THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXIV, Issue 115, 18 May 1933, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.) Dear M.A.T.,—The accounts of "Still Workers" appearing in vour column recently has reminded mc of another yarn. A retired building contractor took CONSTANT JOB. a trip to the Old Country and on his way over paid a visit to Egypt and saw some of the wonders there. After viewing the Pyramids he was told bv his guide that "they took hundreds of years 'to build. The contractor, with visions of the "go-slow" policy of some of his late cmplovees, answered emphatically, ' I don t doubt it." —G.C.H.

Mr. George Washington Junior saw the incident himself and reported it. A lady in a luscious fur coat was racing towards a destination unknown. As THE WEDDING. she turned a corner, perspiring freely, she all but collided with a grave-looking gentleman who was hastening the other way. She halted him. "Where do you get married?" she cried. The gentleman cupped his hand over his right ear and replied, '"It's a grocer's shop you turn to your right and then to your left, and you'll see a fire alarm on the corner—it's jest oppersit." Then said the lady, "Married!-— where do you get married? —the registrar's oflice, you know." The gentleman with the cupped fist said, "Ah —yes, I know—he s shifted; he useter keep the Hen and Chicken 'arf way down Brown Street. Hes took the Soap and Sponge in Green Street now. Yes, miss, I'm a bit deaf, but I 'eard yer—l 'eard yer! Good-bye!" The fur coat raced up the hill. One hopes she wasn't late for the wedding.

It seems that the London Metropolitan Police Force, successively commanded by a field-marshal and an air-marshal —Byng and Trenchard —i s not a THE IJEAR OLD happy family. Strange, SCHOOL. 1 too, as it was claimed during both regimes that the exalted rank of the commanders had attracted recruits from the—ah—superior classes, and that boys whose dear old paters had designed them "for Navy, Army, Church, the Diplomatic Service, Indian Civil Service, and what not, now decide to make policemen of them. When this new profession for 'Varsity men was found, "Punch" mentioned it in picture. It is midnight. The nice hall contains three persons —the owner, in pyjamas, with a revolver, the burglar, in rubber shoes and, downcast face, hovering over the silverware, and the policeman, in an apologetic attitude. The point expressed in the accompanying legend is that for the master of the house to hand over his college friend the burglar to his college friend the policeman would hardly be the kind of tiling, don't you know, for one old Carthaginian to do to afiother old Carthagonian—what?

The death of Lady Cynthia Mosley at the early age of 26 years may revive discussions of a paradox. The daughter of the Marquess Curzon (proSOCIALISM. bably the most conservative peer in Britain) became a "Socialist," and even Socialists smiled and wondered if the leopard could change its spots, although her -ladyship's grandfather had been Mr. Leiter, of the multimillions and the wheat market. When Lady ! Cynthia became political and appeared on the platform before her new, rather reddish, friends, several of them more vermilion than usual, broke into anathema and wanted to ruddy well know why this young aristocrat should come before the poor and 'orny 'anded wearin' a fortune in clothes—"enough to keep twenty families for a fortnight." They spoke of her clothes and lier "priceless jewels." So Cynthia retorted rather neatly that she had bought the frocks she was wearing in Bombay for three and elevenpence, while the priceless necklace she had on was pure glass and had been picked up in a Brum shop for one and ninepence. Still, if you follow, she had a couple of shillings in the bar.k, which, together with Oswald's little money box, deterred them from worrying as to whether sugar was 2Jd or 3d a pound.

Lord. Bledisloe, speaking at a community sing about community singing, mentioned the indefatigable combined songsters of the islands who have become THE TOM-TOM. so fascinated, with the exhilarating pastime that time (in terms of hours) seems of little moment to them. There is, indeed, among all primitive people this faculty for sustained harmony which, like Tennyson's brook—but there! Come to think of it, modern ttative harmony, so precious to tourists in Africa and elsewhere, is often about as native as assegais fashioned in Birmingham and glove boxes from the Mount of Olives, specially made in France. Tourists who hear Hone, Hine and the chorus are justified in their appreciation of the Maori voice, but this voice is so often heard in pakeha music, set to words that have been translated out of English into Maori, and must often amuse the highbrow Maori wlio knows both languages. In short, English hymns done into Maori and sung to the dear old tunes really isn't Maori music. Nearly all native races have their own community vocalism, always based, on synchronised action, set to simple and often terrifying sounds—not in the least like anything else, and not related to our civilised community vocalism. The uncivilised aboriginal of any country choruses and. poses merely to express his war-like (or other) passions, rousing his comrades to ferocity. Unlike the old-time Maori, the young-time pakeha Maorilander does not need syncopated sound to spur him to fierceness, for there is this in war literature: "The New Zealanders never sing on tli'e march."

Herein was told the true story of the man who had used matches for years and years. He achieved at last a petrol lighter, which he demonstrated THE TENNER. to friends publicly, afterwards—from pure habit throwing the lighter overboard. A thoughtful-looking person, stimulated by the story, tells of the lady clerk. Her immediate duty was to deal with two stacks of commercial documents—the one being of duds and of no consequence, and the other meaning much utu to her employers. A momentary and excusable aberration caused her to seize about fifteen hundred pounds' worth of letters, neatly tearing the whole in two pieces, casting them ill the waste basket. Unlike the gentleman with the petrol lighter, the torn documents were retrievable, and a bit of paste saved the situation—all being well. Some years ago a man who had shot down a few Fritz 'planes sat before the home fire, his teeth clenched on his pipe, talking between the clenches to an earthly pal. He felt in his pockets. Nothing doing. To his pal, "Gottamatch ?" "Sorry, I haven't," said the pal. The reformed airman got up, searched the mantelpiece. "Ah! here's a bit of paper"—screwed it up, lit it. at the fire and lighted liis pipe, throwing the paper afterwards in the grate. -Next day Mrs. Airworthy said to George the strafer, "George, dear, I put a £10 note under the little green vase on the mantelpiece before dinner last night. Have you seen it anywhere?"

A THOUGHT FOR TO-DAY. He whose aim is his own happiness —is Bad. He whose aim is the good opinion of others — is Weak. He whose aim is the happiness of others —is Virtuous. He whose.aim is God—is Great. —Anon.