THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LXX, Issue 139, 15 June 1939, Page 10

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MEN ABOUT TOWN.)

T was very interested in "Johnny's" par. regarding the pronunciation of Derby. I have always maintained that it wa< "Darby." but was unable to convince "DARBY" IT IS. my better half until one night at the cinema, when, lo and behokl. in the film "Xews of the Day" was Lord Derby, who had just returned from America (most probably after witnessing the race '"Johnny" mentions. as ir was about 1 !):!<)). He said his main object for travelling 3000 miles was to tel! the Americans how to pronounce his name. "It was 'Darby.' not 'Derby.* " How about it. "Johnny"? Straight from the horse's mouth. —V.A.W.

As rat and still more rat stories are the order of the day. I would, once again, like to tell this one, and I'd like to start off in the good old-fashioned wav. RAT'S S.O.S. Just like this; Once upon a time there was a jolly miller who lived 011 the canal in Hungerford. Berkshire. One fine clay the miller went down into his cellar, and there he saw a great grandfather rat who was having a feed of flour. The miller was not pleased, so he did not say. "Oh. grandpapa, how glad T am to see you. and what sharp teeth you've got." but he let drive with a knife he held in his hand, and it landed swift and true, (irandad let out a peculiar squeak, and in the twinkling of an eye hundreds of his family answered the call to arms. Dumbfounded for a moment the miller stood, and in that moment tlie rats charged—from the right, from the left—from all directions—and they nearly stripped him bare. He took to his heels with the horde after him. Out of the mill, and down the street he ran as he had never run before, with the six hundred still following in hot pursuit. It may sound a ratty story, but. l>elieve me or not, it is true. —C'.P.L.

One must admit that the Hon. R. Semple has some original idea®, but t lie bibulous motorist is proving a veritable stumbling block. T think 1 read MODERN -.Hiic where that th - MECHANICS. Minister was considering an amendment to the law whereby a motorist would be precluded from driving his car until a certain time had ela pt-ed after his last drink. To put this ingenious srhetne into operation, however, would require the best draughtsmanship and vigilance imaginable. As far as I know, there is 110 such car attachment as a "grogometer."' but such an instrument installed 011 the dashboard would be a novelty. It would require two dials, une to function like the petrol gauge, viz.. "quarter-full," '•half-full" and "full." and the other to register the relative hours of imbibing. Not being a mechanic. I cannot say whether such a contraption is possible. A totally different method is that of getting Ivarmaids to "clock in" their patrons, and. of course, clock them out again. By this method a dubious policeman wou'd merely have to inspect the dial to satisfy liim«elf. We could thus ex|>oct something like "4..'10 to .■)..')(). three bottles beer, two sliandi--. three gins (0.0. H.). Signed: Ruby."' By the way. the letters 0.0. H. mean "One on tic House." a possibility almost as remote and fantastic as my suggested inventions. —11. C.H. Have von ever tried to write something about nothing Y It's an entirely different matter to saying nothing, for then you just keep your mouth shut. NOTHING. and the deed is done: but to write something or nothing about nothing, you commence, or you may not commence, a- I have done, and before you have finished trying to tell just what you are up to several line-; will have ela]>sed. which gives you a big start. Of course, the best of all nothings is the "sweet nothing."' I will not dwell upon this particular phase at length, for I guess, like myself, vou have all whispered, or received plenty of them, anyhow. One can never receive too many, you say: all right, but if any of those "sugar pills, or "sweet nothings." go astray, don't blame me. and make much ado about nothing, for remember it was only nothing in the first place, even if it was sweet, and it dives nothing or anybody the slightest good to make much, or any other, ado about anything. Su far. I note that nothing of much importance has been said, and perhaps nothing of practical value may come to you through reading this, but take heart. When you have a long letter to write and have nothing to put in it. just remember your scribe (whom I see has written words and still more words, so far), and who. although only a novice, could write on and 011 about nothing, if the space in this valuable column was worth nothing (which. I emphatically state, it isn't, although there has been printed therein this preamble), which only goes to prove this one important fact that I have been trying to tell you all along —Nothing.— C.K.T.

As 110 one responded to the ghost yarn inquiry, here goes for something near. Ever seen a dead person knitting': Was visiting relation- once down South GHOSTS. who lived next to the cemetery. and when returning from ail ontoig one night was persuaded by a con-in who wis -omething of a wag to make a short en! home through said cemetery. I hi- was at a bite and verv nho-tlv hour, so naturally I demurred, lnit cousin won the day by pooh-poohing am suggestion of fear. Xervou.-lv I ventured. He knew th<> cemetery and its occupants well, llaff wav lliroii'ih he pointed to an adjacent urave. ""That's old Saunders" grave oxer there: used to have the dingbats iu the l>elfrv a bit. but was a hard old case. I often come out here and have a chat to her at night time. Though she's dead -lie still loves a joke." (I -aid nothing owing to a badly swelling throat.) He laughed. "Scared, eh? I think it's all. rot being scared about ghosts. When you knowpeople well it stands to reason tliev won't harm you. (Points out several other local identities.! You know. I'll be dead and buried here myself six months from now. so I guess I'll make my-elf at home in the meantime. All ghosts or dead people rather walk about at night time. There's little Xellie just up here. Til show you her grave. Nice little kid who u-ed to bring the rent along to mother. We all felt it when she died. Alwnvknitting was Xellie. and funny, but she still knits now. T often slip out here and have a chat to her. She usually sits on the side of her grave knitting for dear life all the time, we're talking. We might see her to-night if we keep a look-out: that's Xellie's grave just over there. (Points finger in ahead direction; utters sharp exclamation.) Why-—there she is now—waiting for us. She's knitting the same as I never heard the end of that sentence, but tore bereft through that ghastlv place until, winded and 011 the point of collapse, T fell into my aunt's own hles-ed backdoor. How she derided her son. Yes. I had not waited to slip under the hedge, but tore madly through almost out of my mind. And the strange outcome was that' my big and perfectly hefty cousin who was so fond of a joke lay dead and buried in that self same cemetery in less than six months from that day. Somehoxv F knew or felt at the time that he was not joking—and the coincidence is more than a strange one. What did he reallv know ?—

A THOUGHT FOR TO DAY. Measure thy life l«y loss instead of gain: Xot by the wine drunk, but the wine poured forth; i For love's strength standeth in love's sacrifice; ' And. wlio?o suffers most hath to give. ' I "—iStlre. Hamilton King. j