THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXV, Issue 148, 25 June 1934, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THS MAN ABOUT TOWN.)

There are no new umbrella stories, but there are new umbrellas, although some thrifty women are buying the old husband-beater types, getting them sIior"BUCKSHEE." tened fore and aft into " approximate chubbinees, and carrying on in the fashionable way. Particularly" on Bi£ Bargain Days do women with umbrellas enter famoue emporiums and retire thence leaving their umbrellas behind. It therefore becomes the duty of. merchants and their staffs to care for the brollies until their owners come back (as they usually do). Emporium people are frequently unaware ot the identity of the ladies who depart without their gamps and are bound to trust those applicants who return to identify left property. And so on occasions none too rare, a nonchalant lady will enter an emporium and say to the floor controller, "I left my umbrella here yesterday —I wonder, if I might have it back?" and usually the polite attendant will lead her to a young platoon of left-behind ganip.s, asking her to select her own. She selects' an excellent one—and some time later the real owner of that brolly comes, in and is rather disappointed. In short, she has said farewell for ever to it.

Excusably peevish, the housewife answered the doorbell for the seventh time between ten of the morning and twelve noon, and when she threw open the door, FOOD OF LOVE, the fifth itinerant vendor

of that morning buret into his little fciy and began producing the goods. She, for her part, intimated that there was nothing doing—and slammed the door, leaving the world and the doorstep to the itinerant merchant. As he was descending, the fivesteps leading to the world, the daughter of the house began her daily practice on the piano. She was apparently but partially acquainted with the intricacies of the scales she was attempting,, the neighbours were bo well aware—she was &• trier. The hawker, catching the first chromatic notes, hesitated, sat on the lower steps, and with his head in his hands eat motionless. The housewife who had slammed the door on him, live- minutes later emerged with a wisp of fireside carpet, intending to bang it on the steps. There she found the hawker, his eyes shining with ecstasy, and one hand held to his right ear. "You here yet?" she said in an unfriendly voice. "Yes, lady! I love music. I tried 'ard to go—but I couldn't tear meself away. Music 'as alwis drored me—l carn't 'elp it." He fingered his battered suitcase, displaying its contents. The woman, whose heart was touched by the m-ueieianly display of feeling in a mere hawker, havered over that suitcase and selected article after article. "How much will that be?" she asked kindly. "Toon-tenpence, lady," said he. The grateful chapman descended the steps, closing his right eye as lie went. The mother entered the music room on tiptoe. Kissing her daughter, she whispered, "Play that toon again, darling." And the neighbours, with gritted teeth, allege that she did.

"The largest wooden building in the world" (words, which have never been set to music) is threatened by Wellingtonians avid for, change, and that great LANDMARKS, and splendid barn—the Government building— may come clattering down in swathes of good old kauri to celebrate the centenary of the capital. The chief amazement "about the great wooden barn is that it has braved the battle and the breeze for sixty years and that no match ever thrown in it or alongside it has ever broken, into "a spectacular conflagration," although Wellington during that time has witnessed the absolute gutting of immense and much newer piles built of brick, stone and concrete. The authorities once got the wind up on a perfectly calm day, and the only real dictator we have ever had—Mr. Seddon— issued a ukase that nobody should be allowed to burn it if armed guards could save it. For several weeks no one could pass the guard without official permission, and even newspaper people trained to mention Mr. Seddon every day, and to bow in print to every official, .had to produce evidence of their bona fides. The authorities had a guard tent pitched in the drive and the glint of bayonets interested passers-by for two days or even longer. Happily, nothing- of an incendiary nature happened. Of course, the great barn was built Of wood—the finest building timber in the world, too—for fear of earthquakes. And apropos 'the marvellous escape from fire of equally inflammatory premises, Auckland has old-fashioned wooden dwellings in nearby streets, built in the British style absolutely abutting on the pavements, and against which for the larger part of a century smokers passing by have thrown their matches. There ie no real reason why the historic barn in Wellington should not be pointed to with pride at a second centenary.

Very likely you had forgotten when you read that the fourth Duke of Wellington had died that there was a Duke of Wellington. You have probably combed THEIR GRACES, your intellect for remembered specimens of his deeds, and have found no memories. Wherefore you review the ranks of Their Graces (twenty-nine of them, exclusive of the Royal Dukes), and you find that, on the whole, tliey have been content to let father, grandfather or great-grandfather do it. From Abercorn to Wellington or Westminster, there are names that stick in the memory. Everybody knows that the communal prayer "God bless the Duke of Argyll" arose f'rom the celebrity of one of this ducal house in setting up scratching posts for citizens. Very likely you know that the Duke of Westminster owns immense slices of London and millions of acres elsewhere, was shot in the war, and rescued by his servant, who got a V.C. Ducal divorce, too, may have interested you. And, of course, the Devonshirea have been in politics somewhat, and there was a bright Hartington, if you remember, and the celebrated duchess whose picture in a swell hat was stolen. You must admit that his Grace of Manchester is worth a line—cowboy, actor, soldier, sailor, journalist—but what has he done? The Duke of Norfolk hasn't discovered the atom or searched the stratosphere, but there has been a Dulce of Norfolk since 1483—and that counts. Yes, of course you know the Duke of Portland. Carbine died on his form. Roxburghe sounds romantic and suggests a high life, but the Duke of Leed.s! , Ye gods, how prosaic! Wouldn't be Surprised to hear he kept a cloth mill. Of the twenty-nine Dukes, one hae been privileged to gaze on two only outside the ■Royal House—Beaufort riding to hounds in Gloucestershire country or under a. lovely busby at a yeomanry parade; and Somerset gazing , thoughtfully in an ironmonger's window in Taunton. "Yes," say you, "but what ■have they done?"

THOUGHTS TOR TO-DAY. Bo not deceived: God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.—St. Paul's Epietle to the Galatians. ■ It matters much whether a man has great desires, or merely desires greatness.—Anon. When two quarrel both are in the wrong. —Anon. Absolute rules are a device of cowardice to escape the difficulty of decision when an exceptional case occurs.—John Stuart Blackie. There are some things it is wise to forget. Don't you think so*—Mabel Barnes Grundy. Evil often triumphs, but never conquers. —EouXi