you construe it.

To which we could answer that most of us knew it.

Yet hark to a story, both simple and moving, (As if such a statement required any proving) Of one, the most daring, I’m sure you will think.

Who approached, stood upon, and looked ovet, the brink. * * * Survey the scene, a spacious hall Fitly bedecked for a Matron’s ball; The guests, a starched and jewelled crowd.

Mid saxophonic music loud In giddy couples by the score Gyrate upon the powdered floor. * * * Hark you amid this festive rout.

Superb and fairly standing out, A bachelor tall and debonair.

With faultless tie and shining hair.

His roving eye hath yon descried A matron by her husband’s side Whose aspect seems so dutiful That all must deem it beautiful.

And yet th’ expectant smile that plays Lightly o’er her lips betrays A disposition to be naughty. (Her age is, gently speaking, forty.) In short, she hath the look of one Who’s really out for an evening’s fun. * * * His glance, of magnetism full.

Like Cupid’s shaft now scores a bull; And hers, from under curving lashes.

The dazzling signal quickily flashes.

Straight then he goes, respectful bows Before the lady and her spouse.

And as they dance off cheek to cheek.

We hear the wretched villian speak. * * * “Come, reverend dame and faithful wife.

Tonight you’ve got the chance of life.

Forget your rightful lord and master.

And, while the fun grows fast and faster.

Leave him sitting in his place And yield for once to a new embrace.” * * * Behold him now, her sovereign lord.

Alone and silent, greatly bored.

At first he’s grumpy; then he’s drowsy; Now he votes the whole show lousy.

While, then, they dance in gay rotation We’ll keep him under observation.

No dancer he, absurd and frisky!

Methinks his mind is on his xvhisky.

He’d gladly leave this glorious hub Of Moresby fashion for the pub.

But hist! Observe his breathing deep.

His drooping eyelids! He’s asleep. * * * And now the guileful bachelor Edges his partner to the door.

And, feigning sympathy the while.

Bespeaks her with a crooked smile: “Pray, madam, don’t you find this tiring?

And, look, I see you are perspiring!

Your brow serene is sparkling set With bright globicula of sweat.

Perchance, with noise and heat opprest.

You’d welcome just a moment’s rest.”

When she with eye responsive winks, “The bird is mine!” he surely thinks.

So out they slip, the guilty pair.

Ostensibly to take the air. ♦ * * Ten minutes pass. They now return.

His look is sheepish; hers is stern.

One glance she gives him that might scorch

His shirt-front as they near the porch; Then onward sails and leaves him standing Discomforted upon the landing.

Briefly before the mirror bevelled She re-arrays her hair dishevelled; And now with proud and haughty stare Doth on the dancing bach’lors glare; Sweeps by them with majestic carriage Seeking her partner true in marriage.

And when she finds him, widely yawning (Blame him not—’tis two in the morning!) Hear in her voice repentent virtue, “What, dear old boy, did I desert you?”

And hear him answer, curt and surly, “I though that we were going early!”

“But just one dance,” she fondly cries, “With you, my dear;” and, see! her eyes With unshed tears are slightly wet.

Tears of chagrin, relief, regret. * * ♦ Anon they dance. Ah, what a flop!

Poor Matron, can this awkward hop Compare with that inspired skill Which lately gave you such a thrill ?

This antiquated circus-ride.

Thy spouse’s own, what is’t beside The steps of nineteen thirty seven That swirl a Matron up to Heaven?

Yet art thou pleased. Thine errant charms.

Now safe in matrimonial arms.

Have made their small experiment.

Gone quite as far as they had meant. * * * But has she really learnt her lesson.

Or when perhaps she puts her dress on For such another festive night Will she essay a longer flight?

And what of you, bad bachelor.

Standing gloomy by the door.

For cigarettes your fingers fumbling.

Curses round your midriff rumbling?

We know, oft-disappointed swain.

That you at least will try again.

Argus.

Mrs. W. Ramsay McNicoll, wife of the Administrator of New Guinea, arrived by the Neptura on September 2 to spend some time in Sydney.

Mr. A. A. Ragg, A" slant Director of Public Works in Fi‘ returned to Suva in September by *e Niagara, after leave spent in I ngland.

Mrs. B. Harper, who works her own gold claim on the Atob River, Wewak, arrived in Sydney from New Guinea on a holiday by the September Montoro. Her property is five days’ walk from the coast, and she has a labour line of 22 “boys.” Mrs. Harper first went to the Mandated Territory in 1920.