RANDOM SHOTS

Auckland Star, Volume LX, Issue 52, 2 March 1929, Page 2 (Supplement)

RANDOM SHOTS

"2MMDED?

The news that Jack Dempsey sidestepped a bullet will deepen regret that lie did not go to the war. A most useful man "over the top." "I feel that in the long run the people of Auckland will be satisfied with the tramways and the Transport Board oystem," says a Southern visitor. The trouble is that so often it is a long run. Mr. Henry Ford does not believe in golf, which lie thinks causes a great deal of heart trouble in men. Henry must over-estimate the number of Scotsmen who lose their ball. The teller of the tale of the eel in the Waikato River that towed a canoe for miles deserves well of his country. We want a really good fish story now that Pelorus Jack has gone. It is notoriously difficult to explain cricket to a foreigner, but if Auckland, which has been beaten by Wellington, is awarded the Plunket Shield over Wellington, which hasn't been beaten, it will be impossible. If this is to be the ruling, it may pay Auckland to lose to its rival. "Of course we could have beaten the | blighters, but we were compelled to think of the Shield." With a solicitude for which motorists should be grateful the Wairarapa A.A. has put up a sign on the windy Rimutakas, "Motorists, Beware of Wind." But what is the motorist supposed to do when approaching a bad place? Does he get out and walk into the open to see if he can stand up against the wind? If he is blown into the gully, presumably the rest of the party goes back. And is he expected to carry an anchor to throw out when he finds the car lifting? That immortal Auckland school girl who a few years ago defined a farmer as a man who sells farms is threatened with the loss of her first place in class, for a Waikato schoolboy is credited with saying that "When ruin stares the farmer in the face he stares back and buys a motor ear." I suspect that schoolboy of shaving every morning and possibly paying income tax, but he deserves the thanks of the community for his words. The New Zealand farmer is a resolute soul. He believes in the exposition of tactics attributed to Foch—"My right is thrown back; my left is wavering; my centre is pierced; therefore I attack." We're an indomitable people— even though it is often with other people's money.

Titles have always fascinated me, and lam not alone in this respect. That true poet and great scholar, Mr. Gilbert Murray, says that when he was a boy in Australia he read about the Marquis of Lorne (who married the Queen's daughter, and of whom a Highlander of the clan said she must be a proud woman the day, for her child was marrying the McCallum More), and was moved to tears by the beauty of tie name. It is beautiful, but 1 would rather be the Mackintosh of Mackintosh or the O'Ccmor Don than any marquis or belted earl. Then there are Eastern titles—the Gaekwar of Baroda, and that potentate of the old" song, Abdul-the-Bul-Bui-Ameer. I found a new one in the Afghanistan news last week. Stranded British aviators have been hospitably treated by the Naquit of Charbagh. Who is the Naquit of Charbagh? Where does he live? Is he. as his name suggests, a descendant of an Irish adventurer? I won't be happy till I know. But of all Eastern titles the most fascinating is that of the ruler of Swat. The Ahkoond of Swat lie is called—gentlemen, what a name! Years ago an English poet was so moved by it that he wrote a poem on it:— For the Ahkoond I mourn. Who wouldn't? He strove to disregard the message stern. But he ahkoodn't. Bead, dead, dead, (Sorrow Swats) Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled. Swats whom he hath often led Onward, to a gory bed, Or to victory, As the case might be, Sorrow Swats ! Tears shed. Shed tears like water. Your great Ahkoond is dead! That Swats the matter! Sorry I cannot oblige with a poem on the Naquit of Charbagh.

THE MAKING OF MEN. " Man is compounded of various chemicals —fat enough for seven bars of soap, iron enough for one medium-sized nail, sugar enough to fill a shaker, lime enough to whitewash a chickencoop, phosphorus sufficient to make 2200 match heads, magnesium enough for one dose of salts, potash enough to explode a toy cannon, and sulphur enough to rid one dog of fleas. Even at post-war prices, one could buy all the ingredients for . r >/." —Dr. J. S. Elliott, at the B.M.A. Conference. What makes a rnati ? The recipe Is just as simple as can be. You take a sample of your pals, And analyse for chemicals. Ingredients in all of us Are iron, lime, and phosphorus. With sugar, potash, sulphur—ll'in ! A sprinkle of maznesium. Mix, stir, and boil, and add tlie fat. And you can say, " Well, that is that! " That may be so. We'll let it pass. But v.-hat about a " face of brass," " A gimlet eye." " a leathern lung," "An iron hand," "a furry tongue"? No chemistry I've ever known Could prove what makes "a heart of stone," And naught. I've ever heard or read Can say what's in " a wooden head." I leave these thoughts to those who can Explain the mysteries of man. I wish whoe'er it is invents The balance of Ingredients Would sometimes readjust !he scales To soften people " hard as nails," And add some lime to those who blush. Because they nec 1 the whitewash brush : 'Tis strange, despite what's in their hide, Why some demand insecticide. And stranger still when those who "batch" Expiode when they have " made a match." One point of view appeals to me — That is. it's pure democracy ; Kor science says—it isn't " blah " — All men are equal in the "lab." It does not measure money-belts, It knows too well that "sugar" melts. The humble tramp, the toffy swell. Are worth as much ns Zanrel. The fact is—and it's not too nice— A dollar is the market price. But. worse and worse—when some nice girl 1 Smiles on me, and her teeth of pearl. Her sapphire eyes and ruby lips Upset th»ae scientific tips. I ask you. could a man be cold When damask cheek and hair of gold Upset his heart and wreck his parse, And start a poet writing verse? Avaunt, ye ghouls ! Cut out that dope That mentions " seven bars of soap V —E.A.