BY THE WAY

Evening Star, Issue 20996, 9 January 1932, Page 2

BY THE WAY

[By Q.V.] “The time has come,” the Walrus said, “ To talk of many things.” Some time this month or early in February, weather and other" circumstances permitting, “ Wizard ” Smith will try to break the speed record on the Ninety-mile Beach. Alas, these Smiths, there is not anything they will not attempt. They will break a record or the laws of their country with the same insouciance. There is not any name so much before the public eye. In the directories they stretch away till the crack of doom, and, as has been pointed out by some pessimist, many of them have young who will bear the same surname. “ Wizard,’' however, as may bo guessed by the nickname, is out of the usual run of Smiths. He is so called for his skill in manipulating a motor car. Not the kind of car yon owe the instalments on, but one with countless cylinders and fabulous horse power. It is estimated that, all going well, this contraption could reel off 300 miles in an hour, which is faster than anyone outside the Smiths would care to go. If by any chance he was shot out when going full speed, he might be projected clean through the atmosphere into space. According to the old physics he would then continue in a straight line until he bumped into a comet; but, since Mr Einstein has corrected our ideas, the line would be curved, and in a few million years he would return to his starting point in a breathless condition, to find that the insurance company had repudiated liability, and the car was a constructive total loss. We aie not thrilled—except unpleasantly—by these speed-breaking stunts, but we hope that Mr Smith will better luck than that. He is, by tlje way, an Australian, and therefore, in a manner of speaking, a relation. • « * *

“The bank at Hartford (Conn.), U.S.A., hue shut its doors owing to the largo amount of frozen assets.”

When winter comes, around the Pole, It’s chilly (so wo’re told), And even a hardy Eskimo ’ll Make comments on the cold. On certain days the water feels A trifle nippy for the seals, And, now and then, affairs Result in sneezes loud and long, And discontented growls among

The mildest Polar bears, Which makes one think the weather’s not Uncomfortably close and hot. This doesn’t sound inviting, but, In spite of all its chill, At Hartford, in Connecticut. I’vo heard it’s colder still. In January things occur Which Polar bears, despite their fur, And oily Eskimos Would think the ver.v limit, and Depart at once for Grinned Sand To squat upon the floes And think the Arctic blizzard’s blast Had thawed their frozen bones at last. In Russia, when she’s winter-bound (It seems a funny thing),_ One’s milkman brings the milk around On little bits of string, And tea, before you pour it out, Is frozen in the teapot spout, Though boiling hot when made. I’ve heard of tourists, too, who tell How chunks of frozen “ D.C.L.” And lumps of “Bullock Lade” Are sucked by Muscovites, who claim That peppermints are mild and tame. But winter time in Hartford (Conn.) Leaves Russia well behind; I wager ev’n Napoleon (’Tho’ dead) would feel inclined To wonder how his troops were lost In such a mediocre frost— I’ll readily admit That Hartford’s frosts can beat the best Otago Central, and the rest Are clearly out of it. One feels that one could hardly care To think about existing there. For frozen milk and frozen feet, And frozen Polar bears, And Highland whisky, frozen neat, And even frozen stares Are commonplace and warm beside A bank whose doors, once open wide, Are now securely shut By heaps of assets, frozen stiff. _ • I guess that Byrd would shiver if He saw Connecticut. To fly across that frozen bank Would bust tho stoutest petrol tank. • * * * The dear, good, stolid, patriotic British public I “Hard to lead, but easy to inspire,” Britain being, like the rest of the world, very short of cash has been financing her day.-by-day wants by means of short-dated securities, for which accommodation she pays anything up to 5} per cent. To ease this burden, a very considerable one for a nation aforetime used to the “ sweet simplicity of the three per cents.,” she appealed to those liable to income tax to pay their first instalments as soon after the due date as possible. The appointed period was Now Year’s Day, and before then some 10,000 persons in Bristol alone, had handed in their amounts, several offering to pay the second instalment at the same time. In London the muddy, foggy streets were crowded with men making their way to tho taxation offices. Fifteen times as much tax was received on that day as on the corresponding day last year. There is not much wrong with a nation which tackles a prosaic, unspectacular, and unpleasant duty like that. One can understand the magnificent gestures of war time, when a wave of patriotism submerges a whole country, hut in this case there were no brass bands, no khaki-clad ranks, no woman armed with white feathers for the hesitating. Only a cold, foggy morning, a row of overworked officials, a printed receipt form, and the consciousness of having done one’s duty. So long as that spirit survives there is little fear of decadence. * * * *

By train, by service bus, by car people have returned from their holiday making am l gone back to work, most of them v ;y glad to have Work to go back to. After a year’s toil, say, eight hours every working day, a man is all the better for a spell, and after eighteen hours a day a woman deserves it. The weaker vessel, as usual, has the worst of the deal. There is no eight-hour day in woman’s world and no overtime. If she does manage to get a few days at the seaside her eldest daughter explains to her best friend for the time being that “ it was pretty slow for us, of course, but raa got a nice rest.” In most cases the rest consisted in doing the same amount of cooking, dusting, sweeping, bed making, and so forth as she did at home, minus all the conveniences which she has accumulated in the course of the years in her own domicile. In addition she does the packing in and out for the whole family, walks a mile every morning for the milk, and argues with strange tradesmen at a disadvantage. There is nothing very restful about a seaside holiday for the house mother. The change of surroundings may do her

good, and in most cases is calculated to make her more contented with her lot when she returns home and counts up the family to see that none of them have been mislaid on the journey. Some hardy souls seek recuperation in a tent, which is endurable in fine weather, but has manifest disadvantages when the rain falls and the winds blown The nearer you get to Nature the more uncomfortable you find yourself.

According to the London ‘ Daily Express,’ which has been investigating the matter, the sex novel has fallen into disfavour. We are very pleased to hear it and hope that the information is accurate. We do not profess to bo more prudish than our neighbours, but this continual harping on one string—and that not a very attractive one—has been overdone. These matters are best left in the decent obscurity of a dead (or foreign) language, where those sufficiently interested may find examples in plenty, suited for all tastes, from plain pornography to delicately-veiled lubricity. The genius of our language does not readily lend itself to the latter typo of literature. Frankness to the verge and sometimes over the verge of coarseness one may easily find, especially in the earlier writers. We are no great readers of fiction at any time, so perhaps unfitted to judge dispassionately; but a preoccupation with one aspect of life, however temporarily important, docs not strike us as a characteristic of fine literature. Let us rather look on life steadily, and, impossible, see it whole, even in the mirror of fiction. It is passing strange, but the worst offenders in this respect are women, who, wdien they have once overstepped the bounds of decency, seem bent on showing how far they can go. # • * “DESPERANTO.” I hale the folk who’ve got No notion what the harm is In keeping up a lot Of navies and of armies. I loathe these gaudy rags, With stars and crosses (bust ’em). To claim the things as flags Is just a savage custom. While Frenchmen feed on snails Or Dagoes on spaghetti, The spirit that prevails Is absolutely petty. Why can’t they find some food Of world-wide acceptation, That’s uniformly good, Alike to every nation? When Latins like their wine And Teutons go a-beering, No nation can combine— It causes mutual jeering While Russians in top-boots, And Turks in carpet-slippers, Arouse derisive hoots From hosts of foreign trippers. ' ’Twould foster peace indeed And save a lot of bother If nations all would feed And dress like one another. But. oh 1 their isn’t much _ Idea that war will vanish When Dutchmen still speak Dutch And Spaniards talk in Spanish! There’s little chance that strife And hatred will bo lesser When Britons seek a knife, But Germans call it “ messer. We’ve known the streams of blood And conflict dire and woeful Twist those who say “a spud And those who say “kastoffcl. We’ll never get the sort Of brotherhood we want to Till everyone is taught To talk in Esperanto. One learns it in a trice, Its idioms and phrases (You’ve no idea how nicty Its lavish use of “ J’s ” isl. It’s made of every _ speech The human flesh is heir to, A little bit of each— Enough, in fact, to swear to. With words from Jugo-Slav, From Portuguese and Switzer And Flemish, it might have The simple name of “ Bitzer. Concocted by the most Well-meaning folk, it’s able To shift like Pentecost The ancient curse of Babel. Each international With great approval views it. They love it, one and all, But seldom like to use it!