PERSONALITY OF THE WEEK.

Auckland Star, Volume LXV, Issue 285, 1 December 1934, Page 8

PERSONALITY OF THE WEEK.

Several thousand people call him "Hickie," or, more familiarly, "Ernie," ancl lie doesn't mind. Theodore Ernest Hickson was born in Auckland in 1889 and is NO. 461. now" president of the New Zealand Lawn Tennis Association. Is with the New Zealand Insurance Company. He went to Victoria —and there to school when seven, came back to Auckland and went to three schools —Otahuhu, Beresford Street, Bayfield. Admits that as a lad in an estate agent's office he earned five shillings per week, subsequently transferred to the" stair of Macky, Logan, and thence to Hellaby's. Then he sought the outside—went farming in Taranaki for six months—came back Iconic and went to the New Zealand Insurance Company. Played cricket for Ponsonby —was in the fourtli grade team which won a grade championship. Tennis —all! — went to the West End Club, Green Street, Ponsonby, which was closed when the war opened —racqueteers for the front. Now belongs to Remuera. Was secretary of the West End Club years and years, and president of the Auckland Association for three. Went away to the war as ah officer with Maoris. He trained with the 11th N.C.O.'s, by the way, and fought with the 19th lot in France. Succeeded Sir Edward Mitchelson as president of the Auckland Horticultural Society. «A dahlia fan —and very nice, too! He was the first to start the dahlia seedling game— entirely fascinating. Two champ, blooms two years in succession. An Auckland provincial champion in tennis doubles twice —with J. P. Grossman and 11. G. Goldsmith. Mrs. Hickson is a daughter of Mr. Crowtlier, once Mayor of Auckland. "How many children?" "Two." "Boy and girl?" "No!* Girl and boy." When General Alex. Godley was here he told us that included in his coat-of-arms was the figure O'f a New Zealand soldier—very natural in a military HIGH HONOURS. man's coat-of-arms, seeing that so mail}- eoats-of-arms through the centuries have been aggressive. Heraldry is full of spears and threats, axes, knives, culverins, daggers and armour— and all sorts of implements of death by which the ennobled holders lived. There is some change—and some modern coats-of-arms contain implements unknown to the proud possessors of Norman ancestors. The deathdealing device as an honour still persists. The late Sir William Mills, whose, playful little handfuls of death you may remember, had three bombs-on his coat-of-arms, Sir Douglas I Alexander (an American munition man), who I received an English baronetcy for his services, has "Three grenades fired proper on an azure 'shield (in relation to the sky in which they were fired)." A relatively harmless coat is that of Sir Hv.okl Bowden, whose arms include "two cycle wheels charged in the centre with a winged foot, couped all proper." Even a motor bike lias its possibilities of slaughter the same as the bombs and grenades. An itinerary might be arranged for a succession of Royal'visitors, for of a surety even the contemplation of the visit by a single member of the House of THE OLD Windsor spurs the citizen BEDSTEAD, to feats of derring-do. On a recent morning one strolled in a distant suburb where the tui tootles and the bungalow flourishes in its latest coat of paint. It was not Clean-up Tuesday or anything of the sort, but as one ranged alongside, a man one knew staggered out his garden gate —propped open by a flower pot—with the remains of a mkUVictorian iron bedstead. He deposited it outside, chatted fluently for a moment, and dived back, returning with a swag of old iron that would delight the heart of a Japanese shipbuilder, munition baron or safety-razor blade manufacturer. Accused of an unusual activity, he was asked why he should deliberately miss his usual transport connection with the city, to indulge in this clanging battle with domestic debris, much of it obviously dating from the days of Victoria the Best. "You can't have rubbish lying about when the Duke of Gloucester comes," he said. "But lie isn't coming this way, is he? He won't know whether you had half a ton of rusty iron or so." said the interloper. "I never thought of that," said the toiler gazing at the old bedstead. "By Jove! [ could make a back gate of it —give it a lick of green paint and hang it on a couple of turned-up beer bottles." "But what about those old kerosene tins?" "Oh, I think I'll let them go," he answered sadly. Amateurs notoriously step in where professionals fear to tread, hence this, suggestion that two cows deceased from swallowing rusty wire were SALT. merely seeking iron tonic. People who have -stayed with tile cows and watched the beasts gathering milk for the factory may have noted that a cow will on occasion pick up the discarded bone of a near relative and mumble it for hours. Many people regard this as over the odds—a sort of cannibalistic practice not in keeping with the aristocratic pedigree of Jersey Lass. She, poor thing, might often ■be weaned from cannibalism by providing the salt that she obviously lacks, and she mumbles a bone because it is salty. If you were a cannibal, lacking salt, you might note the delicious saltiness of a shipwrecked sailor's bone. Jersey Lass, chewing bones instead of cud, often gets part of a deceased relative's structure wedged in the throat, so that the farm staff has thereafter to fish for the same with curses. The question is, should cats be supplied with a ration of salt, for they undoubtedly lick each other's fur when in a contemplative mood. Town people, observing the speckled cow among the daisies, butterI cups and blackberries, observe the affectionate demeanour of these alluring beasts, which will | lick each other hour aftcc sweet hour. It is 1 not love —it is salt.