BY THE WAY

Evening Star, Issue 21636, 3 February 1934, Page 2

BY THE WAY

(llj X.Y.]

“ The time has come,” the Walrus said, “ To talk of many things.” To the iuevitable query, “ And what do you think of the modern girl? ” Professor Einstein, the world-renowned scientist and exponent of relativity, has responded, in his own simple way, as follows; —“ One thinks of her as a perpendicular biological phenomenon in short skirts. Now one knows she is an oval mass, bent in space, being thrown off by electrons from swiftly-rotating nitholwatte, with all the speed of an idzol.”

What will the modern girl have to say to that? So accustomed is she to hearing herself summed up in one word, or two at the most, that she will probably find some difficulty in conjuring up "the retort piquant at which she lias proved herself an adept. The thought of being regarded as an oval mass (obviously minus beautiful curves) may be a blow to her conceit, and there is surely nothing very encouraging about being bent in space (it recalls the act of being bent over somebody’s knee and soundly spanked). Her alleged association with swiftly-rotating nitholwatts, moreover, sounds rather terrible, and when we come to analyse the idzol we give the subject up in despair. To conclude with a word of comfort, however, we now pen the reassuring tidings that Professor Einstein has been seen indulging in sun-bathing side by side with dozens of film actresses who were his fellow-guests at a holiday resort in the Colorado Desert. It may be assumed, therefore, that the learned gentleman does not think the modern girl as formidable as she sounds when subject to a scientific definition. Professor Einstein probably means, in plain English, that the man who really understands the girl of to-day never attempts to understand her. v * • • As soon as any tree grows flowers or fruit, Or any plant bears tuber, pod, or root For man’s delight, It gets a blight. There’s aphis, codlin, scale, and turnip fly, Weevils, and earwigs, caterpillars—l Could add a score If 1 knew more. These tiresome creatures do their best to spoil The recompense of man's and Nature’s toil With most intense Malevolence. And side by side with these, one’s garden breeds All sizes, sorts, and shapes of noxious weeds. Which grow apace In every place. Sow thistles, docks, convolvulus, and twitch, Sorrel, fat hen, and dandelions, which Hear up their heads In plots and beds. They never get the blight—my conscience, no! You’ve got to tackle them with fork and hoe, Or sweat and ache With spade and rake. Without a doubt, could any use be found For all these weeds that clutter up the ground, That use would bring Some creeping thing. So here are useful plant—and weed—and pest, ‘Which last rejects the worst and eats the best; And this, I claim, Is just a shame. Can’t all the scientists we have to-day Put heads together and devise a way. Of making terms With bugs and worms? Just let them leave our apples, spuds, and wheat, Our turnips, peaches, celery, and beet, Chrysanthemums, And pears and plums. Just think of fields of twitch, all sick and pale With canker, aphis, oodlin moth, and ■ scale, Alive with slugs And mealy bugs. Brown rot could leave our Burbank plums and batten On cat’s ear, sorrel, barley grass, and fat hen; And turnip fly Make chickweed die.

I’d like to see the shellback snails live high on The docks, and earwigs dine on dandelion, And leafcnrl wrinkle The periwinkle. Alas! were all this growth of weeds thus cleared, Blighted and blasted, withered, shrivelled, seared, They’d start again On fruit and grain! It is with considerable pleasure that we acknowledge the receipt of a circular embodying the rules of the Auckland Club, which is to take root in Dunedin. Some of the most important of these are:— Members must be able to answer the question: “ Why is Auckland known as the Queen City? ” This, of course, is rather difficult, but nevertheless prompt blackballing is the penalty for failure to give a convincing answer. Members are expected to pass an examination in rainfall statistics and give conclusive reasons why Auckland has a drier climate than Dunedin, despite the fact that she gets more rain. Current residence in Dunedin will bo no excuse for omission to denounce the Melbourne-South Island steamer service on every suitable occasion. Club Hedgings must be able to recite ‘ Our Harbour ’ without blushing, and deliver a panegyric on North Shore, Rangitoto, Kawau, and the Auckland Plunket Shield cricket team. Members must be prepared to deny till they are black in the face the assertion that Dunedin is Auckland’s financier. The pass-word is “ Auckland Tiber New Zealand ” and the countersign, “ Auckland is Great and Rotorua is Her Profit.”

The suggestion that each year there should be a “ back to the owner ” week, to be observed by borrowers of books, is finding favour in Sydney. For the sake of fellow book-lovers who may be grieving for lost treasures, we hope that somebody in Dunedin will nourish a similar project.into fulfilment. Not all of us are systematic enough to catalogue the books we lend out, and most of us are sufficiently vain to advertise what we think is our good taste in literature by parting temporarily only with the best of our volumes. It is most disconcerting to have our discrimination corroborated through the prolonged absence of our favourites from the fireside shelves. Another factor which ensures the safety of trash and causes good books to go astray is that most book-lovers are genuinely happy to share their enjoyment with others —a characteristic that applies not only to the lender but also the Jendee. If at the end of several months it is possible to remember to whom a book was lent, one is perfectly justified in throwing out polite queries bearing on the chances of the article being returned, but it is quite likely that at this stage in the good book’s life history one will be told that it has been mislaid or passed on to the borrower’s wife’s cousin, an excellent person, so careful, too, who was “ simply dying ” to read it. No doubt of it—book-lovers the world over are book-careless. Something, not necessarily the inauguration of reformative treatment for such an offence, should be done about it. Probably the Athenaeum and the free Public Library, as well as private individuals, suffer from this failing in human nature, and, in order to end on a practical note, we suggest that the chairman of the Library Committee should proclaim on behalf of us all a “ back to the owner ” week, to synchronise, say, with the annual spring-cleaning period. Consciences, in addition to cob-webs, could do with the clearing.

The Anglo-Australian discussions on bodyline bowling seem to have died a lingering death, but we fear that the world has not seen the last of the ultraserious note which has crept into test cricket. During recent years we have harboured the belief that it is more interesting to read about matches between England and Australia than it can be to watch them. Through the comfortable perusal of a column or two of newspaper matter in which all the worth-while activities have been summarised we are able to acquire, without waste of time, enough knowledge either to start an argument or equip ourselves in view of contingencies in that direction. For the man who knows nothing whatever about test match cricket is practically an outcast from the rest of the carload and the Empire.

We fancy, however, that the great general public are beginning to regard as the tit-bits of the game certain unrehearsed and acrimonious sidelights which have come to be known as “ incidents.” It is a great pity that this should be so, because incidents, in the newly-accepted sense of the word, should not be part and parcel of legitimate cricket news. Modern cricketers and their controllers (chiefly the controllers) being what they are. we can see no escape from these unfortunate occurrences during the next season in England. Let ns prepare, then, for a series of cabled messages which lend themselves to headings such as the following : “ Larwood Defiant—Bodyline Bowling at Notts—Supreme Court Injunction to be Sought.” “ Sensation at Lord’s —Jardine Seen to Smile—Mystery Writers Take up the Story.” “ Wayward Australian Wives—Three Arrested in Same Towns as Husbands— Arrangements Being Made for Deportation.”

“ Bradman Scores 300 Runs in First Test —Attempt Made to Poison his Soup—Special Food Coming from Sydney by Plane.”

We view with mixed feelings the agitation for the completion of the Queenstown-Kingston road. While deploring any step that may result in the curtailment of the Lake Wakatipu steamer service, which we believe to be one of the district’s chief tourist attractions, we know we shall have to bow to the inevitable. Petrol, it seems, is stronger than water; the expansion of its functions cannot be denied. Moreover, now that the road has been started at considerable expense, it is only to be expected that its completion should be urged. In our more unpractical moods, however, we sympathise with those who would prefer to see the Government launch a new steamer to partner the Earnslaw in those enjoyable little voyages across Wakatipu’s sparkling waters. The boat service is one of the big advantages which Queenstown has over Pembroke, and, if anything is done, even in the name of progress, to interfere with that, the “ City of the Lakes ” may suffer more than the pro-road people fancy. Further, the completion of the Kingston road does not mean the end of agitations and deputations. The Glenorchy residents—especially in the event of a decimated steamer service—will demand a good road right through. And what of the

lakeside settlers who have to get their produce away? Truly, the district, as a whole, will not be satisfied till Lake VVakatipu is totally surrounded by a road, tar-sealed for preference. The Bev. Mr Wilde has gone out as priest to Tristan da Cunlia, taking two whaleboats, musical instruments, books, two pairs of rabbits, and cricket and football gear.—Cable. He lands upon those scanty acres, Through miles of wet and windy breakers; And there, with other gear, he dumps His footballs, bats, and bails, and stumps, Some instruments of music, too, A stock of books, both old and new, Two pairs of rabbits, making four, And guaranteed to furnish more. One wishes him the best of luck; He’s earned a medal for his pluck, Marooned upon this lonely rock To tend a scanty sort of flock. His Grace of Canterbury might (When once again he comes to light) Appoint this enterprising priest A Dean, or Canon, at the least. It makes me wonder, though, what sort Of instruments this padre brought . For cultivating euphony Among these dwellers in the sea; 'An organ, of a modest type (American, not mouth or pipe), And, possibly, for week-day tunes, Some flutes, or oboes, or bassoons. In course of time his flock might come To play the flugelhorn and drum, Performing, like a band “ en masse,” On divers instruments of brass, The strains of ‘ Colonel Bogey ’ or, Quite possibly, of ‘ Belphegor,’ On cornet, ophicleide, trombone, he bring a saxophone? If so—l shudder to relate A forecast of the ultimate Catastrophe that would occur To Wilde, the bold adventurer; For, though his preaching had the “ kick ” Of Chrysostom or Dominic, Savonarola, or Dean Inge, It wouldn’t do a single thing. The folk would pass him by, unheeding, His rabbits would refrain from breeding, His footballs burst their leather sides, His cricket ball bowl nought hut wides, His whaleboats run on rocks and sink, And Wilde be left alone to think, With many a doleful sight and groan, About that cursed saxophone. For passing vessels, Cape-ward bound, Would hear the wild, unearthly sound, And hasten on, with steam and sails; So Wilde would never get his mails. At last, in horror and despair, He’d flee from that atrocious blare, And, driven hbsolutely frantic, Seek rest beneath the blue Atlantic. Yet, possibly—good luck to him! The future won’t be quite so grim. Advised by friends, both shrewd and kind, He’ll leave the saxophone behind. His church with worshippers he’ll fill. His cricketers increase in skill. Until at last they’ll get the best Of Africa in every Test. His Soccer team provide a thriller By donkey-licking Aston Villa; His mbbits, bred among the rocks, Become stone-marten, skunk, and fox, And coney-seal and Arctic hare, For all the world to buy and wear. And Wilde himself experience The due reward of pluck and sense, And, once a humble missionary. Become His Grace of CanterDury i