BY THE WAY

Evening Star, Issue 22032, 18 May 1935, Page 2

BY THE WAY

[By X.Y.]

“The time has come,” the Walrus said, “To talk of many things.” New Zealand newspapers, thank goodness, have not developed the habit of publishing sensational headlines. However, we received something of a shock the other day when, on picking up a daily paper, we beheld two-head-lines which ran as follow: ‘ Fear for the Sausage,’ * That Delectable Morsel.' The second lino looked quite all right; it fitted in with all our preconceived notions of the sausage. But about tbo top-liner there was an ominous' note that momentarily caused a constriction of the muscles of the heart and stopped the proper flow of the gastric juices. What dreadful fate was in store for the sausage? Had modern dietitians condemned it as being unfit for human consumption ? Or bad an unfeeling Government introduced a law against its manufacture? Was the stricken world indeed to become sausageless ? Was it to be robbed of the never-failing friend of the bachelor, the grass widower, the camper, the trampor, and any man whose wife plays bridge ? These and many other terrifying thoughts surged through bur mind long before we read on to the point at which our apprehension was relieved. The whole sensational matter, it transpired, had been brought up as the result of a hearing in the King’s Bench Divisional Court in Cardiff. The case 'took the form of an appeal concerning the sale of » joint of stuffed meat, and involved a point as to whether the stuffing should have been removed before the meat was put on the scales. And this is where the joke cam© in: “ What is to become of that delectable morsel, the sausage ? ” asked the judge amid We suppose there _ is something to laugh at, but we do wish judges would not wax so witty about an article of diet for which we have the highest respect. And we also wish that sub-editors would be just a little more careful in their choice of head-lines. • « » * A campaign against the “no stockings” fashion has been launched in Leicester, a big hosiery centre. Women employees in hosiery factories have been warned that they must wear stockings while working.—(Cable.)

It’s long ago, so long, in fact, That sometimes one forgets When women’s hair was kept compact With things like pins and nets; When hats were skewered through and through For fear they left their heads and flew, Like Smithy’s Southern Cross. Alas! the old-time firms who made A profit from the hairpin trade Must now admit n loss.

When Granny frolicked in her ’teens The bustle-makers thrived; ' While those who fashioned crinolines (If one of them survived) Lamented fashion’s fickle swing, Like Jeremiah or Dean Inge, Esteeming it, no doubt, A backward move, when Eve inclined To wear them sticking out behind, Instead of round about. Our farmer's cheques are sparse and thin Since women left the way Of wearing woollies next their skin, ■ Preferring what they say < Is silk, although it’s plain enough That silkworms, if they saw the stuff, , And had the wits to speak, ! Would say “ It didn’t come from us,” And tax the man who called it thus With superhuman cheek. So fashion’s breezes back and veer, And traders are perplexed; ■For things that make for wealth One year Spell ruin in the next. No doubt, in Cromwell’s time, the sales , _ Of stomachers and farthingales Endured a frightful slump, And steeple-hats, which once had “boomed,” Experienced, when Charles resumed, The fortunes of the “Rump.” And ladies, who aforetime trailed Unwieldy skirts along, As if the sight of legs unveiled Were something deadly wrong, Now show those members everywhere, Un-stockinged, unadorned and bare; And everybody knows That such a fad, if left unchecked, Will prejudicially affect The folk who deal in hose. So Leicester manufacturers Abhor these doubtful pranks, And state that if a damsel errs By wearing naked shanks, Dire pains and penalties await An action so indelicate, A treachery so black. That traitress to her sex and place Deserves that guerdon of disgrace, The Order of the Sack. But what if nudist crank? prevail For women, babes,, and men? No sort of “ mons.ter bargain sale ” Will help the'drapers then. Poor chaps, they’ll grow extremely thin, , _ While sales of stuff to sleek the skin, And cures for coughs and colds, Will cause—for better or for worse— A bulge in every chemist’s purse, So many will be sold. And that, of course, is bound to last For just a little space. Till somq new fad ascends to blast The hapless human race. Its nature’s what I can’t foresee. It may be decent, or maybe Progressively obscene. This much I can foreshadow —that It’s bound to make some trades grow fat And other trades grow lean. Now that the municipal elections are over, the quidnuncs and whatnots are busy initiating the whispering campaigns that presage the coming of the general elections. Perhaps Labour’s stronger hold on civic affairs has hastened the forecasts of a continued Reform and United mutual allegiance. In the circumstances some form of fusion is inevitable, so that there is nothing sensational in the advance stories of the formation of a National The party, no doubt, would be just as staid and sober as its former self under the name of Coalition, and, if elected to power, would do no better and no worse than the present coagulation of farmerish administrators. Rumours about the New Zealand Legion are indeed legion. The Legion has so

much in common with a secret society that nobody will be aware of its plans until the elections are over; and then it will be too late for the Legion and everybody else. In the North Island there is a further whisper that a new Democratic Party will step forth and sweep the country. Well, there, is no harm in a new party doing the sweeping—as long as it isn’t at the boss end of the broom. The country must be getting tired of new parties. They should all be tucked away in a stronglyguarded lodge for the Ancient and Honourable Order of Vote-splitters. * ♦ * * And how will the Labour Party fare in the next electioneering campaign? Fine—until the noisier section of its supporters start “ counting out ” Cabinet Ministers or anybody whose political outlook is at variance with their own. Then all those wavering folk who now say that Labour could do ho worse than the Coalition and that they would vote for a Kaffir as long as he stood in Labour’s interests, will i think again. Excitable Labourites have always been their own party’s worst enemies. In any case, Labour will have to win a good few country seats to gain the balance of power; and if it can do that it is a cleverer party, than we think it is. In a country where real statesmen are so few w© can see nothing for it but to back the same old political horse, be it carrying Coalition or National colours. A drab outlook. But there it is. Wo cannot holp wondering if that little matter of deciding who is to be the leader of the National (or whatever it is to be) Party will cause any flutter in the Ministerial dovecote if the election goes as we think it will. Mr Forbes, as head of the once victorious United Party, has done very well for himself, and, now that United members arc in a minority, there may be some deniur about allowing him to continue in office. Both Mr Forbes and Mr Coates have had enjoyable trips abroad, but Mr Forbes scores in that he has beaten his Minister of Finance to Buckingham Palace by a short head. He has had his chance to tell His ■ Majesty the King all about our primary produce, and has probably entertained the Queen with a sparkling monologue “in regards to ” ( favourite expression of his) wheat-growing in North Canterbury. We anticipate that Mi* Coates will want a still bigger say in the government of the country. And wo must give the man his due. He is a born leader. The fact that he so often leads in the wrong direction may not be taken into consideration if his supporters press hard for his appointment as Prime Minister. Mind you, we have no official knowledge on the point. Wo leave it open for discussion. « • • • Thus “ Jonah ”:— “ Dear * X.Y.,’ —The hard luck story of your friend the wild dreamer, who, by a racing expert, was talked out of backing Wild Dreams at the Forhury trots, smacks of quite a gentle let-down in comparison with my own sorrowful experience. About a month . before those late lamented trots I received some convincing information from an owner friend (and who can give information more. convincingly than the owner—except, perhaps, the trainer, and the jockey, and the booties, and the street corner tipsters, and the horse itself?). I thought it was all over bar the collecting, and, in order to keep the assured large dividend • inflated, I was as an oyster about my good news. Why, I did not even tell my wife, lest tea.-eupJ chatter should cause a 10 per cent, cut or more. |. • gJTully -anhour and. a-half before the races were due to;-start I hired a taxi to take me to the environs of Forhury Park, my purpose being to inspect the track. I did not mind the, chilly southerly; the necessity to plough through the slush on the track is nothing to us hardy punters. I was going to collect. I duly inspected the course and the horse and everything else I could think of. Eventually I arrived at the conclusion that the horse was worth ten shillings each way on the first start. Result: A miss. Then (and I cannot blame any racing expert in my case, but rather a perverse and ephemeral imp who threw a spanner into my menial machinery) I refrained from, betting on this long-watched horse in its second start. Naturally, it won and paid—oh, much more than ‘round about something or other!’ ” Congratulations, dear Jonah, on having the trlie racing temperament.— “ X.Y.” **• • • Elegy on a Pair or Boots. Some years ago—it must he five, or more— I went into a bootshop, footwear store (Or what, you like— Ido not care two hoots) And bought.myself a pair of boots; An ordinary, unpretentious pair, The sort that ordinary fellows wear. I put them on—they seemed to stand the test— And wore them, for a tidy while, as “best”; Then superseded them, with much regret. Because, though sound and sohdy yet They looked a little—you know what 1 mean— More antiquated than they once had been. As “second best” they had a lengthy spell. You see, they fitted me extremely well; And I’ve a com (hush, hush!) which hurts me so, And aggravates my little toe. Wherefore to ease that inconvenient corn The good old pair were polished up and worn. At last, with cracks developing to holes. Uncertain heels, and loosely-flapping soles, I left them off and sadly put them by. It seemed a shame that they should die; That two such good companions should expire In dustman’s bin, or ruthless washhouse fire. Then holidays arrived; I longed to tramp To some secluded hilly spot and camp; And, thinking of that toe's prospective Sain, t those good old boots again. The cobbler stared and sniffed. I looked aghast! And told me their repairing days were past. I took them to another chap—the kind That punches, sews, and nails, and doesn’t mind The question of appearances, so long As boots are watertight and strong. He patched them up securely, and I went Upon my holiday' with much content. Three summers has he done the selfsame thing, And I have blithely gone a-wandering, Wearing those .same old boots, which Scots would call A “ pair of bauchles ’’—that is all. Not even I could call them trim and neat; But, oh! the comfort to my tender feet!

And now the end’s arrived; they’re plainly done. They couldn’t hold another patch—not one. The uppers have departed from the soles, And both are full of gaping holes. My optimistic cobbler swears that they Like every little dog have had their day. Good-bye, old pair of boots! once smart and hew, You owe me nothing; I owe much te you. . And now you go to feed the coppe# fire, Like any worn-out motor tyre, Or other piece of junk my wife may claim . To satisfy the weekly cleansing flam*. I’m sure that cpw whose skin produced your hide, Gave butter of the best before she died. I’m sure the wash you’re sacrificed to boil, Will be - the whiter for your toil. The man who made you—whoso’er ho be— I wish him joy—he’s been a friend to me! ; ~