BY THE WAY

Evening Star, Issue 21706, 28 April 1934, Page 2

BY THE WAY

[By X.Y.] “ The time ba» come,” the Walrus said, “ To talk of many things.” The manner in which the Pacific is being associated with talk of future warfare is disturbing. Basing our judgment on the past performances of the military powers, wo have come by the idea that the world’s battles are generally fought in any area that for years beforehand has been singled out as a possible locale for warfare. At any rate it has been so in the case of the Balkans and Europe, and, unless we can turn the eyes of the world away from our own corner of the globe, we may be in for it. There is something subconscious ami devilish about theway the leaders of nations harp on the war of the future. In order to rid them of their obsessions, wc should have them psycho-analysed, or, it that treatment fails, we should simply lock them up. Until the whole attitude of the world towards international arguments and jimbitions changes Britain cannot afford to disarm. Her Navy cannot be too strong. Admiral W. T. Randle Ford, the new commander of the Royal Australian Navy, is right when he says we must have a powerful fleet in the Pacific, but we do wish "he would refrain from emphasising his opinion that the next war will be fought in these waters —ami within ten years. That sort of talk adds strength to the unfortunate aura that is hovering over us. There is power in thought. We wish the nations that are looking for trouble would think the next war into Northern Greenland or Marie Byrd Land. * * * * I do not keep Alsatians To vex my neighbours’ souls, I have no inclinations To cultivate carnations Or hyacinths in bowls.

1 hate a green leaf diet; I’m sure that 1 should get Ko satisfaction by it; I never mean to try it— At least, 1 haven’t yet.

I’ve never tackled bridge, on An afternoon or night; I never flew a pigeon Or tried some crank religion, As other fellows might.

I’ve never started hiking Or played the saxophone; I've never had a liking For going motor biking, With side chair or alone.

I think I’ll stop relating The things I’ve never done, Or folks, commiserating, Will think I’m indicating A life devoid of fun.

Besides, there is a query To which I’d answer “ Yes.” My life is not so dreary. You see, .I’m always very Extremely fond of chess.

Let golfers dare to mention Their “ Royal, ancient game ”; Their puerile contention Is just a now convention; For chess deserves that name.

The thought of it releases One’s mind from trashy' books; And senseless chatter ceases. I set the board and pieces, The bishops, knights, and rooks

Some call it complicated, Some speak of it as slow; But, Lord! one’s breath is bated Until the king is mated; Which shows how much they know

So give mo just a table, Some chessmen and a friend, And these are always able To make me comfortable For hours and hours on end!-

One of the most momentous questions of the day is: “ What' shall we do with the modern cow?” The New Zealand cow is a healthy and obliging animal which, under scientific farming methods fostered by the Government, has responded, nobly to the call for increased production—a call that was raised by material man to a crescendo when butter was selling at 2s fid per lb. It is not the fault of the cow that her produce is now not worth half that sum. How was she to realise tlio dangers of overproduction when man himself didn’t? She knew- nothing about depressions and glutted markets and quotas. She is probably the only living thing connected with the dairying industry which is not worrying over the situation.

But if she could worry she would worry. If she were aware of its portent, the proposal that one-tenth of the New Zealand herds should be killed off in order to reduce production would cause her cud to lose its flavour. The daily grazing would no longer be the period of deep content which appears to exist. The approach to anything like human habitation or yards would be made with extreme trepidation. Even an assurance to about-to-become-decoased herd members that they were to be given a chance to establish a possible now industry—the manufacture, say, of bottled “ Cowo ” or “ Bovo ” would prove of little consolation. We plead for the modern cow. Wo hope the Royal Commission that has been sot up to investigate the industry of which she is the central figure will find a way out of the difficulty without resort to increased killing.

We now' recall the news that milk bars arc becoming popular in Melbourne, There seems no reason why we in New Zealand should not also toe the brass rail of a milk bar and drink to the very good health of the cow. And what about butter buffets? Well, Mr Bernard Shaw appears to be the loading authority on butter eating. Wo must consult him about that. Cheese delicatessens ? We must first of all make a real live able-bodied cheese. Let us give the cow a chance.

The more wc think of this subject the more wc are convinced that Her Majesty the Cow is made to suffer grav.e indignities. Despite her service to children and other children she is frequently the object of unmerited derision. Some of our colonial slang owes its origin to her presence amongst us. For instance, why should the word “ cow ” be used as the trenchant noun in an expression of displeasure. “What a cow!” \re have heard people exclaim under stress of an unwelcome emotion. Or “ Well, isn’t that a fair cow?” As though la cow were an unmitigated nuisance. This kind of slang is little short of being libellous. If any kind of liberty; is taken with “ cow ” the word should |be used to denote something worthy. Tllns it should not be out of place to refer to a “cow of a politician ” —if it is i»Ssiblo to find one to fit the suggested new meaning. i Then, again, we learn in a messpge from California tliat.au unhappy fow

over there is being made the victim of some extraordinary experiments. Part of her side has been cut away, and in place of the skin a piece of mica has been inserted. This forms a window through which the inquisitive investigator can watch the digestive processes. Scientists may have something to learn from this queer hind of magic lantern show, but it must be all very disconcerting for the cow. There seems no limit to the slights heaped, upon,cowdom. Even the composers of nursery rhymes have not left her alone. In the matter of her alleged leap over the moon it may appear that she has been credited with the world’s high jump record; but all the same it is not a thought that suggests a proper dignity.

We are loth to leave the topic before recounting the awful fate of an American writer, Gclett Burgess, wbo once made light of the cow theme. In ah unfortunate moment he wrote a. skit nonsensically intended as a satire on certain art eccentricities of his day. Entitled ‘ The Purple Cow,’ it ran like this:

I never saw a purple cow, I never hope to see one; But this I tell you here and now I’d rather see than be one.

‘ The Purple Cow ’ won him unexpected and uudesired fame. The verse was chanted from the Atlantic seaboard to the Pacific coast. Mr Burgess could not live it down. It obscured his more serious work, and actually proved an obstacle in his career. Strangers brazenly quoted it to him, and in tinie it became a nightmare. Mention of it brought sulking, brooding mystery, and oven when gaiety was at its height the slightest reference to it was sufficient to plunge him into gloom. One can feel sorry for Mr Burgess, but nevertheless it will have to be ai;l.mitted that there was a certain amount of poetic justice about his punishment. We advise Dunedin folk not to read the verse through more than once. If committed to memory the thing will plague them for years. There is no escape.

As a remedy for possible test match “ stage fright ” or ill-temper we think the cricket authorities of England should consider the matter of adopting and amplifying the scheme of the directors of the Portsmouth Soccer team, who, by way of providing a nerve soother "for their men, arranged for a variety concert to be held in the dressing room for some time prior to the kick-off. Thus wc should be relieved to read the following extracts from a London cablegram covering the high lights of the first test match between England and Australia

“ On arrival at the ground the teams were welcomed by Mr George Robey, who called attention to the fact that the sun was shining, and remarked that nothing very terrible was likely to.happen to anybody who did not play well. “ Cheer up,” he added; “ it won’t be long till lunch time, and it’s a jolly good lunch, too. And after that it won’t be long till the tea adjournment. In fact, everything will soon be over, and the managers might let you come to my theatre if you are good boys.” Mr Robey then led the teams into the dressing rooms and told funny stones to each side in turn. <• For about an hour the effects ot Mr Robey’s good influence were felt, the friendliest possible feeling existing between the contestants. Then Larwood, who was getting overheated, resorted to his old trick of hurling shortpitched balls down on the leg side. The Australian batsmen bristled and bridled visibly, and it seemed that an international crisis was unavoidable. However, just when the tension was at its height Gracie Fields and a troupe of ballet dancers from the Gaiety rushed on to the ground and entertained both players and spectators for fully ten minutes. Elderly men’ seated m the members’ stand woke up, Larwood and the batsmen were seen to smile, and the game was resumed. A' record attendance is expected to-morrow.”

Two young and enterprising Americans are starting a venture to supply the gold-seekers in Kenya with drinks , by aeroplane.—Cable.

My ears prick up when I behold A biplane in the sky. It makes me tbink how brave and bold, And, incidentally, how cold, Those chaps must be who fly; And . wonder at the human brain. ■What geniuses they were, Those fellows who evolved the plane Which sputters through the air!

What wonderful affairs they are, And what a lot they do! They fly from Rome to Panama. From Leningrad to Alcala, , From Gore to Oamaru. there’s nothing novel now about An aeroplane in flight, And folk no longer scamper out , To see the wondrous sight.

Now, Afric’s sunny fountains may Roll down their golden sand (They did, in Bishop Heber’s day), But gold won’t drive a thirst away In that anhydrous land. So miners look with longing eyes Around the atmosphere For planes with plentiful supplies Of alcoholic cheer.

(lark! hark! tlie lark at heaven’s gate sings, ; And Shakespeare praised bis song. His fancy favoured feathered things; ]lnt what about tbe bird who brings . The wherewithal along? The honey-bees around tlioir hives | Produce no sweeter hum Than that wherewith the plane arrives i To drop its store of rum.

Let Smithy fly from east to west, j And Ulm from west to east; Lot others fly to Everest jAnd drop a spanner on his crest, I Or thereabout, at least. Let some—the boys of. nerve and clash— Attempt the Schneider Cup. iWliite others Hop to earth ami smash ; Their planes and persons up.

Tot these are idle tricks and vain, Which we could do without; But—crikey !—if the whisky plane Should crash and spill, like fragrant rain. Its cargo round about, Ah. then, the Darkest Continent (You know tho one T mean) Would ring to Kenya’s loud lament For drinks that might have been !