THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 104, 4 May 1936, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.)

Once upon a time when motor cars were relatively novel Qiie of Auckland s most distinguished citizens made one of his periodical x ° visits to the Homeland. AN ARISTOCRAT. He returned, bringing AN w . th h . m a Rollg Eo y Ce car of the current vintage. It outgrew its shape and appearance—other days, other way , and so forth. So the old aristocrat was stabled and successors used. Various prices—a mere couple of thousand or so—were occasionally offered, but the old swell remained in the < r arage. One day tlie milkman on the round noted that the garage was open and cleaning operations in progress. He looked in, cast an eye over the aristocratic car, and turning to the chauffeur who was dodging about, asked if the car was for sale. "Yes, I believe the •boss would sell her," said Alphonse. Ask him." The boss didn't seem very, interested, and merely said, "Oh, yes, I don t i:iind. What will you give me for her?" And the milkman replied, "What about three quid. But the old aristocrat isn't doing a milk round yet.

Intending New Zealand authors who may write the beet sellers of the future may have heard of Eliza Acton, who published her greatest work in 1859. A BEST SELLER. Eliza was a gentlewoman who wrote a novel and with pardonable pride sent the MSS. (no typescript!) to a famous publisher. _ His Nibs was far from encouraging—told Eliza it was a pity to waste valuable time on trash when she ought to be engaged in writing a cookery book. So Eliza did; used the expert advice of Baron Liebig and her own common sense and skill and wrote her famous "Modern Cookery," which she dedicated to young housekeepers. Yes, it was a best seller ,(and a best smeller, too) and one almost sniffs Eliza's masterpiece as one browses over the battered volume. Eliza's masterpiece is marvellously illustrated with steel engravings of every conceivable edible, showing exactly how to carve them. Eliza's artist contemporaries and herself made a literary team hard to beat. One puts the old book back on to its shelf with a contented sigh—as after a lovely meal.

Various Press pictures of Ethiopian buildings, partaking somewhat of Western designs, combined with the flamboyant raciness of our dark African MOROCCO BOUND. Christian brethren, remind one that during the Morocco affair in which Ah El Krim, a notable soldier, put up a great fight, there was a distinct desire even in the British Empire to reproduce Moroccan effects—so that even sober British hostelries burst out into Noah's Ark patterns done up in bits of red and having weird effects in otherwise passionless streets of brick, mortar and concrete. A Wellington licensed victualler dared one of these Moroccan extravaganzas, and one morning the people woke up to see a Cuba Street hotel giving a colourable imitation of a Moroccan palace in garish reds, blues, purples and coloured glass. Aladdin lamps burnt within and Moorish maidens done up in red cretonne with headgear and near-jewels to match fluttered among the clients, conferring beer and other Eastern drinks on the customers. There was, of course, a temporary feeling that beer drunk out of Ab El Krim vessels, served by a Moroccan belle (named Smith) was far better beer than usual, and for a while men fought each other to reach the shrines. One presumes that as time wore on beer became just beer once more.

It has been regretted in Christchurch that •ibout one hundred people per month do not pay their tram fares on demand—mostly, one , gathers, because they FARES! haven't got the price on

them at the time —and authorities sometimes sue "pour encourager les autres," as the Ethiopians say. There are stories about fares. The classic one, of two great friends who joined a bus in London, is worth repeating. The conductor demanded the tuppence from the taller one. He dredged his clothes —nothing doing. "Lend me tuppence, Winnie," said Lord Birkenhead. Mr. Winston Churchill dredged his pocket's. "Sorry," he said, "not a bean!" Lord Birkenhead whispered to the conductor, "That'll be all right—this is Mr. Winston Churchill and I am Lord Birkenhead." "I've heard them tales before, cully," said the conductor, and a horrified traveller, who noted the incident, paid. In Wellington as far back as the horse tram days a well-known man was without his fare. The conductor knew him, and on explanation excused him if he promised to pay on the next trip. A working man and an old gentleman sat side by side and the worker said to Sir Robert Stout (Chief Justice), "The likes o' me or you couldn't get away with it—if we 'ad a tried it we'd a bin lumbered." And Sir Robert smiled that benevolent smile.

It is cabled that thieves removed seven hundred pounds' worth of furs from a Sydney shop window without being suspected of nefarious conduct, showSKILLED WORK, ing how extremely trustful humanity is. Sydney is one of the first homes of the astute operator. You remember the case very likely of the glib gentleman who, having'met a wealthy man from the country, took him for a ride in a city tramcar, mentioning that he owned it, ultimately selling it to him for a large sum? No? Then there was the case of the confidence man who sold all the Post Office pigeons to a stranger, received the money . No? The true story of the burglars who stole the furs while the unheeding world went by reminds one of the New Zealand case of the cool customers. In the suburbs of a populous Southern town there was a nice well-furnished two-storeyed house. The well-to-do owner and his family shut up the house and went for a protracted holiday. One day large vehicles arrived, the house was opened, and every stick of the furniture removed under the" alert eyes of the neighbours and the public. They merely wondered why Mr. X. was moving. But when Mr. X. and his family returned from their protracted holiday they returned, expecting to find all as they had left it. Not so—the burglars hadn t even left the garbage tin or the dog kennel.

We have been accused by overseas visitors of being the politest people 'in the world. An American gentleman was the last to make the observation. Polite TOWN PUMP. to strangers— yes. They

have money. We are not overwhelmingly polite to each o'tlier. It is the local habit to deprecate, even with venom, the district one does not live in. A Blue Lynnett will, for instance, ask X where he lives, and X, replying that he is a ratepayer of Conscmby or Byrne Bay, will politely retort, "That ruddy place—good heavens!" It was Monday morning after a deplorable Sunday, and one friend said to another, "I was out round about your place yesterday—my word, what a dreary hole!" The man who lived in the dreary hole, believing it to be the pick of the whole district, mentioned how common it is for Aucklanders to regard their particular spot as the only spot fit to live in—and are consequently easily the champion movers of the Dominion. He"asked the complainant where he himself lived. It was a mate of the complainant who answered the question. "You know where the old slaughterhouse used to be on Box Creek?" "Yes," answered the man who lives in the ruddy hole. "Well, that's where he lives." Hopours were even—and anyway, it was a rotten dav -everywhere, wasn't it?