BY THE WAY

Evening Star, Issue 21974, 9 March 1935, Page 2

BY THE WAY

[Bv X.Y.]

“ The time has come,” the Walrus said, “ To talk of many things.” . During its comparatively short history New Zealand has been called many names—most of them of a flattering nature. No doubt the early settlers regarded it as “ The Land of Hope,” or “ The Gold Miner’s Dream,” or “The Answer to a Farmer’s Prayer ”; it would all depend on what industry the pioneer had in view. As time went on the country became known as “ God’s Own” and “ The Workers’ Paradise.” During the war it was as nearly a “ Haven of Refuge ” as one could wish for during those troublous times. With the development of tourist traffic the dominion has become “ The Gem of the Pacific” or “ ’The World’s Playground.” Fine, high-sounding names, these . . . it is a pity that a. small band of English people, on returning to the Home Country, should have seen fit to break the beautiful chain with the fearsome designation “ The Robber Country.” What a blow to our pride! What a direct hit on the House of Parliament! One cannot help feeling some sympathy with disappointed English folk who have been unable to weather the economic storm in a dominion which was hard-hit. Yet, for the sake of effect, it seems probable that their critical statements were exaggerated and that New- Zealand’s good qualities have been studiously overlooked. That is ever the way of the person with a grievance. We hope that the grouch in this case will not develop into a campaign of spite, which actually has been threatened against New Zealand produce. Such a policy, if carried out in the Mother Country, would not help ns to graduate out of banditry; nor would it assist many English folk who are still in the grip of the “ Robber Government.” We trust that the disgruntled ones will feel more kindly disposed to our mutton, our butter, and our apples after they have paid their first income tax in the Homeland—that is, if they are fortunate enough to have one to par. • * • • One thinks that mighty potentates, Who sit upon subservient States, Would live immune from all the fates That vex our common clay. Serene, superlatively proud, They take from some convenient cloud The plaudits of the common crowd. The homage humans pay. When Hitler howls, the Germans quail, When Stalin scowls, the Russ, turns pale, And when Benito hits the trail He gives the Roman chills. You’d almost think a. chap like that— I mean, a proper autocrat— Would snap his mighty fingers at Our puny human ills. Yet, actually, we are told That (Oycz! Oyez! Lo’’! Behold!) Adolphus has a vulgar cold, Like any Hans or Fritz; And, consequently, I suppose, He sniffs and splutters, blows his nose. And twists his features in the throes Of diver sneezing fits. The Nazis, longing for his smile, Ejaculate a pious “Heil!” And stretch their hands for quite a while, As all good Nazis do. While Hitler, inly swearing, tries To make appropriate replies, E m itti ng. socla-sy ph on - wise, A shattering A-choo! I’m certain it’s a ribald fake. Why, soon we’ll have the cables make Stern Stalin have a stomach ache,

Or Musso, grow a corn. Perhaps they’ll play a scurvy trick On venerable Masaryk, Describing him as summer-sick, To hold him up to scorn. The rumour will be noised about That De Valera’s growing stout. That Roosevelt’s got rheumatic gout. And Schuschnigg writhes with boils. To circulate such tales at all. And make the good and great look small, Is scandalous —just think of all The glamour that it spoils! I can’t imagine it—can you? That Adolf’s really caught the ’flu. It’s libellous, it can’t be true, And anyone who’d dare To circulate such tales should be Arraigned at once for blasphemy, Suspended from a .ludas tree. And left to dangle there! • a * • States Sydney Horler, in his hook of chit-chat. ‘Strictly Personal’: “Wonderful thing, American slang. Common taste, perhaps, but I love its raciness, its ‘ bite,’ and the fact that every time it hits the hull’s-eye'.” We have no quarrel with Mr Horler over his frank statement. Indeed, anybody who has tried his hand writing and has therefore had occasion now and then to wrestle with the temptation to use an American colloquialism when it seems that nothing else will express the desired meaning so pithily should bo with him in his opinion. Undoubtedly American slang is all he says —particularly when spoken by Americans. It is only when it is copied par-rot-wise by Now Zealanders and other British folk that it falls flat. It is then that its intriguing note becomes an irritation, a thing to be avoided by adults and suppressed in the young. The same effect is produced when we bear a. New Zealander attempting to copy the enunciation and intonation of Oxford or Mayfair, though nothing can be more pleasing than to hear a well-spoken Englishman in the full flight of oratory. - Yes; it is the way of the copyists wc should deplore _ rather than the speech that is copied. New Zealand youngsters should be taught to develop an individual tongue which, up until the time Hollywoodism began to run riot, showed signs of being both correct and pleasing to the ear. New Zealand speech was never so good as the best English and never so had as the worst English. The only serious fault we have noticed is the tendency of children to perturb discriminating parents by saving, for example “ tike ” for “ take.” or “ roide ” for “ride.” This is had, very bad. School teachers, please note. o • • * “ Dear ‘X.Y.’ (writes ‘ Rabbie ’) : “ By a process of unwonted mental acrobatics I have managed to link up two of your recent paragraphs, though, indeed, at first sight, it would appear that there was no connection , between them. Last week yon passed on the message of the Lord Mayor of Newcastle, who reproved Dunedin citizens for persistently cracking that well-

worn joke about Rabbie Burns (in statue form) having his back to the church and his face to the ‘ pub.’ . . . Man, I’d like fine tae grip the liaun o’ yon Lord Mayor. . . . The week before that you distinguished yourself, in my opinion, by advising Dunedin to start being Dunedin’s financier, instead of Auckland’s. Obviously you are one of those who want to see things done. “ Well now, what think you of the idea of our civic authorities undertaking an autumn cleaning of some of the statues and monuments that stand in public places? Did you know that Bobbie Burns, for instance, is sorely m need of a brush-up? How many people are aware that the monument to his namesake, the Rev. Thomas, has actually begun to crumble away ? Probably there are other representations in stone which will not stand close inspection. The repairing of our statues and monuments may seem a small thing to a council which is busy being a financier for other cities, but surely something can be done' about this matter while the decay is still at a fairly superficial stage. “Why. hero we are, with our new postal district scheme and what not, becoming more like London every day —and, by the way, I am sure the London folk will never let Lord Nelson crumble away into _ Trafalgar square. For the benefit of city councillors who may not know it, 1 wish to add that the postal address of the statue and monument to which I have referred is Octagon Cl—at least, I think so.” « • * * We are afraid wc are unable to live up to “ Babbie’s ” seeming good opinion, of us, for, be it confessed, we had not noticed anything amiss with the statue and monument in Octagon Cl, Our appearances in that smiling reserve are generally in the nature of rapid and undignified peregrinations in search of a tranicar. ' However, to hark back to the Lord Mayor of Newcastle. In another paragraph last week we reported the laugh that went against him when he said he believed the story of the bottle of whisky that came to Otago with an early settler, and which was still intact. Well, the fact is that the laugh does not go against the Lord Mayor, as the following additional correspondence to this column will show: “Dear ‘ X.Y.,’ the story in your notes last week about the bottle of whisky being kept for so many years in Dunedin is quite true. The bottle, still sealed, is in the Otago Early Settlers’ Museum, together with some ‘ sweeties ’ that wore brought out at the same time. This goes to prove that Scotsmen are more self-denying, even with whisky, than they get credit for.” *** « - Lighter moments on the serious Saar; That the international drama staged on the Saar was relieved at times by amusing interludes will be regarded as a foregone conclusion by those who appreciate the bonhomie of Mr Thomas Atkins. From Saarbrucken, however, comes a story which indicates .that the Italians, too, had the saving grace of humour. One night in a cafe a Saarlander persisted in jeering at some Italian officers, using the word “ Macaronis ’ freely as an appellation. The-Italians stood it for a while, hut at last they became annoyed, and carried the offender off to their barracks. The Saarlander had visions of a stone wall and a grim walk at dawn, but, instead of this, he was given a simple punishment which was intended to fit the crime. Mussolini’s men took him to their mess, ordered five plates of macaroni, and informed him that we would be allowed to depart only after he had eaten them all. The victim got through his first two plates without difficulty. At the third he made a formal apology to the Italians for having called them “ Macaronis.” Before tackling the fourth he remarked that, after all,* he had paid them a compliment, as macaroni was the best dish he had over tasted. So they forgave him to the extent of the last two platefuls and let him go home.

I.F.rIDOPTKRA. Concerning moths, I haven’t got A decent word to say. In summer, when the weather’s hot, And night’s as bad as day. One opens doors and windows wide To get a breath of air, And all the heasties come inside To hold their revels there. They flop and flutter round the place, Like sailors on the spree, Impinge upon a fellow’s face, And wallow in his tea. The table cloth is messed about With whiskers which they shed, And when the bedroom light’s put out They tease a chap in bed. So. when an apple falls to earth. Unfit to bake or stew. I curse the moth for all I’m worth, It’s Just what he would do. When holes occur in clothes, 1 lay The blame upon his head, And fold my Sunday suit away With ball to kill him dead. But butterflies, with coloured wings, Which flit from bloom to bloom, I used to like the pretty things, And gave them garden room. Their coming seemed to bring romance and gaiety along; I never thought, by any chance, That they could do me wrong. It’s shocked me more than words can tell To find my pretty guests Can sin as wickedly and well As other garden pests: That one. who swaggers round the scenes In robes of blameless white. Assaults my cabbages and greens With rabid appetite. It’s always gone against the grain To kill a butterfly. And vet the creature must be slain Before he eats ns dry. One couldn’t bear, with swat or stick, Such elegance to kill. A parasite will do the trick, So let him work his will!