BY THE WAY

Evening Star, Issue 22619, 10 April 1937, Page 2

BY THE WAY

[By X.Y.] ■‘The time has come,” the Walras said, “ To talk ot many things.” The spirit, if not the general knowledge, of Mr Hairy Collins, of Norfolk Square, London, is to bo admired 1 . Mr Collins is migrating to New Zealand. Showing the forethought of your true pioneer, he is bringing his own tent with him. He is also bringing his own gun, his own cooking utensils and tools, his own horse, and his own car. He is going to roam this country from end to end, pitching his tent wherever he likes, taming wild horses, trading articles with the Maoris, and shooting wild pigs (a highly dangerous occupation). This enterprising young man declares that he will not be sorry to abandon cinemas, wireless, motor oars, telephones, smoke, dirt, unemployment, and unhappiness. Mr Collins deserves to get on in this world. It is to be hoped that when he pitches Ms tent on arrival on the wild and woolly shores of Auckland or Wellington, say, in Queen street or Lambton Quay, ho will not be ordered by a policeman to pack up and march—to the nearest police station. We should trust fervently that no well-meaning citizens, steeped in civic pride, will disillusion him by pointing out the architectural attractions of the new railway stations. It would be a pity if he strayed into on© of the bigger hotels or stumbled over a telephone box, or, as a visiting Englishman, was pestered to give a radio chat on his impressions of the Dominion. Another menace lies in his possible discovery of a cinema in the course of his early explorations. So many and varied are the pitfalls that lie in the path of this delightful barbarian that I am, of the opinion he should have his eyes blindfolded and his ears plugged before he reaches the New Zealand coast and be smuggled as quickly as possible into the TJrewera Country or the southern Fiordland. In such outlying areas he may still get a taste of the life he seeks. In all probability, however, he will eventually become a city salesman.

The outlaws bold, In days of old, What wicked things they did! Such men of blood As Robin Hood, Rob Roy, and Captain Kidd. Dick Turpin’s ride Is glorified Because he got to York; But why_ this fuss? It’s obvious He didn’t want to walk. And Morgan, who (I’m telling you) Was just a rotten brute, Became a knight. And gathered quite A tidy lot of loot. We read in books The praise of crooks. In old or modern times; And all because They broke the laws, And specialised in crimes. The ink thus spent In sentiment On folk of evil ways, Is dreadful waste, , And much misplaced, . Although, of course, it pays. I’d like to make Some author take Some nobler theme or plan. And thus extol That noble soul. The Law-Abiding Man. He never robs, Nor deals in “ jobs,” Nor takes a fellow’s life, Nor drinks, nor dopes, Nor yet elopes With someone else’s wife. He settles, too, Each tax when due (To cheat the State is wrong). Does not exceed The lawful speed, Or park his car too long. His orchard’s quite Devoid of blight, His farm is free from weeds; No traffic cop Would make him stop Through wild and lawless deeds. His sheep and cows Will never browse Beyond their lawful bounds; He will not let His wireless set Emit unlicensed sounds. Such men of worth Adorn the earth, And theirs should be the chance Of figuring In everything As heroes of romance. The task would strain My feeble brain. Some bolder, abler pen Should celebrate The Truly Great, The law-abiding men 1 * * * ♦ He who told me this story vouches for ite authenticity. At least he heard it from somebody else who vouched for its authenticity. Believe it or not, therefore: Two little boys belonging to. different households in North-east Valley, aged, it is surmised, between four and five years, were defying all pacifist principles by playing soldiers. They had fine khaki uniforms (probably made from beautiful new sugar bags) and in many ways really looked as though they were “ dressed to kill.” At length, like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, they agreed to have a battle—a little personal affair between themselves. The uniforms were right; the wooden swords were quite serviceable; but they had no helmets. What to do? Must have helmets to be proper soldiers. Ah,

the lad near whose home they were playing, solved the problem, inverted pots would serve the purpose very well. The pots were commandeered and fitted on, and hostilities broke out. It was a great battle, waged with a fury which thoroughly justified, the use of the “ helmets.” But, of course, an armistice had to be declared sooner or later. Then, 10, there came an anticlimax. The wee warriors could not get their “ helmets ” off. Tim pots simply would not come unstuck. Something akin to a panic set in, accompaniedl by most unsoldierlike howls for help and much running round in circles. The noise attracted the mother of one of them, who rushed to the scene, became infected with the atmosphere of demoralisation, picked up the boy who she thought was her own, and, oblivious to the amused comment of passengers on the tramcar on which they travelled, rushed him along to the nearest chemist shop. But the chemist regarded the job of dislodging the “helmet” as one for a doctor to attend to. The search for succour .was pursued still further. Finally a medical man succeeded in relieving the soldier boy of his burden. “ But—but —” gasped the dismayed mother, oh' viewing the revealed face. “That’s not my boy!”

I feel sure that those of New Zealand’s sporting community who like to nourish a superiority complex must heave a sigh of relief when Willow the King makes his bow and the provocative “ pigskin ” commences its winter reign. If only New Zealand cricketers could acquire half the confidence possessed by their compatriots of the Rugby field I am sure we could rise rapidly to fame on the summery fields. Of course,, better summers would help a bit, too, but it has to be remembered that England, despite climatic inconsistency, still manages to breed some pretty useful performers. . . Now, if by any chance, the Dominion team en route to the Old Country at the present time could establish _ a cricket record something akin in significance to the triumphs of the 1905 All Blacks it would be reasonable to expect human nature to rise to the occasion ■in this country and adopt cricket .as another, national game. Success breeds success, and long-continued success creates a prestige which is not lost without many an heroic struggle. What New Zealand cricket lacks most at the present time is the proper psychological outlook towards the game. , , . .

Our Australian neighbours deserve their pre-eminent position in the cricket world. Ever since Spqfforth. and Co. broke the string of English triumphs they have never looked back. It may be the same with their Rugby yet. Last year it will be remembered that the “ Aussie ” visitors suffered many defeats in New Zealand, them rather heavy. But are they dismayed across the Tasman? Not they. Reports tell us that Australia is still convinced she should have beaten us hi the tests, and that she considers slie lias a better cnance iaan New Zealand of beating the Springboks. A loud-voiced attitude perhaps, but it pays—sometimes. ■The North Island is louder in yoice than the South. Not a doubt of it. Already the All Black team is being picked by unofficial selectors up there whose views may carry at least a little weight. In one quarter it is held that the forwards will have to come from the northern minor unions. In another it is considered that the team should comprise the Bush forwards and the Wellington backs m tote. Auckland, of course, could run the whole show itself. . I have done this sort of thing before, I fancy, but once again I must get in early and wish Otago s possible sole representative good hunting.

This seems to be Beyond dispute— , Humanity Should eat more fruit. Preserved or stewed, Or fresh or dried. It’s very good For man’s inside. The peach and pear Appeal to some, While others swear By quince and plum. The apple’s nice To peel and chew, And (drat its price!) The orange, too. But I’ve enjoyed (Bananas more. They’re quite devoid Of stone or core. You just denude _ The fruit of skin. And all is food That’s found therein. Now, fruits there are Both small and big; But one I bar, And that’s the fig. It’s nice and sweet. But I admit I cannot eat The smallest bit. It’s not that I Hold cranky views. I had to buy The teeth I use. With pain (you bet!) As well as cash—■ My former set Had “ done their dash.” And as I’ve found That fig seed comes And sneaks around Behind my gums. (I mean, my plate) Reducing ma To just a state Of idiocy. It hurts a chap. He has to rush And find a tap, Likewise a brush; Or suffer much _ Unwanted pain. I’ll never touch A fig again I And so, through days And years to come. I’ll sound the praiso Of pear and plum. Of apricot, And peach, and grape—‘ But figs? No; not In any shape! * * * *

Dear “ X.Y.” (writes “ Admirer of 0. Henry ”). Censorship, is it? Perhaps it is very necessary to check the printed pages passing into the hands of those persons called “ pulp ” readers. But I think the local booksellers and librarians are going too far in their deference to censorship when they deprive us of the works of that great humourist, 0. Henry. My experience has been that ever since the Labour City Council came into power it has been almost impossible to buy any of his books in a Dunedin shop; nor are his books obtainable at the railway bookstall. As our overlords turn from pink to red, and redder, perhaps the titles chosen by the great storywriter give increasing offence. A few notes on these titles and their implications are relevant. For instance, ‘ Cabbages and Kings ’ may sound too much like our own council and ordinary people and members of Parliament.

“ Voice of the City ” will certainly;, make no appeal t 6 a council faced with the prospect of a ratepayers’ poll which may go against the, wishes of a majority or the members, while ‘ The Four Million ’ is too pretentious a tdtla to please those who aim at a bare hundred thousand. ‘ Stones J may have a harmless enough significance for one or two councillors, but 1 Options suggests worries over the acquisition of property and Waitaki power (see sis* ‘ The Trimmed Lamp ’). 1 Roads of Destiny,’ of course, must serve aS . * reminder that something should really be done about that Kaikorai Valley road and several other streets which" are in shocking order. The touchy subj'ect of Sunday .concerts is recalled by ‘ Hearts of the West ’ and ‘ Whirligigs ’: the minority members will noli lilTc that. Then there is ‘ The Gentle' Grafter,’ but I would not go so far as to say that this title hits anybody on the raw spot. O. Henry knew men all right. Anyone who could write such a brilliant story as * A Municipal Report* would find a great deal of bright copy in the Dunedin City Council. If ha found members at “ Sixes and Sevens ** —well, so much the better. » * * * Speaking in England, our High Commissioner (Mr Jordan) described New Zealand as a sunny, fertile land, without snakes, or wild beasts, or millionaires. He forgot to mention, however, that we still have politicians.