THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXIV, Issue 84, 10 April 1933, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.)

Perhaps you haven't heard the story about the chap who was an Englishman until he had met Macpherson a time or two ? The poor chap was suffering with BLOOD faulty circulation or anaeWILL TELL, mia or something of the kind. Anyway, he had to have a blood transfusion. It bucked him up. He ascertained that the donor of the lifegivin"- stream was one Macpherson. So he wrote 5 to the donor thanking him and enclosing a cheque for ten pounds. Time passed. The Englishman again became anaemic and another transfusion wag. indicated. He had it. He ascertained that Macpherson again had been the donor and so he sent a letter of thanks and a cheque for five pounds. Time kept on passing. The patient had a relapse. Again it was necessary to transfuse. The operation was performed. Inquiry showed that the donor was again Macpherson. So the man who used to be an Englishman sent Macpherson a letter of thanks.

Habit is second nature. One does the same thing with the same motion, the same gesture, year after year. Variations of habit suggest physiological or mental FORCE OF HABIT, change. An excellent ex-

ample of the force of long habit was recently afforded on a ferry boat. The middle-aged man with the ripe pipe sitting in a bunch of friends became almost lyrical about his new petrol pipe lighter. Inter alia, he mentioned that for forty years or less he had used every kind of match for his pipe— spoke of the old fizzling tanstickor, the wellknown "waxy," and the uncountable variety of "safety." He said none of these methods was half as good, half as efficient, half as economical, as the petrol lighter. You simply thumbed it slightly, the flame shot up, you lit your pipe or cigarette, blew it out —and there you were! As he delightedly explained what was to him a novelty he produced his brandnew lighter, lit his pipe—-and threw the lighter overboard.

"Tangiwai" writes: The story may not be new to yon, but I would like to pass it on with a suggestion that heads of deputations waiting on Ministers., PRIMAL CAUSE. M.P.'s, statesmen and such

might place themselves en rapport with the interviewees straight away by cheerfully introducing their remarks thus: Once upon a time, the eminent surgeon, the engineer and the habitual politician were engaged in an argument as to -which of their professions was the oldest. The surgeon claimed that his calling was the most ancient, citing the fact that a remote predecessor of his had performed the historic operation on Adam, the removal of a rib and the. creation of woman. "I can go farther back than that," said, the engineer, "for it is recorded in Genesis that the world was created out of chaos, and only an engineer could have done that." "Ah," •triumphantly said the politician, "but who created chaos?"

The talk was of needles. One man mentioned the needle the lady had stepped on and which gave her a nasty time for the next ensuing six months. Then THE PINCUSHION, another chap said that he

had had a needle buried in him and had to be surgically searched to retrieve the same. In this case the man asked the surgeon what would happen if the needle were left in. "Oh, you'd probably find yourself sitting on it some day," said he. Then Tom mentioned his wife's pincushion, given to her seven years ago by a friend who had used it herself for two years before that. The veteran pincushion was getting a bit shabby, and Mrs. Tom made a surgical examination. She subsequently said to Tom, "How many needles do you think I got out of that pincushion ?" "T*en," guessed Tom. "Try again," she smiled. "Twenty then," said Tom. "There were three hundred and thirty-seven needles in that pincushion," said Mrs*. Tom, impressively. "Moreover, every one of these released needles was as bright as on the day it left Redditch."

Statesmen have their difficulties—and the ' elector loves to believe that he is pulling the i strings. Naturally for their own protection political heads have from THE time to time invented fori OMNIBUS REPLY, mulae for replying to ■ angry questions. Thus if i the indignant ratepayers of Rohetapu demand that the post office shall be moved from the ' eastern suburb to the western, they have been calmed by the statesmanlike answer of the Minister that "the Government is keeping the matter steadily in view," or some other equally breezy and non-committal reply. Dominions' Parliaments naturally follow the example of the Mother of Parliaments. The House of Commons has for years sought a reply to all possible questions which will temporarily allay the fury of the member who asks questions on behalf of his maddened constituents. There is hope in Parliamentary circles at Home that a standardised formula has at last been found. In reply to a question last month Mr. HoreBelisha, Financial Secretary to the Government, said, "Whatever is appropriate has been, or will be done." It is obvious that this able Ministerial retort must be accepted for general use during the next session of the New Zealand Parliament. Southern grain growers recently received with thanks a hand-out from the Wheat Marketing Board of the nice little sum of twenty thousand pounds. The good GOLDEN GRAIN, news serves to remind a reformed Croweater of the South Australia of earlier days, when "cockies" with thews of steel and lashings of hope were take by a Government agent to the interminable gum scrub (malice) and told, "There you are! A square mile of this is yours for nix— grow wheat!" By working from "jackass" to "jackass" (the kookaburra trolls his little lay at sunrise and sunset) the cockie cleared his scrub. He used to slash a track for a bullock team, hitch it on to a rolling log which ran parallel to the bullocks (dreadfully hard pulling), crushing the smaller scrub down, and nicking the larger sticks with the axe. Once it was comparatively flat the cockie set fire to the scrub (as inflammable as petrol). He might burn his own square mile or somebody else's thousand square miles. The top stuff disappeared, but the gigantic stumps were still in the ground. So the cockie sowed his seed in the ashes, without harrowing, and thought he was doing rather well if the crop gave him a return of ten bushels per acre. Afterwards he spent a great part of his life from season to season grubbing stumps or ploughing where he could with a "stump jumper" plough. Harvest meant appalling labour. Box strippers (four horses) pulled off the heads of the wheat* in the combs, leaving the standing straw. Wheat dumped in heaps. Winnowing done by hand-turned machine, bagging done by hand, sacks sown per bag needle, sore . fingers—aching eyes. By the time the jocund harvesters with bleedhig noses and sore eyes went to bed it was tiriie to get up again. Conditions have improved. They needed it.

THOUGHTS FOR TO-DAY. Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more. —Wordsworth. The slave has only one master: the ambitions has of them as many as there are persons useful to his fortune.—La Bruyere.