BY THE WAY

Evening Star, Issue 22560, 30 January 1937, Page 2

BY THE WAY

[By X.T.]

M The time has come,’* the Walrus said) “ To talk, of many things.”

“And what do yo.u think of the New Zealand 1 summer? ” an English visitor was recently asked. Of course, the rash questioner was simply asking for the retort critical. Quoth the Englishman: “Summer? summer? It must have occurred one night while I was asleep.” Well, we cannot deny the fact that our “ Paradise of the Pacific ” has not been particularly summery this season. However, when one reads climatic news from abroad one is forced to conclude that weather which is no worse than merely disagreeable is much to be preferred to the dire disturbances being faced by the peoples of other lands. Even the Australian summer has not been living up to its reputation. That hectic storm in Sydney, for instance. And what about the unprecedented experience of Adelaide, which, through the leaky state of the skies, actually lost two days’ cricket in succession? Winter in the so-called temperate zone of the northern hemisphere is expected to be rather trying, but an indication that the season there is more rigorous than usual can be gained from tales of North Sea shipping dashing about the briny rescuing other North Sea shipping, and from the appalling flood disasters in the American mid-west. A good deal of water lies in and around New Zealand, but, although it can certainly misbehave at times, it is clear that for sheer extremism and treachery it cannot compare with the water on the other side of the world. On the whole, the record of other places should help to make us content with our more equable lot. * * * • Approximately twice a year Sir Hubert Wilkins, the noted polar explorer, makes a scientific announcement about the weather. His pet theory is that the riddle of weather forecasting will be solved in the Arctic and Antarctic. He considers that the whole matter is bound up with the ice movements from the Poles. Presumably he wants some encouragement to break away from civilisation with another expedition and do something about it. But what can he do? Who are we to argue that he is incorrect in saying that huge sections of ice drift north or south, as the case may be, and upset the weather of the world? He may be quite justified in stating that it would be easy to make observations between a chain of metereological stations established at the pack ice not more than 1,500 miles apart and let folks know what was coming to them. Still, what real comfort would it give us to learn that tremendous rains and floods or droughts were on their way? To be sure, the warnings might be useful enough in a way, but how much better it would be if science could devise a method of keeping the pack ice under control and of sending it about its business when it becomes unruly. Would it be possible, I wonder, _to keep the powerful navies and bombing air squadrons of the world busy blowing the ice to smithereens and thus give them something to do which would not endanger human life? The job of keeping ammunition up to the anti-ice forces should make the armament magnates happy for life. And the rest of us would be all the happier if we could bo guaranteed a respectable summer now and again.

Work has begun on the construction of a new bridge over the Rakaia. Some sixty years—or more than that— Before this year of grace, A certain City on a Flat Sought contact with a place Whence culture might irradiate Upon its lowly-lying state. So southward crept a lengthy road Across those dismal plains, Whereon those eager folk bestowed Their pounds, and pence, and pains, With laudable ambition moved To have their simple minds improved. For miles and miles the road ran by, Until at last it met A river—often very dry, But often very wet; And so they made a bridge of planks To join those widely-sundered banks. The bridge was biiilt for trains and drays, And carts, and gigs, and traps. The travellers of those olden days Were tough and hardy chaps, Who didn’t worry much, it seems, Provided they could cross those streams. Along a measured Irish mile Of bumps and shakes and jars, They jolted in heroic style, And thanked their lucky stars. A bridge, they felt, however bad, Was better than the ford they’d had. We register amusement at The patient, plodding past; Our roads are paved with this and that; We travel soft and fast, Not caring, as in olden days, To “chatter over stony ways.”

Yet still, to mock our hurrying, That ancient bridge remains; And we—guidsakes!—must cross the thing Between the frequent trains Car after car, in one long tail, A-straddle on the near-side rail.

The laden lorry lumbers there, And elephantine bus, With mighty little room to spare For humble folk like us; While drivers of impatient mind Cacophonously hoot behind. And, all the while, each plank we hit Contributes to a song Which hasn’t any tune, but it Is harrowing and long, Resembling, more or less, the tone Of some demented xylophone. Some day (I hear they’ve made a start) That bridge will be no more. A smooth and silent work of art Will stretch from shore to shore; And travellers from north and south No longer drive with heart in mouth. And Christchurch folk, the ones who Some brighter, better place, Will keep no more, with bump ana squeak, That sad funereal pace; But travel south, devoid of fear, Well knowing that they 11 find it hexe. * * * * We discovered at home the other day that wireless sets are tougher than we had supposed, hor over two years we had treated our model with the sort of respect Mrs A.X. usually reserves for her best china. Whereas a more youthful enthusiast than myself would probably have laia its innards out on the floor many times since its advent to our house, 1 have done no more than turn diverse knobs on the front of the chassis and peep rather fearfully in at the back of the cabinet and wonder if the accumulating dust is doing any harm. Perhaps the radio set is being blessed with a longevity which would not be its portion had it fallen into the hands of an inveterate tinkerer, and, on the whole, I do not think I shall take any liberties with it just because a youthful radio expert who gave it an overhaul the other day chose to treat it not so much as he would the finest china, but as the strongest steel. It was with admiration mingled with apprehension that I heard him tapping his way round the valves with an abandon that made me wonder how much a new set was going to cost. The courage and confidence of these radio experts are much to be admired, but all the same I do not think it is right that they should act so roughly in the presence of us owners.

It might put ideas in our head. Many a time I have been tempted to hammer at something in the radio. When a crooner, for instance, is inflicting himself over the air my thoughts have often run to the sweetness of wielding a tomahawk or a pick as an aid to the easement of pent-up feelings. It may be good business for the dealers, but it may be a bad business for us owners if we are encouraged to wax rough with our receiving sets. » * » * A pathetic story from the country:— The constable at a rural station bought a share in a cow last summer. The constable milked her in the morning and his partner in the evening, or vice versa, and each kept the milk that was produced as the reward of his labours. But came the time when the supply began to dwindle—as it will do even in the best of dairying circles The guardian of the law, well pleased with the free milk system, decided to sell out his interest to his partner and embank on a more grandiose dairying scheme. He bought a new cow for himself for £ll. Unfortunately, however, his acquisition did not prove amenable to droving discipline, for, whether or not she objected to being taken to the police station, she broke away from those in charge, ran into a river, and was drowned. The constable, a sadder and wiser man, is once more gladdening the heart of his milkman. tt « « « There was a time when ping-pong was ping-pong—a harmless domestic game in which the fun among the family waxed fast and furious, and nothing unpleasant happened unless little Johnny, in his excitement, tramped on the only good ball left. Now ping-pong is table tennis—a matter for grave international concern. Table tennis test matches are played. Recently an All-England team met Hungary, and table tennis flared in the newspaper headlines. The result 1 have forgotten—it does not matter much. The chief point of interest is that, as in cricket and lawn tennis, a rich crop of table tennis critics have taken up the pen in the game’s cause, and the English team was advised in block letters by one journal that “ Attack must be England's watchword.” So you see that ping-pong, the insignificant game you used to play in the spare room, has developed. In time, no doubt, England’s champions will be apprised of the fact that “England expects that every man this day will do his duty.” * # « * Whene’er the Soviet catches A plot before it hatches, The plotters come in batches To answer for their sins. Police, by shrewd detection, Produce for stern inspection A penitent collection Of “ skys ” and “offs” and “ins.” And then the fun begins Of tracing back to Trotsky, Unmentionable Trotsky, Arachnid, furtive Trotsky, The spider webs he spins. Reduced to this condition, These objects of suspicion All register contrition And swear by that and tin’s (The hammer and the sickle, Or Lenin’s corpse in pickle) To deeds both false and fickle; But everyone will hiss, A hint that Nemesis Should light on wicked Trotsky— That Fate, in sparing Trotsky, Reptilian, slimy Trotsky— Is culpably remiss. They occupy the sessions With voluble confessions Of manifold transgressions In deed and word and thought. Acknowledging, to queries, That everyone’s career is A never-ending series Of things he didn’t ought; As being bribed and bought By sly, subversive Trotsky, Abominable Trotsky, Elusive, eel-like Trotsky, The one who isn't caught. They’ll soon (beyond disputing) Conclude the prosecuting With simultaneous shooting Of each and every one— A poor remuneration For useful information, This dismal termination Per medium of a gun;' And, when the deed is done, Uncapturable Trotsky, Perambulating Trotsky, Sardonic, shifty Trotsky, Will giggle at the fun!