THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXI, Issue 59, 11 March 1930, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.) OUR GUY. Father's chased down to the station, Undergone examination, To procure illumination . For our guy. Oh, why . It is sheer abomination. All this talk about cessation. We don't want the deprivation Of our guy. For why. P'licemen now make observation, And must make no reservation, While we plead for conservation Of our guy. Please, why. Kiddies love anticipation, Cannot now make application, Nor entreat with supplication For their guy. Oh, why ? Wiseheads met in cogitation. Said the cause of conflagration Was the fireworks congregation Round the guy. Oh, why? Shall we suffer usurpation, And the callous cancellation Of our rights? And confiscation Of our guy? Now, why? What's a guy without sensation? Crackers banging in rotation, As we dance in glad elation Round our guy? Oh, why? Rockets making agitation, As they rush to elevation, Or return to gravitation Near our guy. Oh, sigh! Whizbangs causing consternation, Catherine wheels a mild flirtation, While we shout in exaltation Round our guy ! Oh, my ! Oh, weep tears of sad vexation, Mingled with mad irritation ! No more shall be contemplation Of our guy! Oh, why ? —ELLA BASTEN. Apropos toys for men, leapfrog for bank managers, and marbles for city councillors, a friend has called to applaud M.A.T. for echoing the well-worn eentiBERTIE'S BOOK, ments that the child is father of the man, that we are but children of a larger growth, and that every grown person would love to have a whip top. He says that in a certain household the little lad had been given for a Christ-. mas present A. A. Milne's "When We Were Very Young." He had, before Christmas, intimated that this work would be welcome. Father Christmas duly left it on the chest of drawers in the little lad's bedroom. The little lad's father, passing by in the morning, scooped the book and greedily devoured it at breakfast time. He left it down on the piano. Auntieannexed it, buried herself in the old armchair and revelled. Auntie, called aAvay to the telephone, left the book lying in the armchair.Mother swooped on it and was later found 1 , immersed in it. The little lad gloomed in the. offing, hoping against hope that the grown, children would be called out. Late that evening the lad was discovered with it in a corner,, murmuring to himself that he was jolly glad! he was able at last to read his own book. Dear M.A.T.—The new race referred to bj "Chips" as springing up in the Far Northoord r New Zealand is by no means confined to thad; area. Oh, dear, no! Afc THRIFT. least one of the spechas lives in an Auckland suburb. A friend of mine has a neighbour, who recently invested in a Rolls-Ford. Then hi* and his family hit upon a plan to raise funcl/s to buy the price required for a tour. Thery decided to raffle the contents of their poulti.*y yard. My friend, not knowing the object foir which the money was required, and thinking friend neighbour had suddenly developed ,ia benevolent bump, took several tickets; so d»d many others. Then o.ne fine morning friend saw his neighbour, the wife of liss. bosom, and the olive brandies all decked ija their glad rags, with the Rolls-Ford purring with content at the front gate. When lie had the satisfaction of seeing friend neighbo*ir starting off on a tour that he and tie others had paid for—then did he tear lifts hair and rend his clothes, and cry aloud > 'Woe is me! For lam an ass!" —Fish and Chips. A bright little lad living near a populjvr beach has found that on mornings succeediaig moonlight nights the bottle crop is splendid. He reaped upwards of BOTTLE-OH. two dozen lemonade aWI other aerated water containers on a recent morning at sunrise. Romantic couples, it appears, vary the romance iby imbibing refreshment and discarding <jhe empties. Unlike the Arabs, they do not fold their tents and silently steal away. They protect themselves from the evening dews by placing newspapers on the ground and leaufmg them there. It is a pleasant thought tjiat Edward may have proposed to Angelina w£<i]e sitting on this column masticating a bun a nd drinking lemonade. A side issufe is the £requent discovery of bottles that have been fr.actured by careless lovers who have amuhed themselves by throwing rocks at them. [JClic present season, however, has been singularly free from foot wounds in barefooted children. No ono would care to interfere with the romiuitic pastime of sitting in the moonlight with a lady imbibing aerated waters and consumjing sandwiches, but the broken bottle isn't playiing the game. Besides, you can't sell a broken bottle. Ambassadors of commerce, eminent salesmen, and that relatively small body of geniuses who sell goods to you whether you want them or not, aie PERSUASION, only able to induce enthusiasm in a customer if the salesmen are in robust physical heallth. At a, meeting of salesmen the other day one of them told of a remarkable man, who, apt to speak, could sell anything. But there came a time of ill-luck and ill-health. Sales fell off, health fell off, customers fell off. The gjreat salesman, now an old man, said at last: *Pm fed up; I'll end-it. I'll make a hole in the harbour!" He mooned down to the wharf. A man saw him. "Poor old bloke!" said the man. "He needs cheering up. I'll go and ;talk to him." They sat down on the wharf aiid talked. The old salesman did all the talking. All his persuasive- eloquence returned to idin. He harangued the new-found friend as thati'di he were a customer. At the finish of the harangue both men dived into the harbour. A lady addicted to ink has called ivtxm M.A.T., saying: "Good morning! I draimt about you last night." M.A.T blushed glawily and modestly "It w&s a DREAM POEM, dreadful dream," she aid _ „ ... "I thought I had to write your column." "And did you?" asked M.A.T. "No," said she. "I was appalled. I thought I came to you and said, 'Whatever shall Bchov Whatever shall I do?"' "And what dtid i say?" asked M.A.T. "Oh, you said the aijpliabet A, B, C, D. But I could not make pnragraphs of that," said the lady. "E, F, G H " continued the scribe. "Oh, don't be' s'fTly! Tell me something to write about." "Write a poem on that," retorted the scribbler. "And eo, continued the lady, "I sat down and wrote a poem." Z, Y, X, and W, V, U, T, S, and R, Q, P, 0, N, M, and L, K, J, I, H, G, F, E, D, And C, B, A. And, regarding the poem closely, one -feels that worse have been written by people *fride awake. WHO TOLD YOU THAT? Tourist in the Thermal Region: And what do you live on here? Settler: Pigs. Tourist: Anything else? Settler: Tourists. 'J