THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 124, 27 May 1936, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.) Hitler Über Alles neglects 110 institution where lie may Impress the inmates with his supernal altitude. He is paternally concerned with those pathetic people THE RIVALS. who suffer mental illhealth. Always on his ' visits to their hospitals he asks the patients if they know who he is, and (it is hard to say it) in riiany cases they do not know the Leader. On a recent occasion, asking an intelligent-looking patient if lie knew who was speaking to him, the man replied in the negative, and the Leader replied: "I am Hitler • —the head of the German people. I am greater than Wilhelm, than Frederick the Great,'than Bismarck, than Ludendorff, than Hindenburg." "That's how I began myself," softly replied the patient. What a funny thing it is that people long to alter place names that have hardly been up long enough to get dry. "Kauriland" is pretty enough, but "North THESE NAMES. Auckland" is euphonious, indicative and sensible. Strangers would be bound to say "Kawriland," and in a few years it won't mean anything, as every timber wolf walks round every kauri and longs to kill it, burn it, cut; it or bleed it to death. "Northland" is quite nice—and tells no taradiddle, for (excuse one for saying so) "The Wintcrless North," although good advertising, is not invariably veracious. It has been mentioned that there is a "small suburb" in Wellington (all suburbs outside Auckland are small suburbs) called "Northland," hence the apparent undesirability of calling a district in the North —Northland. The Wellington suburb, it may be forgotten, is named, not after a direction but after a man —Lord Northland, heir of the Earl of Ranfurly, once a New Zealand Governor, a Guards officer who was killed in action. So it would be neither nice nor advisable to change the suburb name because the North wanted it. There are probably pages of "Northlands" in accumulated gazeteers, and it can't be helped. Points-of-the-compass names are always desirable—but a place that is named after a man is usually held to be unchangeable. Let's keep "Northland." He had read a yarn in this column about hard men and called in to say he had heard of a man who cultivated hardness—the glassy eye, the harsh voice and ONE TOUCH all the rest of it. Any OF NATURE, exhibition of sympathy was apparently anathema to this man. He was in the hire-purchase business, but he had a very tender spot in his heart for his own three kiddies —and they had whooping. cough. He used to toil with them in their midnight spasms, and, it is alleged, went to work next day and "took it out of the staff." And if instalments were overdue —well, I ask you! One woman bought a bicycle from him. She paid up all right for a while, then defaulted. The collector, finding her in poor circumstances, succumbed to her pleadings. The hard man snapped liim and said, he'd go and get the money himself. He drove out in his Hispano Suiza, determined to collect money or machine. As he leapt up the ste;w of the woman's home he heard the familiar whoop of suffering children. A wan woman answered his knock. "I have come for the bike—or the instalments," said the Hard Man. Whoops from afar. The woman left the H.M. and flew to the rescue. It took the steel out of- him. He couldn't help saying it when she returned: "Whooping cough is the very devil, isn't it? Have you tried ipecac.?" and melted. But he gathered his waning forces and said, "Now, what about that bike —those instalments?" A chorus of whoops drowned his voice. "I can't —I can't. I haven't got the money," said mother. "Never mind, ,never mind!" said the harsh, cruel man. "Have the bally bike—l'll give it to you!"—and did. It will be noticed if one looks at one's feet and the surrounding pavement that the art of sign writing is flourishing. Traffic notices of severe plainTHE PAINT GUN. ness with indicative arrows, curves, lines, dots and other devices grace the roads and pavements and have created almost a new profession. Even whirling along remote roads one passes over these areas of paint—and the pigment trade thrives. It has been magisterially suggested that this paint gesture be extended —that "guns" be provided to spray the cars of speeding motorists with indelible paint so that the speckled vehicle may be recognised and detained later. One envisions the intrepid motor policeman not only learning the art of mixing paints and pigments but undergoing a course of marksmanship. A flying inspector, momentarily deviating his paint-gun, might unwittingly pepper a bungalow, a tramcar or a pedestrian. Paint practice in the transport service might lead to inquiries from householders desiring to offer their unpainted houses as targets. Trailers would be exceedingly suitable as targets. Motorists with shoddy cars might take advantage of this shooting system to completely renovate the exteriors of their cars. Successive spatterings by transport gunmen would assure a complete covering. The paint-gun has an advantage over the weapon used by American point and pursuit cops. The American gun is loaded with bullets. Noted with interest that wallabies are increasing in numbers in the South. More menaces— bite the scenery, their forefathers having taught SPICE OF LIFE, tlrem this nefarious art during the past one million in Australia. The lads are joyfully shooting them, of course, and are getting good bags not forgetting good pouches, for the wallaby is marsupial. Present retired hunter hates wallabies—particularly those nasty ginger-coloured rock wallabies. Once Cobb, Doc and present hunter killed kangaroos, wild horses, hybrid sheep-goats, goats, pinkies, wallabies, 'possums, native bears, etc., for a crust. Cobb and Doc took a packhorse and their way from the bush to the township for stores, leaving their dear young friend on his own amidst the big trees, the yowl of dingoes, the rotten row of native bears and the alleged laugh of the laughing kookaburras. Two rivers in flood prevented Cobb and Doc from returning for a fortnight. Position in stringvbark and mud huts thus—one lone hunter, no tucker barring half a kerosene tin full of wild honey —shocking food after a few days on it solus—and no ammunition. The .continued absence of the ration-carriers left the intrepid hunter in camp somewhat hungry. There were three rifles (useless as sticks without cartridges), but jerking the levers, one exuded a single round. The brave young starver I immediately loaded the Winchester, stepped over the skyline, and with marvellous luck banged a rock wallaby dead. The wallaby was as thin as a lantern and lousy, had ticks and a tail worn by years of suffering. He was stewed. No worse stew ever was made— but it was eaten. As the eater was gnawing wallaby tail, the lads with the packhorse hove in sight. Welcome—oh, very! There was bully beef and candles, cartridges and soap, flour and raisins—luxuries to burn—and a spot of the best. There was Cobb's dog, too— and he wolfed the remnant of that villainous stew. The trio burnt the rest of the honey. A THOUGHT FOR TO-DAY. Be careful what you look for, for you tnay find it. —Spanish proverb.