POSTSCRIPTS

Evening Post, Issue 36, 12 February 1935, Page 8

POSTSCRIPTS

Chronicle and Comment

8Y PERCY FLAGE

These be dog-days for the Alsatians, without a doubt. * *. ♦ Curious, isn't it, how it is always the "bad eggs" who get "fresh" with'tffe ladies. * - .*.■■■■.* We suppose the ex-Kaiser's SOS to Hitler in respect of his finances could be interpreted: jSend Our Spondulix. « * .. 'itLatest advices from Ethiopia throw a new light on the difference with Italy. The Ethiopian in the woodpile is oil. , * * * Some people draw the colour lineothers have to withdraw it, as witness that London hotel which refused to accommodate the Indian ping-pong team along with other competitors. .« ; • ■ ■;.■■■.. .» SAFE BET. Whate'er our M.P.s fail to do, In the session that is nearing, It will not be, we wager you, Some hot electioneering. * • • THE MELANCHOLY MAN. Samuel Butler knew. He is one that keeps the worst company in the world; that is, his own; and though he be always falling out and quarrelling with himself, yet he has not the power to endure any other conversation. His head is haunted like a house, with evil spirits and apparitions, that terrify and fright him out of himself, till he stands empty and forsaken. * '* ■.■:"'* PASS THIS ONE ON k Dear Percy Flage,—The other night at a 'smoker" the funny man said as he edged towards the exit: "I know a place where nearly all the girls sometimes wear nothing but a string of beads!" . "Tell us where it is!" shouted a hundred stentorian; voices. "Round their necks!" came the reply as the joker vanished. Cheerio, Perce. Still in London: * * ■ ': * ADD INVECTIVE. h Talw g,? f £ vective-do you remember that O. Henry hero, Martin Burney, a little Irishman, all muscle and hands and feet, with a grey-red beard? Martin, worked under one Dennis Corngan, the sub-contractor in. charge of a tough, job on the Harlem River. There came a day when his tobacco credit was stopped with a bang, and tobacco was meat, drink, and Heaven to Martin. Tony, the Dago cook, approached the frothing Irishman with "How you like-a Mr. Corrigan? You thmk-a heem a nice fella?" At which Martin, opened her up on all cylinders"To hell with 'm," he shouted. "May his liver turn to water, and the bones of him crack in the cold of his heart. May dog, fennel grow upon his ancestors' graves, and grandsons of hia children be-born without eyes. May whisky turn to clabber in bis mouth, and every time he sneezes may he blister the soles of his fee);. And the smoke of his pipe—may it make his eyes water, and the drops fall on the grass that his cows eat and poison the butter that-he spreads on his bread." A pretty'comprehensive curse, that, and Martin■nieant^every word of it. ,;* * * posted .. . missing; - "Bolivar."—Your craft is making heavy weather of it. B.M.A.—Once again: Postscripters' names and addresses are not supplied without their written consent. "Ima Dodo."—The w.p.b. got it. "Jean."—We are not hurt -that you "don't like' Col." 8 sometimes;." We feel that way ourselves occasionally. "New Deal."—A misdeal. "Perce Picacity."—Your Pegasus has a spavined hock or water on the knee. "Anon" (Marton).—(l) Thanks for suggestion and note of appreciation. (2) A course of O. Henry seems indicated. ', "On Relief."—Our sympathies, but your "parable" is loaded with libel. "Oscar Rash."—Declined without thanks; "We Wullie."—Too strong in personal animus. "Tempus Fugit."—Well, let it. "Miss Muffett."—Creditable for a first attempt. Try again. "Lex."—Thanks all the.same, but that fakir-rope trick is a stale topic. "Greta," "Distantly Yours"! And we so eternally grateful,.'n' all that. As Milton said: 'Aye a 'cart. *.* , * FOG. Fog down the harbour blanketing The sullen cliffs, the' seas that fling Rollers full length upon the shore To fall back on themselves once more. Fog at the Heads, and further out, And ships that feel their way about Blind in the overhanging pall, Or, may be, moving not,at all, Fearing the short, sharp, staggering shock v Which comes from piling on a rocfc The.skipper didn't-know was there; A most upsetting thing, : we swear, For captain, passengers, and crew, And Lloyd's—they should' be me* tioned, too. Fog out of Cook Strait pearly grey, Slow walldowing up the harbour way, While temperamental, pilots curse In language picturesque and terse' This dumb new-come phenomenon That lifelessly moves on-'n'-on. Dep'ressin' rather. Yes, but when Fog creeps into the minds of men— A nasty habit—unawares That is the time to say your prayers. And straightway with indecent haste Dispose a lifebelt round your .waist. . Last night there came, dull boom on boom, Fog signals out.of Cabinet room; * «• # TEE UP. We pass these on with the idea of popularising Col. 8 round the 19th, hole.■■■. ■'■:' . Two stories told about Ted Kay, the British veteran golfer. A golfer came to him for a lesson. "Let's see you hit a ball, mate," said Ted. The golfer smacked a beauty down the middle. Said. Ted: "That's good, mate. Let's see another." The golfer hit another screamer. "Well; mate, there's nothing the matter with that," said .Ted. "Ah," said the golfer, "but I want to get extra length on my shots." "Well," said Ted, "aU you've got to do, mate, is to hit the ball a bit harder; that's all, mate." On another occasion he and James Braid and one or two other Scottishborn pros, were having dinner in London. The subject turned to Robert Bruce. •.■■"■■■■'. v Ted, who likes to think he knows about every thing, joined in the conversation. Somebody said, "Now, Ted, you know nothing about Robert Bruce, ■ so don't pretend you do." "Ah, that's where you're wrong, mate," said Ted. "Well, who was he, then?" Braid asked. "That's where I've got you, mate,* said Ted. "He was the Scotch poet, mate." _ , : >