SEARCH LIGHTS.

Press, Volume LII, Issue 8271, 23 November 1895, Page 8

SEARCH LIGHTS.

A fowl story reaches us which may be new, true, or neither. But here it is:— Jones lives in a suburban villa, with his mother-in-law for neighbour on one side and Smith on thelotber. Certain white Leghorns steeped in modem Socialism showed so little respect for property that they made a hen-roost of Jones' fruit trees, and excavated hie potato beds and made tunnels under bis green peas. He couldn't sleep o' nights for thinking what those giddy fowls might be up to at daybreak. He expostulated with Smith ; but Smith, a most disagreeable, unneighbourly fellow, disclaimed responsibility. Having studied law before he became a commission agent, Jones remembered, or thought he remembered, it was lawful to wring the necks lof your neighbour's fowls when caught I trespassing provided you threw the carcases ■ over the fence. And so he wrung the neck of fowl No. 1, and threw the dead bird into Smith's backyard as a sort of " friends please accept this intimation ,, hint. The intimation was not accepted. He wrung another neck. Still the survivors invaded his garden. Getting desperate he wrung another, and then two in one day. When he had twisted the necks of half-a-dozen white Leghorns he thought it was time to cill on .Smith. " Look here, Mr Smith, hav'nt you had enough of this yet ? You hare now lost six hens by your obstinacy." "Lost? not a bit of it. I have lived on nothing else for a week." "But surely you don't want this business to continue ? " " Well," said the still imperturbable Smith, "it is getting a bit monotonous—roast one day and boiled the next. But I am a poor man and can't afford to be proud—and it keeps down the butcher's bill." " Then you mean to say yon don't mind?" "Mind.not a bit—so long as your mother-in-law doesn't object. They are her fowls, you know." A genial son of the Emerald Isle, late returned from the other side, tells with glee of a little examination in which he took part over there. The question to be investigated was the meaning of the term " mayor," and various youngsters advanced what they reckoned ought to about hit it. They failed one after another till at last one nipper hazarded, "Please, sir, it's a horse that lays foals." What the adminiscration of justice gains in economy by the institution of the Noble Araiy of the Great Unpaid it oftentimes, I fear, loses in dignity. It cannot be said, for example, that her Majesty's English is preserved in its purity by her Majesty's Justices. The other day, for example, a Christchurch J.P. delivered himself of the following judgment, which I have reported verbatim. Rising in his seat, the Justice leaned over the rostrum and thus addressed the prisoner (the charge was vagrancy), "Look 'ere ! there's been a eight too much of this 'ere pocket-picketing a-goin , on lately, and we means to put a stop to it. We ain't goin , to inflict the maximum penalty — bus you'll be sent up for a month's 'ard, so there." Another day in the same week & local Justice declared with easy familiarity "The prisoner is finjed ten bob" — and then suddenly realising the dignity of his position, added, " —a —I mean—shillin's." A Working Men's Club in the North Island was recently seriously exercised over the conduct of a local solicitor, who was deemed to have been guilty of insolence towards the Club. Being about to leave the district he called to pay his score and signed his name in the members' book. Looking in vain for a card-rack whereon to leave his pasteboard he added after his name in the book the lettora P.P.O. The custodian, ignorant of the interpretation, bub confident it was meant for *• cheek," summoned a epecial meeting of the Committee and laid the case before them. Various interpretations were hazarded aeto the possible meaning of the mystic letters; but it was unanimously recognised as a piece of impertinence towards the Club by a " toff," who thought he could " cheek" a body of honest workin' men under cover of a furrin tongue. And finally, after a hot and angry debate, the custodian was authorised by the Committee to erase the offensive record from the book of the Club { The case of leucodermy reported from Australia, in which it is asserted that the skin of a Mauritian gradually changed from copper-colour to white, suggests that we shall have to revise the Bible to biing it up-to-date with the progress of discovery in medical science. lam afraid the apologists will have a rough time of it. Fir at they had astronomy to contend with, then came geology to disturb their peace, and now the science of medicine is leagued against them. For after the authenticated case of " leucodermy" what becomes of our cherished Biblical aphorism. ("Can the Ethiopian change his skin or the leopard his spots." Leucodermy answers the first question with a scornful affirmative, and taxidermy, I suppose, will presently dispose of the second. There is always a cry about the immense number of books daily issuing from the publishers' houses, of the endless miles of print. The selection being large accounts for the presence on the circulating library shelves of a dose of the most senseless trash ever dumped there under the heading of " New Books." Apparently, the mere fact that a book is new is sufficient passport; while, on the other hand, the fact that a book ie much coveted of the public, is a sufficient reason for obtaining aa few copies as possible thereof. And most of the effusions that cumber the shelves are by women, rubbish like the " Comedy in Spasnw"—for the presence of which particular article there ia a certain amount of excuse, it being a present object of discussion—but take productions like "Molly Darling," "Little Miss," " Mermaidens," and "An Isle in the Water." If there is any other position in which " an isle" would be natural, or comfortable, or decent, or anything but unexpected, I have so far been unable to ascertain it; however, the "gifted authoress," like the person responsible for " What They Conldn't "—whatever that means—had probably some reason for her dear divine unreason. Without dissecting the contents of some of theie priceless gems —in charity one refrains—one may be allowed to wonder vaguely why more Utirati don't recognise the merits of a decent titie. Take " The God in the Car," "When Valmond came to Pontiac," " The Trail of the Sword," " The Seats of the Mighty," "A Business in Great Waters," "The Master " and put them alongside " What they Couldn't." For things of the class U> which tbe last-named belongs, there is however one merit—the title can't be more insipid, not to say idiotic, than the contents. Thb Bohemian.