POSTSCRIPTS

Evening Post, Volume CXX, Issue 135, 4 December 1935, Page 10

POSTSCRIPTS

Chronicle and Comment

BY PERCY FLACK

Isn't it about time the Independents Staged a caucus to decide on a leader? •' * ♦ Maybe Ital} T's Somalia are deserting because those art photographs of Mussolini have not arrived according to promise—or because they have. • • • Capital has always heartily condemned Labour's go-slow policy, but there will be no squeal when Mr. Savage puts it into operation presently. • . • • It can be taken for granted that Mr. Savage will have the co-operation of all classes so long as the operation part of it is not too painfuL • * ♦ We still think that the Tutankh* men curse superstition will not bt truly tested until Mac West or Signor Cistoldi becomes a practising Egyptologist. •. * • SWAN SONG. Geordie Forbes Has solemn orbs And a heavy heart of sorrow; While Gordon Coates, Inspecting votes, Bemoans a black tomorrow! "A prey are we ' To Savage-ry," They wail in plaintive chorus, "Alack the day! A prospect grey Now stretches out before us!" J.E.H. • * * ONE GBEAT PASSION. "I wonder what, in your • readera' opinion, is the greatest love story of all the ages," writes a correspondent to a London daily. 'The ignoramus! Why, Dorothy Parker, one of Uncle Sam's most scintillating columnists, settled that question long since. She was of the opinion that the greatest love story of all time was the love of G. Bernard Shaw for G. Bernard Shaw. Mrs. Parker is the author of that classic fragment which runs like this— Behold the happy moron, He doesn't care a damn, I wish I were a moron— My god! Perhaps I am! . * • ♦ REMINISCENCE. It was the evening of January 11, 1933. We were standing watching from the high hills above Okato, when suddenly a black speck appeared on the far western horizon of red and gold rapidly approaching like some beautiful jewelled scarab winging its way with unerring instinct towards its goal, the ever-beckoning Mt. Egmont directly behind us. As we saw the three escorting 'planes from New Plymouth and heard the drone of the Southern Cross when it turned gracefully to follow their lead over the surrounding hills to the : waiting crowds at the New Plymouth airport, the thought arose once again: the impossible has been accomplished, as never for a moment we doubted ii ■ would be. Smithy always came through, and even now it seems impossible -we shall have to post him missing. ; will; g. tolley, Erua. ' . • * * TO LABOUR. Dear Perc,—lf you're a Tory, what about changing your coat" to red? We've worn it for years,'and today it fits perfectly. Come on over, and begin by publishing this to Labour, from a working man's wife. ■■''•-■ SAUCY SAL. Kaiwarra. Now go to it Labour, ■ ' We've staked all on you To show God's Own Country The right thing to do. ■ '■ .'• "■ We'll stand by to help you Through thick and through thin— We've, jolly well go to, . Now we've put you in. . . ,' At the risk of losing our job— : we with a small house and a large family^-at the risk, also, of estranging our many friends m high social circles, we go red accordingly, for the tims being. Now for.the. verses— For years we've patiently waited For this wonderful great day* When Holland's team would top the poll . . . •. We shout hip, hip, hooray! For years they've straggled against biff odds, • With their goal far, far away Now their labours have been well rewarded . . . \ We shout hip, hip, hooray! Whatever your duty We know you won't sway, Give three cheers for Labour . . . Hip, hip, hip, hooray! "Saucy Sal" encloses another rhyme, addressed to the Editor/of whom she demands a page of Postscripts, failing which she urges us to mutiny. If we do, will she persuade Mr. Savage to find us a job? - Our rent is overdue. .3S it is. . . . * • •■■■•■. POSTED . . . MISSING. "Summertime."—Sorry, but your lines are no longer topicaL "Golliwog"—You .. mean well but you write verse badly. r^ G/~L The column is not what it used to be." We hope it is better than that. "Jenny Wren."—Suggest you po*t that rhyme direct ot the All Blacks' manager; it would please him. "Road Hogs."—Too partisan and intemperate. E.W.R.—Rather too confused; in fact, a merry mix-up. "Sunisa."—Just falls short. ■ E.J.A.—A promising idea, but you have failed to do justice to it. "Meg."—But what are those snippeti all abouj:? "Donald Dhu."—Admire your enthusiasm for Labour, but you are scarcely fair to the other follows. A.W.—Your "bees" are too busily buzzing to make honey in the Postscripts hive. "Anon," 8.M., "By the Way,' "Ngaio " and "Carry On."—Post-election jingles are a trifle out of date now. "Grass-widow'd."—Well, here you are:— I'll be an evangelist, Do be one, too; Week nightly meetings, Then we'll see you. P.W.—Not exactly inspirational. "Laur Derg."—An old one in a new setting. "Anonymous."—You were looking for the ideal politician, and there's no such thing. ■ . ■ "Wearied."—A hat that would hold fowls as well as Auckland would just about fit Atlas. "Rosanne."—lf we ran your ''Morning Tea Monologue" the McClancy would divorce us instanter. She is extremely sensitive about such tilings W.A.D.—Some of your favourite sounds: Crinkle of bank notes, fish frying, crackle of burning logs, father sipping tea. George Walkar slamming, a victim, Mum whipping a bowl of cream. W.A.Y.—So you're the bloke "wot diden'. 'it" Mrs. McClancy on electlmi night? Glad to meet you.

"Homeless Hector."—We've had tfeit befcrt. ■