THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXV, Issue 56, 7 March 1934, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.)

People do not jest in spirit at earthquakes, although thi'y may laugh per lip at one—when the earth has ceased rocking. The story of the man who got up in the NOT REALLY earthquake and thrust FUNNY, botli legs down one leg of his trousers is one of the proofs that laughter is liot for tilings that are pleasant and lovely, but for those things which are far from nice for the other fellow. Anybody who thinks of earthquakes thinks instantly of Wellington, where Nature has staged so many thrills, small and medium. Once an Auckland man who had lived in Wellington for some years was in his office talking to two friends from this city. A considerable earth tremor shook Panama Street, bringing down a day book or two, an ancient ink jar, somebody's lunch cup and saucer, and other small matters. The exiled Ancklander, turning eagerly to his friends, shouted, "There you are! There you are! That's one of our Wellington earthquakes!" He had no further time to expatiate on'the beauty of a Wellington earthquake, and in a few seconds all feet had clattered down every stair in that street, and the immediate populace was gazing fearfully at the shower of Oamaru stone falling from the heights of immediate buildings. During the same series of shakes a nonagenarian lady was sitting before her. mirror, her maid engaged in "doing" the old lady's hair. A 'quake came. Grandmama snapped, "You are very careless this morning, Jane—whatever are you pushing rne about for in that rude war ?"

The fact that one suburban nursing home is making adequate preparations for the reception in due season of eighteen little newcomers brings in a man THANKS TO who exclaims, "Thank God NURSE, we've got a Navy!" He endeavoured to show that the growing birthrate in New Zealand generally, might be a presage of war, according to the popular beliefs of the past. One was bound to point out that if the war waited until the prospective babies of this year's crop arrived at fighting age it would necessarily be at least eighteen or nineteen years I before Mars got into harness again. There are wizards who have mentally arranged to have the Greater War in 193*9, so that of these new babies the boy part will hardly be carrying a pack in it, and the girl part will still be nursing dolls. Note you, too, that Mr. Lloyd George has pooh-poohed the idea of any European war in the immediate future, possibly overlooking the fact that we personally live in the Pacific—so named, of course, for its peacefulness. One of the comforts to parents, and expectant parents, must be the perusal of daily literature in which they will find innumerable proofs that babies of the long ago have survived a whole chain of wars, living to celebrate birthdays with anything from eighty to a hundred and three candles in the cake. Welcome, little strangers!

| The thrilling cable news that the Duchess of York has ordered a Tibetan lion dog from Norway (no, the Dalai Lama hasn't shifted his quarters), thus setting SACRED DOG. a new fashion in dogs, is of interest to Alsatian owners, whoso stock may slump. But it is even of more interest because for centuries the reigning Dalai Lama used to make a present of a bunch of lion dogs to the Emperor of China every year. Dog lovers will instantly jump to the conclusion that the successive Emperors of China petted these woolly kuri, but that is not so—they merely ate them. From time immemorial the nobs of China have esteemed baked pup even above boiled birds' nests or sharks' fins. It was the sacred character of the Tibetan lion dog that formerly induced the Tibetans to condemn to death any person caught sending one away. The sacredness was in his flavour at dinner time.

Budapest intends to stage an international Lilliputian Congress next year, which it is hoped a large proportion ,of the ten thousand dwarfs of the world will LILLIPUT. attend. The cablegrams will tell you that these little folk will demand dwarf houses and dwarf furniture, meals for dwarfs and beds in boardinghouses in which a Tom Thumb does not feel like a chip in the I'aciiic Ocean. But, after all, what is most material in their hopes is that dwarfs be prohibited from marrying normal-sized people and that marriage between a circus giant nine feet high and Princess Speck (two feet three in her silken hose) shall be internationally barred. These dwarfs are perhaps too hopeful in their determination to produce dwarf from dwarf—but perhaps •the matter is too deep for cheery discussion. The subject of dwarfs naturally recalls. the subject of the bantam battalions of the war. who. however, must not be confounded with dwarfs, being all normal men of small size and as hard as the devil. In 1015 there was a very large camp of kilties in Ayrshire, and among those present were a bantam battalioy largely recruited from Cannongate—the world's hardest cases. The bantams were not angels, and as a punishment for conduct unbecoming in persons whose new job was to kill freely, these ardent little devils had their Glasgow New Year leave stopped—'Hogmanay wiped out. The rest of the camp entrained for leave. Once clear of the camp siding little faces peered from under seats, hoarse little voices piped the larger Jocks to know if all was clear. The girl train ticket collectors counted heads and took tickets, but no bantams paid. Man, the Bantam Hogmanay was a' rich t i

Planned emigration from Britain to overseas is being discussed again. One dropped across a well-worn man the other day who had gardened THE ORCHARDS, and what not for many decades. He once worked in a British State for a State enterprise which desired to attract settlers from Home with full pockets and sentimental thoughts about long miles of luscious fruit trees, down which a man might ride on liis charger, watching the cheap labour glean the crop and pouch the profits. Naturally much of the appeal to retired officers and others was photographic. Delicious books were published in which sections of glorious orchards were shown with men in wide planters' hats standing under the boughs looking like pygmies beneath the giant trees. ''I had a real good job there." said the man. "I used to cut branches off one tree (fruit and all) and carefully tic them on to another tree. The photographer was a clever bloke —you never saw any of the bits of wire and rope'in the pictures. I saw some of tlie London papers in which the pictures of those trees were published. They looked some- i thing marvellous."

Sir Arthur Dudley Dodson, the eminent and beloved Canterbury pioneer who has died at tlie age of ninety-two years, never grew old. It is possible that he kept GREEN OLD AGE. young not only because he was physically strong and mentally alert, but because he loved children, children loving him. L T p to recently people passing by his house at the same time each morning would hear the strain of his flute, for he was indefatigable in Ms practice of this instrument, and a notable executant. What, however, is more remarkable is that only a few months ago Sir Arthur habitually rode a push bike.