THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 65, 17 March 1936, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.)

There is the story of the old lady who feels so young that she has abandoned the old home and has built a .brand, spanking new bungalow somewhere AN INSURANCE else. It really is a new COVER. sensation to have everything up to the moment, and her little move has been of interest to friends, relatives—and tradespeople. Among the professional people interested lias been an insurance gentleman, who, seeing this symptom of juvenility in a lady or three score and ten, approached her as a possible source of emolument. "What about getting your life insured? She very naturally replied that at her advancing age it would seem unusual —and expensive. No, she' preferred not to. He with those juicy arguments known wherever insurances are effected. She, however, remained adamant, and is at this moment still uninsured. Before he abandoned hope he tried a last chance. "Is your husband insured madam?" he askedl. "No, he isn't," replied she. "1)0 you mean to tell me lie has no cover at all?" "Oh, no, I don't say that; he has had eight feet of cover for the. past twelve years." Those excellent young Admiral Crichtons of Auckland who drive touring buses and orate to the tourist as they go are permitted an occasional ascent into TALES FOR humour. Thus you may TOURISTS, find one of these couriers on wheels, drive slowly past the building of the Supreme Court, there also being in tlio vicinity a well-known church. The humour is: "Oil your left is the Supreme Court and on your right a church. You may be married in one and by merely stepping across the road have the same dissolved." Many tourists permit themselves a sly cackle at this evidence of a. universal industry. On one tourist route the stranger is taken past a series of rather i'orbidding-looking wooden sheds. The couricr at the steering wheel, waving his free ha.nd towards the sheds, explains that one of the slowest industries in Auckland is housed in them, explaining that it is the place where the egg-laying competitions take place. "Once," said he, "during the competitions a rooster laid an egg. A Maori visitor, whose attention was called to this phenomena, excitedly shouted, 'Him-a-laycr,' thus christening the gigantic range of mountains which is so remarkable a feature of India." Practised tourists, of course, do not laugh loudly—still they frequently cackle slightly. Kipling being dead yet speaketh, and the tinkle of coin relative to his work will continue as long as the tinkle of his song. Scraps of Kipling, practically un-POST-MORTEM known to the public, are WAGES, already being dug out of ditty boxes and waistcoat pockets and sold handsomely. Some of it, had it been written by an unknown newchum, would have been basketed, but dug up with Kipling's magic name on it they are more than gilt-edged. One scrap recently offered in London was a Kipling version of "Auld Lang Syne," written for a Bloemfontein smoke concert in 1900, when the great one was a familiar sight in the town of flowers and funerals. Rudyard was a joint editor of "The Bloemfontein Friend" then —and even New Zealanders who at the time were living (or dying) in the detestable wa.r-time dorp were admitted to its historic pageii. Another MS. on recent sale was the "Egg Shell" stanzas written for a submarine petty officer in 1915 in the P.O.'s notebook. A series of manoeuvres were carried out for the benefit of Kipling, and the P.O. asked the poet to write him a bit of stuff while the submarine was resting on the bottom. Not known how much the scrap of paper sold for—but it would probably be a hatful. Nice for relatives who don't write anything but cheques! By the way, Kipling left three-quarters of a million. ,While he lived his "Jungle Book" alone brought him in ten thousand a year. Early editors used to heave Kipling's stuff out with a bang. One never knows one's luck. Talking about holidays, of which _ St. Patrick's Day is one, one recalls comparatively little bloodshed on any previous day, although most of one's fellow IrisliST. PATRICK'S men arc accused of lookDAY. ing for suitable divarshons —and an axe handle. The scene was a small Victorian town, where bushmen and others occasionally gathered $o celebrate an occasion with their latest cheque. The police were warned that a large Irishman with a red beard had picked up a pick handle at the local store where a selection was standing in a bucket at the door; and being full of fight and liquor the rioter started to clean up the place as a suitable amusement for St. Patrick's Day. It is history that the sole constable (himself from Tipperary) took him bare-handed when he had merely caused more than two small casualties. It was tough going, but the intrepid blue manhandled his victim neatly and got him into the wee, small police station. There he spoke tempestuously of the disgrace of kicking up a row on St. Patrick's Day. " 'Tis a sin and a shame," he said, "for a pathriotic -Irishman to be rioting on this Day, so it is—yez ought to be ashamed of yersilf—wat is your name?" And the wielder of the pick handle, much subdued, answered, "Fritz Eiclielbaum." It was even so. All hands who knew this large, red-lieaded gentleman called him German Charlie. The policeman exonerated the whole Irish race— and German Charlie was sent to cool his heels for a short term. Deai; M.A.T., —In his paragraph re the "Thirsty Prince" "H.M." is a bit wide. THe incident happened at Portland. The mighty battleship Dreadnought, THIRSTY PRINCE, nearly four years old, had some mightier sisters —perhaps "H.M." can remember their names. Bill May was Commander-in-Chief of the Home Fleet, not vice-admiral. R. A. Moore or Caltliorpe was Fleet Captain and Captain H. Richmond captain of the Dreadnought. The commander was Allen Hotliam and among others was Lieutenant Swabey, both these latter flying their flag on the New Zealand station. These and other officers were on shore. The spas happened about 1.30 on Saturday afternoon, deck cloths down and ditto heads, clear lower decks and up came both, then fall in abaft Y turret, which was the one they inspected. While mounting the ladder between the guns you should have heard some of the semi-silent remarks we passed. They were shown round (the Ab. Princes) by the flag jack and the 0.0.D., Lieutenant McMahon. The latter was the one offered the decoration as they were leaving. It was refused, as the Admiralty has to sanction such things first. As for champagne, if the Dreadnought's wardroom had it, "H.M." is the only one that knew it. The admiral might have had some, but as to the wardroom, where they had their refreshments—nix. The signal staff tried to dig out the Ab. flag. I've never seen one, neither had they, and I forget what they finished up by hoisting. As regards Sir W. May, we used to call him big Bill. Besides being big in height and weight, I found out one day his speech could also at times be big. I was wading ashore with him on my back (going ashore for golf) when I trod in a hole and ditched him, me underneath. That proved his weight, and his speech penetrated the water in my ears, so you can guess its strength. Did "H.M." ever hear of a London happening afterwards? A picked bunch of officers from the fleet met the "Ab. Prince" and his "officers," and, believe it or not, gave most of them real Ab. coloured eyes.-— BungaBu^ga.