RANDOM NOTES

Dominion, Volume 23, Issue 284, 27 August 1930, Page 10

RANDOM NOTES

Sidelights on Current Events LOCAL AND GENERAL (By Kickshaws.) Farmers In the American drought area complain that potatoes dug up during the hot spell were found to b® baked in their skins, while hens insisted on laying hard-boiled eggs. • ♦ • “We are the Cinderella, but unlike the Cinderella in the fairy story we have not had the happy ending,” says a Waiwetu resident. Perhaps the happy ending will come when Prince Hutt discovers a Petone gumboot stuck in the mud of Waiwetu Road.

A visitor to Wellington, who has lived for many years in Nelson, gives an interesting little sidelight on the origin of “Spud Monday,” mentioned in these columns the other day. About sixty years ago there was a critical food, shortage in Nelson. All that was left was a crop of seed potatoes recently planted. In order to fill the gap these seed potatoes were dug up and eaten; all except the eyes. These were replanted, and it is said produced an excellent crop. In order to commemorate the occasion, almost unique in history, when a community has eaten its cake and still had it, the first Monday in August was set aside as a holiday. It became the custom subsequently for gardeners to reserve this day for the planting of early “spuds.” This is still done, although the interesting origin of the custom has been all but forgotten.

A nameless, dateless, and addressless reader feels constrained to stand up for poor little Eric and the tinkling bell of Brooklyn. “Someone in Berhampore was asking about the ringing of the bells he heard on a still night in that district,” he says. “You said it may have been ‘Eric of Berliampore’ tinkling a death-kuell of some referee or half-back. Well, I don’t think Eric would lower himself to ring a little bell, but would endeavour to get the loan of one of the carillon bells from the City Council. It’s unfair to put that tinkling down to Eric, and I’m surprised that he has not answered you in this morning’s ‘Dominion.’ The ringing of bells comes from a striking clock in Washington Avenue, Brooklyn. I have always been under the impression that Eric was a ‘Terrible Turk’ to everyone (wife, family, neighbours, referees, porters, warehouse cats and Scotsmen), but I think he is a very inoffensive individual and a good sport, otherwise he would have given you some Tommy Donovan or some Tom Alley.”

A luxurious new car has been presented to Pope Pius XI. The interior of the car is decorated in the Venetian style, and his Holiness is able to communicate with his chauffeur by means of an electrical contrivance that writes his wishes on a luminous board. Although it is customary to imagine the coach as the sole means of transport in the conservative purlieus of the Vatican, this new car by no means represents the first step towards modern methods of propulsion. American Catholics gave Pope Plus X, some quarter of a century ago, the first car to be used in the Vatican. As a matter of fact, this car was one of the first ever made. It was said to be a gorgeous example of the then somewhat original “horseless buggy.” The interior was lined with white silk, and the papal coat-of-arms was painted on the doors.

Pope Pins X seems to have been a little suspicious of its reliability. At any rate, he never used it Eventually it was handed over to Cardinal Merry del Vai, the Papal Secretary of State, who used it for a number of years. But for an unfortunate coach runaway it is doubtful if any other car would ever have been admitted to the Vatican. The story of what made Pope Pius XI take to the motor-car finally and absolutely is little known. It was a custom for the papal two-horse coach to be prepared for the Pope’s usual leisurely drive round the precincts of the Vatican every summer morning.

“It was a sultry early summer morning,” writes an eye-witness of the accident that was-to be responsible for the ousting of the coach from the Vatican. “The atmospheric aspect was so soporific that while the coachman sat on his box waiting for his distinguished passenger, his head dropped forward on his chest, and the richly-caparisoned steeds themselves fell into a doze. Suddenly a platoon of Palatine Guards came marching into the courtyard, with snare drums rudely smashing the peaceful atmosphere. The horses were seized with unwonted fright and dashed off before the poor coachman knew what was happening. In a twinkling they were galloping at top speed round the courtyard. Just as the horses, coach, and coachman were about to plunge down the famous stairway called the Scala Regia the front wheel of the pontifical vehicle crashed into a big marble pillar.”

The Pope’s drive was abandoned, and a few days later one of the horses injured in the runaway died. After careful reflection tlie Pope decided that the time had come to confine himself to motors, despite the fact that in order to get a decently long outing in the Vatican Gardens he must retrace his route continuously. The Pope declined to authorise the purchase of any more horses, and the sixteen already in the Vatican were kept on pension. Most of these are now either very old or dead.

A serious situation has arisen in one part of India when police came into collision with a party of aboriginal Gonds who had broken some forest laws. At the moment there are over two million Gonds in the Central Provinces of India, and they form nearly one quarter of the population of that district. These tribesmen consider themselves the highlanders of India, and are unique in the fact that they still retain their own language, have no literature and have progressed precisely nowhere for the last two centuries. Nations rise and fall and at one time the Gonds ruled a huge kingdom, built large walled cities and accumulated hoards of gold and silver and jewels valued by the million pounds. Few nations have since fallen so far as the Gonds. In the 18th century they were surprised by invaders, fled their kingdom and sought safety in the hills and forests, where they have remained ever since. A few more turns of the pages of history, a few more centuries, and what then? There seems to be a wilderness round the corner for every nation.

London. Yes, I’ve seen The London smoke and fog, And sat down to wait until An Englishman completes his tale. —3L Coombs.