THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LX, Issue 2, 3 January 1929, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.)

THE SPORTSMAN'S PRAYER. The following is a copy of the "Sportsman's Prayer" which hangs in the Kings private room at Sandringham:— Teach me to observe the rules of the game. Teach me neither to cry for the moon, nor over spilt milk. , Help me to distinguish sentiment from sentimentality, cleaving to the one and despising the other. Help me neither to proffer nor receive cheap If I am called upon to suffer, let me be like a well-bred beaet, who goes his way and Buffers in silence. Teach me to win when I may; If I may not win, then, above all, I pray, make me a good loser 1

A lady reader sends some New Year thoughts:—This day I give up every old, useless and crystallising belief in order that I may mentally and ptaysiNEW YEAR cally lay ho'ld of newer RESOLUTIONS, and better things. I

empty out of my consciousness every old and useless belief. I give up bad habite and unholy practices. I give up every thought which would tend to be destructive in its action. I give up old things to make room for the new. I deny old and useless ideas that I may affirm youthful and efficient ones. I no longer think with the crowd or let the crowd think for me. I give myself a good mental and physical kouse* cleaning. I clear from consciousness and from subconsciousness every worn-out idea that has been retained therein.

There was a remarkable story in the "Star" a while ago showing how very expert in marksmanship American policemen are. They have to be, of COUP DE GRACE, course. New Zealand

police people do not have to be, thank goodness, but still—. The other day a Southern constable was called upon to slay a horse that had fallen. It is alleged he obtained a shotgun, fired, missed the horse and

peppered a bystander. With the second barrel he slew the horse. Don't blame the blu<», blame the system, and, if it is necessary, have pistol practice for policemen. Once there was a seriously wounded horse in a Taranaki town. The police were rung up. Would the constable bring his revolver ? The constable replied that he hadn't fired out of his revolver for sixteen years, and anyhow, he had no ammunition. Would they kindly hit the horse on the head with the back of an axe? They did! They had to. Luck stalks abroad in accident time. For instance, the Whangarei correspondent of the "Star" sends a message regarding a car which took to a mangrove flat. A HARD HEAD. It was Mr. Connie, a kilted piper, who seeme.l to have the luck, "as part of the car came to rest on his neck" It was mentioned that Mr. Comrie'e head was not pushed into the mud. What a thing is memory! Here are about four hundred army mule wagons parked with their black drivers. Every ( wagon has a dozen mules all tied to the disselbooms. The Kaffir drivers and other dark gentlemen sleep under their wagons. Ou this particular morning the whole outfit has the order to inspan and trek, and every dark schelm gets busy. Under the rear wheel of a forage wagon (loaded perhaps with three tons of feed) lies a large Zulu sleeping hard after smoking too much dacca. The driver is unaware of his pal's presence, so he inspans his twelve mules, sits on the box, cracks his whip, yells anathema, and is away. Somebody stops his team with oaths and objurgations. The offside wheels have passed over the Zulu's head, pushing it into the soft ground. The immensely powerful gentleman pulls his head out of the mud and burets into a sunny smile. Very few Scotsmen are as hard-headed ag a Zulu. "149" writes:—This January 1 brings back to memory days of long ago, and particularly of a sports gathering upwards of aquarter of a century old A PERFECT DAY. now. A cavalry brigade was camped in a fairly pleasant spot with Cole's Kop not so far away and looking nearer than that. French said we could have sports, and we did. We were just finishing off the remaining hogsheads of good old stand-up British beer that morning, sent by thoughtful Christians in the Old Country. Afrikanders, too, sent a few wagon loads of grapes to help the beer down, aivl everybody felt extremely athletic. French wouldn't let the ranks ride troop horses in races—just as well, as it turned out. The officers rode their chargers, and the men rode spare wagon mules, and, as all mules buck, the handicaps were severe. "Scottie" (long since dead) won the mule-riding contest, and stuck the brute while ho pigrooted through two tents. A New Zealand officer -won the officers , race. New Zealanders won the mile. the half-mile and the 150 yds foot races, and beat all hands at the tug-o'-war barring a kiltie team, who had drunk even more beer than the colonials. The whole army on the spot were having the time of their lives when a humorous Dutch gunner threw a Long Tom shell right on to the sports ground. Now, if that had happened at Ellerslie! As it happened, the sports broke up, the officers on blown horses got going, the mule riders exchanged their mounts for less abominable chargers, the army wiped beads of perspiration from its brow, and was on the move in record time; many, in fact, without the bits in their horses' mouths. It wag the end of a perfect day, and none of the New Zealand sports saw that same spot again for many weary months.

We litterateurs (loud applause) in a hundred newspapers and elsewhere prate to humanity of the things they ought to read, make lists of "the hunSOMETHING TO died best books." and READ. prescribe mental pa bill am for the underdog. We are fearfully surprised to find that the population is not highbrow in the least degree, and revels in the old melodramatic stuff immortalised in the old-time "Family Herald." Not only the horny-handed, but the highest-browed ones, revel in obvious melodrama and the good old blood and love stuff with a dash of sport. M.A.T. once asked a New Zealand judge what was his favourite book, and he immediate!v replied "Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street," and he admitted that he got a real mental rest by reading penny dreadfuls. You will never cure people of becoming lowbrowed in regard to literature, so you litterateurs ought to try and please people instead of scolding them. There was once a washerwoman (a real ding-donger to scrub), and she scrubbed for a highbrow who wouldn't touch a penny dreadful with a pole, and who had hundreds of uncut classics on his shelves. The washerwoman dusted out the highbrow's library one day, and read the titles scornfully. To the missus she afterwards said: "I'll give yer somethin' to read!" So she brought about a gross of what she called "Penny 'Orners," full of dukes, duchesses and love; servant girls who became countesses, and all the dear delights. When she did not liv.> in a whirl of soapsuds she lived in the splendid world within the covers of these pennv tales. It is worth making a world for such "t reader. Janet Read puts it rather well: ] .Tust an old "char" in a district train : Her clothes were rusty, her features plain But her faded eyes held a still, rapt look ' And her work-worn hands grasped a dog-eareil book. A cheap romance, with a silly plot? Perhaps it was, but it matters not ' Twae Heaven-inspired, if for a space It brought such joy to a tired old face