THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 167, 16 July 1936, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.)

This is the storv of tlie cow tliat was bogged—and it is true. The farmer and his acolytes attached a rope to the horns, mercifully hoping to restore HOME, her to terra firma and SWEET HOME, the milk industry. She died, and burial was indicated as a prime necessity. She was in an awkward spot, so tlie party rolled her ovei a bank and she lav at the bottom awaiting interment. Pigs in profusion lived around, particularly a sow with a family. A proposed burial party descending to the last resting place of the cow heard piggish language issuing thence even before the party arrived at the object of their attention —and juvenile pigs emerged from the late lamented row. In short, the deceased cow was the dear little home of the porcine family. They had all apparently breakfasted heartily on some previous day, had hollowed their future home out, the skeleton and tlie hide of Jersey Ann forming what to them was probably one of the finest bungalows in the province. It is unnecessary to say that their home was taken from them and destroyed. Before they discover another bovine residence the porcine group may join their grunting forefathers. Currently printed that many soldiers' war medals are finding their way to the Auckland Museum, where they will have no special significance—but will be "GONGS." safe. The excellent point about medals is that although there may be tens of thousands of one kind of medal issued, every one has the name of the sailor or soldier to whom it was issued 011 its edge. Formerly, even in Auckland, medals were a common pledge to pawnbrokers and their windows were often pathetic evidences of military liard-upness. Medals — and revolvers —have disappeared from windows that are so fascinating a study. , Even V.C.'s found their way into loan office windows in earlier days—although a V.C. carries an all too small yearly reward —pension, if you like. One remembers a tough old V.C. who was not an abstainer and who pawned and redeemed his "fourpen'orth of bronze" at intervals for many years. His favourite casual job —he was an. old dragoon—was to get dolled up as an old soldier with all his decorations on (including the V.C.) as a street advertisement for shows. He was often short of his bit of bronze when a job showed up —and he would borrow ninepence—liinepenee, look you —to sret it out of pawn. He died worth one and six—and a V.C. Rocket fans have been shooting letters across the Brisbane River. They apparently burst the machine, but not the letters, which were picked up three hunTHE SHOTOVER died yards distant—and MAIL. posted in tlie poor oldfashioned General Post Office way. The message does not say if the letters were lent by the Post Office to the Rocketeers —but presumably not. Rocketeers must have sat down and written three hundred letters to blow across the Brisbane River, or, alternatively, have gathered up fifteen score old letters to shoot across the stream. Talking about old letters and old accounts, and, indeed, old cheques, an interloper recalls the case of that excellent rocket, the Wanganui destructor, which, under a new blast, once blew a ton or two of unburnt documents far and wide. For weeks the citizens retrieved most valuable information as to the financial status of their fellows, and rich deposits of cheques no longer negotiable and marked "with the sinister messages "X.S.F." or "No Account" amused the populace. Prior, to this fiery incident, Wellington destructor staged an equally hilarious rocket performance, and thousands of documents blown by the wind were found clinging to the domestic washing in the Hataitai arid Kilbirnie districts. The un-ncgotiablc wealth presumably represented bv that whirlwind of insecurities was of a face value sufficient to buy an idol's eye, the Taj Mahal or the jewelled waistcoat of the Maharajah of Pong.

Scientists of varying lengths and differing fatness are telling the world that man in general is getting longer and skinnier. Very likely these wise old boys WEIGHT have passed the tape over CARRIERS, a couple of billion people in a door-to-door visitation. or have toddled from step to step over a ten thousand miles circuit asking the citizen or the savage to kindly say ninety-nine and step on the scales. Whatever means they take to come to this and slim conclusion, one still rejoices in the friendship of little runts, five foot two in their shoes and in meagre lengths of man topping six feet or more. Size seems to have little to do with vitality or efficiency. One of the amazing tilings of past history is that men used to get practically soldered into suits of metal armour weithing anything up to two hundredweight, arm themselves with about a hundredweight of sword and lance, climb on to an armoured horse, and ride about all day poking other gents similarly accoutred. Measurement of old armour shows that many of these weight carriers wore armour that would be an impossibly tight fit for an Auckland full-back. Many of those Cromwellian iron jackets and tin hats were heavy enough to weigh down the Domain athlete of bronze, but lie couldn't have worn the old gear with comfort. One comes to the irresistible conclusion that those incredibly strong old-timers who waved half a hundredweight swords about in two hundredweight of armour must have had a milk ration every morning at school. Dear M.A.T..—Browsing placidly through a supper of the "three p's"—pie, 'peas and potatoes—at a coffee stand as the Port Dnnedin struck eight bells, I was A NOCTURNE, intrigued by the inebriated gent standing between me and a patron moodily analysing a saveloy. The gent in question had under his arm a live duck tied in a sugar bag with head and neck protruding, and two plates of steaming provender laid out 011 the shelf counter in front of him. I noticed the bird in the bag making rapid passes and swift gulps at the food, and as the owner lurched into me to secure the salt-shaker I—with that kindly spirit of democracy that seems to bloom round an all-night coffee stall —drew his attention to the fact. He swung round on me, truculent and aggrieved, and even the duck —with a miniature Mount Kgmont of mashed potatoc 011 its bill—seemed to register a beady-eytvl disapproval. "The some of vous blokes," he growled, and suddenly raised his fork. I turned as cold as the Domain athlete in a southerly hailstorm, and the saveloy patron left his post-mortem and moved away, but after dislodging a bit of gristle from his grinders he continued to (lav

me. "The trouble with yous blokes," he went on, "is butting in. Of course he's hoeing into the kai. And why? Because it was ordered for him. He's dining with me to-night, because I'm dining with him to-morrow. Anything wrong with that? All in order, ain't itl Well, then, mind your own business and shuiTiip. Hey, Digger, you with the Pommie cap 011 down there, shove the 'Worcester' along."—J.B.

THOUGHTS FOR TO-DAY. A year which witnessed a widespread return to religion would be a year not lacking the best kind of happiness.—Anon. 0 what men dare do! what men may do! What men daily do, not knowing what they do! —Shakespeare.