THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 224, 21 September 1932, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.) This year's prize for the best mixed metaphor goes to the " Watersider," an Auckland publication: "Here was the weak link, and it was played upon MIXED PICKLES. by a master hand with a glib tongue." Eventually, one supposes, the tears ran out of its eyes and it was thrown on the dice board to be the pawn of conflicting interests who were trying to cut the bread and butter from under each other's feet.

American prisons, so populous (and popular), have most of the amenities of modern social life, including newspapers, edited written and printed by gentleFRIENDS INDEED, men deprived of that freedom so precious to our cousins. Magazines of excellence are also a feature of. these places of detention. One of them contains the story of the two newcomers who during the daily exercise in the yard .hold a whispered conversation. "How long? asks the first. "Five years," 'says the second. "What for ?" "Robbing the First Ballyhoo Bank. And you?" "Ten yeaxs." "What for?" "I was the president."

j Dear M.A.T., —Whether honesty is more general than it used to be is a moot point, but in advertisements of vacant situations "references required" HIS CHARACTER, seems to be conspicuous by its absence. Memory goes back to distant days in tlie North of linglaud, when for even humble positions references (or, as they were designated, "characters") were required. Heard of one man who applied for a job in an iron foundry. He was requested by the foreman to first get a "character" from his last place of employment. On his way to do this he met a friend, who inquired the reaeon o£ his hurry. He explained, also giving the name of the_ foreman, and was given a running description of the foreman, which decided him not to accept the position. He went back and was met by the foreman, who said, ''Well, has ta gotten thy character?" "Noa," replied the man, "but I've gotten thine, an' that's enough for me."— J.E.

There is a photograph in a Melbourne papor of a with his head in an. iron nail can—in fact ho is sthown wearing the type of. armour made famous A TIN SUIT. by Ned Kelly the bushranger, and riding up and down Melbourne streets for advertising purposes. TIIO modern man was unable to wear the iron jacket mad© from the mouldboards of ploughs affected by Ned himself. —the unaccompanied headpiece of the modern man weighing seventy-five pounds. Assumed, therethat the gallant Ned in the days of his notoriety carried at least one hundredweight of ironmongery on him to stop bullets with. It is now stated that Ned was tlxe only one of the gang that wore the iron headpiece—and one doesn't blame the others for going hatless. One has only to reconstruct the scene of mounted men attired in mouldboards galloping gaily around firing accurately with rifle or pistol from the back of a horse bravely carrying man and metal, to feel sorry for Ned. It has often been said that the famous Ned was not notably powerful. There' 3 a catch about that armour somewhere.

Current history is thick with stories of the spade which turned up buried watches and of spade guineas which have turned up after the royal gentleman whose £1 1 0. portrait they commemor-

ate has been smiling at the daisy roots for generations. Spade guineas and their imitations have been hanging to the watch chains of ancient*; for long, long years. To' the casual observer all of them 'have a brassy paleness and there is no doubt whatever that millions of brass counters resembling the real gold coin have .been stacked away in bottom drawers ae genuine expressions of worth. A Taranaki man, it appears, had a half-guinea which off and. on had been dangling from the -watch chains of the family since 1768. Paragraphs stating that golden spade guineas are worth money induced the latest owner* of the heirloom to lock it up for safety, and ultimately the glittering coin was taken to some place where the acid test could be made. The repprt was that the brass was excellent. A contemporary says tie question now a;rises as to 'how many spade guineas are really genuine. All spade guineas are genuine —but brass counters imitating the same were at one time purchasable for a, few shillings a bushel.

Quite a number of writing people have noted the battle that is at present raging between old and young, the old, as

usual, being the only NEVER WILL BE. attackers. Among these is F. W. Thomas, a London scribbler, who makes "The Cobbler" say that if there is one thing the young men of England can do better than anybody in the wide, wide world, it is going to the dogs. Come to think of it, says he, the young man of to-day is in a bit of a mess all round. If he goes over to Los Whatsis name and conies back with a flea in his ear, some old cock tells him that the modern youth is played out and a back number; a lounge-lizard who lives on cocktails and foxtrots. If he returns with a boat load of scalps and silver pots and pans, the big business men get up on their hind legs and say that sport will be our ruin, and why can't we give our minds to the serious problems of the day and do something to recapture our trade supremacy. "Here you are," they say, "playing golf and tennis and hopscotch all day long, while our exports of vaseline and zinc ointment liavo fallen off by several firkins, and you ought to be thoroughly ashamed of yourselves." Whatever the young man docs it won't be right, and, what's more, it never was and never will be.

Reverberations of the reccnt earthquakes have been heard suburbanly, and a' homely story comes from near by. It seems that the suburban dweller was THE QUAKE. called on by a dear old friend who had shared with Jum the horrors and pleasures of 1914-18. They had so much to say that Mrs. Suburbs folded up her current knitting and ascended the stairs, seeking sleep. Down below in the sitting room the ancient friends drifted from war to Forbes and from Forbes to wrestling. The middle-aged householder, in illustration of the latter amusement, demonstrated to his friend the clasp-knife hold, in which it appears the attacker stoops suddenly, inserting his head low, grasping the opponent firmly lTy the legs, and so forth. The opponent, be in™- imperfectly balanced 011 the highly-polished linoleum, smote the same with his head, the impact being audible. Rising with the light of battle in his eye, the visitor practically threw down the gauntlet and at once two highly respectable middle-aged gentlemen were locked in strife, avoiding if possible the occasional tables, what-nots, sideboards and other paraphernalia! Falls were registered. Suddenly hasty footsteps were heard descending the stairs, and the householder's wife appeared, to see two stalwarts locked in strife, her furniture disarrayed, and marks of shoenails on the linoleum. She was obviously relieved to find that the dreadful sounds she had heard were not caused by an earthquake, and contented herself with admonishing the old friends. One of the contestants, looking tired and limping somewhat, told the story of the earthquake as the recorder and himself strolled down the still uncracked pavements of Shortland Street.