THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXI, Issue 309, 31 December 1930, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.) ANNO DOMINI. To-night he dies! Closes his tired eyes, Old Doctor Time won't save him; For my pajt I don't care. I shall not rend my hair. ' But shall a farewell wave him, And say. whatever may occur, Good-bye, Old Tear! To-night he dies! Can't stay here if he tries, Nor do I really trouble: But stay, old Thirty hoary ! All is not a sad story, Let's backward double: Some things were passing fair During your life, Old Year! To-night he dies.! Ah. he was oft«n wise, His time was not all sorrow; ~~ He brought me many a friend, Xor shall their friendship end To-day or yet to-morrow; You die, but love lives here. Bon jour, Old Year! To-night he dies ! But he has left a prize In friends with hearts of gold, Oh, tender souls and true! Thanks, thanks, Old Tear, to you, Although you're very old. Let this my blessing bear — And thanks, Old Year! So let him die! Live you and I To greet his son to-morrow ; Good luck to each and every one When his successor has begun Sans sighs, sans tears, sans sorrow. I seem to hear the bell? astir, Welcome, New Year! "Any politician who has worn an eggspangled waistcoat will be interested in ths cablegram from Home mentioning that South African students hung BAD EGGS. eggs round the ne*k Ot

Mr. J. H. Thomas, who is bound to the Dominions by other ties as well. The South African lads were ripening ostrich eggs for Mr. Thomas' necklace, but the eggs produced young ostriches on the voyage, and so the poor Minister had to be content with jewellery laid by common hens. This ovarian incident will surely remind Australians of "Georgie Porgie" Reid, the celebrated Australian politician and barrister, facetiously yclept "Yes-No," but who nevertheless was a brighter boy than anyone in the political arena nowadays. On one occasion Sir George's rotund waistcoat stopped a fruity specimen cast by a commentator who loved him not. Sir George carelessly wiped the foreign yolk from his. necktie and exclaimed, "I like them better poached!" "You'll get 'em poached where you are go in', George!" yelled the marks nan. "Then the fat will be in the fire!" retorted the statesman. On suitable occasions, Doth in South African and in Australian politics, ostrich and emu eggs have been used as comments, but they are barred by most sportsmen, as the shelle are exceedingly hard and break with difficulty on the most rotund orator. Except when the bush commencatjr knows emu eggs to be thoroughly ripe he will not throw them, for fresh eggs represent tucker. The Aussie bushman, having reaped emu eggs, generally uses them to imx in his damper or camp bread. Bread made wi'h emu eggs would not be' palatable to a trained Parisian gourmand, but it is pie to the bushman. It has never yet occurred to political commentators in. bush electorates to throw emu eggs encased in damper. Too heavy!

A total abstainer has sustained an excellent Christmas heartbreak by search ng old colonial papers for evidence of the wickedness of our forefathers. He THIRST IN THIRTY, notes with" a shudder what a. remarkable amount of space was devoted to sin hi the early days and hands to M.A.T. a copy of the '•Montreal Gazette" of November 11, 1830. Thomas Heaven appropriately advertises every kind of damp—brandy in pipes and wines in hogsheads, all set out in plain, type, perfectly shameless and including Madeira. Teneritfe sherry, port, mosella, brucellas, Broiite, Sauterne, Fayal, Burgundy, Frontignac, claret, chablis, hock, muscatel, champagne, runi ard gin. Messrs. Molson and Co. not only had five hundred iron pots for. sale, but London stout, Bordeaux brandy and genuine Irish whisky. Buchanan and Co. not only had black bombazeen and broadcloth, but hair oil, old canary sack, pale sherry, London glue, innumerable casks of Malmsey and fifteen thousand real Havana sfgars (spelt like that) and many other intoxicants. Simpson and Co. appeared to be frankly non-prohibition, for they advertised paints of all colours, a total stock of two thousand pipes of wine and two hundred casks of salt herrings. It is clear these unconscionable merchants depended on the tiurstprovoking qualities of the herrings to quit their stocks —their perfectly gigantic stocks of drinks. One of the curiosities was that drapers and others sold much of this ocean of liquid under the hammer. Eer i 'snee to New Zealand and Australian papers of relatively olden times will distress present-day readers equally. It is a constant astonishment to right-thinking people that our predecessors who drank should have been the forefathers of ourselves who don't—yes!

May one congratulate the proletariat on the fact that during the festive season cases of visible inebriation ha've been rare? It is with sorrow, however, A WILD BIRD, that one relates the story of at least one bird wno transgressed. Mother made a trifle. She not only fortified this ? dainty with brandy, but with good fruity port. The family partook. I without danger. The remnants of the i'east were consigned to the safe and the blushing trifle hid behind other comestibles for a day or so. The careful housewife emancipated the trifle and bore it to the duck run, wh»re some unsophisticated ducklings (it was their first Christmas, and next Christmas will be their last) squawked in innocence. Three of the ducklings gave the trifle a miss, but the fourth sampled it eagerly, and behold: it was very good. The : bird ate voraciously for many minutes, then suddenly gave a gasp, collapsed on its tail, and said. as plain as a ducklingcould speak, "Oh, my poor head!" The auckling staggered round the run insulting its contemporaries. It would surprise you what the bird said ito the other birds, even accusing one of being an Indian Runner. Sudden.'/ the bird again sat on its tail; its head drooped. It was speechless. It collapsed and slept. Hours afterwards it was still asleep, but when it woke it stuck its face in a half-kerosene tin full of water and drank and drank and drank. The Russians little knew what they had started when they invented Father Christmas. It is understood the Soviet has murdered Santa Claus in cold blood. PHOEBE'S It really is a crime to PRAYER, assassinate an illusion, and, as you see by the cabled news, a French father is claiming damages from a professor for telling an eight-year-old son that Santa Claus is all mv eye and Betty Martin. Such unsophistieated'little souls, modern children! M.A.T. was much touched at the pre-Christmas orisons of little Phoebe. Phoebe stole into the dining- room, knelt on the fireside rug, and called ""up the chimney: "Dear Santy Claus," she said, "please, I want a family of dollies, a gramophone, a teaset, some lollies, some hankies in a-box, new shoes, a pair of pink pyjamas, a hat wiv red ribbons, some silk stockings and a pony. And if daddy can't afford them, mummy might have the. manejJS