THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXIV, Issue 19, 24 January 1933, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN A3OUT TOWN.)

The little story is told by a veteran- as an example of self-reliance in New Zea Lander. A party of lads and iasses on holiday, hiking towards THE PRINCESS, the sunset, came to a stream. A bridge crossed this stream a little further up from the point at which the hikers met it. The young people, however, following the of pioneering forefathers, declined artificial aids and. determined to cross in the natural way. , ■ crec tly unrobed behind various sheltering palms, and, attired in bathing dress, tied thwr discarded raiment on their heads with flax wrested from the earth gallantly swam the stream, arriving at the farther shore but triumphant. A local lad had watched the proceedings with amusement. trouble to take, ain't it?" be grinned. The water's only three feet deep."

A thoughtful man who lias combed the earth a bit and has seen the unclothed and laughing heathen bow down to wood and stone has been looking into the KICKS AND thing a bit and wonders HA'PENCE, if any advance in civilisation or politics is made without kicking somebody pretty hard. He concludes that nobody ever gets ha'pence unless somebody else gets kicks. Mentions too, that an odd chap here and there through the generations has seen the point and quotes particularly the words of Stephen Montague written in 1S50: "You colonise the land of the savage with the Anglo-Saxon—you civilise that portion of the earth; but is the savage civilised? He is exterminated! You accumulate rnachmery—you increase t-li6 total of wealth j but what becomes of the labour you displace? One generation is sacrificed to the next. You diffuse knowledge, and the world seems to grow brighter; but Discontent and Poverty replace Ignorance happy with its crust. Every improvement, every advancement of civilisation, injures some to benefit others, and either cherishes the want of to-day or prepares the revolution of to-morrow."

Anybody reading the scrappy bits about •the Chalk Farm murder would be entitled to assume that the said farm was some remote spot in rural England, far CHALK FARM, from the madding crowd's

tempestuous strife, but bathed in the sinister bell broth most, common in remote places. Conan Doyle has pointed out that the most diabolical, contemplated and desperate crimes !have taken place rural surroundings, because crimes are more difficult in urban areas where the population is large and organisation general, and "where even the scream of a child will bring sympathetic aid at once." Chalk Farm, however, is not a farm, although once it may have been, and the words have as alluring a sound at "The Red Barn" or any other spot classic in the history of clinic.* Chalk Farm is a railway junction enormously active, only three miles from St. Paul's in London and through which the trains of four great companies shriek night and day. Those who imagined that Spachett the rent collector was done to death by Furnace in •the sweet surroundings of an English farm are misinformed.

It is obvious that tbe gentleman referred to in a celebrated Eastern 6torv who "took up his bed and walked" knew nothing of heavy iron bedsteads with ponTHE DOUBLE derous wire mattresses— BED. or he wouldn't have been so agile. On a recent evening it was necessary for a suburban family to move a double bed from its little home to another at a distance, and two stalwarts of the family undertook to bear it. It was a ponderable affair, and perspiration bedewed the brows of both the bearers. Passing down a street of shops one of the bearers suggested leaving the wire mattress behind, leaning it against a wall, taking the bedstead first and returning later for the "wire." On their return, however, the bed was missing! Peering through the window of the locked shop, the bereaved men dcscried the mattress. Determined knockings produced results. It transpired that in a spirit of civic guardianship the shopkeeper had observed the mattress and had merely taken it inside so that it might bt> restored to the owners. "One never knows what might happen." she smiled. The story is told by a lady, and can therefore be guaranteed. Two souls with but a single thought resided temporarily in one of New Zealand's fairest GARDEN OF villages, making it headSLEEP. quarters for hikes to the points of interest and even motes to the same. One gleaming moonlight night they wandered happily forth from the village until at last they came to the cemetery. There was a macrocarpa log on the side of the road, and the man-soul suggested a momentary rest. So they sat and talked.' Perhaps the nearness of the Garden of Sleep affected the lady. She stated that the feeling had come over her that the tombstones moved in the moonlight. They rose and turned their faces to the village. Asked there by friends where they had been, they both said, "Oh, to the cemetery," and were astonished at the reply. "Cemetery, cemetery —there is no cemetery round here!" The two souls shivered slightly. They felt that here indeed was a mystery, a visiop, something beyond mortal ken. Next day t'hey were so keen on finding that ccmetery* that-they took one of the residents of the village to search for the Garden of Sleep in a car. As they were nearing a sharp bend in the road the man-soul said, "The cemetery is just round the corner." In a few moments they were round the corner. No wonder the tombstones had moved in the moonlight! The mob of sheep were engaged in their traditional occupation of wandering from blade to blade so that Smithfield be not lambless and the New Zealand farmer satisfied.

Noted that New Zealanders are going in for the "new" sport of fencing—with the foil and not with post and wire, in which latter sport we excel. The npcesCARTE AND sity of the rapier has TIERCE, departed and the duel is practically no more, but before Christianity blew mothers' sons up at twenty miles distance the swordsman's art either with the point or the blade was apparently as necessary as bread. Nearly everybody has father's sword hung from a nail in the front passage, -but very few with recent sword-wearing paters can aver that the dear (old dad ever poked anybody in the brisket with it or shaved the enemy's head from his shoulders with cut Number One. Enraged gentlemen in Grandpa's time all carried rapiers and. rushed about trying to collect insults so that they might be wiped out in blood. The fencing master worked overtime. The best fencers were and arc admittedly the French, and even mademoiselle frequently understands the art of carte and tierce. During the Great War, although nobody used a sword to ■ hurt, anybody with, but merely suspended it from a Sam Browne when out of the line, there were great fencing competitions in the French Army and the highest talent of Gaul assembled to win the coveted prizes. Of course, the men of other armies were invited to partake. Among all comers there was a young New Zealand soldier .w'ho had never seen a rapier or even a single stick before he went into the Army. With a minimum of practice this amazing lad licked the fencing flower of the French Army. Unhappily the name of this New Zealandcr escapes one, and it would be kind of anyone who dotted it down in 1918 or thereabouts to mention it.