THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVI, Issue 185, 7 August 1935, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.)

MORE RAIN: THOSE IN FAVOUR? (With apologies to R.'L.) UMBRELLA MANUFACTURER: We don't propose to make a fuss "When rain the landscape blurs; It isn't raining rain to us— It's raining customers. TAXI DRIVERS: Here's a health to frequent showers! A fig for sun—who cares? It raining rain to us, But lots of taxi fares. STATISTICIAN: Let sheets of water dim the sea. And overwhelm the town; It isn't raining rain to me — It's raining inches down. BOY WHO DIDN'T DO HOMEWORK: When kept at home you want to be, Wee raindrops have their uses; It isn't raining rain to me— It's raining good excuses. DUCK: On every soggy spot my J ea L , My lunch, my breakfast squirms. It isn't raining rain to me— It's raininof mud and worms. DIVER: It isn't raining rain to me. It's hardly more than dew; . When you're walking alone in tne depths of the sea. What's an extra spot or two?

There were eight or ten of them, genial bors of France, on shore from the visiting warship wandering aimlessly along the main street. Swinging towards L'ENTENTE them came a bluejacket CORDIALE. off one of our own, and as he neared them his face creased in a smile of welcome. "Cheerio, boys, 'how "-oes it?" But despite mutual desire, the lano-imge hurdle could not be cleared. Suddenly the British tar had a brain wave; his arm swept upwards, his elbow bent, his mouth opened, and one eye closed invitingly, as his head tilted back. Down went the barrier, and as he led the way he was followed by a laughing, joyous crew. It was after 6 p.m. when next I saw them, and as they marched merrily along down a side street and towards the waterfront our son of the sea wore a cap with a pompom at a rakish angle, and with arms linked and hearts made glad, they sang. It was l'entente cordiale.—Tau.

The admirable American, faced -with the impasse of unemployment, never says die. Uncle Sam will regiment eighteen thousand workless musicians and •THE PUBLIC supply organisations witli PAYS, relief workers per flute, per saxophone, per band, giving the people free entertainment and presumably causing the professional musician in a job to gnash his molars, cursing viciously. But the bit about unemployed composers is the best. Relief orchestras will play the_ music the composers have composed, but which no ■publisher will buy. The thought that the American publisher refused anything at all had never obtruded before. This extraordinarily kind gesture on the part of Mr. Roosevelt will give the neglected composer the chance to put over the world's worst in hall, in radio saloon—world wide. We shall be able to hear gems from the duds, and the duds will pick up their doles and be glad. What is Uncle Sam doing about the novelists who can never get their books published, the painters who paint without a hope of recognition or remuneration—the whole artistic community which starves in hope and dies in poverty? The answer is give them relief work at the toil they love. Let them compose and paint and write and play tunes —let them do their worst. The public paya.

Some superstitious soul in France has shot a sorcerer dead for casting the evil eye on his cattle. How simple these French peasants are! Of course, dreaming "ABSOLUM." names of horses or dodg-

ing ladders, welcoming black cats and that sort of thing, is not superstition, because we ourselves do it, but our immediate forefathers shared with the whole of humanity many superstitious beliefs which sometimes led to funerals. Next time you look into Cornwall you will find that the evil eye biz still intrigues the rural Cousin Jacks. It is only a few years ago since "witches" haunted the dukedom. One old dear who lived in a stone hut with a damp thatch used to either cure or curse cattle for a few pence. Anybody who had a sick cow went to her for curative herbs —or blamed her for easting an evil eye on it. Village lads reciprocated the attention of the "witch," and on a celebrated occasion while the old dear slept piled turfs on her chimney and jolly near smothered her. She arose and fluently cursed them, particularly naming the son of a wealthy farmer. He was a remarkably handsome lad with very long Saxon hair (although he was a Celt). Riding home one dark night he was caught by the hair by an overhanging yew tree and hung there suspended for several hours— almost died, in fact. All his people attributed

the mishap to the evil eye of the old biddy, and when he, a perfectly healthy young man, contracted an unsightly disease of the scalp, lost every vestige of hair, and continued to exhibit a bald head for the rest of a long life—they knew, or thought they did. All his life the young fellow who was caught by the hair in the yew tree was nicknamed "Absolum."

Exiled Australians, longing again to be present "Where the platypus twists and doubles, leaving a train of tiny bubbles," may be interested to learn THE that River Murray tours, BIG STREAM, which have not been com-

mon for years, are to be begun de novo. There are 1120 miles of Murray. During November and thenceforward the fatted tourist may wander along this gigantic stream through three stupendous States and watch the lifelessness ashore—lifeless as far as crowds are concerned. But he will notice a quaint thing. The humpy or coeky's home on the banks that he sees at ten in the morn-

ing will pop into view again after his boat has been travelling all day, for the river twists and doubles more deviously than a platypus, and in past ages that giant trickier must'have wandered wonderfully to find its way. The river is either half a mile across or forty miles across if the flood serves. In ancient days—and very likely in these petrol times —the river boats tied up to a tree while the crew cut firewood for flhe engines. Wood yards were sprinkled along the banks for hundreds of miles to provide fuel for the boats. The Chaffey Brothers, American instigators of Murray River irrigation settlements, took over the Murray River traffic in 1888 and got over the licensing difficulty by supplying free drinks to passengers. The pioneer of Murray navigation was Francis Oadell, who rowed from Swanhill down to the mouth of the Murray in a canvas coracle eighty-two years ago. The trip down the Murray River is'the most picturesque in Australia, but the time present millionaire did it. while he lay under a tarpaulin in the hold of the steamer, a large, fat sailor jumped from the deck on to his turn, and the scenery interested him not at all. They have made better arrangements for (paying) tourists since then.

A THOUGHT FOR TO-DAY. The Kingdom of Heaven within and a sense of humour without will carry you safely . . . over and through anythinganywhere.—Evelyn St. Leger.