BY THE WAY

Evening Star, Issue 20364, 21 December 1929, Page 2

BY THE WAY

[By Q.V.]

“ Th« lim* hn come,” the Walrui •aid, “Ta talk of many things.” For many Christmas does not promise to be a very jovial season this year. Our treacherous coast has snared another victim, and over 200 people have, we suppose, lost most, if not all, of their personal effects; the owners have lost a valuable steamer, which can ill be spared at present; and a gallant and popular commander the unblemished record which every shipmaster hopes to retain till the end. In New South Wales there is something like an insurrection over the right to work, which the Maitland miners claim is vested in them alone, and which the Government considers to belong to all willing to exercise it. At Horae, after a series of unprecedented gales and floods, the Ministry is watching the handwriting on the wall foretelling its approaching end, and comparing the little done with the vast promises made. When one throws in such minor matters as the fighting in China, the intriguing over the forthcoming Naval Conference, and the vast sum of purely private sorrows in the world, there does not seem ranch cause for jubilation. Yet the unconquerable soul of man faces all these things not only with fortitude, hut also with hope, which is the best omen for the future we can have. “ Our heads are bloody, but unbowed.” To come out of our troubles we must rely on ourselves. We should like to see a sign put up: “No foreigners peed apply.” Quite n number of our neighbours are anxious to help us, at least with advice, bub there are ,confidence nations as well as confidence men, and both are hotter shunned. * * * * In Muscovy the Bolshevik Essays to let us see How perfectly nn-Christmas-like His Christmastide can be; And so, in country and in town. He celebrates it upside down, And wrong side up and inside out (What Pat calls “ widdershins about ”) With most unholy glee. So through the streets of Leningrad Tho_ waits progress that_ night, Explaining how the world was glad When Lenin saw the light, And setting forth in doleful songs Their modern rights and ancient wrongs. Such soulful subjects, chanted thus, Could hardly be hilarious, When sung in Muscovite. The Christmas tree in every home Is set up, green and fair, And. all the little Russkies come To sco what’s hanging there. For bourgeois dolls of either sex Are seen suspended by their necks, And pretty picture books there are Which show the shooting of the Tsar (A theme the worse for wear!) No Father Christmas comes to fill Their top boots bv the bed, Altho’ you'd think ne’d flourish still As being clothed in red; Rut Father dresses up to look (If .possible) like Lenin’s spook. A fearsome spectacle, ho brings Their toys and other pleasant tilings With soft and stealthy tread. The family next morning go To church, in duty bound, Rut not to worship—oh, dear, uo! No parson there is found. The church is made a dancing hall, And there the Bolshies, one and all, Go jazzing round in Russian boots. The jazz Land blares, and brays, and toots, With saxophonlc sound. I don’t know what they call the day (Their language is so queer!), But names don’t count, provided they Observe it with good cheer. They wouldn’t call it Christmas, for That name’s forbidden by the law: But still, no matter what they call This Communistic festival. It comes but once a year, •••.*. A Mrs Herbert, who, with others, bearded the Technical College Board of Managers at its meeting the other day, is evidently a lady of courage and initiative—an up-to-date Margaret of Anjou domiciled in Dunedin. In connection with a proposal that tire hoard should import and retail school books to its pupils, Mrs Herbert said that she looked forward to a day when all such books would be supplied free. Some doubting Thomas interjected that when that day dawned they would be asked to supply boots and clothing also. “Why not, if they are needed?” retorted the indomitable lady, and in this climate, at any rate, they arc needed. We presume the next step would lie to provide meals, as is already done in some parts of England; then, no doubt, motor cars to convey the young people to and from their studies. After that? We do not know, but free pictures in the evenings would be popular, and when they were furnished other wants would undoubtedly spring up. How these things are to be paid for Mrs Herbert left for future consideration, but undoubtedly the money would come from the Government in the first place, and from the nockets of the “capitalists” in the second (a capitalist being defined as anyone who pays income tax). It sounds good, and no doubt appears good to many. There is, however, a fable about the owner of an auriferous goose who tried to get some easy money by killing the fowl. There are quite a number of .small capitalistic geese who collectively give a lot of employment, but who could not bear any additional burden without collapsing. They would be greatly missed by many. We would suggest that the advocates of free everything should study this tale, which is readily available in the Free Public Library,

No one who has glanced at these notes from time to time will suspect us of a too lively sympathy with Communists or Communism, a system which we believe to be economically unsound and socially undesirable. This, however, does not preclude us from considering that the Government officials who gave sundry Communists of Wellington three months for selling, or trying to sell, seditious literature showed much more zeal than discretion. One of the works complained of was Thorold Rogers’s ‘ Six Centuries of Work and Wages,’ a classic in its way, full of curious and interesting information regarding the guild and manor systems not readily obtainable elsewhere. Thorold Rogers—whose Christian name has been transformed into “Harold ’’ in the course of the proceedings—was a professor in, we fancy, Cambridge who later on became a somewhat eccentric and wholly ineffectual member of the House of Commons. His ‘ Six Centuries ’ is, or used to be, obtainable at the Free Public Library here—or so we think—and cer-

tainly was on the shelves of the Athenaeum. If to read it bo a crime wo are due for a long period of solitude, and we hope that all friends of liberty will rally round on Sunday afternoons and throw us a few biscuits through the bars. Another work complained of, Blatchford’s 1 God and My Neighbour,’ we have not read, hut we are familiar with much of this author’s delightful work. We have always had much sympathy with Blatchford, who threw up a good position to devote himself to the cause, only to be starved out of it after a quarter of a century’s unselfish work, mainly, it appeared, because he retained his patriotism after acquiring his Socialism. It is a queer world. The Bible is banned in Russia and Blatchford in New Zealand. • * ♦ • Every now and then we wake up to find that some scientific person has pushed our ancestral tx-ee back till it is almost out of sight. Our fathers were content to begin with Adam, say five or six thousand years ago—quite long enough, one would think. Moreover, Adam had an interesting career, which was fully reported in the Mesopotamian Press of the age. Among other items we remember that the medical faculty of his day was fully alive to the value of vitamines in diet, and with considerable astuteness began its propaganda by converting the ladies. Did not one of the Early Fathers —it may have been Father Knox, but we do not think so—write:

Eve said to Adam > (The naughty little madam) : “ Adam, you should eat more fruit ’ ?

As it turned out, tho experiment was not very successful, but neither were the efforts of the Maui Pomare in the same direction; and even doctors are not infallible like Mr Neil son, that latter : day voice crying in a wilderness of capitalists or would-be capitalists. But back to our muttons'. In our day we got as far back as the Neanderthal man, the Riltdown man, the Cromagons, Mid others, who have held tho record till now. A now champion has just been unearthed in the vicinity of Peking who dates back a million years. His name is not mentioned, but we may call him Hop Sing for convenience. It is believed that ho first propounded tbe conundrum “Is life worth living?’ but his private views on the subject are not recorded. (In actual practice most people think it is.) • » * * Now school is ended for the year. And children feel inclined to cheer Until their throats are hoarse. “Exams.” are over, terms are done, And prizes—more, or less—are won, And all the youngsters think it fun, Of course. And aren’t the parents feeling glad, When every little lass and lad ■» Conics dancing home with glee? Yes, mother thinks it quite sublime To nave her darlings all tho time, Maybe. Now Christmas time is hound to come, And there’s a horrid vacuum. Within my scanty purse. Is getting Christmas presents for My little ones, a blessing or A curse? The little blighters want a lot, And I’m convinced my means are not Wh'at folk would call a “pile.” So if I let them ask and have, I shan’t have any option save To file. And so I’ll do what any man Must do—just give them what I can, And let them want the rest. Yet, even though I’m nob too rash, This week will tell a tale of cash Gone west. And even then, I have no doubt There’ll be a move for camping out, And dad must foot the bill, Which same is most appalling—yet The little beggars know they’ll get Their will. So that’s the way the money goes, As every luckless parent knows, When' holidays arrive. It’s just a c'aso of “ smile and pay,' In hop© that some few shillings may Survive. And yet—how can I deal in blame? Most likely I behaved the same When I'was in my teens. I wanted everything from dad, And never questioned if he had The means. So, fathers all, although you can’t Give children everything they want, Don’t holler when you’re stung. This sort of thing is nothing new; It’s only what you did when you Wore young.