Our Village Exhibition

We refuse to be outdone by the British Industries Fair. True, there is only a handful of shops in our High Street, and their windows are as familiar to us as our own faces, but our shopkeepers are enterprising, and we are all | pleasantly thrilled when they announced a Great Trades Exhibition in the Market Hell. Anything that relieves the monotony of the daily shopping is an attraction, and with one accord the village housewives parked their prams in the market square, to the annoyance of our policeman, and, adjuring their offspring to behave and not touch, paid their twopences and went in.

Having assured the door-keeper that both my sons were under three, I passed us all in on one ticket, which was quite good for a beginning. My first impression was one of staggering noise. The rival wireless dealers had installed loudspeakers at either end of the hall, and both were in full blast, while in the centre a gramophone was being demonstrated- When I had recovered from the shock, I became conscious that a voice was murmuring: “Would you care to try this?" and that a cup of cocoa was being thrust into my hand. I savoured it with the air of a connoisseur while the stall holder expatiated on its merits. Both of us carefully preserving the illusion of a great exhibition, ignored the fact that this is the standard drink of my children and regularly - figures on my order. 

We passed on to the rival grocer who was offering one of those tempting packages of soap and biscuits, breakfast food and cleaning powder, all done up together for 1/-  the sort of thing I can never resist, even though I know most of it is free samples. We accepted from him a small helping of jelly, thinking it would go well with the cocoa. 

The hosier gave us the opportunity, which we grasped, of guessing the number of spots on an unusually appalling tie, with the glorious hope of winning 10/-, and we politely helped ourselves to chocolate offered by the confectioner. 

We spent a pleasant afternoon, though adding little to the profits of the exhibition. ‘The son and help carried home in great pride my one purchase - a jelly mould shaped like a rabbit. Alas, I had not allowed for the singleness of the infant mind. When we reached home, he tore off the paper and in breathless expectation demanded : “Now make it go!"