BY THE WAY

Evening Star, Issue 22086, 20 July 1935, Page 2

BY THE WAY

[By X.Y.]

“ The time lias come,” the Walrus said, “ To lalk of many things.”

Did the Malicno come to an ignominious end? Or did she not? We ask whether ’tis better that a ship should bo reduced to scap iron in Japan by human hands or whether she should bo bombarded into scrap iron by the wild sea waves. We foresee the difficulty which an answer to our question involves. How can any vessel, however stalwart and proud she may have been during her sailing days, avoid coming to an ignominious end? H.M.S. Victory is, of course, an historical exception, and it may be argued by the members of the Otago Harbour Board that the Moana and others ought to be jolly well pleased that they are fulfilling the_ useful purpo.se of helping to keep drifting sand out of the sheet of water that reaches from the Kaik to Dunedin.

But to return to the Maheno. Here was a steamer that was once regarded as a “ floating palace ” (they are all “ luxury liners ” these days) and one whose arrival at this port nearly 30 years ago attracted the attention of the mayor and leading citizens, and also, we presume, won the approval of critical commercial men. Therefore, it seems a pity than one such should eventually he shorn of her engine power and left to battle helplessly with a cyclone. The vessel’s last fight was too one-sided. The poor old 'Maheno didn’t have a chance. It might have been. better if the long tow to Japan had been completed and the ship reverently disintegrated. We have always wished the Maheno well. True, we were once wholeheartedly sick on her, but we have newer forgotten the thrills she gave us in the heydey of the Melbourne service. As far as we recollect, her Sunday afternoon sailings were the cause of our “ wagging ” more Sunday school sessions than any other factor.

There was a famous fight, By Boyne’s historic water, And, consequently, quite A lot of horrid slaughter. The winners won the day, The losers lost (don’t doubt it!) It isn’t safe to say Another word about it.

For, he it understood, It’s most unwise to mention The issue, bad or good, In matters of contention. You see, the Irish skin (A fact beyond all question) Is perilously thin, And feels the least suggestion

It may he doubtful tact, And diplomatic erring, To state the naked fact Of such a fight’s occurring. So if by chance I’m shot, Just hold the shooter blameless, And say “ It’s what he got For mentioning the nameless.”

And yet—if one may speak The truth without offending— That battle is unique. It’s never had an ending. For battles, once they’re won, Are over, done, and finished; But this continues on, With vigour undiminished.

King Billy’s life is done, King Jimmy has departed, And Sphomherg’s dead and gone, With Sarsfield, lion-hearted. The Boyne runs slowly by , Among the grass and clover, Where many hundreds lie, Whose earthly fighting’s over.

But though these facts remain, Recorded well and truly, The fight flares up again Each fatal twelfth of July. For rifles crack and pop, Machine guns bang and rattle, It seems a shame to stop So notable a battle.

No variegated clans Enact, in full regalia, The rout of Prestonpans, Or Killicrankie’s failure; Or wantonly provoke, With brandished dirk and claymore The wrath of Lowland folk In Inverness or Braemar.

No Scottish patriots yearn To act, with pipes a-skirling, A yearly Bannockburn Upon the Carse of Sterling. But Irishmen who’ve fought Must find the job exciting. Eternity’s too short To make them tire of fighting, * * * •

In his letter to the secretary of the Dunedin Chamber of Commerce, Mr H. Turner, representative in London of the New Zealand Fruit Board, seems to have covered every subject except the fruit industry. He may have been wise in avoiding talk of “ shop,” but all the same he would have been on safer grounds if he had dealt with the price of apples instead of, say, the policy of the 1935 All Blacks. His suggestion that the All Blacks should “ gracefully lose a few matches during their tour _of Great Britain ” is hardly an inspired effort on the part of one who, in addition to being a business man, should be possessed of some ambassadorial qualifications.

We see his point. He deprecates any tendency to be eager to win at all costs. If he thinks that a few good beatings would be a valuable corrective to rabid All Blackitis we heartily agree with him. But for our footballers deliberately to throw away games in a spirit of pander—ridiculous! Depressing thought! Mark our word, British footballers will not expect any “ gift ” matches. Their code is a simple one. They merely ask that men should “ play the game.” They would not appreciate being allowed to win without having to battle for the win. If the All Black team attempts any such stupidity on the forthcoming tour it will probably be the last New Zealand Rugby combination to set foot on Home Country soil. • * * * Let ns suppose for a moment that the kind of. football hinted at by Mr Turner was played in some of the more important games. And let us suppose for one awful moment that it was so successful that it became the accepted policy of all touring teams —a sort of “ we’ll let you win if you promise to buy our apples ” _ business. What would we hear during speecli time at the after-match dinner? Nothing but a lot of balderdash such as: “ T heartily congratulate the English team on its win,” said the New Zealand captain, in toasting “ British Rugby.” It was a great game, fought m the true kindergarten spirit, with nothing in it to disturb the wind or injure the body. I may say that, for

us, tilings looked very black towards the close, when we were leading and England would do everything but score that winning try. If we had won the match our reputation in the High Commissioner’s Office would have gone by the board. It might actually have cost the dominion thousands of pounds in butter and cheese. . . . Yes,” concluded the visiting captain, as he tried to keep his halo in place, “ it was a very narrow squeak.” In replying to the toast, the captain of the English side said he wished particularly to pay a tribute to the New Zealand full-back for his polite curtsy to the English wing three-quarter who accidentally stumbled over the lino for the winning try. It was a graceful movement and one that which he understood had been much admired by the ladies in the grandstand. New Zealand, he could see, had developed the gentle art of the new Rugby to a very high degree, and British teams were finding it difficult to keep pace. He was afraid that the standard of play in Great Britain was costing the country the price of goodness only knew Ivow many motor cars and manufactured articles of all kinds. He could promise them, however, that next time the All Blacks came to visit them they would meet commercial Rugby men of a very different stamp. (Applause and cheers.)

A laddie aged four years who is known to us appears thus early in his career to have worked out a formula for solving the worries and problems of life. On his way to kindergarten the other day he found himself at one stage face to face with a dog whose demeanour gave him little encouragement to carry on. So with commendable presence of mind h© sidled into an adjacent gateway, there to remain until a lady passer-by kindly offered hirn escort to a point close to his objective. En route the lady put the favourite old question, “And what are you going to do when you grow up, Johnnie?” Without hesitation came the answer, “ I’m going to. be a grandfather.” When pressed for reasons for his wish to skip such a big stretch of life’s journey he added very seriously, “I want to bo a grandfather ’cos I could then stay at home and do nothing, and I would not have to go into the street and meet dogs.”

Far be it from our wish to complain about the fine spell of weather experienced by Dunedin for over a week. The only fly in the ointment personally sighted by us is the fact that for some time past we have had in mind the material for a topical paragraph on snow, and we are beginning to worry about our chances of releasing it for publication this winter. Still, when it comes to the point, we are perfectly willing to sacrifice; the child of the brain for a long stretch of sunshine and the public comfort.

However, here is a story which we have resurrected from the days when curl—no, we simply_ must follow the lead of all other writers and work it in as “ the roarin’ game ” —was played in Dunedin. It happened in the good old times when winters were winters and summers were summers. On one occasion a curling contest was to be held. The settlement was en fete. Even the warders at the local gaol intended to be present. But it was anticipated that there would be some difficulty about leaving the prisoners unattended for the day. Much powwow gave rise to the brilliant idea that all the prisoners should also be allowed out (to _ see the _ curling, conditional on their returning to prison in the evening. A parole which suited both parties _ was therefore arranged. As the prisoners left, the gaol the chief warder addressed them briefly as follows: “ Noo, y’ll be back by nine the nicht. If yelre no back by nine ye’ll be lockit oot.” With the encouragement of a thermometer which registered a temperature well down towards “ Zulu ” (as one old-timer put it), the parole was faithfully kept.

Dr Guemiot, of Paris, on his 103rd birthday, attributed his longevity to drinking wine every day.—Cable.

In spit© of all the Psalmist says (Although his words are weighty), A lot of folk prolong their days Past seventy till eighty, And find themselves untroubled by The course of “ Anno Domini.”

Their gait is rather slow, perhaps; Their football days are ended; . And yet, despite these handicaps, They find that life’s attended By circumstances, none the less, Which make for human happiness.

I’ve-heard of ancients—tough old men, Composed of wire and leather— Who laiigh at four score years and ten

And scorn to end their tether At any length of years before The century—or even more.

And, when they’ve reached the hundredth peg, They lurk in divers quarters, And play the game of “ pull his leg ” With innocent reporters, Who think the public should be told The secret art of being old. I’ve known of some who never shrank From being inost mendacious; E.g., “1 never smoked, or drank Fermented liquors ” (gracious!) And others who survived, they say, On nuts and water every day. Methuselah’s tremendous span Defies all explanation. He must have been a wiry man To cause such calculation. Each time they made his birthday cake How many candles it would take. Yet he was no teetotaller, As far as one can gather, And Noah, though inclined to err By taking liquor rather Excessively, survived, one hears, Ij’or quite a lengthy list of years. But nowadays, we’re well assured, Man’s spell upon the earth is Much shorter than the term endured

By such historic worthies. At all events the most that we Can hope for is a century.

It may be reached without flesh, fish, Or fowl, or good red herring, And minus wine—-but who would wish

To be so persevering And live a hundred years or so On nuts and leaves and H2O?

But Guemiot, good, honest man! Without such drab depriving, Has reached his elongated span By ordinary living. No diet crank, his daily fare Is meat and good “ vin ordinaire.”