THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXIV, Issue 21, 26 January 1933, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.)

Dear M.A.T., —In view of the controversy re "single tax" and "Progress and Poverty" in tlie columns of' the "Star," the following- is worthy of record. When SINGLE TAX. in 1890 the great economist, Henry George, was visiting Sydney an enthusiastic single taxer, thinking the American visitor might want to witness an Australian horse race, applied to a racing official for two complimentary tickets for Mi° and Mrs. George. The official asked, "Who is Henry George—has he any horses? "Yes," said the single taxer; "Progress and Poverty. Tliev are always bracketed and are running well." "AH right," said the official, "here arc. the tickets. George, when he sees what our horses are like, may be induced to bring Progress and Poverty to 'Australia. The gifted economist roared heartily when the episode was related to him. H.M.

Dear M.A.T., —The following explanation of the term "Hobson's choke" was given in the year 1712: "Mr. Tobias Hobson, from whom we have the ex-

E'OBSON'S CHOICE, pression, was a very honourable man, for I shall ever call the man so who gets an estate honestly. Mr. Tobias Hobson was a carrier, and, being a man of great abilities and invention', and one that saw wliere there might good profit arise, though the duller men overlooked it,- this ingenious man was the first in this island who let out hackney coaches. He lived in Cambridge; and, observing that the scholars rid hard, his manner was to keep a large stable of horses, with boots, bridles and whips, to furnish .the gentlemen at once. I say, Mr. Hobson kept a stable of forty good cattle, always ready and fit for travelling, but when a man came for a horse he was led into the stable, where there was great choice; but he obliged him to take the horse which stood next to the stable door, so that every customer was alike well served according to his chance, and every horse ridden with the same justice, whence it became a proverb, when what ought to be your selection was forccd upon you, to say, 'Hobson's choice.' This memorable man .stands drawn in fresco at an inn (which he used) in Bishopsgate Street, with a hundred-pound bag under his arm, with this inscription: 'The fruitful another of a hundred more.'" —Jem.

A Melbourne writer has mentioned that one of the A.N.A. attractions, in "Marvellous" will 'be a s wagman's competition. The corn-

peting carriers of the NOT BY bluey will bake a johnnyBREAD ALONE, cake and boil the billy.

He declares that a johnnycake is often called a damper. But in practice the jolmnycake is a distinct breed of tucker. The true and undoubted damper is a loaf, made of flour, water and salt, kneaded to requisite stillness. A good fire (boxtree bark is the best) is made, allowed to die down to ash and embers, the loaf is laid on the hot ground, and the ashes and embers piled on top —a natural oven. If the cook is expert the loaf emerges practically unsoiled, the swagmail dusts the ash off with a sock or other implement, boils the 'billy, and eats. Fastidious swagmen sometimes add overnight a few handfuls of fine wood ash to the water intended for the damper. The ash not only purifies the not always A 1 wa'ter, but adds potash—kind of baking powder effect. You can cook a damper in a camp oven and add baking powder —but it isn't true damper. As for the johnnycake, it is merely an Australian adaptation of the Indian chupattie—flour and water and salt moulded strenuously, beaten thin with the hands, and laid on hot ground from which the fire has been cleanly swept. This delectable food is fit for eating in about ten minutes. A damper takes about an hour arid a half. The Australians who usually write about damper and jolmnycakes merely read about the backblocks in books.

Mention was made herein of the proud Pomeranian who rode a motor hike, his forefeet on the handle-bars, giving an excellent

imitation of a gentleman PUTTING ON DOG. going several miles an

hour in a hurry to do nothing -when he got there. Inspired by the story, a suburban reader tells viva voce the story of the little red dog. The reader rode daily on a mobike with a sidecar several miles along the road to his work. One day the little red dog was at the spot where the cyclist began his daily journey. He wagged his tail, plainly inferring that a lift was what he desired. The rider put him in the sidecar and tooled off to bis job. Half way the little red dog intimated plainly that he desired to alight. The rider pulled up, decanted the kuri, and carried on. Returning the same way in the evening, the dog was at the spot where he had been set down. He intimated in the language of the Tail-waggers* Club that he wished to be a passenger—and on this and many subsequent occasions the dog and the man were fellow passengers. One day the man was in a hurry on the homing journey, and, although the dog was waiting, he passed him. Onlookers describe the disappointment of the dog at having to walk home. The same dog had a habit of waiting for one of those buses with an outside box for luggage. He would stroll into this aperture, lie down, and have the ride of his life. But one day he thought he would like a ride on a smart motor car unused to dog passengers. He trotted across to the moving car and tried' to leap on the running board. The driver wasn't thinking of dogs—and the dog will never motor any more.

Dear M.A.T., —There is always a feeiEng of rivalry between town and country, especially now when the high exchange puts the farmers on the map, but CITY NIGHTS. I write heatedly to dis-

prove one fallacy under which the rural community has suffered an inferiority complex for years, and that is that the early-morning noises, to wit, the twittering of the_ birds and the lowing of the cows keep the city dweller awake when, he holidays rurally. That is vastly untrue. I have proved by personal and tragic experience that the town dweller possesses cast-iron nerves, and notliing short of a cataclysm of calamities would keep him awake, and then it would need to be a fairly big cataclysm. Take one night in the city out of a series of nightmares. One retires to bed at 10 p.m. and reads for half an hour before settling to slumber. The roar of the traffic, interspersed by the staccato splutterings of motor cycles, murders sleep, and the fact that a party is being "swung" in a near-by house does not improve matters. Thumpity, thumpity thump—"We're all good pals and jolly good company!" One o'clock hears good-byes and farewell yodels. Exhausted Nature sinks off till Mr. Drake in the near-by fowl run kicks over the water butt and Mrs. Duck tells the world and all the little ducks how clumsy he is. A touch of the jungle comes from the lions' roars at the Zoo. A dismal shriek! One starts up in bed trembling—the fire engine! A marauding pussy drifts under the window, wailing her love. A boot hurled, and then peace. Clipclop, the first faint hoof beats of the milk cart horses, and from then till chanticleer takes up the torch and carries it through to successful conclusion, pandemonium reigns. Twittering of the birds, indeed! And Tour landlady says, "Well, I guess you had a Veal good night's sleep away from the country. Them noises of the cows, you know, when I was down at sister Lou's " —A.C.A.