THE SPORT OF KINGS.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2646, 30 October 1909, Page 5

THE SPORT OF KINGS.

A DAY AT MAKARAKA. (ByTibH.) A green lawn alive with people. A ■ crowded grandstand decked with gay y dresses and a aver feminine hats. In •] the enclosure in front of the stewards’ • pavilion are little groups of men, most of whom have that unmistakable “cut” about them that proclaims them “some- i thing in the racing line.” To the left of the grandstand are the “books,” and hoarse voices bellow out the odds, while close at hand men crowd around the totalisator building. In this corner of the ground one seems apart from the genial holiday atmosphere that hovers about the grandstand. Some are hustling round the pencillers with businesslike eagerness, and the latter _ are shouting for all the world eke an itinerant fish-monger getting rid of his Saturday night stock. AJen and women are deliberating in twos and ,:{ 1 hrees. They have but one topic— What is going to win? But as one gets away from the betting end of the enclosure the aspect of the crowd is more like that of people at same fashionable garden party. The benches on the stand are half-filled with laughing women, who are idly waiting for the next race to happen. The men folk arc finishing their cigarettes, or have gone to execute commissions for themselves or their lady -friends, and while they hurry about in search of acquaintances or “information,” many of the ornamental sex are slowly strolling no and down the green. Have you ever noticed a racehorse in the glory of his perfect condition and finely muscled frame striding proudly round the paddock, and then turned to watch the well-dressed women on tlie lawn? It is surprising what a strong though indefinable resemblance there is between those pranc- > ing exquisites going to the startingpost and the smart ladies promenading before the grandstand. They have a < good deal in common after all. As the poetical Keats once remarked, “A thing of beauty is a joy for ever”-—or at least for as long as it lasts—both, horses and women know it. There were some smart frocks seen, at this week’s meeting. Oscar Wilde’s suggestion that a woman who wears mauve, is generally a woman with a nast, has probably scarcely ever been heard in this part of the world, and in anv case mauve seems to be a very fashionable color this season. And it is certainly very becoming on a good many women. One lady wore a very effective summer costume in this color, with a Princess jacket and shady brimmed hat. Another pretty dress was ox white lingerie, cut in the latest directoire style, and surmounted by a heliotrope hat trimmed with fur. Striped , materials were also worn by a fair number, and these as a rule look decidedly smart. Alushroom hats are supr posed to be very fashionable this season, but only a few were to be seen an Makaraka, the favorite style being a sort of modified "Merry Widow" shape. As the time to start- draws nearer; the crowd becomes more animated. Little cliques are getting up private sweeps on the'stand, and the book-' makers are iru the throes of a final . j rush. i . j Tlie horses are in line now—a quivering line that threatens to break like the lip of an overhanging wave. But when tlie critical moment- comes the -i attention of full half the people is directed elsewhere. The-** are talking together, laughing, and gossiping, and li some are hurrying to make a belated bet. : -'gi They’re off! ; A dozen voices within one’s range or hearing snap out the words, and are silent.” But even as they speak the face of the crowd has changed. With a low murmuring exclamation the chatter and laughter ceases as if by magic. A husli falls on the multitude, and a sense of tension grows out of the silence. “Uiolet and pink leads!” “Te Rakato’s close up!” “What’s that lying last?” Remarks like these can no more break this feeling of silence than as. odd wave or two can stir a stone sea- \ wall. But the pent-up waters of speech are gathering force, and as the field enters the straight, the flood breaks j loose. "Lady Rohina!” “Te Rakato!” Neck and neck they go, to the Tune of slapping whips and thudding hoofs. A finish like this must surely concentrate attention to a point beyond words! But still the roar goes on. “Lady Robina- wins!” “Te Rakato! Te Rakato!” There are tense faces on the grandstand now. Did one scan the eager tiers one would hardly recognise the careless triflers of a few moments back. But one has no time to watch one’s neighbors. A ding-dong struggle in. f the straight lends fire to the dullest -,j eye, and the laughing lips of women, j) grow thin and stern with the stress of the contest. Men are shouting madly. : Alen are standing silent. The strain is too great to last, and one gambler turns away just before the post is • J passed, affecting the indifference he would like to feel. “A dead heat!” “No, Te Rakato!” And as the gallant horses thunder past the post the roar of the crowd comes again with renewed force. Te Rakato it is. And as the numbers go up tho excitement dies v away in an anti-climax of mingled satisfaction and disappointment. But just as one of the keenest pleasures is in the sudden cessation of pain, so is the removal of suspense a source of welcome relief, and even the losers are glad when all is over.

And a- few minutes later, the face of the crowd is as before*— smiling and at ease. And so the changes come and go as on water rufiled by the breeze. And -when the last race is run, and the last dividend paid, it is the same careless crowd that rattles back to town, whether behind a spanking pair or in a railway truck. And the atmosphere of race day will not let even, the losers look glum. Besides, a good gambler never squeaks —at least, hardly evor. Great, indeed, is \ne Sport of Kings!