THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 151, 27 June 1936, Page 8

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.)

"I see" said the man to liis mate the other day, "a blacksmith's shop was burned down" "Oh," said the other, I didnt know there were any blackSILENT ANVILS, smiths' shops left." Which, ,of course, is an exaggeration They are noting the gradual disappearance of smithies in England, and there is a sort of literary tear dropped at the lecent demise of an old smithy in Essex which luw closed its door after hundreds of yeais woik. Old Camberwell folks will be glad to hear t la the smithy there, which has been run for tvvo centuries by the same family, is still Woikin o —and with a hand bellows at that. !Near y all the famous smithies round and about London have gone. A very ancient one at Southgate was complete tiee, as per poein. When Charles I. fled from Oxford he called in at the smithy at Harrow and o-ot his horse shod, but even this has not prevented people from buying motor cars, and that smithy has disappeared, too. Up .to a. few months ago there was a smithy just oil the Strand, but it is gone. A great firm which used horses had kept it going. The nrm abolished .horses and the sound of the smith o anvil is heard no more.

People are so friendly. There is a certain type of innocent-looking man who invites confidences by his appearance, although he sits silent. On a recent day THE GARDENER, one of these innocents sat on a park seat waiting for a bus and a man of the utmost respectability (although he wore 110 collar and carried an aromatic parcel of fisli) sat close alongside. He almost snuggled up, breathed onions and stimulant into the ear of the. innocent, said the weather was changing in Noo Zealand since he was a boy, and "You oughter see me cabbidges." The innocent replied that his one desire in life was to see cabbidges, and the breather extended his soiled hands to show how big them cabbidges wos. And the carrots as he growed—big as that (new feats of manual mensuration). What could be better for a man's missus than to go out into the garden and pick beans? He'd seen the time'when there was enough beans on the sticks to feed four people. He said that if God made the soil, youghter till it —till it —till it. "You've got a large garden?" asked the innocent. "Me section is nearly thirty feet deep," said the man, breathing hard. "You gotter garden?" "Well, not exactly a garden," said the innocent, "but I've got five thousand ax;res and ——" "Hello! There's me bus!" said the gardener, gathered his fish, his breath and hie and bolted. People are so friendly.

It is absolutely astounding that anyone is ill. The world seethes with panaceas for every ill, and the minds of laymen seethe with cures that cannot be disreSURE CURE. garded. People in the

hands of eminent medicos who do their level fiercest to make new men or women of them, listen with patience to the army of folks who pick berries in the bush or glean herbs of the field, boil the same and swallow the result gladly. These kindly folk are honestly concerned for you and are true believers, if faith will move mountains, boiled iningi-mingi or diluted muhgi-mungi will surely remove a mere complaint. . The other day. a man who limped badly tottered after a man who didn't limp half so badly, overtook him (although he had never spoken to him before), and asked him if he had ever taken boiled bungi-bungi for rheumatism. You simply gather a sugar-sack of bungi-bungi, put it in water, boil it down until it is reduced to as little as will go into a large beer bottle, take two tablespoonfuls three times a day— and lo! you "screws" are gone. The man who limped less than the other asked .the limper if he had cured. his own rheumatism with bungi-bungi, and he said, with a beatific smile that it hadn't gone, but he was feeling better. Would the other try it for his rheumatism 1 "But I havn't got rlieumatism," said the other; "this is a football leg." "Oh!" said the bungi-bunger. "Yes!" said the old footballer.

The King's Gold Stick 'in Waiting is of special interest to New Zealanders, as Queen Mary's brother (Earl of Athlone) has visited lis and still keeps inTHE GOLD-STICK, terested touch. The Earl, who was Prince Alexander of Teck, is patron of the First N.Z.M.R. Association, and recently wrote mentioning the names of New Zealanders with whom he was associated during the South African War, referring to "Robin, who was a charming man" (the late Major-General Sir Alfred Robin, who commanded the First Troops to Leave New Zealand) and others. Prince Alexander was with his regiment —Hussars —in Africa before the war, and during the war was immensely popular because of a certain large sprightliness and imitative faculty. His immaculate appearance in the field while acting as staff officer ,to General "Mickey" Malion contrasted with that of the famous old soldier who was notoriously uncaring in matters of dress. One New Zealander once Inquired as to who was "the old transport rider who was fussing up and down the lines" —or words to that effect. It was. the Prince's "boss." When the Earl of Athlone was appointed GovernorGeneral of South Africa, the appointment seemed specially fitting for one who knew much of Africa like the back of his hand. He had a narrow escape from a charging vildebeeste during his tenure of office, but lie has always liked to take chances. Even at school he was notoriously daring. He made jokes, too. At a rather nasty affair in South Africa in which the odds were hi favour of Piet and Co. lie was asked what he was going to do. "Gallop!" -said he, laughing gaily. "I'm too big a target."

The retired watchmaker confided the story of Hone's watch to the scribe as these two threaded their way through the tussocks of an alleged suburban footHIS FATHER'S path for which rates are VOICE. • gathered—only this and nothing more. And the watchmaker said that when he was pursuing his calling in the King Country, Hone, an opulent Maori, came to him with a very fine heavy gold watch. It had been the watch of Hone's father—had been presented to that old gentleman. It had passed—when the old man passed —to the eon. The watch was voiceless, and the watchmaker, examining its interior, thought it rather a hopeless affair, and would have preferred not to tackle it. Hone persisting from time to time, the watchmaker said he would not attempt restoration for less than five pounds. Hone at once agreed —and the resoration was ultimately effected. Hone, receiving his rejuvenated watch, listened with the greatest delight to the "tick." "You make my father speak," he said, was quite overjoyed, paicl up the fiver, and spent a good deal of time holding that old ticker to the ears of his fellow Maoris. He wished all his friends to share in his father's voice. From time to time thereafter—whenever the Maori was in town —he took his watch into the restorer, chuckled gladly, and intimated that his father was still chattering blithely—and threw down a pound note. The watchmaker, of course, intimated that he had been properly paid— but the Maori simply laughed gaily and left the shop and the pound. Subsequently Hone 011 each occasion that he went to the township, produced the watch, said that his father was still talking nicely, and invariably dashed down a pound and bolted. In all, and despite protests, this grateful customer left nine pound notes—paid altogether fourteen pounds for the restoration of "his father's voice." One wonders if the grateful Hone is still listening.