THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXIV, Issue 259, 2 November 1933, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.)

A peevish person recently declared that the cat population of Auckland is too large. He is perhaps unaware, of the cat's utility as a scientific gardener. The CAT GARDENERS, bronze beetle is a busy blighter, He is catholic in his tastes, attacking plants and leaving no leaf unbitten. Full fed on foliage he falls to the oround, burrows, lays eggs, producing grubs" who begin where he left off—chewing the roots and usually eradicating the plant that has been the apple of the gardener s eye. One recent day an observer, mourning for his plants, noted the family cat scratching at a root, thereafter enjoying a rich repast of bronze beetle grubs. Has the Cawthron Institute in its scientific search for natural enemies of insect pests taken into consideration the potential powers of cats in orchard and garden? The bit about mum and the Kruger 'sovereigns produced Bill, hitherto unknown as a numismatist—and the story of Auntie's Oom Paul sov. The Kruger REPUBLICAN gold in question was "SOVEREIGN." thought so much of m the days that are no more that it is enclosed in a frame of gold, with little blobs of auriferous treasure all round, the whole appearing like a ship's steering wheel, with dear old Oom and his whiskers as a centrepiece. And, believe it or believe it not, the possessor desired to sell it for old gold. And so Bill took it to an old goldery, where a sum of twenty-seven and sixpence was offered for the lot—poor old Oom! M.A.T., the most unskilled coiner on earth, has been told that a Kruger sov. of a certain mintage is worth more than another Kruger sov. The reverse, showing a tilted trek wagon with shafts, is supposed to be more precious than one showing a wagon with a disselboom a single pole. It is supposed some cranky numismatist, foreseeing enhanced prices for mistakes in coins, deliberately designed the mistake —and the British Mint did the rest. One is, of course, absolutely foggy as to whether the disselboom or the pair of shafts is the rarer design. In the absence of the possession of any kind of sovereign for two decades one hesitates to be pedantic as to design.

The Duke of Devonshire, whose illustrious name will be remembered because a famous Duchess of Devonshire was the subject of the world-renowned, portrait CRASHING CADS, that was stolen, went to a horse show the other day. His Grace there said, "Motor cars are foul, stinking things and horrible brutes that make life hideous, ruin roads and raise the rates. We formerly travelled as gentlemen and not as crashing cads." Somebody who apparently didn't travel like a gentleman jumped into the breach to point out to the illustrious horseman that British motor users pay seventy million pounds per annum in various fees and taxes —and supply one-tenth of the British revenue. It could have been pointed out to his Grace Victor Christian illiam Cavendish that the stinking things have made the roads of' civilisation what they are —and have marvellously enhanced the scope and pleasure of crashing cads and people who don't crash, and are sometimes quaite naice. With as much worship of the horse as anybody, ong is bound to recall (per literature) the days when there were four feet of mud on top of the highway —not to speak of highwaymen with queer old pistols at odd corners, ready to make the life of a gentleman, be he duke or not, a perfect hell. People fizz round the bends of Hounslow Heath to-day in fifty pounds' worth of car, on a smooth surface, who in liorse-days would never get past the corner of their" home street. You really mustn't take too much notice of elderly noblemen who speak at horse shows —especially when they own fleets of Bowls Boyces—and still travel as gentlemen.

While we cheer cricketers, footballers and the silken jacket, our Vancouvrian cousins cheer hens. The cable informs us that Mr. M. Rutledge's White LegEGGING HER ON. horn hen Dereen (or can it be Doreen?) laid her three hundred and fifty-seventh egg on the three hundred and sixty-fifth day amid the cheers of fifty poultry experts, who were obviously on the spot eagerly anticipating this ovarian triumph. It occurs to one that Dereen is more nonchalant as an egg producer than one's own Leghorn Trixie, who, if cheered by fifty lusty settlers at the psychological egg moment, would fly squawking from the neat. This expression of gladness at basic things in Canada suggests other variants of thanksgiving. For instance, what's the matter with calling on the Municipal Ohoir to sing songs of praise as the lumpers swing a hundred thousand boxes of good New Zealand butter aboard the ocean tramp? It would be equally fitting for the Mayor in his robes, attended by his councillors, to lead the hymns of thanks on the wharf containing ten thousand outgoing bales of wool. Ardent community singers could give dock concerts in the presence of much cool mutton about to sail for Smithfield. We burst into song, or excited hoorays, at events that are not reproductive, when, as a matter of pure horse sense we should be trolling choruses in hen houses, hymns of thanksgiving in the sheep paddock, and psalms set to music in the cow byre. Dereen weighed four and a half pounds and laid forty-four pounds of eggs. Very likely Mr. Rutledge applauded her every day. Praise is a wonderful stimulant, not only to a hen, but to men.

The gambler, liaggard with anxiety, purchased three tickets in a lottery. They set him back threepence —for the tickets were a penny each. If he could THE ART UNION, only win a prize! He had won a first prize once. It was a really-truly art union—none of your alluvial gold stunts, but with prizes of real pictures, painted with real paint and framed in gilded moulding. "The artist who perpetrated "these works believed in largeness. The first prize was at least six by four feet, including the dreadful frame. The artist said it was his masterpiece —he ought to know. Its sickly greens and mauves are still a nightmare. The winner picked up his prize four and a half miles from home. He carried it to a tram. The conductor very properly emitted a decided "No!" The passenger cackled. At a taxi stand the enraptured winner asked how much it would cost to take winner and masterpiece home. "Fifteen shillings!" muttered the taximan. All the wealth the winner possessed was the prize and ninepence. You can't realise a six-foot oil nightmare easily— and so the winner walked. Utterly exhausted, the man reached his suburban cot, obscured by the massive masterpiece. The wife, artistically inclined, started and almost swooned, demanding an explanation, and fearing it had been bought. The winner stowed the prize in the washhouse, pending mnral disposition. For some years it, cheered the weekly washerlady. The family left for another town. Transport facilities were afforded for the prize, which mother thought it was a pity to burn. It stayed in a stable for four years. The family left for another town. The winner, taking a handful of four-inch nails, spiked that atrocity to the stable wall with nails all round the frame. A professional remover coveted that painting. It was awarded to him. He prised it off the wall. He (one subsequently learned) raffled it—and made ten pounds.