“Aw! Look, Mum!”  Rushden’s pure English smote me.  “Wot’s that there?”  The lady who was addressed by the precocious youngster as “Mum” informed her inquisitive and diminutive progeny that “that there” was a “cascara” (segrada?), wishing to air her knowledge of cascades she had seen at the pictures.  Another lady called it the “Golden Dragoons.”

  I was one of an interested crowd watching the picturesque dragons surging past the waterfalls, the marvellous scenic production of Mr. Charles Thurston.

  This was a Feast that no one could resist.  Even the weather, that least trustworthy of irresponsible vagaries, had condescended to dole out a few hours of balmy sunshine to the balmy crowds.  So much so that the ladies – of youthful appearance – instead of appearing in dark greys and winter wraps “were suitably attired” in dazzling kaleidoscopic hues, so that one could almost have written a “hues hue?” about them.  The first one whose biographical sketch I would put into that book is the lady who, in trying the “jazz-doings,” had a “bridal fall and scraped-de-shins.”  The jazz thing, re-introduced from former days, caused infinite amusement to the hundreds who trusted their tender lives to its ups and downs, and provided unequalled entertainment to the thousands who, more cautious, preferred not to tempt the fates, but were satisfied to watch their friends looking like human fleas.  But, of course, everyone in turn ventures “tuppence” if they mean having a good time.  Resigning myself to accept the responsibility of any minor catastrophe of which it might please the fates to make me the helpless instrument, I paid two pennies and embarked on my stormy voyage.

  “Well, I’m-------,” I thought; “the darned thing won’t listen to reason!”  It’s about like riding a camel that is running an obstacle race, or a kangaroo of the

“Bucking Broncho”

style.  It waits for you to let go with your hands, then it maliciously tries to send you sprawling in an undignified heap in the track.  Painfully conscious that other trippers were not quite so ill-acquainted with the idiosyncrasies of this mechanical evil genius, and giving an agonised glance at the long and dangerous journey ahead, I tried to imitate the apparently more successful efforts of my fellow-passengers to combat the evil designs of the inhuman monster.  By clinging with teeth, hands, and feet, and watching my opportunity, I clung when they did, leaped when they leaped (no thanks to me), and eventually got round, only to find that my antics had given the crowd more than their money’s worth and they would have paid for me to go round again!

  The cycle round-abouts was like a whirlpool for drawing feasters.  The side-shows included a Tasmanian Devil that has to be seen to be believed – and you might not believe it even if you saw it!

  But to return to the dragons.  This central attraction was undoubtedly the supreme draw.  Newly-equipped, it is a wonderful spectacle, and it not surprising that H.R.H. Princess Victoria should have patronised it.  The magnificent organ, fully 20 feet across, played music that elders knew long years ago.  Some very modern selections were also given, including the waltz, that has spread through the country like a prairie fire – “Wyoming.”

  The other attractions at the Feast included the cokernut shies, kicking a football at small balloons, the big wheel, and plenty of stalls that promise something for nothing (and most break the promise).

  Well, although I am licensed to produce a certain amount of this froth----“not to be consumed on the premises” – I have just cut off the supply at some “pint” or other, and that point is here.