THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVI, Issue 121, 24 May 1935, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE, MAN ABOUT TOWN.)

Dear II i.T.,—Love, so it is said, is blind. But why pick on love? A parochial patriotism that Places Sydney's harbour bridge among the world's wonders seems BRIDGE OF SIZE, to me not only blind, but dumb, too. Poor Sydneyused to boast a harbour; now it has only a bridge: and what a bridge! The whole urban panorama, including the once famous our harbour" is dwarfed and dominated by this monstrous and ungainly steel hump. Some wonder. —Wondering. It is of entrancing interest that a gentleman has discovered a new process of indicating earth-bound minerals by a divining rod. " Pushed to its uttermost THE DIVINERS, conclusion, the art of divination per rod would give us bo much precious metal that our tin shillings could be transmuted into gold or platinum with radium trimmings and divil a sowl a penny poorer. One has only seen diviners staggering round with a bit of stick in search of water—the most precious of all subterranean finds—and one has been quite disappointed, having admired a waterfinding clergyman or doctor, to find that little "iris and small boys often divine just as well as a Master of "Science. It is sad to note that this divining miracle is, like the Army, becoming mechanised and that notable British firms sefl machines which look dreadfully like electric stoves, mangles or radio sets, made expressly for divining water or minerals. Divining with a twig is a gift. Fewer than nine hundred and ninety persons in a thousand have this gift.

Dear M.A.T.,—Reference to the old Hyderabad in your column recalls memories of the "barefoot" days when'as carefree, sun-tanned youngsters we would set OLD BOYS. out from Hokio Beach to L fish for "spotties," as we called them, inside the wreck. A two-mile trudge along the sandy coast would faring us to where the old vessel lay half-embedded in the sand. Getting aboard was rather a risky business, as we had to climb up a huge crack in the hull amidships; but once we had gained the top deck, burked shins and cut knees were forgotten in the thrill of imagining ourselves pirates, and scampering over the barnacleencrusted decks. Although we had plenty of nibbles our attempts to hook the elusive "spotty" with pipi bait were not an unqualified success; but that mattered little. To sit there with our legs dangling above the sparklino- water, munching the sandwiches which fond mothers had provided, and thinking the "long, long thoughts" of youth was bliss indeed. We would wait until the incoming tide began to creep around the rusted wavebattered old hulk before we made a helterskelter dash for dry land and home, where, to our ciders' sarcastic remarks concerning the sizo of our catch, we always had ready that hoary old-timer about the corker big "spotty" that wo had half out of the water when lie slipped off the hook and got away. —Andy.

Bear M.A.T., —The remarks in the "Star" about giant native skeletons that have been found in Xew Zealand interested me. Well, I have seen the .living SON OF ANAK. man, or at least a straight descendant of these sons of Anak. It was forty-five years ago. I was gumdigging in the bush and 'fern country near the Manukau Heads, on this side. One 'day when looking over some new country I heard a noise and was amazed to see a dark man fully eight feet high shoving his way through the tall manuka and negligently pushing a long gum spear two and three feet deep into hard clay Boil just as easily as an ordinary man would push it into a swamp in search of gum. This Maori, for such lie was, had harsh, straight, prominent features and lacked the broad nostrils and heavy lips of the ordinary Maoris. He was spare of build and square of build, but his bony framework was massive to a degree. The depth of his chest and width of his mighty shoulders were prodigious; and the long, sinewy arms and legs were wonderfully proportioned to his powerful torso. The man's face was neither fierce nor stupid. The aspect was of general tranquillity. I was over six feet and husky, but this man awed me. I looked up at him like a child. He neither smiled nor frowned at me, just said. "Tenakoe," and walked away. I was glad he went. I never saw him again, or ever heard him referred to by the other Maoris. I should say that he w'eighed all of thirty stone.—Yours on the Bible, A.H.G.

An eminent clergyman, speaking cheerily about Australians to southern New Zcalunders, told the appreciative audience of the Cornstalk troops who FOR VALOUR, camped in Bethlehem; with the necessary eonelusion that "the shepherds watched their (locks by night." The padre, however, neglected to tell a prior story of the little ways of Australian troops. It was at Pushfontein, in the Transvaal, in 1900. Slim Piet and his burghers had cut off a troop of Aussie horsemen —quite near to the small dorp of the same name. It looked like a forlorn hope. The decimated Aussies retired in fair order to a kopje and valiantly defended it, avoiding a complete rout and ultimately sending Piet away with a flea in his ear. So pood a save was*it that ultimately the O.C. Aussies was informed that one V.C. would be awarded to the man who in his opinion had been most valorous in that excellent fight. The officer left it to the men. Whoever in their opinion had most deserved the supreme honour should get it. The unanimous verdict was that Trooper Bill Boyang (the name is fictitious) deserved it most. "What did Boyang do?" asked the officer. A hard-faced sergeant spoke, "Well, yer see, when we blokes was holding the kopje, all our water bottles was empty and we was as dry as wooden gods. Bill wasn't present, but later he eome back with a nine-gallon keg of beer —he'd bin down to the dorp pub nnd pinched it. He brought it to us under rifle fire and saved our lives. Course, he had a wet or two on the way — but he got here. Give him the V.C.—he deserves it!" "He does," said the officer piously.

It was a bonny morning, one of Auckland's best efforts in blue and gold. Still, the sun, never hurrying, left the towering architectural cliffs of Shortland THE SKIPPER. Street in temporary gloom. So the young taxi driver, pouncing on a stray bit of rope (probably a "Star" performance) on the Neuchatel, picked it up and skipped violently and continuously until his toes tingled, and his fingers, too. Interesting not only to Harvey but to newspaper persons who discovered the benefits of circulation. It occurred to one as one accompanied the skipper (in thought) that on this taxi stand, not so many years ago, horse cabmen of a non-skipping vintage moved up and down dismally in winter weather and waited patiently for the opulent fare and his five shillings, while poor old prada stood on one leg and then on another, or scraped a weary foot, longing for summer —and even botflies—to mitigate another shivery day. It recalled the dashing juvenile scavengers who never got killed —or very rarely —among the feet of the cab horses whose drivers wore bidden by street corner notices to "walk round corners." Old horse cabmen, still surviving ill the guise of everyday pedestrians, do not presumably require to skip (with a rope) niatutinally, skipping from kerb to kerb in this spark era being sufficient exercise. But the man with the skipping rope did make one wonder if thousands of opulent citizens do not ply the. busy rope on a thousand verandahs these sharp mornings. One fears not.