BY THE WAY

Evening Star, Issue 20346, 30 November 1929, Page 2

BY THE WAY

[By Q.Y.}

“ The time ha» come, 5 * the Walrus *Bid, 44 To talk of many things. **

When men used to roam round the world in vessels not much larger than fishing boats, they grew very expert in foretelling the weather. By glancing at a cloud to windward, they could tell whether it meant wind or rain or both, how long the expected, weather would last—and so forth almost infallibly. Indications which you or I would either overlook altogether or misinterpret were to them full of significance. We wish that someone—ourselves for preference—could read the signs of the industrial skies as those mariners did tho heavenly ones. At present all seems calm. Is it a case of “ set fair,” or is it the calm before a storm? At these moments one lifts one’s eyes not to the hills where browse the peaceful merinos, but rather towards what is nowadays called the waterfront, an unlovely transatlantic word. What is happening there, for it is from that region that nine out of ten of our troubles spring. We had the case of a large steamer at Port , Chalmers which lay idle for over a fortnight until her master had eaten sufficient humble pie to satisfy some unknown, but clearly powerful, deity. Next we hear of a coastal vessel in the North whose owners in their innocence imagined that, provided the law was complied with, they could engage what men they chose to man her. They have since learned that such things are simply not done in polite shipping circles. The big ships had the next turn, a Home liner beingheld up” for some considerable time owing to the inability of certain of her firemen to tear themselves away from this dominion, which was highly flattering to us, no doubt, but rather expensive for the vessel’s owners. What do these small clouds mean? Luckily we are not a prophet, and are quite content to state facts, and leave their interpretation to more competent people. « * * • Blenheim reports a fall of red rain; .When rain comes down we’re glad of such Refreshment as we get; The colour doesn’t matter much* So long as it is wet. We button up our overcoats, Our boots are soaked and muddied, And talk of getting home in boats, In case the place is flooded.

I’ve never noticed any hue About it, anyway, Except a neutral tint that you Might call a watery grey. It plays some queer chromatic tricks With ladies’ summer frocks, And sometimes makes the colours mix In fancy ties and socks.

It makes the streets and pavements shine, But that is just what oughter Occur when asphalt will combine Its surfaces with water. And no one would presume to hint That rain had any colour, Except a non-committal tint That makes the landscape duller.

This Blenheim yarn I can’t explain, It's interesting—very— To hear of places where tho rain Is rodder than a cherry. Where people, when the weather’s damp, Discover that their suiting Is red as any penny stamp, Or pillar box it’s put in.

Perhaps it might be truly said (Although it needs explaining) That Blenheim folk were seeing red Because the sky was raining. But that’s no valid reason why

Those people should feel snappy Because the season’s been so dry That rain should make them happy.

Perhaps some luckless meteor bust (Where’er it happened to be), And filled the atmosphere with dust As red as any ruby ; And this, upon a rainy day. Might easily impart to The neighbourhood a colour, say. Just like a ripe tomato.

Perchance they looked upon 'the wine When it was red—a pity— And thought that water would be fine If it were half as pretty. The wish was father to the thought, And made those fellows think it, That all the rain had turned to port, Just so that they might drink it.

Perhaps it was an omen sent To tell ns our dominion Will shortly have a Government Of Bolshevik opinion; And all our towns bo painted red, According to their custom— Well, anyway, I hope I’m dead Before that happens—bust ’em!

It has been set down, probably in malice, that any kind of crank may meet his or her fellow in Christchurch, which is a pleasant city, but rather on the fiat side for us Southern monktaineers. The latest report from the town which lies upon the open down, and boasts the broken spire—apart from safe-blowings and other minor ripples on the surface —is that Christchurch is adopting from Wellington of all places a system of early Sunday morning church services for sporting people who may come to church clad in their appropriate raiment, the tennis players in snowy white, the golfers in Oxford bags and massive shoon, and the two-up scholars in whatever ‘ ‘ twouppers” wear when on pleasure and profit bent. After devoting a few minutes to their future welfare members of the congregation may disperse to their favourite amusements, thus making the best of both worlds, as it were. Like most new things, the idea is very old. Our forefathers, assuming that they belonged to the ruling classes, were familiar with the Hunting Mass on days when the chances of good sport were on the up grade; nor is it so very long ago since the custom died out. We cannot give the departure our blessing. It seems to lack a sense of proportion. If one is convinced that eternal welfare is partly or wholly dependent on church-going, it is a mere elementary precaution to go often and stay long, if, on the other band, church attendance is considered to be a matter of indifference, why go at all? Once in a way one finds a preacher whose sermons are as inspirin'l' as great poetry or great music, but very rarely. We must confess that the average sermon is best described in the homely Scots phrase as cauld parrich.” Taking it bye and large, we fear that the innovation will not have either' a very long life or a very useful one - , * * *

“In our mind’s eye Horatio,” we see a picture of the days to come, when the foreshore from Black Jack’s Point to Port Chalmers will be lined with wharves, behind which will extend a second system, of factories, with the

cottages of their employees on tho hillside at the back. The air will ho riven with the shrieks of syrens, the hooting of motor lorries, and the whistles of railway engines. Colour will be supplied by lines of petrol bowsers along the roadway, and multi-coloured railway signals wagging about as the long rakes of trucks are shunted to and fro. Thank heaven wo shall not behold this glory. We shall bo safely stowed away under the wide and starry skies of Anderson’s Bay, within sound of tile sea, before it arrives. It is no use lamenting about these things. No matter what system of government we may live under, the more or less speedy extinction of natural beauties will proceed apace. (See Holland on ‘ Secondary Industries,’ the majority report on scenic reserves, and other light literature on the subject.) Nor are we singular. Risdon —once Restdown— Ferry, one of the most beautiful of the suburbs of Hobart, is now occupied by the gigantic galvanised iron works of the Eiectrojytic Zinc Company, and the habitations of its men. It is a profitable concern, paying 12 per cent, with praiseworthy regularity, but somehow it does not improve the landscape to any great extent. The Hunter Valley in New South Wales, now the homo of innumerable coal mines and iron works, “ where ignorant armies clash by night,” and not infrequently in the daytime as well, was once a peaceful agricultural plain. -Nothing can be as it has been before —better maybe, only not the same.”-

Mr Stanley Baldwin, late Prime Minister of Britain, is one of the best specimens of Conservatism that the political world has thrown up for many a year. A kindly, cultured gentleman, with a strong sympathy for the under dog, and one who gave most convincing financial proof of his patriotism in a most modest manner, his main failing has been that he did not pack a strong enough punch. Instead of falling on his adversaries like the monkey of a pile driver, and causing them to beware of him, when anyone attacked him or his policy he said_ to himself : ” This man means well. No doubt he is a fool, but we are told to suffer fools gladly: so I shall deal with him gently.” ’Phis is proof of a Christian spirit, but does not count for much in politics. His son Oliver, who is also in the House, has many of his father’s qualities, just sufficiently exaggerated to make him a Socialist. It is cabled that when he announced in the House the other day that he purposed introducing a Bill dealing with the' distribution of wealth, all the members, with tho exception of himself. “ rocked with laughter.” We really cannot see any adequate reason for so much merriment. Tho party now in power exists simplv and solely for the purpose of altering the distribution of wealth, and, though its efforts in this direction have up till now consisted mainly in enriching foreigners at the expense of its own countrymen, we have no doubt that this has been unintentional. All tho other members of the House are trying to alter the distribution of wealth; and so are their constituents. Perhaps the House recognised tho futility of legislation to effect any permanent improvement, or more likely the House laughed at the idea of anyone bringing in a Bill which would make him poorer than he is at present. It is certainly a most unusual proceed-

What we’re coming to—a nightmare after reading Edgar Wallace’s opinion on American gaols.

Humanity’s as frail as straw, And those who are inclined To live regardless of the law, Of course, must be confined; But always so that we may draw Thera to a better mind, Poor dears! We must bo firm, but kind.

The murderer, the crook, the thief, And other criminals, Should feel a sense of sweet relief Within the prison walls; An atmosphere of gentle .grief, To greet thoir moral falls, Poor dears! And not the chain that galls.-

For hitherward each mother’s son For discipline is sent, Who vents bis uncurbed passions on The young and innocent. Just teach him that it isn’t done, And when his term is spent, Poor dear! He’ll bo a perfect “gent.’! And here is brought tho man, who ■ through Some lesion of the brain, Incredible to me and you, His fellow-man has slain. In olden days they doomed him to Tho gibbet and the chain, Poor dear! It must have caused him pain.

But now, with such unlucky chaps, Who fail to play the game, Environment, or else, perhaps Heredity’s to blame. For such a monumental lapse, To hang them is a shame, Poor dears! AVe simply coax them tame.

Ah, would that all the men who come Within our prison gate, Could find a home away from home, Their minds to elevate, To still the echoes iu their dome— It’s only cruel Fate, Poor dears! That brought them to this state.

The law no longer will they dread Who stalk abroad by night; _ And crooks will learn to love instead Its sweetness and its light. All! why so often are they led To dodge the gaol by flight? Poor dears! It gives them such a fright.