THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXV, Issue 267, 10 November 1934, Page 8

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.)

After all, John Bull, that renowned sleeper) occasionally unsticks an eyelid and looks around. Seasonally he lately lifted a lid to find that his revered THE OPEN EYE. friend, Jean of France, had been working like lc diable to produce enough Christmas toys, but couldn't satisfy the orders. German Michel rolled his sleeves to the shoulders and has been pouring out a stream of toys as big as Iser rolling rapidly. Germany put an embargo on French goods. The French shouted, "A has le Bosche!" and stuck a "contingem.ent" on .Michel's goods. Aβ Mr. Bull opened his eve he noted that there was an unexampled opportunity for him to fill every toy shop from the Hue dc la Paix to the Hue de Petite PoU in Montmartre. And little Jean and petit Jeanette will hug thousands of unbreakable British dolls thijr Christmas. And very likely we shall be able to even buy a British toy or rio in New Zealand, too. Who knows?

PERSONALITY OF THE WEEK

Ho lias been in Auckland since he was fourteen — and", he's sixty-three now. Has an unflurried, unhurried way, a young eye, and came from Glossop, in NO. 458. Derbyshire (don't say "Dirby"—call it "Darby"). Mr, Arthur firayson, president of the Auckland Automobile Association, smoking calmly, admitted that he'd had a happy life. Building blood is in his. veins—a family tradition—father's footsteps —Grayson Brothers Here in Auckland, as everybody knows. Arthur retired in 1910' from building. Was president of the Auckland Builders' Association for years, 13 director of this and that in a restful way. The calm eye hereinbefore referred to has gazed along the barrels of a shotgun thousands of times. Only inisse:l the duck and pheasant seasons once in thirty-live years —the year that "Wizard" Smith eaw the toheroas on the Ninety-Mile Beach. He yachte a deal with the son, who owns Windward —smart boat. He knows the roads of the }i.L by the inch—and the S.I. by the mile. Has concentrated largely on roadside notices in a country that used to be practically bare of the finding fingerpost — especially in the South Island. The. man who should have "Sans Souci" on his coat of arms says he knows ha is sixty-three because he was presented with an enlarged photograph on his sixtieth birthday —three years ago. He wants safe bridges and safe roads and direction signs galore. Dear M.A.T., —Many years ago a female child was born near Auckland. You must realise the fact that it was a female, or there is no point in the story; TONGUE TIED, it is essential. When the

country doctor discovered that the little lase was tongue-tied she was sent to the Auckland Hospital for an operation. One of those splendid doctor chaps who do such wonderful work at our equally wonderful hospital —and whose services, by tho way, are not half appreciated by most of us and get nothing for it—arrived to inspect the babe. He confirmed that an operation was necessary to enable the young girlie to talk, and gave, instructions to have her prepared for the operation next day. All was in order, and the surgeon arrived to find the babe held in the amis of a chief of nurses. "All ready, nurse?" "Yes." And that doctor, with his long experience and knowledge of the frailties of woman, said: "Don't you think it a pity to operate?"— A.L.D.

•There was a littlo party in the dear old home Hie other night, and the gramophone was at it. Mother, who is rather discriminating as to genius and that TOP RUNGS. sort of thing, said to a

visitor. "Would you like to hear Oraeie Fields sing?" "No, thank you," said tho gueet. "I've got a daughter at home who sings reely." The story, true or untrue, serves to hang the dictum on that it ie the odd person here and there who is. out of the ruck wlio captures the world and its cash. Now this Grade Fields, for instance, who is a little better than the suburban songstress, lately bought the Chelsea house of Augustus John, who, by the way, could paint just that bit better than you, my lad. The girl who puts it over a little better has thus the most perfect dancing room in London —and one of the largest. Even the studio has a rare parquet floor. Gracie holds huge informal parties, so a London stray telk one —loaves of bread, bars of butter, hams, and so on—and everybody cuts for themselves and conies again. The opulence of Gracie is mentioned in case anybody thinks that geniuses and that sort of person are two for three halfpence. There are millions of acres of room at the top where the largest bullion blossoms bloom —and most persons deserve the job they're in.

If bugles bore you, skip a few inches. References to the illuminated but buttered bugle found on a rubbish heap and now safe from battery in a MORE BUGLE, museum (said to belong to the First N.Z.M.R., S.A., ISO!), et seq) brought <a reply from Dr. W. A. Bowie, of Gisborne, who said the First hadn't any bugles and blew calk (if any) on a cornet. He was one of the- buglers—there being three besides the trumpeterisergeant, Fred Fox — a celebrated character. Here comes a letter from "Brownie," another of the said buglers, which contain® these conclusive lines: "Bnmpeter Bill (that is to say. Dr. Bowie), of 'Well-Played' fame, is slightly astray. We drew four bugles at Capetown and only used them once on the veldt." Still, even Brownie is unable- to explain how one of these bugles ever got itself beautifully inscribed with battle honours, got bashed in, got thrown on a rubbish heap, and then was immured in a museum. He says that liis own bugle was. trodden on by George Miller's liorso and has remained squashed, but menacing, to this day. Incidentally, George, whose horse had the honour of treading on the bugle, was the son of Sir Henry Miller, got a commission in the Army, and served the King until recently. He's a retired lieut.-colonel now. Shouldn't wonder if he doesn't write about busted bugles, too. THOUGHTS FOR TO-DAY. It is a greater thing to know how to acknowledge a fault than to know how not to commit one.—Cardinal de Ectz. It is a mistake to suppose that men succeed through success;, they much oftener succeed through failure.—Smiles.