THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXI, Issue 65, 18 March 1930, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.)

Dear M.A.T.—You doubt tie P* 1 ' ! of the officers as depicted in "Journey s End having access so easily to then: tot. of ° whisky. Allow me, as MEDICAL one Mason's fraternity, COMFORTS, an officers' mess cook, to say that it was part of my nightly duty in France to carry the officers' rations from the dump to wherever company headquarters were. Said rations always included bottles of whisky, port, orbrandym their straw jackets, toted up m the old sand :fj ® i supplied by the mess sergeant. It was the rank and file who did their job with only the stimulus of a sp^ oll^ l of „ although I have known a bottle of the supplies to meet with an accident en route. The Batman. You've all heard the story about the dear old Auckland gentleman who had never been to Northcote. Solid fact, he'd never been to Northcote. He knew LonSEEING THE don, Paris, Vienna and WORLD. Berlin, and the Near East was like an open book to him. He had lived in America, soldiered in Africa, and traded in China and Japan. But he had never been to Northcote M.A.T. heard a new "travel story" of this kind the other day. There is 'a well-known character at Okoroire, who has lived there all his life. He confessed that he Had never visited Auckland ""What, never been to Auckland. _ said his friend "And you've lived in Okoroire all these years." The old boy replied: "Well, there are thousands of people in Auckland who have never been to Okoroire."

"MAP" writes: "A quiet bridge table recently had some difficulty in .remembering the honours. It was suggested that a bell should be rung each time BRIGHTER an honour was played. BRIDGE. To avoid confusion, this necessitated each _ side having its own bell, and it also necessitated different bells. One side chose silver bells and the other side blue bells. They are still wondering whether they would be able to recognise their own colours when they heard them. Helpful additional suggestions by M.A.T. herewith. Why not restore the old-time trump indicator and turn a leaf for every card? Why not have a synchronised gramophone, to play "The Blue Bells of Scotland", every time the Blues took a trick? Why play at all? Some years ago present deponent was a member of an officers' mess in which (whisper it gently) the wicked game of poker was occasionally played. The dear old colonel—"Damme; sir, they call me a 'dugout,' but I'm as good as any of these temporary gentlemen!"—was scandalised when he heard about it. The old boy didn't play cards. No, by gad, sir, when he was a subaltern, young officalis went shootin', what! or playin' polo, what! They didn't waste time over cards, what! Anyway, the colonel consulted the senior subaltern, a man of the world, and also an incorrigible wag. Here is the final outcome of the confab: "Now, look heah, you young fellahs. _ They tell me there's been too much of this pokah bein' played in the mess. Now, I've chatted it over with Lieutenant Martin, and he tells me the best thing to do is to stick to bridge, and have what they call a limit. I know nothing about it, but Mr. Martin tells me a limit of about five pounds a hundred will do. I hope you'll all agree-to that. Keep the game within reasonable limits, and all that sort of thing, don't you know." The subalterns gasped. Five pounds a hundred!

A spectacular demonstration of slum clearance was given when a loud explosion of dynamite told the inhabitants of Somers Town that the Sidney Street "THE NEW area, with its long hisJERUSALEM." tory of overcrowding, dis-

ease, poverty and vermin, was doomed. Lord Monk Bretton, chairman of tlie London County Council, lighted the fuse which fired the charge in the chimney stack of' a house in Bridgewater Street. On this unsavoury site, which looked most diemal in the rain, the St. Pancras House Improvement Society, Limited, hopes to build a miniature garden city at an estimated cost of £130,000. The crowd which had gathered sang "The New Jerusalem." So "The Times" records the end of Sidney Street, which leapt into notoriety about a score of years ago throxigh the spectacular round-up of Peter the Painter and his anarchistic gang. The account of the military attack on the tenement dwelling, with Mr. Winston Churchill as leader of the besieging forces, gave the Old Country quite a warlike thrill in the peaceful pre-war days. And now, to the strains of "The New Jerusalem," Sidney Street falls into unwept ruin. "The New Jerusalem" was the title given to Blake's stanzas long after they were written. Who does not remember the ringing lines:—

And did those Feet in ancient time Walk upon England's mountains green? And was the Holy Lamb of God On England's pleasant pastures seen? And did the Countenance Divine Shine forth upon our clouded hills And was Jerusalem builded there, Among those dark, Satanic mills? Bring me my bow of burning gold, Bring me my arrows of desire. Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold I Bring me my chariot of fire! I will not'cease from mental fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, Till we have built Jerusalem In England's green and pleasant land. Noble words J and a stirring anthem for righteous reform. It was a summer evening, and daddy sat alone at the parlour table, writing letters which were long overdue. Mummy was out so were the two little THE GENTLE girls, and Rowley, aged HINT. nine, was absent "somewhere on North Shore." No need to worry about him, anyway. He'd be fishing, or swimming, or perhaps playing marbles, or riding his bike on the recreation ground. Daddy had made a cup of tea for himself at four-thirty, and now he was deep in his correspondence. At half-past six young Rowley made his appearance. "Hello, daddy," he said, j "Hello, son," said daddy. "Don't worry me for a little while; I'm busy writing letters." Rowley retired. Ten minutes later he was back again. "Hello, daddy." Pause. "Still busy, are you, daddy?' Paterfamilias said he was, and Rowley retired. Ten minutes later he made his third appearance. "Do you like this house, daddy?' he said. (The family had just moved in, it should be explained.) "Yes; very nice house," said daddy. "Does the baker call here?" was Rowley's next question, A light slowly filtered through daddy's absentmindedness. "Eh, what's that —the baker, did you say? Bless my soul, laddie, you want your tea! I'd clean forgotten it." A member of the British party of farmers remarked at Wanganui that he could not help noticing the amount of face powder used by girls in New Zealand. PAINT AND Some of them, he said, POWDER. looked as if they had just finished a shift in a flourmill. "You don't find our English girls running to seed with face powder like that, but apparently as soon as they get to New Zealand they fall into the habits of their adopted country." M.A.T. wonders whether the worthy farmer suffered from chronic blindness when he was in the Old Country. Curious that. the paper which contained the journalistic pearl quoted above had threequarters of a column on another page describing the use of cosmetics in England and the Continent.