THE CHANGING SCENE.

Dominion, Volume 6, Issue 1705, 24 March 1913, Page 7

THE CHANGING SCENE.

A. BIRD'S EYE VIEW.

[By M.C.KJ

Wo'were (ono trusts) as deeply concerned as was proper to learn by cable mcssago last Monday that Mr, Will Thome, tlio Labour JI.I?, for West Ham, "has refused to meet tlio King and Queen/' Like Mr. I). M'Laron, v/lio lias done so much to help Society to bo as good a gentleman as ho is, Mr. Will Tliorne is 100 mucli of a gentleman to dismiss their Majesties without a word of explanation. Ho is constrni'-ed to tako tlio painful step of (snubbing them, not because ho is exclusive, but 'itciiuso ho "does not beliovo tho. visit will faiitignto tho chronic poverty of tho borough." One of these days tlio King will retaliate: Jio is, after all, human, and it is human to hit back. Ho will refuse to invito Mr. Ihorno to dinner, on tho ground that he cannot believo that Mr. Thomo's visit will really strengthen tho Throne. If tho King will but give tho lead, ono can promise a great many nets of retaliation. The Government, when tho enemy invades New Zealand, will decline to defend (ho anti-militarist on tlio ground that it does not believe that his public utterances are so vitally important to tlio nation that the loss of them will ruin us all. The churches, which "Labour" will not "attend becauso of thoir failure to point out that work is a curse, may suddenly riso up and tell "Labour," in tho language of Archbishop Kelly, of Sydney, to "go to perdition." Mr. Massey will follow, no doubt, with a reminder to the Opposition that, if it is going to fry and turn him out, ho will simply stay in. In point of fact, tho dogs havo been baying tlio moon so long that it is really quito timo that tho householders opened tho windows and threw a few' bootjacks and flower-pots at tho noise. Tho patiencc' of tho householders has misled tho dogs into supposing that tlio bootjacks and flower-pots havo been howled;out of existence; but thero is a point whore patjsnce must end and bootjacks begin.

One of the anti-Reform journals, in. an article exulting over the success of the rowdies in disturbing Mr. Massey's meeting, remains with prido and triumph that "the democratic element of tlio community had evidently discovered 60111 c method of obtaining admission, and lvero present in force." Moreover, 7 "the loud howls of the people outside made it "fair to assume that they, too, represented democratic sentiment." We are betraying no confidence when wo say that these hints n'9 to what democracy means'will shortly bo followed by a "Guide for Democrats," from, which wo mako some extracts: What is Democracy? ' : The crecd of us Democrats. What is Democracy's opinion, of Mr. MdESDJ'P , . r<ui! . , ■ Give Domocracy'e reply to the Reform policy? It 3s "800 l Mil Batsl" / What is tlio chief plank .In the Democratic platform? Yah! "" ' And what is il6 financial policy? Gam, yer cowl Yalil How would you disprove 3Jr. Maseey's statements? By saying "pool" How would you Summarise Democracy's case against Hcfora? v. . . Ratal Yah I When in. doubt, what should you.do? Make a noise like a Democrat.

A Bill is before the Ohio State Senate, under which it is provided that -women's fashions shall be regulated liy commissioners. Blouses must not be cut lower than two inches Mow the neck, and lace and net through which the shin shows aro forbidden. The commissioners must bo over thirty years of age—Cable item. What did I think ot this new weird . fashion? : No, my son I I could spare no' tears For the frocks that the girls looked sweetly flash in. Ala©! poor dears, . Their high-necked misery's o.uito forjot In my own deep woe. for my tender spot Is touched by the hint that you're done ■ with p&sdon ■ And airs and graces at thirty years. I ought to be sorry for Mame and -Mabel, Daughters of Hiram W. Pottf I ought to be tickled at that strange cable? v Well, then, I'm not. How can I laugh when my own shoo pinches?' * (You can joko over thoso two inches, And pants for the legs of tho dining table)' But for me, now, joking is over.- What? Wretched.mel I had quite forgotten . My heastly age when I liked the frock Of the summer girl who in silk or cotton Swayed down the block. It's all no use; I am dull and frayed: I am one of the bloodless bleak brigade Whoso thirty's aro up on the bejard—oh, rotten! • ■ Dear lad, bo sorry for Mo, the Crock. You're just twenty, a gay young Persian'; You'd not make a commissioner, no; ' So you needn't dream of a quick excursion To O-hi-o. • But I'm a clod, I am lumpish, wooden— I'd, as commissioner, make a, good 'un: I'm safo from tlio turo of a lace insertion, For I wae thirty some time ago. r*"Persicos odi, puer, apparatus." And ■in fact, I've got to now.l • •

I had a green ribbon in my coat. The barber started straight off as soon as be tucked mo in. "You saw that piece about Archbishop Kelly, I suppose, sir ? I don't agreo with him. He ought not to ' talk of tho so-called British Empire as if it wasn't the British Empire. That's just nastiness. Same time, I'm a patriotic Irishman. No, I was bovn 'ere, but I'm Irish, right enough. And a bloko as is Irish lias a right to bo proud of it. Y'oughter havo 'hfeard the Patrick' 6 Day speeches.' I knoo us Irish liad done n lot for the Empire—and look 'ere, the Archbishop was wrong. Ho ouglitor know it is tho British Empire. Anyway, those speeches. I knoo' we won tho battle of Trafalgar, ond all them. But you can't name a bloke that's clone some reel big thing but ten to one he's Irish; Look at Queen Elizabeth, now! And Mary, Queen of Scots, too. And what about Coptain Cook? Take fighting—Nelson was a Irishman, and Drake, and then there's chemistry. What about Newton? I forget where he came from, but I think it was Cork. Look at writin', too. I laugh nt thom Scotch meetin's. Why, you'd think. Bobby Burns was the only novelist as ever lived. Them Scotch is patriotic, all right, and I don't blame tlicni. But I think of Shakespeare. What's Burns alongside Pat Shakespeare—a Clare man, ■ he was, I think. Poitry,' too. Tennyson— 'iiough en id. I'm not sure about Columbus, but lie had Irish blood ill him. Anil paint in f» —l ain't dead suro about painting, but that bloke that had his picture stole, 1/conavrto, ho was an Irishman. And Gladstone, tho grand old Irishman. Why, all (hem eons of old Ireland - , they're only instances, they made the Empire. Alfred the Great, William the Conqueror, Lord Bacon, and heaps of others. There's been some real good Englishmen, I grant you, but ynu don't hear much about them. Ton don't rcely hear much of them. Ton think a minute—it's nearly always Irishmen that you're reminded of. Tho Archbishop oughtn't bpnii harsh all (ho same, lies pardon, vii- ? 'What does he himself call it?' Tho British Empire, you mean? I wonder—l never thought of that. I

wonder what ho does call it. Tho Irish' Empire, p'raps. And in a manner of speaking—thank you, sir—he'd riot bo far wrong—ono and ax—in holding , You'ro next, sir." I was grateful to tho barber. It was pleasant to bo reminded that a few Englishmen also did things. If they had but been Irishmen,- their famo ' would havo been tenfold greater than it is. Probably it wa9 becauso his waste-paper basket was already full that tho editor dropped it into tho left-hand top-drawer of this column. This is it (with a few excisions, marked by asterisks, which, being respectable asterisks,' do not necessarily imply wliat asterisks so often do imply). It comes from Lowry Bay;— . "To tlio Editor, Dominion Office, Wellington. Sir,—Can anything bo done to prevent « • • 'M.C.K.' from using tlio plu'ass _ 'My Old' e.o often?. Facing tlio plrvn fare of two boiled eggs this morning I find my cnnctite at wrong ends, becauTO the genial 'M.C.K.,' in six inchcH of single column, gives us 'My Old' nix times I 'Dear Mister' is added to the 'potpourri' twice, and is hardly tlio proper now frock to clotho 'Hon Olicr' in. ' ,* * It, as it used to be, 'M.O.K.' gives ' us laughter on Saturdays (which ono assimi-. latccl on Sundays, abed). I fancy many waders would he pleased. To tako it on Mondays lias its obvious disadvantages.— Yours, H. T. Turnbull."

It was saddening. Thai amiability should go hand-ill-hand with n. conviction that "dear mister" is tho English for "moil clicr," or that "mon cher" is tlio French for "dear mister"! • Distressing! That one should object to mo because poor Hippolyto, struggling liard, should think that "my old" is the right English version of "mon vieux"! Most unjust! To blaino tho eggs becauso dear Hippolyto didn't know that ho should say "old chap"! Brutal, no less! Ono may assume that in London thero are-people like the writer of this saddening letter., Therefore I feel 6adder than ever when I reflect that poor' Lehmann, of "Punch," who is credited with some wit, and who knows Paris quito a littlo better than anyone ltnows ,«ven Lowry Bay, regularly recorded in "Tho Crownment" his French friend's fatuous belief that' it was all right to say "my old." To ,think of tho critics who must havo auado poor Lehmann's life 'a misery 1 How this is frightening! So I put it to Hippolyto himself, who happened to have no engagements.' It was quite a brief conversation. "Read this, Hippolyte," I said. Ho read it. ' . ' "My old," ho said solemnly, "does olio threaten me? Not?. Oh, weil, goslt it all, ono knows to carry himsdlf a gentleman, one liopes. lam mollified. Sir Turnbull should buy other eggs. Often eggs vary, -assay our .poet. My friend, tho Wnrdito 1110 assure that the • morning by blue, it was tho' Monday egg;; Figure, you, dear mister! the efefe sinco Sir Massey anirt, tho egg—- • ' ».v "Dear Hippolyte, you ara just perfectly, hut it isn't the egg that is,the troublo at all. It is me, and you. You are wrong in saying 'my old'—that is tho trouble." "But, my old, you have not complained yourself of mc. Never I havo not hoard you say, 'Hippolyte, we liavo wrong*— lievcv, sweet friend.' Wlmt to say to Sir '.Turnbull:?: Nothing! Nothing of oil! Jo m'en ficlie. Ono miglitsay to him with reason, for true tospeak, that lie ought buy a gramlnn'r book or abandon tho egg. Eggs are ra bad, butthcre is (ho egg flip. 'Idea of tho most lovely! , To tho egg flip, march, my old 1"