THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LX, Issue 255, 28 October 1929, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.) LABOUR DAY. I take off my hat to the great, stalwart man Who shovels wet clay for his bread. Who wheels a big barrow or drives a chain harrow, Or works on a roof overhead. I raise my new bun to the big, husky cove With sinews like fine, tempered steel, Who grafts in a tunnel or paints a ship's funnel, He's my very own brother, I feel. I lift my old lid to the black hero who ' Stokes down in the bowels of a ship, Who sweats his dark face so the whole human race Shall never be short of a trip. My castor I shift to the muscular chap Who hews out the stubbornest coal, To my dear mate, old Bill, with the hammer and drill My blessings be on his good soul! My cady I doff to the son of the soil Who follows the piodding old plough, I do love the clamour of Harry's claw hammer (To masons I constantly bow). I raise my felt roof to the good working man Who slogs like a tireless old horse, But really the fact is, I don't want to practice, Excepting in theory, of course.

There is a pathetic bonhomie about dripping crowds who long to be happy on Labour Day. This year from early dawn policemen in groups and in A DAY OUT. macintoshes gathered un-

der verandahs, and flappers, anticipating summer, assumed rouge de rose, pOudre d'amour and various creations of georgette, crepe de chine and silkum stockings. J Here conies a young gentleman, his raincoat like a miniature creek, carrying a ukulele. Imagine a string of amateur ukuleleists jazzing under the oozing polmtukawa. Determined punters are easy victims to the aristocrats who cry "'Ere y'are for yer racecard!" and there is a look of don't-care-a-dash about mothers with children and picnic baskets who hope to sit in damp fern and eat damp sandwiches, returning to Suburbia after a perfect day. Of course, this is written in the morning, and you never know what the weather may do. Indeed, as M.A.T. pounds this out, the sun is shining fitfully, God bless it! You will gather from this that even on a joyous day like this some people have to work. If it should be your lot to sit on damp fern and eat damp sandwiches, remember them in their indoor misery.

Mr. Pickwick was not the only amateur who found an archaeological rarity. A friend with a singularly literary appearance mentions that at the opening of MAORI FIND, the Devonport Bowling Club it was stated that there had been unearthed thereabouts an ancient Maori relic —an inscribed oblate spheroid. Translated by the local tohunga, the symbols proved to be the following waiata:

Komate, Komate. Te bowler! His haka; Kin orate kitty, Te shining white marker, With feet on te mat I Haeremai skipper; He waveth his potae. He -svaggeth his flipper. He korero, "Ehoa, Taihoa! 'Arf a tick; Come forehand or backhand, You might get a wick." Aie! see te bowl rolling, Eight on to* te spot; Te skipper say, "Kapai, By korry. te shot!" Kai aha ! Koninte ! Te blokes hooray me; And all te wahines Bring afternoon tea.

Strange as it may seem, several gay parties of young men and ladies have already picnicked by the glad sea waves. A party one Avots of frolicked THE COLOUR LINE, gladly on a recent afternoon, boiling the billy beneath the umbrageous tree and sparkling in an animated manner. A young married man became the victim of a be'yy of beautiful lady relatives, who, finding' a cork oil the beach, carefully burnt it, and, seizing the victim, blackened his face. The young man, with the ; rest of the party, afterwards went for a swim in the sea, and the young man scrubbed his face vigorously in the salt water. He was under the impression that his complexion was perfect, and the party made no sign. During a long motor drive people looked curiously at an otherwise respectable youth who chose to parade as a sweep, and later friends who spoke to him wondered mildly if he had had a toucli of the sun. It was only when he looked in his mirror that he decided that salt water will not remove burnt cork. It he had looked up authorities on the subject he would have discovered that professional corner men use common beer as a face wash to xemove that Ethiopian complexion.

Dear M.A.T.,—Caii you tell me whether, in the course of your urban tours, you have ever met with the Chinese Embassy? I can trace it neither .by inRING NO. 000-000. quiry nor by reference to directories, and I ask because I have, when preoccupied, an unfortunate habit of dialling the wrong telephone number; and on several oceaeions I have found myself connected to the above-mentioned establishment. I may add that at various times I have found myself through to the Aloominum Carbonate Co., of New York, the Hot-Cross Bun Manufacturers' Union. Amalgamated Gumdiggers and Associated Cowboys, none of whose names appears in the telephone director}'. Can this be a chain of mystery associations who wish to keep their numbers from the light of day?— Gay Gilbert.

Three or four old soldiers gathered round Sco'ttie's gramophone the other night and in the interval of canned song and tinned tintina-

bulation spoke of the THE DOCUMENT, buried past, of Viniy Ridge and mud and duckboards and of 1917 generally. And he of the blue eyes said: "You know all about it; up to the pouches in slush, pounds of mud on your Masseys, Jerry giving the front line of his best and the rain sloshing down on that dismal bit of territory. And an official letter comes to me. It opens to me visions of bliss. Headquarters is possibly about to command me to climb out of the mud and come backpronto for a commission. Might be even a Military Medal or a V.C. My mates gathered round as I tore open the official envelope. Amidst the splutter of machine guns and the pip-pop of rifles and the low growl of Jerrv's big stuff I read: 'Borough of Takapuna. Dear Sir, —Please take notice that your section No. 08746, etc., must be cleared of gorse before the 16th inst. or proceedings will be taken under the Noxious Weeds Act.' 'What are you going to do, Bertie V asked a dirty corporal. 'Oh, I'm.willing to go home and clear it at once,' said I."

Dear M..A.T.,—When I read your column I often think I will write and' tell you of similar happenings down our street, but writing is such an awful fag—as YES, CERTAINLY! you know. The smart sayings of some children always amuse me. I started writing them in a book once, but I must tell you what I heard last week. My niece, Elsie, aged fourteen, is much admired by.Jack, aged sixteen, who lives opposite. He asked my sister if Elsie could go to the school concert with him. Her mother kindly refused with a good excuse. A fortnight later the Scouts were having their concert. Jack told Elsie he had two tickets and to ask her mother herself this time if she could go with him. Mother said she was going to the concert and Elsie could go with her, but that didn't suit Elsie. After a lot of useless persuasion Elsie said, "Well; mother, you don't want to shake off all my boys, you know." "Never mind, Elsie, there are just as good fish left in the sea as ever came out of it." "Yes, mother," said Elsie, "but they mightn't always take the bait!"—and poor Elsie went with mother. After that answer I think she deserved to go with Jack, don't you?—E.S. ,