THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 156, 3 July 1936, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.) The client was leaving, and the professional man stood up suddenly to' B J» k ® as his customer departed, ihe profe man stood up two tmee LOST AND penny bits droppedj 1 ' 0 ™ FOUND, his clothes and fell to tne carpet. He doesn t know to this moment where they ca.ne from But it reminded him of the man who, h*vin lunched at a restaurant, picked up his ticket, searched his pocket, and said, Great Scott. Where's that half-crown —I. know I had a hal crown?" and searched again, without result. He and two companions combed the immediate surroundings, without finding anything. A friend paid the ticket and the trio walked away into the street, still pondering the mvsterv. The man who had come to the lescue for his friend's meal suddenly stepped sharply down a kerb at a street corner. The halt crown, which had been nestling in the cuff of one of his trouser legs, jumped out ai rolled in the gutter. Present writer, stimulated by this event, has since made microscopical* examination of all his four t™ ll3 ® cuffs for half-crowns, but barring a bit of dust and a cigarette end, there has been no result. A little bunch of men standing on a suburban corner hoping for a bus noted that a local power pole had been cleared away,.others erected, and that little THE alterations had taken POWER POLE, place. On the whole, they agreed that it was an improvement, and the youngest, who probably wears khaki at intervals, mentioned that these slight alterations had something to do with the new defence arrangements —safety first, and all that. And an older wondered aloud if when the raider comes he will first burn the weatherboard suburbs with incendiary air work, or drop high-power stuff from the clouds on to the city itself among the commercial palaces. While the distant bus was screaming up the hill they prattled of dugouts for the old home and wondered, if the town was besieged and the tucker supply cut off, what would be the best thing to grow outside the family dug-outs; whether it would he any protection to hide behind scoria walls, and the price of rats a dozen after, say, a siege of two months. Then they took the bus at the exact time-table moment, connected with other organised transport in a perfectly orderly way. got into a splendid city where everything was working as smoothly as oil, laughing merrily at the bare idea of anything happening to us. and, incidentally, giggling at those little defence measures. It seems they were just joking—just a bit of fun.

The untiring Mr. Semple has introduced a new technique in Ministerial labour and has been photographed swinging a sledge hammer at hammer and drill work MINISTERIAL in a masterly manner. The TECHNIQUE, newness of it is that Mr. Semple had his coat off and his hard-liitter ("bowler" 'or "Derby") firmly on his brow. In less democratic tinnjs a Minister or a Mayor would assuredly have wielded the sledge, the shovel or the wheelbarrow attired in a frock coat and silk hat. One has witnessed an eminent person in these garments strive so heartily that he has shaken his silk hat to the ground—and not a smile from anybody. The sweetest memory of a public function in which an eminent took riart is that, of Mr. Aitken (Scots Mayor of Wellington), who picked the first stone for the Wellington electric tramways near the Biggest Wooden Building in the World. The American foreman handed to the Mayor a "polished off kind of a pick," and .bade him go to it. Mr. Aitken was a large man, but he' had never held a pick before, as he was ah habitual merchant—but this revered amateur made such a terrific blow that he broke the pick handle, even though he didn't scar the hard road metal. It was considered a quite satisfactory opening. Xow an eminent wields a working tool as if he were good for eight hou^s.

Mild discussions on dialects serve to remind one that here and there within our gates our otherwise perfect selves speak the dialect of our parents, "WUR BIST though we be native of .GWINE?" this soil. It is most noted in some Scottish New Zealanders of the South Island, where one supposes the young people were brought up in rather lonely places where only mum, dad, grannie and grandad—and their relatives— lived. Taranaki has born New Zealanders who will either talk broad Devon with you or the impeccable standard Noo Zilland. Ourselves—that is the native-born—hearing the inferior speech of our imported relatives (say you), are really most adept in imitation of them—and indeed highly amusing. There are people one knows, born on the spot, who can drop an aitcli with a crash and imitate even Zummcrzet at its drawliest. By the way, you'd hardly believe that all United States variants of the Mother Tongue are based on West Country English dialects. Those Pilgrim Fathers have a lot to answer for. And in the King Country, as one lias remarked before, there used to be a pure-blood Chinese gentleman who told splendid Scots stories in unimpeachable Scottish dialect. But he was born and brought up in Glasgow. An interloper believes what he says is a classic example of rural West Country, which he thinks would not be understood in Ponsonby. "Hello, Garge—wur bist thee a-gwine?" "Ow, Oi be gwine down strit." "Waat bist thee a-gwine vor?" "Ow, Oi bo gwine to get zum mawsey purs." "Can Oi kum along?" "Oy, if thee oot —but theest want zum." Sir Lionel Phillips, the Johannesburg millionaire who was one of the leaders of the 1595 Jameson Raid, is dead. "Dr. Jim," the celebrated leader, is dead THE RAIDER, long since. The latest obituary reminds one that Lionel Terry was one of the Jameson raiders and that present peaceful person knew the handsome giant, who was an almost perfect specimen of a man and stood six feet five, lerry was the crank who, as a protest against Eastern people invading British countries, shot a harmless Chinese dead under a lamp outside Xo. 13, Haining Street, Wellington. Terry, whose ordinary conduct was quite normal, had walked from Auckland to Wellington, and on his way be cut and carved a puriri walking stick quite beautifully, for lie was an artist and a poet. Having slain the Chinese that far-off night, he slept placidly, called on present scribbler in the morning, said what a lovely day it was, handed over his puriri stick, walked up to the police station, and gave himself up. He was imprisoned here and there and once escaped. When the police got into touch lie desired to fight them one by one —nothing doing. While in custody he sent present person a book of his poenis and a very skilful wash drawing of New Zealand scenery from "The Cage." Both are still extant —but somebody else has that puriri stick. None ever suspected Terry of homicidal tendencies, for liis favourite occupation in life was to play harmless games with the children of friends. He received a sunstroke during the Jameson Raid. THOUGHTS FOR TO-DAY. Thou hast said . . . that faith healed thee. This cannot be so. Either thou hadst it not, or thou hast it. . . .—Rosetti. What is the fame of men compared to their happiness?—Walpole: Letters.