THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 22, 27 January 1936, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.) Friend just up from Wellington this morning drops in to mention a rather clever move on the part of some womenfolk he mingled with in the THE PERISCOPE, windy city. It was_ at the gathering outside Parliament House when his Excellency was reading the proclamation. A vast crowd had assembled, and those on the outskirts not only could not hear, but the heads of those in front prevented, them from seeing the Governor-General as he stood on the steps. , Then one of the women had a brain-wave. Opening her bag, she tooK from it the small mirror which forms part of the vanity outfit. Holding it above her head and with her back towards Parliament House, she gazed into the mirror and saw ail there was to see. Her move was soon followed by others. Dear M.A.T.,—Your paragraph regarding slips that pass in the Press, occasionally brightening the columns of even the most serious journals, reminds NOT SO LONELY, me of a classic instance in the Old Country, in which I, as a very young journalist, was verj much concerned. When I add that his Grace the bishop of the diocese, and a very eminent bishop, too, was principally concerned, you will realise that it was no minor matter. And how easily did it happen! The '"silly season topic" at that time—ah me, 'tis nigh on thirty years ago —was that of the surplus women of Great Britain, "women who lead_ lonely lives," as the "Daily Whale" expressed it, with "Lonely Women" as a striking top headline. The topic could not compare with the Loch Ness monster of these later days, but it certainly did arouse a good deal of interest, and the bishop turned it to useful account, for, in an eloquent sermon on an important occasion in the cathedral church he pointed out that there was ample scope for the service of lonely women in the social work of the Church. Imagine the horror of those most closely concerned when, in the first paragraph of the sermon, the leading local newspaper printed the bishop as saying: "And in this diocese I have met many lovely women." After all, a hurriejl compositor can easily mistake "lonely" for "lovely," especially in my handwriting! I need hardly add that I by no means lonely next day, nor were various members of the newspaper's personnel. It is to the eternal credit of the bishop ("now with God," as Charles Lamb would have said) that ho took the unfortunate mistake so well. "After all, it is not without its humorous aspect," he remarked. Peace be to his ashes. — Bouverie. Formal military mourning for King George, ranging from the black arm band to the black-covered second button of the tunic, may remind many people CRAPE BANDS, that formerly • sartorial emblems of sorrow were far commoner than now. Widows were notoriously given to "weeds," and the rather dismal spectacle was universally afforded of whole families in clothes of severe cut and sable hue, complete with black kid gloves and hat bands. There is no doubt that these expressions of sorrow have brought comfort to thousands, and in former days neglect would have been regarded as serious flippancy. For instance, it is not so very many years ago that Dutch Afrikanders went out of mourning with great reluctance. During the South African war old burghers of the fighting forces might often be seen dodging about, their hats swathed in mourning bands. It was inferred that these mourners were wearing the symbol of grief in memory of some loved one recently killed in action. Inquiry elicited the information that a sexagenarian was often in mourning for his grandfather, for a remoter ancestor —for some dead relative who had distinguished himself in times long past. The state of being in perpetual mourning did not, of course, interfere with the daily round, the common task. Old Piet took his ekoff and his dop as if his grandfather were alive and kicking. The local keeper of the store —or "winkel"— never neglected to keep large rolls of crape in stock. You, too, brother, may have enjoyed little illnesses in your time—may have lain on the old charpoy counting the squiggles on the wallpaper or watching the SOLACE. gyrations of the ceaseless flies, Most of the fly stuff you squirt through the whatsitsname makes you feel iller than the flies, which merely take a snooze and arise to make love once more. During this last small enjoyment a relative awarded present rester a book—a book of modern short stories—to mitigate the flies, which one kept at bay with a reptile contemporary folded hard and making a good swatter. A peerless sole selector —and an Irishman at that—had collected the stories, and he has been up to this sort of thing for years and years. Once he selected a yarn with a smile in it —but not for many years. Shure it is a great profession clipping somebody else's hard work and refraining from writing oneself. So the sick man religiously waded through the bunch of modern short stories. The chief selection by a young genius was about a filthy rag shop that stank. The rag lady was always drunk. There was a young divinity student who spent his life trying to sell a book about God. Tlie student Wis unfaithful to his wife—and so on and so forth —as dismal a thing as you'd read in a month of Sundays or more. The whole of the book was worse than this—dismal devils whom you read about in London East End police courts —world without end. And—frightfully bucked, 6ez you—ono turned again to the flies on the ceiling—and then to John Guthrie's almost inimitable book, "The Little Country." Thank you, John—oh, thank you! Currently reported that a lady from Taranaki, returning from an Auckland holiday, left a ring on a wayside stone, forgot it, remembered it on a subTREASURE sequent visit—and reTROVE. covered it safely. Such cases seem common enough. Man (no longer with us) dropped an extremely valuable diamond ring while getting out of a London underground train. Reported loss. Stationmaster advised him to stay where lie was until train went all round London and returned to station. There was the sparkler, untouched, upon the running board of the carriage the man had left. Not so bad for heart of London stuff! Then there was the lady who lost a "Kia Ora" brooch on a New Plymouth beach—mourned it—and very likely bought another. No doubt the brooch was covered over with sand. But during a succeeding year the lady visited that beach again—saw something glittering in the sand—her brooch! Ponsonby woman washing dishes in sink. Subsequently found that a ring she had been wearing absent from finger. Searched the house. Nothing doing. Subsequently left house, lived in Grey Lynn for ten years. Old house "renovated"—old sink torn out and replaced—ring drops out of pipe. New owner advertises in newspapers. Ring'restored. Lady much pleased, especially as the ring was a wedding ring and the lady was at the moment wearing wedding ring number two. New husband interested, too. Woman in suburban garden throwing out vegetable refuse on garden. Some days later wondered where her ring had gone and decided it was gone for ever. Seven years later her husband, digging the .family plot, unearthed mother's engagement ring. "Times .were hard. It was at the moment when everybody was selling old gold. Mother sold the recovered • ring—got eighteen shillings for it. Father : remarked, "Huh! And I gave four pun ten < for it in Queen Street." ,