THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXIX, Issue 124, 28 May 1938, Page 8

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MEN ABOUT TOWN.) In last evening's "Star" there was a request in your column by "Digger" for the name of the author of the recitation entitled i "I Killed a Man at GrasTHE AUTHOR, pan." These words are also the first line of the poem. I have a "Coo-ee Beciter" with this recitation in, stating it is "the tale of a returned Australian Contingenter," and at the end of the verses the name "M. Grover." Some of the other recitations have no name attached; others by '"So-and-so"; some, as the above, only the name; so I take it he is the author. I have had this book about 25 years, and perhaps this may be the information "Digger" requires.—(Mis.) A. E. Stacey. An inquiry has come to "Touchstone"' on the plural of "innings" in relation to cricket. The word is both singular and plural. There is no such word as INNINGS. "inningses." Once on a time England spoke of an inning, and the word is still heard in America, but it was dropped long ago in English practice. "The innings was closed," and "Bradman batted in four innings," are both perfectly good sentences. Another word that is both singular and plural is species (pronounced speeshees). It is proper to write "a species is the smallest group" or "mineralogical or chemical species are determined." Specie is a different word, meaning coin. Long years ago, when I was one of the lads of the village, it was my custom to forgather with other bright lads and have lots of fun. Retrospect chalFUN. lenges the quality of that fun and asserts that we were \cry easily amused. But perhaps that's because I am growing old. There is nothing quite so tepid and tasteless as the things that amuse young people when tested against the jaded palates of age. Simple things have long since ceased to amuse me. Fancy sneaking up the garden path to knock at a man's door, then streaking away to hide ere he could answer t*.e summons. That sort of thing is still fun to the very young, for to the very young the very experience of living is fun. Time does tragic things to us and slowly but surely we lose the capacity for having fun. The other night I was drowsing in front of the fire, too tired to stay properly awake, too lazy to meet the effort of going to bed. The telephone brought me to reluctant and protesting life, and I wandered along an unlighted passage to answer the call. Somebody had left a chair where it should not have been, and, of course, I kicked it. Then I couldn't find the light switch. By the time I had done so I was in anything but a cheerful mood, for nothing can be more irritating than the insistent call of the telephone, which won't stay quiet while you tumble over chairs and grope for light switches. "Is that Mr. Blank?" inquired an unknown but apparently youthful voice. I said it w-as. "Is your house on the tram line ?" was the astonishing query. I am a simple soul. It was a trap question, and I fell right into it. "It is," I said. "Well," roared the jubilant youngster, "you had better act busv and move it; there is a tram coming along!"—B.O'N.

The double anniversary of May 29 this year falls on a Sunday, but few of even the most loval of those in the colonies will remem-

ber the date. For this is ROYAL OAK DAY. Poyal Oak Day, autho-

rised by Parliament as a day "to be commemorated in the churches by rendering thanks to God for the King's peaceable restoration by actual possession and exercise of his legal authority over his subjects," and celebrating the grand and triumphant entry into London of Charles 11. on his thirtieth birthday after the defeat of the Roundheads. Tdie °ld story of diaries' hiding in the oak tree after the Battle of Worcester was magnified and trimmed tintil it became legendary in its glamour. But the story was thrilling—the Royal Charles hiding in the oak tree with his faithful Colonel Careless, fed by the good family of Boscabel house by a basket raised on the nuthook, while the angry Roundheads searched the neighbourhood. From this time the royal oak became one of the most familiar of. domestic signs of the people and the badge of the 103-alist, and acorns from the oak at Boscabel were planted by Charles, himself in the gardens at St. James' Park. A new order —the Knights of the Boyal Oak, the highest recognition of loyalty—was instituted on Charles' accession. This, however, was soon abolished, as it kept alive the memory of who had lieen patriot and who traitor, something that had hotter remain buried than be allowed to raise its ugly head again. In some of the country villages hidden deep in the heart of England. Oak Apple Day is still celebrated with a close holiday and games aiul maypole dances, while all and sundry sport an oak leaf in thoir hats. The oak leaf, that badge of loyalty to a crown and to a creed that has drawn the best from men and built a tradition that shines with beauty and honour, the oak leaf that stands for all that is sturdy and jtrue and loyal—it's a pity we don't grow more I oaks in Xew Zealand.—Val.

How long we'd been dead I don't Tcnow. The prick of a pin aroused me. and a poppy fell on my chest. Toking my fingers through

the mouldv earth, I SPIRIT OF prodded the old man. UNREST. Pushing the earth aside,

we sat up in our graves. Before us stood a beautiful building with golden steps. "Where are we?*' I asked. "If you reaUy want to know, we're dead, plumb I dead." Instantly I remembered. On Anzac Day. fed up with the Covernment restrictions, we had finished it all. dug a grave and popped into it: later, inspectors had arrived, dug it* up, searched us, robbed the old man, and pinned a poppy on me. Xow we were dead, and broke —dead broke. Well, they'd never iget the money I owed them, anyway. "You only live once and you're a long time dead." 'quoted the old man. "Thanks,"''l said; "and ! what arc- we supposed to do now?" "'Just jstay dead." he replied. We crawled out and j stretched our cramped limbs. Then we set out for the golden stairs. An old man with ; snow-white beard was on guard. "What place iis this?'' I asked. "Heaven.'' he replied, sadly. j'Arc you Peter?" I asked. "Sure." he replied. ; "I'm the Labour caretaker." "Labour!" I said. aghast. "You surely ." "Hush," he said ias an angel appeared with ears cocked, listening j intently. "Secret police. Watch your words. ! Digger. The old days are gone. Labour holds jail the seats. They've cut out liberty and I freedom. All angels are in unions. -Compulsory. There's Methnsaleh—six thousand years Inn sustenance and can't get the old a-to" pension. That's Plato over there: he's starting a republic. All business has gone to Hell: j that's three flights down. We were just. .holding our own till Labour got in. Xow all I prices are up, wings, harps angel-cake, everything. These stairs are only fifteen caratit hey needed the money for salaries. Most of i the angels are on the heavenly pay roll." An ! angel approached with a rifle on his arm and \r tin hat on his head. "Don't forget," he said ■to Peter, "'we're raiding the Free Speech Club :at seven." "Come on," I said to the old man. "Let's go back to our graves." "Why not wait till November?" said Peter. "Why November?" I asked. "The angels are beginning to wake up," he said cryptically as he flew upstairs to stop an Aussie who was trying to sneak in. "Come on." I said, and we crawled deep into our greves and pulled the earth over 'us. Hardly had we done so when we heard a voice above u-: "So that's how they're getting out of paying their taxes, i- it? We'll soon put a stop to that caper." When they're gone I will dig the old man up again and find a new grave where no one will ever find us.— I MacClme,