BY THE WAY

Evening Star, Issue 22526, 19 December 1936, Page 2

BY THE WAY

[By X.Y.] “ Tru time has com*, ; the Walrus said» 14 To talk of many things.” A fortnight or so ago I built up a trilling paragraph around a query which all who take an interest in world affairs may be pardoned for putting before themselves and anybody else within cooee. The question was : “ What is going to happen next?” At that time conjecture was with some justification confined to embroglios and other unpleasant happenings outside the British Empire. Nobody could have dreamed that the destiny of a British monarch would hover in the balance, or that said monarch, after a princely life of service and usefulness, would vacate the throne and go his own way. Yet when we look back over King Edward’s short reign as an uncrowned Sovereign we can resurrect little scraps of evidence which point to the fact that ho was not altogether the constitutional type of King who seems necessary for the preservation of the national balance and the continuance of the democratic mode of ruling that has served us so well. It is easy to admire the late King’s disregard for the conventions, and to applaud his desire to get things done. But there seemed to be something not quite right about his order for the breaking up of portion of the Sandringham Estate so soon after his accession, and there was surely no conspicuous urgency for the scuttling of the Royal yacht Britannia. Then we read about that direst of eccentricities—the playing of a jazz tune —‘ Alabama Blues,’ I fancy it was —on the bagpipes. To niy way of thinking that was the beginning of the end for Edward. _ No King can play fast and loose with Scotland’s pride and continue to reign in comfort. Where would England be without Scotland’s goodwill? It is to be hoped that King George VI. will show a more sensible regard for the proprieties.

As a matter of fact, the new King George, whose personal qualities are being compared with those of his father, should suit us very well. Hitherto he has not been so spectacularly popular as his elder brother, but there can never bo any doubt about his sincerity and conscientiousness. He is reputed to be the handy man of the Royal Family. He is the sort of chap who crawls under motor cars to see what makes them go or what stops them from going. If necessary he can do all the radio repair work in Buckingham Palace or any other homo of Royalty, Our new King loves industry and industriousness. Moreover, he has already shown his regard for sentiment and tradition by cancelling his brother’s order that the farms at Sandringham should he sold. Were it possible ho might salvage the sunken Britannia. And of a certainty he would not consider playing ‘ Alabama Blues ’ on the bagpipes at Balmoral. Como to think of it, he might not be allowed to perpetrate such a faux pas in any case. He has a Scottish wife. And even a Royal wife may appreciate the value of a rolling pin as a weapon of offence. A Scottish Queen is somebody for whom many of us will bo thankful. But King George VI. himself will be a fine King. Make no mistake about that.

I’d have to sit awhile and think, If someone pestered me to say How many cups of tea I drink Per day. It may Be five, or six, or seven, or eight— But less than ten, at any rate. I cannot ■’ drink the utmost drop, One always leaves a residue, A sort of microscopic slop. And few (Say two) Forsaken tea leaves showing up Upon the bottom of the cup. And yet, herein, my fortune lies. My fate is in these sodden scraps, Manipulated by the wise. Perhaps Some chaps Might argue weakness in the head Because I leave my slops unread. Perhaps these little scraps foretell A visit from an ancient friend. Or—grouping otherwise—might well Portend The end Of life, a win in “ Tatt’s,” a pain, Or journey (rail, or boat, or plane). But, as for stolid, stodgy me, I care not what they signify. Those remnants of my cups of tea, Nor try To pry Too closely into things to come, As told by that residuum. My cup is washed; my fate, no doubt, Goes gurgling down the plug, to where The city’s sewage empties out. And there. Who’ll care A fig—unless the sewer rats Decode it in their habitats. My coffee grounds, my cocoa dregs, My gravy leavings, thin and cold, Neglected scraps of scrambled eggs, May hold Untold Prognostications, in their smears, Of fortunes due in future years. But bring a handle full of ale, Spring onions, hunks of bread and cheese, I’ll leave no crumb to tell a tale, No lees For these Presumptuous folk, who seek to find The years in front from smears behind.

Seekers after news other than tit-bits about Royalty may have noticed some days ago that in Germany the president of the Animal Breeding Association announced an intensive programme to make the Fatherland self-sufficient under the Four Year Plan. Everybody and everything has been called upon to make a supreme effort to produce more food for the nation. Hens must do something about that matter of egg supply; goats are coming more into their own as providers of milk; and it decreed under the Hitlerian regime that the busy bees will have to accelerate in their flirtings from flower to flower. The reform most calculated to tickle New Zealanders, however, concerns the edict that rabbits must increase their litters. Herr Hitler may have kept pet rabbits when he was very young, but obviously he knows little of wild rabbits. Otherwise ho would not worry much about the growth of the rabbit population. But perhaps they breed a different kind of rabbit in Germany—a rabbit that does not multiply so alarmingly as in this country. If the chiefs of the Reich are as keen as they appear to be on bunnies, it would seem that our Dominion has a chance to develop another primary industry—to wit, the exportation of rabbits, alive or dead. At any rate, it is an idea that would have appealed to a good many farmers during the late slump. Sheepmen in Central Otago, with the assistance of wily trappers who are reputed to be experts at maintaining the source of supply, could have turned their attention seriously to rabbit farming. Things may be different now, though. What with wars and rumours of wars and little men from Nippon bidding heavily for wool, runholders may prefer to make their profit along orthodox lines. In the prevailing circumstances it may be as well if we do not advertise ourselves as a good rabbit country. You never know what ambitions these lads of the Reich, keen for colonial expansion, may cultivate. • ( ft ft ft Naturally we all hope that there will soon be an end to the Spanish Civil War, and that there will bo no more wars for some time to come, if ever. But if another war is inevitable it is to be hoped that it does not break out in China. For how impossible it would ho to follow with intelligent interest a major conflagration in a country full of Cliiang Kai-sheks and Chang Hsuehliangs. So far the Press has introduced us to only two Chines© generals, and I doubt if many people here know who and why they are or what they are trying to do. It would be most confusing if these Far Eastern skirmishes and five-minute revolts developed _ into anything large enough to bring into the limelight as many generals as Spain can run to. After all, it did not take us long to sum up Franco and Mola and the rest of the leaders inland around Madrid. We might not approve of the activities of either side, hut we can at least understand what the trouble is about and who is fighting whom. But China. . . . No, no. ... It will he a great relief when these soldiers with hyphenated names that sound like empty petrol tins rolling downhill pass out of the news.

In crime fiction I think practically every branch of the British communities have been represented among the bodies. Fine old country gentlemen have been found murdered in their libraries; business men have been successfully disposed of in their offices; beautiful ladiesj stabbed in; the heart, have been discovered lying dll over the countryside, and so on. There is no apparent limit to the pertinacity of authors of thrillers in their, search for some victim or setting that will serve to supply a variation of the good old stand-by theme. I was interested to read a book review which demonstrated that until recently a promising field for new and appropriate material had been left un-' touched. The novel is described as_ a “ detective story which catches a special interest from the «fact ■ that the murdered man is a test match cricketer, who dies on his way to bat on the Sydney Cricket Ground.” Of course, it is high time somebody'thought of murdering a test match cricketer. In fact, it is a wonder an open season for the less energetic "■of them was not declared long ago. However,. :! do not see the point in killing off a, batsman before he goes to the ground. A convincing motive is not usually supplied until after the game. For instance, there would appear to be nothing terribly wrong about dealing drastically with a player who did not open his score within the first half-hour of his period at the crease, or, for the matter of that, with a whole team of batsmen who could not score much over 200 runs in a full day’s play. It may be that many a murder has been committed under less provocation. .

The farmer’s heart is gay, jJ'or wool is wildly soaring. He sings ‘ Oh, happy day!’ And capers round the flooring. His life is full of zest, And jubilant he waxes On themes like interest And wages—yes, and taxes. He never loses sleep, N Because he’s always counting Interminable sheep And lists of prices mounting. And, if he finds his wits Wool-gathering on occasions, He knows the benefits Of suchlike divagations. The wether cannot gloat, Or think of peace and plenty. He cares not if his coat Costs seven pence or twenty. For that’s the way he’s born His brain won't function fully; He shivers when he’s shorn, And swelters wdien he’s woolly. Does it occur to him (The farmer) to surmise ou The little clouds that dim His pastoral horizon ? And can he watch his flocks, So placidly ignoring , Those pine trees, on the rocks Of Oregon, a-roaring? Quite possibly ho thinks Of skunks and bears and mooses, Of wolverines and minks. And wigwams and papooses. Among this wood and fur He wonders : How could any Catastrophe occur To make him lose a penny? A man of normal sense, If any cable hinted That wool could come from thence, Would think the word misprinted. He’d say: “ Good gracious me! Some silly printer-noodle Has put in ‘ 1 ’ for ‘ d ’ And spoilt the whole caboodle.” Yet still the axes ring . And brainy chaps (like me) know They’re fixing up a thing Which looks like best merino. It’s being made from wood; But, spite of all their chatter, Just w'hethor it’s as good Js quite another matter.