Day By Day

Dominion, Volume 30, Issue 158, 1 April 1937, Page 6

Day By Day

Tales And Titbits

(By Peeps.) There are more ways of putting a baby in its place than slapping it. A taxi-driver told me yesterday of au imperious car-driver who parked his “baby” in the Boulcott Street stand and would move it for no one. He took out the ignition key and locked the doors of his tiny limousine, going off to the pictures without a backward glance at the irritated cabsters, But when he camo back his car was gone. Frantic inquiries were greeted by blank stares. None of the men on the stand had seen anything suspicious. No, not they. The alarmed owner hurried off to the police and the search began in earnest. It ended on the Bond Street pavement, whither his “baby” had been carried by 10 stalwart drivers. Playing ’Possum. In a garden in the heart of Wellington, there lives, or used to live, one of the last survivors of the wild bushland —a fine “Old Man” opossum. Some nights,in Aurora Terrace you would hear his hard screech above the dim rumble of trams along the Quay. And he had a habit of sitting on the lower branches of a tree near his favourite garden gate. When guests went home, the poreh light glinted on his green, dazed eyes. The'women’s reactions were almost invariable. “Oh, look!” you would hear. "Oh, look, what a nice cat! Here, puss, puss!” Followed a rasp of annoyance from the ’possum and “Oooh! It tried to scratch mo!” from the women.

But lately old man ’possum has been missing from his accustomed place, and the guests go away normally.

French as She is Spoke

She was precise and well-informed. Distinctly, she had had a better education. And as she sat in her chair at a large Wellington hotel, lightly conversing on topics of the day, you could tell that no social solecism would bring a blush to her cheeks, that every tongue touch seeking on a hollow tooth for the missing steak, would be the discreetest of discreet.

At last she came to the sweets. And as she ran unhurried through the list, she brushed up her French accent. She said grandly: “I will have pesh melba. please.” Pesh for peche. The right accent, the right inflection, the right note for the party. . And then the waitress acted. She flicked the menu card from the white hand. “Peach Melba?” she said, “Yes, Madem.” What Do You Say? There is also the word “creche,” which has suffered a. great deal of misunderstanding in Its tinje. Some say “kresh” and some “fcraysh,” others “kretch” and others “krish,” And have you heard of the children’s creech? Apart, of course, from what happens when you hold the neighbour’s baby for a second. But there is one version Of the word which is new to me. It was patented by a dear, old lady in Wellington, who has a u unbounded admiration for the social welfare work done tn Buckle Street by Roman Catholic nuns. “Yes,” she told a friend. “You don’t realise how good limy are. They help the. grown-ups all they can. And they even take away the children and put them in the creek.” The old lady’s audience of one was so awed by this information that she made a. special trip-to find'the spot where the nuns were lowering the population. All she’ found was the Cambridge Terrace creche.: English Worsted The latest—and authentic—tale of mistaken accents comes from a town not far from Wellington, where a shy and charming young person found herself seated beside a voluble Frenchman at a formal social gathering. He was ecstatic about New Zealand, but she was startled when he broke off a vivid description to say with fervour, “Ah, Mees—what beautiful legs you ’ave!”

The shy young thing blushed. She tucked her legs under her chair and shook her head prettily.

“Ah. non, but. zey are beautiful,” insisted the Gaul. She ventured to ask if he had seen them properly. “Certaiuement,” was the reply. “I ’ave seen them all r und —the Leg Wanaka and the Leg Te Allan.”