THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXI, Issue 122, 26 May 1930, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.) STORM DAYS! When the flapper's skirts and tresses are a-flapping, ■are a-flapping. And the chasing of your hats a source or run, source of fun. When the Polar wind's a-tcaring and a-snapping and n-snapping. The pedestrian's life is not a happy one, happy one. When (lie gutters are a-runiiing and it's pouring cats and dogs , As we queue up for the tram and motor bus, motor bus, , ~. And the breezes at the corner are a-wlustling up our togs. .... It's a pleasant homing for the likes of us, likes of us. When he leaves the din and hubbub for his quiet little' Biibub, And a quarter of a mile he's got to run, got to run, With a lot of wind and water blowing from the southern quarter, The pedestrian's life is not a happy one, happy one. —A.H. A peregrinating American once quizzically observed that a visitor to New Zealand was 'expected to eat six meals a day, and then some. A recent Canadian DESSERT. visitor mentioned that in a country like this, relatively swimming in cream, it is a comestible never seen in conjunction with porridge on Maoriland hotel breakfast tables. A man addicted to world travel who has sampled every kind of hotel everywhere has just returned to Auckland from a visit to the South, where he caught salmon and incidentally put on weight. "Don't think I'm grousing, M.A.T.," said he, chuckling rosily, "but what I can't make out, in a country practically kneo deep in fruit, and where I know uncounted tons rot on the ground, no hotel I have stayed at (in the South) ever puts raw fruit on the tabic. It is a curiosity of travel. One of the points is that you pay, say, five pounds a week for staying at such a hotel (in the South). You would think that this would cover an occasional apple, an odd pear, a lonely orange, a banana, etc. Personally I used to buy my own fruit and eat it unashamedly at the dining table, hoping that the proprietors would perhaps rush out and buy a case or so. Not on your life! I can 1 assign no reason whatever for this extraordinary fruitlessness (in the South) except meanness.", "Mary, my clear," said Mary's mother as Mary stubbed the end of her cigarette against a flower pot and selected a new one. "Dear old Mrs. Oldacres is coming MID-VICTORIAN, this afternoon. I do hope you won't smoke while she's here, darling. You see, she's .old-fashioned. I wouldn't like to shock her. She might think you modern girls are horrid." "All right, mum, old thing!" said Mary. "I'll be very good." Mrs. Oldacres (aged seventy-five) came. Mary, Hyacinth and mother sat in the drawing room and entertained her. Mary had inadvertently left a little repousse box *>i • n occasional table. It was full of cigarettes. She and Hyacinth, of course, abstained from the mid-Victorian sin of smoking. Mary noticed the box and got up gently to seize it ; ad'-put it out of Mrs. Oldacres' sight. The old lady instantly noted the movement. "Are those cigarettes, darling?" she asked. Mary blushingly said they were. "Show them to me!" said the old lady. Mary brought them. "Ah!" she said, looking at the brand printed on a tissue. "I think I'll have one of my own," produced a dainty little silver case, and,had one. "We might as w.ell, Hy!" said Mary. "May we, mum?" Dear M.A.T.,—There is a bit of a sequel to that yarn of A. L. D. Frascr's. about Mr: Julius Caesar, of Hawke's Bay, and the blanketed Maori to whom MAORI CULTURE, he was introduced in an up-country kainga and who inquired politely about "our dear old friend Brutus." Fraser was relating the incident at the hotel dinner table in Napier. One of his listeners, a farmer with considerable oodle, said with honest indignation: "That's what comes of teaching the brutes the Bible!" —J.C. There is a city man who incinerates three or four packets of cigarettes per day. He has lately been in the country. He smoked cigarettes there just the CIGARETTE CARDS, same. Called into a ■ ' country shop and found a bright young fellow behind the counter. "Six packets of Royal Blues," said he. Outside the emporium ho dug into a packet and found that there was no card in it. Investigated the other packets. All blanks. Next day he entered the shop again. "1 notice," said he, "that there were no photo, cards in those gaspers you sold me yesterday." "No," said the innocent tradesman, "I'm collecting them meself." Women, who have already been blamed for keeping themselves thin and thereby endangering the future of the race, are now denounced for being responsible for THE a slump in wool prices— TROUBLESOME if they would only wear SEX. more wool and wrap themselves round and round in it that branch of the textile trade and sheepfarmers generally would be in a far happier condition. But if they did that they would only bo denounced- by doctors and dress reformers—and how about the great movement for inviting them to wear more cotton which the cables described for us recently ? Would it not be wiser to face up to the fact that this unfortunate sex is always in the wrong —rather like the infant in the famous remark, "Find out what baby is doing and'tell him to stop?" If a woman wears short skirts she is immodest and if she wears long ones she is flying in the face of common sense and convenience. If she wears wool she ought to wear cotton, and if she wears cotton 6he will probably catch cold. If she cuts her hair short she may go bald, and if she lets it grow she looks untidy. She ought to eat more'fruit for the sake of her figure and stuff herself with meat and potatoes to support the farmer. It is a hard life —or would be if any attention were paid by women to these numerous but conflicting instructions. —A.B.W. You read in this column about the Chinese coolie barber who cut a client's throat with a razor much prized by M.A.T. ? Here is another story of a real Sheffield SHEFFIELD BLADE, razor. One morning in 1900 (or thereabouts) New Zealand troops were hanging about Colesberg (S.A.) wishing they were, dead or home again, when a Hindu, carrying a razor and wearing a turban, entered the lines and burst into tears. This nappy (experts in Hindustani will correct the spelling), being interrogated, told the story of the British regiment which had advanced up a hill half way yesterday, had begun the second half this morning, arid who were mostly lying dead at the moment. The Hindu barber was not so much concerned with the deaths of the sahibs but at the fact that ho hadn't got any faces to shave. The dead regiment had brought the nappy from India with it. Colonial soldiers instantly commandeered his services. He was a marvel and a ducky and a dear with the razor. He'd strop it on his leathery hand, shave the standing soldier with terrific expedition, and wipe the lather off on his skinny leg. The nappy had been used to receiving a halfpenny or a penny (or even a chit on the quartermaster) from his customers. Colonials in funds awarded him sixpences or even shillings. Gunga (or whatever his name was) wept for his English sahibs no more. "Let the dead past bury its dead," he carolled in purest Hindustani. "I'm on a good wicket!" Whether he went back to India and bought the Taj Mahal M.A.T. never heard.