THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXII, Issue 119, 22 May 1931, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.)

Dear H.A.T., —Apropos of your paragraph j re the aged muzzle-loading shotgun, and j "J.C.V contribution re the dynamite gnn> I was very interested in the A BIG BATCH, latter article, as I am aware of the identity or the inventor thereof and well recall the incidents so vividly related. The inventive genius, however, did not confine his efforts solely to guns and gunnery, for he was an all-round sport and "truly * a character. Among his relaxations was the sport of kings, both gallopers and trotters. Among other equines he owned, trained and rode a prad yclept Xuba Bill, whicli he entered in a trotting event many years ago at Cambridge —his home town. Being cast on substantial lines, our sport decided upon a reducing course, which, however, was insufficient, he considered, for the purpose. He therefore hit upon a much more drastic idea, to wit, the local baker s oven. Accordingly, swathed in sweater and overcoat, he thrust his frame to the neck into the baker's, oven after the last batch was withdrawn and lay there pondering perhaps his future. the owner of the business —wno had not been consulted walked in, and, seeing our friend's head in the oven doorway, requested information regarding the unusual happening. Fuming with angei, he dragged the offending sport from his possie. verbally consigning him to the nether regions, and informed him that if the affair leaked out his business would be ruined. The sequel was a happy one, for our sport duly landed the mustard, making a handsome killing.—C.M.

Lifeleng abstainers have mentioned on turning to diurnal commercial news that people are drinking less beer. This statement having been made, a man DOMESTIC ART. emitted a stentorian No! and declared that the relatively poorer times had caused the oldfashioned home brewing to return. He said one would be exceedingly surprised to know the extent of this amiable indiscretion and the enormous demand there is for barrels. A lifelong abstainer mentioned the case of a neighbour who wa3 inordinately proud of his brewing. He called the result "kawakawa and inferred that it was made from the pepper tree, although the relation of one to the other is obscure. The neighbour desired very much that he should sample it. Waiving his prohibition principles for the nonce, he partook slightly. He says it tasted like old ink stirred with blotting paper that had been buried in ensilage and that the maker liked it very much indeed. He was also in the King Country once and a gentleman there had some splendid home brew which he retailed at one shilling a drink. He would emerge from the bush holding his unlicensed pub in his hand. "Take a sup of this; it will warm the cockles of yer "art," he used to say. One day a customer spilled a drop of this beverage on his wrist. It burnt the skin off ancl cost him thirty shillings for a doctor. M.A.T. listened with respect to the teetotaller, who was obviously biased, but on the whole decided that commercial beer has its virtues.

Colonel James J. Esson, C.M.G., formerly head of the New Zealand Treasury, on his retirement took a look round the world. Among other places, he visited THE LATIN WAY. some of the South American republics and has mentioned that he was most cordially received and treated with marked politeness by gentlemen in high office who have all the external graces of the cultivated Latin. In one republic he had the advantage of meeting some of the Republican Ministers, and one of these gentlemen showed a polite interest in Colonel Esson's country and inquired much about New Zealand. "And you, senor," he asked, "you yourself perhaps hold some official position?" Colonel Esson replied: "Yes, I am head of the New Zealand Treasury." "Ah, indeed, senor," replied the polite Minister; "you must be veree rich!"

Hard times have emboldened sneaks (who may desist in better days) to acquire articles of wear by the simple process of dragging them from clothes lines. THE Local denudations have SNOWDROPPERS. served to remind a windblown old Wellingtonian of a wicked period in its stormy history. Several cases of garrotting had occurred, and in one case the victim was found dead in a lane leading to a theatre. People whose business took them abroad at midnight and after were naturally nervous, and there is no use denying that many dug up old firearms and carried them, although the local police chief declared that to the average man a revolver was more dangerous to himself than to a garrotter or other crook. At any rate, a man whose duty it was to aid in putting a morning newspaper to bed acquired a large service revolver to accompany him on his journey home each dark morning. His house was in Hawker Street, and he thus had to traverse Courtenay Place and pass by the dreaded Taranaki Street — hence the revolver. On the morning in question he arrived well blown at the top of the home hill, opened his garden door (not gate), and stepped inside at the exact moment that a dark figure was helping himself to the family linen on the line. Anyone who is familiar with a service revolver will know that when it is cocked it a pair of most businesslike clicks. The duet of clicks duly took place. The snowdropper heard the sinister sound, and the holder of the young cannon even to-day cannot explain how the interloper leapt over a six-foot boarded fence without touching. The Town Belt blotted out the snowdropper. The man with the gun went into his house and put the perfectly empty revolver on the piano. A sleepy voice called: "Is that you, Herbert ? I thought I heard the garden door click twice."

There has been a fatal hotel fire in Wellington with hurt to several people. Wellington hotel© have burnt before, and one exceedingly bad fire happened in FIRE I Lambton Quay not long after the old Byko Corner disappeared and Poneke began to grow up. The lire began in a small old-fashioned shop wedged between expensive buildings and consumed them, including two hoteis. Although every fire is a tragedy to many, the immense crowd seemed to see some comedy in the exit from these burning hotels of guests and staff in their night attire. Firemen, as always, were heroic, and they did remarkable work that dreadful night. One remembers with great clearness a young fireman appearing at an upper window and stepping on to the ladder with a lady hanging over his shoulder, and the wild applause of the crowd as he came lightly down the long ladder with his fair burden. He casually deposited the lady, who was instantly received by the crowd. She, however, "without a word, broke from the crowd and ran towards the street door of the hotel, evidently intending to again enter the burning building. She was, of course, detained. "01°, let me go! Oil, let me go back to my bedroom!" she cried. "I left any siiver-backed hairbrush on the dressing table!"

THOUGHTS FOR TO-DAY. Few of us can do great things, but we might more often do small ones and do them better. —Millie Grey. Beware of a half-truth; you may have got hold of the wrong half.—Anon.