THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXIV, Issue 109, 11 May 1933, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.)

M.C.C. FEVER. (With an apology to John Masefield.) They will 7 come south of the line again, no matter And ask"' is the Southern Cross as a guide to steer them by. For it's wild talk and it's all wrong and the whole world knows it. , It's a bad thing and a sad thing and the whole tour shows it. They will come south of the line again, for the call of the eleven aside Is a strong call and a clear call that may not be And 'all"we ask is a clean game and the red ball And li 3 fair view and the sure sense that a good man's trying. They will be here at the nets again when the 'weather is warm and fair, , , . And we will be filling the stands again and glad to see them there. And ail we ask is the clean slate from a friendly sporting rover. , , ~ And six balls on the middle stump in a six-bail over. A.H.

In the matter of Ethelred's ducks, entrained by a friend in the marshes, and which set Ethelred back over a crown for transport and other TWO BRACE. charges, there is the other story. Edwy had received from a friendly gunman two pairs of beauties, and was enormously bucked until he reckoned up the cost of landing them in the family larder —the necessity of paying out about six and a penny diluting his joy. As his family could not assimilate more than two of these gift birds, he conceived the notion of giving his office companions some of the joys of the season. Tickets in the raffle were one shilling each, and about fifteen eager duck-eaters were investors. The lad with the Roman features won the pair and rejoiced exceedingly. He instantly thought hard, concluding that one duck would be sufficient for wife, bairn and self, and so he raffled the other, cleaning up several much-needed shillings. The original recipient of the two pairs, therefore, paid for his gift and had a sum in hand, while the lad with the Roman features likewise scored —both of them drawing wishbones, too, at the family table. The giver of tlie_ birds had no part in the profits, except the joy of philanthropy. Friends of tigers and other philanthropists will regret that the local tiger market is dull. Zoologists report that the Auckland climate suits the tiger so GR-R-R-R! well that there is an unused surplus of these felidae, and that potential customers who used to be so keen on man-eaters at about thirty pounds per cat —or thirty shillings a stripe — 110 longer crave for even a tiger's whiskers, esteemed as a charm among natives of tigerish States and handed down through the generations. They could be used as super-cat whiskers in radiography. Local zoologists have obviously missed the thought that there may be an unlimited demand for tiger toenails, so cherished by retired colonels, rajahs and shikars or ornaments. Post-mortem tigers divided into component curiosities might fetch even seventy pounds a whirl. If these zoologists should find that the Auckland tiger population increases still further and there are no foreign buyers—even America has all the stripes and stars she can use—the obvious notion is to turn the unwanted tigers and their families loose and build steam-heated bungalows for them in the nearby hills. Personally, one craves for a locally-shot tiger, and hopes some day to hang on the drawing room wall a man-eater skin labelled "Surplus tiger (tigris Aucklandae) shot in the Birkdale jungle by M.A.T." It's a shame that dyed-in-the-wool zoologists should have the pleasure of the ■tiger harvest all to themselves. Arise ye local skikarees!

A lady school teacher who is happily once more' back-in the dear old classroom in the King Country admits that she "cussed" a bit as her holiday was BACK TO SCHOOL, ending. The train, pushing through the inky blackness, stopped in a bit of blackness inkier than the rest. A mountain loomed up outside the window, and the rain poured in torrents from the sooty heavens. As the train stopped somebody mentioned the name of her station. She started up, glad to be at her destination. With the help of willing workers, her heavy suitcase, her tennis racquet and her •mincer—yes, mincer—were thrown into the blackness, and she stepped forth. The train, which had been drawing a breath to help it xip an incline, pushed off. The lady with the mincer and other baggage was left in that Stygian wilderness —alone. She did not lack courage, so she picked up her gear—including the mincer—and faced the railway track while the heavens wept. She came to a river with a bridge over it, and with shaky knees walked over the bare sleepers to the other side, happily without mishap, but as soon as she cleared tho bridge she stumbled over a signal wire and fell. In the dark she combed the wet ground for her luggage, and found it—including the mincer. She wandered on and met a linesman, and it was a comfort to her to hear from that official that the train had stopped just outside the station. Concluding the tale of her adventures, Miss "Q.E.D." says: "Biked home- in the rain—fell off—walked." M.A.T. understands that her friends shrieked with laughter when "Q.E.D." told her story, but of course they hadn't carried a "sammy," a racquet and a mincer two and a half miles along a"railway track and over a river bridge in pitch dark. Good on her pluck! "Sporran" writes to say that Sir Evelyn Wood, V.C., started life in the Navy and ended it as a field-marshal in the Army, that Sir Hector Maedonald COBBLER'S LAST. ("Fighting Mac") was a draper's assistant and became a general—and that Sir lan Hamilton never grew lavender for a living. The father of lan commanded the Gordons in India, and when he heard that lan's rich aunt intended to buy the lad a bit of land near Mitcham Common so that he could grow lavender for the scent trade he strongly objected. The old colonel wrote to say he preferred an honest and open smell to one wrapped up in lavender and squashed tho boy's chance of becoming a perfumier. A few years later when Hamilton was wondering if he would ever be able to pass out of Sandhurst, a quaint uncle of his offered him eight hundred a year if he would go to Oxford and become a parson. One wonders if the history of Galiipoli—but there! Oil the other hand, what a quaint old world this would be if every cobbler stuck to his last. THOUGHTS FOR TO-DAY. All great art is the expression of man's delight in God's work, not in his own.—Ruskin. A man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a Heaven for?— Browning. Were all the world one constant sunshine we Should have no flowers; All would be drought and leanness; not a tree Would make us bowers. —Henry Vaughan. Others' follies teach us not, Nor much their wisdom teaches, And most sterling worth is what, Our own experience teaches. —Anon.