THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVI, Issue 275, 20 November 1935, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.) The little afternoon function was over and the young mocker, who had taken her fl rst baby to be jgj KISS-PROOF. b i» robuet health. Young pa, detailed immediately 10 remove the baby'l visiting costume and to prepare sustenance, set about his task with the thoroughness that distinguishes all bie action,. He undid the strings and remove the infantile bonnet and feaeted a keen e> c on the sweet little face. Suddenly he started, paled sliffhtlv, and, turning to the young mother, shouted, "Here, what's thief' The mother rushed to the rescue. "What's what; sho murmured, affrighted. "Tbtal" he rayed, pointing with a trembling finger to sinisterlooking red marke—you might almost call them streaks— on- the blonde forehead of the heir Together the devoted parents leaned over the infant and Sherlock Holmed in unison. What had happened? Had somebody bumped baby? Had some nefarious person—but there were no nefarious persons at that little function. All at the function were ladies who adored babies. The mother drew her hanky and wetting a corner in the time-honoured way with an unlipeticked lip, very, very gently rubbed tbe streaks. They resisted. Mother puckered her brow and thought a bit. "I know," she said. "Lipstick! All the girls have been kieeing him!" There are no kissproof babies. "Lan" writes: Though cats do kill rabbits, I know of one rabbit that no eat has been able to kill, though many have tried. Pie has lived under our house for FIGHTING a couple of years or more RABBIT. —I do not know when he arrived, as he was probably there for a long time before we first saw him. Nor do I know wlience he came, for ours is a thickly populated suburb and I do not suppose there is another of his kind within miles. But there lie ie, as cheeky as "they make 'em, grazing in broad daylight on the back lawn. Occasionally a strange eat tries to add him to the day's menu. As the cat stalks him, bunny keeps on nibbling as if ho was unaware of its presence, but when, having approached within a few feet of him, the hunter springs, bunny, with nice calculation avoid* it by the narrowest of margins, and 011 he goes,' not to the safety of his burrow, but round and round the lawn, with the cat in hot pursuit. Tf the cat overhauls him, bunny, quick as lightning, jumps to one side, and the thump of his hind feet on the cat's ribs can be hear many yards away. Invariably the eat turns a somersault. Playing tag with bunny is quite a game. When, after a couple of thumping*, they give up, bunny chases them to the fence or' the foot of whatever tree they seek refuge in. and. sitting up on his tail, waggles his mobile lips at them. Whenever a saucer of milk is put out for puss, bunny shares it. so the hunter who saw cats and rabbits fraternising may not be such an Ananias after all.

A weary traveller on life's highway admite that he lias never been killed By a push bike on a suburban footpath. He has taken innum-

erable smart paces to the NARROW SHAVE, left as a series of subur-

ban hikes have whizzed past him round a corner during the past eight years. He hats made speeches to flying pedaliera as they whizzed past that would do honour to a' Ked Ruler. All have bent their faces and smiled —and have whizzed on, that day and to-morrow. On a recent day one of the Owners of Footpaths buzzed by in the conventional way. The weary old traveller made his epeeeb as Fate and the tyres went past. Said that it wasn't fair—that's all. And the Owner of the Universe retorted, "Too many punctures cm the road." Presumably this is an excellent sample of the reasoning of the selected proletarian. If a picked proletarian is riding a four-pound-ten push bike on an ash road and a bit of vitrified ash with a sharp edge pierces a tyre, it is an intolerable affront to the proletarian. But if to save ninepence a proletarian rides on the path, bowls over a citizen, reputable or disreputable, sends him to hospital or the grave, makes his children fatherless and his wife a wklo>\—good enough for him! He oughter jumped quicker. Inner toobs k inner toobn nowadays. These are not the days of pure reason or of one motorist constable to every path infested by Owners of Roads on push bikes. People are reluctant to "put the pot on" of potential killerj engaged in the pastime nf preventing £yres and tuber; from sustaining damage. It is a email thing, of course—except to the aged and weary, the woman with the pram and the bunches of school children who don't i.ven hear the bike bells ringing out the first few bars of the "Dead March." There used to be citizen vigilance committees.

In the matter of Bardsley's badge of admission to Sydney Cricket Ground, picked up in Auckland and at this moment in these

unsafe hands, people are TREASURE entitled to presume that « TROVE, gentlemen of the Press

rush about in the official world lifting a coat lapel, disclosing "The Badge." Princes, presidents, politicians, policemen (in American literature) spring to the call of the Press badge like troopers to the trumpet —and we are all devotees of Sam's literary system. Here's a man who had a Press badge—Xo. 1 of its kind in Xew Zealand—who possessed it for one decade and a lustrum. Once he exhibited it —but that wae when he was fiddling in hie pocket and thought it was a shilling. You see, his own dial was bettor known than his own badge. Princes used to say, "Kntre, monsieur!" Policemen murmured, "Right-oh, sir!" Premiers patted the badge .owner's shoulder and smiled, "On your way, honey!" (sez you). Well, then, a young Press sleuth one late night emptied his pockets on the dressing table and discovered to his horror that his darling little blue badge with the silver fcrnlcavee was absent. Had ho paid it over a zinc counter? Had he dropped it into a street charity box? Had he perchance .awarded it to some deserving person almost as poor as himself? He mourned slightly for days. It had gone. In the future he would have to press hie way forward unassisted by his little ferns. He breathed the. tragedy to a professional friend, word of the tragedy went north, east, south and west. The number of the badge, 40, was even printed. Within a measurable space of time a letter arrived from Dunedin, the lady writer declaring that under separate cover please find J The Badge. She had visited Auckland. She had picked up the emblem on the pavement. She had dropped it in her bag. She had not known where to send it. She had noted the published number. Please receive same. Quite a romance. Here it is, cheek by jowl with Bardsley's pass. THOUGHTS FOR TO-DAY. Talking is like playing on the harp. There is as much in laying the hand on the strings to stop their vibrations as in twanging them to bring out their musio. —Oliver Wendell Holmes. What infinite heart's ease Must kings neglect that private men enjoy; And what have kings that privates have not t 00, Save ceremony, save general ceremony ? —Shakespeare.