THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 113, 14 May 1936, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.) He is a wee boy of seven. He returned from an afternoon out, tattered and muddy. His mother was slightly alarmed. "Wherever have you been, son?" she HIS TEAM. anxiously asked. "I've been at the park, mum," he answered proudly. "What were you doing there?" "Playing football." "What team did you play for?" "I played for Emergency," said he. "You'd better have a bath," said mother. Dear M.A.T., —The presumably intentional mixed metaphors of Mr. S. G. Holland, M.P., were good—"throwing a spanner in the cogs to try to draw a red herMIXED ring across the trail," METAPHOR, followed by "the Government is trying to throw dust in the eyes of the people." A bettiv series was that by a candidate in an election speech. "Let me briefly recapitulate the principal heads of the proud platform which we hope to launch on the battlefield of political strife." But a certain borough councillor surpassed both these. A tennis club applied to the council for leave to play on an unused portion of the borough domain. The councillor opposed giving permission, as other clubs would want to have the same privilege. "Mr. Mayor, if we give permission to this club it will be to introduce the thin end of the white elephant." —D.E.

The paid destroyers of tlie Shortland Street Post Office are nearing tlie stone portraits of earlier day celebrities, including both Maori and pakeha. The THE live foot passenger pass"GARGOYLES." ing by is warned by the notice "Danger" to desist from walking where historic debris might flatten them out. Careful workmen have erected little verandahs —three sticks to each —of the celebrities, or what the uninitiated public has been trained to believe are "gargoyles." The sculptor wouldn't recognise the appellation and the true gargoyles of Notre Dame or other old spots would grin meaningly. The artistic perception of breakdown workmen in protecting stone images from falling bricks is to be commended. No falling brick has yet hit a passing person, but the little three stick verandahs erected over our disappearing "gargoyles" suggest steel helmets for pedestrians, or, in the alternative, good corrugated iron umbrellas.

The following story, contributed by word of mouth, is guaranteed untrue. Two clerical | gentlemen, meeting unexpectedly at a farmhouse on Sunday, were INSIDE sharp set when they INFORMATION, arrived. The farmer's wife, not expecting any visitors, had prepared a couple of roast fowls for the family. The clergymen, knowing nothing of the family arrangement, partook heartily—and so the poor family had none — or words to that effect. The farmer took the clerics round the dear okl place to show them the cows and tlie blackberries, the ducks, geese and fowls. A rooster strutting among his harem lifted his voice and crowed. "He seems a bit proud of himself," remarked the canon. "So he oughter," replied the farmer. "Two of his brothers are in the ministry." (Note: Ha! Ha!)

You've heard many a well-embroidered tale (from husbands) of the wives who gallivant among the shops on a bright afternoon, rush the last possible car HOT AND COLD, or bus and reach home five minutes before the husband arrives from work, gets busy with the tin-opener (or the cold forequarter), fries the leavings of the cold potatoes—and feeds the Master of the House while ho grumbles. Well, here's a true-life sample told by a homing husband. He arrived from his toil at the almost identical moment as his wife, who had taken advantage of the fine day for an afternoon outing. And so the man sat down to cold mutton and bread. A harmless domestic argument ensued. Just as the husband had settled down to his cold portion, the lady suddenly said, "Oh, dear—l quite forgot!" ran to the stove, and produced a corker dinner,, lvpt and lovely. Slie had prepared the same before she had departed for her little outing. The tiny breach was healed —the facetious husband "took back all he said," and peace settled over the domestic scene. Since bagpipes have been mentioned, so many people have called to speak of musical instruments that selection becomes imperative. John is reminded by bagMUSICAL pipes of Fiji and the dark CRITICISM, musicians of that dusky paradise. When it seemed impossible to prevent our sable brethren from beginning a band, the population at last sat down and bore it. The ultimate excellence of this musical combination excused the opening agonies, but in these initiatory five-finger exercises and lung distension there was sorrow. White men listened with interest and ultimate pain to the dark lads on practice nights, squeals, groans and other instrumental sounds proceeding from any local spot harbouring potential bandsmen. The excessive, almost pious persistence with which these musicians practised affected a local professional man so much that he protested one evening with a shotgun loaded with a relatively harmless charge. He peppered the rears of these engaging pupilfj and broke up the practice for the evening, but it is history that this little powder and shot interlude did not really affect the ultimate perfection of the combination. They still have a band in Fiji, very good, too —and no one shoots it.

Dear M.A.T., —The cablegrammatical reference and your illogical eulogium on aggressive bagpipe playing recalls to me an interesting episode in a small AusFLANAGAN tralian town possessing AND OTHERS, two pubberies, the more popular being one conducted by one Flanagan, the trade being largely a night one. There came to a nextdoor house one [Mackintosh, who commenced practising on the pipes. Flanagan's habitues, unappreciative of Mackintosh's efforts, commenced to drift to his opponent. Mine host appealed to the Mackintosh to moderate liis ardour, but received the reply that this was a free country, etc. Flanagan decided on reprisals, and when the first skirl rent the air next evening he was greeted by a fusillade of stones from a party of "bhoys." After a spell came a fierce burst of "Scotland for Ever." This provoked further volleys, which were followed by a defiant "Cock o' the North," followed in shrill succession by the "Wild McGregor" and sundry other provoking pibrochs. Flanagan—good malm—alternatively directed operations and assuaged his detachment's thirst—but the perfervidum ingenium Scotorum (Glenlivet's best) was not assuaged one whit. At length a lull in the attack was followed by one of the bhoys complaining there were no more stones —-tliey had shot away all their ammunition. Flanagan, returning to the scene of attack, was heard to sadly remark, "Sure, he'll niver shtop now. You've emptied my coal bin oa me."—J.McV.