BY THE WAY

Evening Star, Issue 22805, 13 November 1937, Page 2

BY THE WAY

[Bj X.V.]

“ The time has come. ’’ the Walrus said. “ To talk of man> things.'’ I had always thought that muddled identification of babies, with consequent lieartburnings, flutterings, and parental panic, except in cases where ignorance of the facts meant bliss, occurred onlv in comic opera. However, taking everything into consideration, including the Government, we must have realised by now that New Zealand is'becoming a comic opera country. Anything can happen here. Anything at all. The mixing up of inmates in a baby home would be a mere detail quite in keeping with comic opera discussions in the House of Representatives, a comic opera defence policy, and all that. (I wonder if I shall eventually have to sign my name to this kind of criticism!) 1 notice that the remit which set the annual conference of the Plunket Society and the Dominion’s telegraph wires all a-buz/. came from Invercargill. There is nothing retnarkable in that. If anything extraordinary can occur in New Zealand, as like as not it will take place in Invercargill, where the alcoholic produce of the bush could quite easily cause a merry mix-up. In the ordinary course of events this potent liquor would not be permitted in a home where babies dwell, but to some new fathers there is no ordinary course of events, and—well—you never know—visiting fathers ’ even slightly affected by Southland’s famous by-pro-duct could inadvertently cause tangles.

At the Plunket Society’s conference some discussion took place on the question of providing a mark of identification for babies. Among the suggestions put forward was one that discs should be attached to the latest arrivals, and another (jocular) one that tattooing should be resorted to. Why not tattooing for a New Zealander, anyway—as long as it did not take the form of facial adornment or a crown and anchor (nautical-like) on the forearm. It is New: Zealand’s job to lead the world in this as in everything else. In some places in America, it was stated, they take finger prints and too prints to prevent a mix-up. But surely this sounds like an anticipation of gangster proclivities. In a few cases, at any rate, the system might save the police trouble later on. We don’t want that sort of thing here, though. The great majority of our males never do much worse than punch a man in the scrum or “ throw ” a wild party at Tomahawk.

All in all, I am sure we shall just have to forget Invercargill’s perturbation and accept the authoritative advice that the risk is infinitesimal. It may be true, as one father put it to me, that all babies look like Henry VIII. in miniature, but please remember that nurses are careful and intelligent and that, in any ease, “ mother knows best.”

“ The age of chivalry.” remarked a friend to me this week, “is dead. Furthermore,” he went on sadly, “ the age of chivalry is buried.” When pressed for an elaboration of his thesis he described how his ideas on the point had been cemented by'two incidents which he recently witnessed in town on the same evening. Firstly, he was walking along .. Princes street when he saw a girl step into one of those receases leading up to a shop door. There she was met by' a man with whom she became engaged in what could be interpreted only as an altercation. There were words exchanged. Voluble words. Hard words. So electrical was the atmosphere that, being human, the passer-by could not help stopping, looking, and listening. Suddenly the man slapped the girl’s face. It was a poor attempt at a slap, but it appeared to bring about some measure of docility on her part, for the pair went off dojyn Dowling street. My friend, telling himself that the age of chivahy was indeed dead, pursued Ms original course and forgot the incident until ...

A little later lie saw another girl and a, great hulking fellow who looked a “ he-mian,” but probably wasn’t, step off a tramcar. While they were walking along my naturally observant friend happened to notice the young lady slip her companion a large silver coin, either a florin or a half-crown, which he accepted and smuggled into his pocket with a pass that greatly exceeded in dexterity the effort of the slapper whom he had seen in action a few minutes earlier in the evening. “ It was then,” he told me, 1 that I concluded the age of chivalry was well and truly buried.” ■ * • • I do wish somebody who knows the difference between an obbligato and an omelette would write a song about the old office coat—that dear old outer and upper garment in which a man can keep anything from a pm to the pipe of mature age and doubtful odour that is forbidden house-room at home. It should be possible to strike a sentimental note about the old office coat—romething on the lines of Old faithful 1 or ‘ There’s a Bridle Hangm’ on the Wall.’ Ah, in this latter we have an obvious suggestion for a suitable title. What about ‘ There’s a Coat A-hangin’ on its Peg ’ ?

May I suggest to any song writer who takes up the idea that he should strive in one verse at least to capture the regret with which the man of 60 hangs up the old coat for ever when he retires under the benign Government’s “ pensions for everybody ” proposal. He may not regret leaving work, but ho will regret leaving his old coat—« as he most assuredly would have to in order to save it from the springcleaning operations perpetrated by his better half.

Of course, there are office coats and office coats. My own particular garment, being far removed • from its youth, could not be displayed, say, behind a counter, where its appearance in the eyes of disdainful customers would be bad for business. It is over my own coat and its kind that I fain would burst into song. We old-coat men are sorry for unfortunate people whose work brings them before the public gaze and necessitates the wearing of clothes of prim and proper cut. Even managers and high company executives are ineligible for membership of the Old Coat Society. They must interview callers and can ill afford to dress as they like till they become millionaires. They are really at an awkward stage of life’s progress. Those who work in inner sanctums where no stranger treads have quite the best of it, ,

I had a little brush. Which yesterday wore out; And, candidly, I felt Extremely put about. I said uncalled-for things, And went in hottest haste To spend & tidy sum Ami have that brush replaced. I didn’t use that brush For polishing my boots. Or shifting daily dust Which powdered hats and suits. For streaking wisps of hair Across my shining pate. Refurbishing my teeth. Or sweeping up the grate. I clean my finger nails, \ Likewise the kitchen fines, I lather up my chin, And always I can use A brush for every job. They’re all as good as gold. It’s only one whose loss Has caused me grief untold. If I indulged in Art, And painted pictures like Augustus John, or Grueuze, Or Reynolds or Vandyke, I’d paint away like fun And never mind a bit. Completely uriconcerned About the loss of it. But I could never paint. In new or ancient style. My taste in things of art Is merely rank and vile; Although I will admit ■I clothed my motor shed With two sufficient coats Of Communistic red. I had a brush for that. _ It’s somewhere knocking round, And needs some turpentine To clean it when it’s found. But if, by any chance. It doesn’t come to light, Its absence would not cause My present piteous plight. , But when this little brush , So suddenly deceased, I felt an abject worm For half a day at least. I sweated and I swore Like any foul bargee. Because its loss had made A galley slave of me. And any motorist My mood will understand, • Who’s ever been compelled To start his car by hand; For that’s what made me swear, And all my neighbours blush. It petered out on me, My starting motor brush.

Why all this fuss about milk? What' is wrong with our water supply? Doctors and dietitians keep on urging humanity to drink more milk, and j;e» scientists continue to advertise its iinpurities. City councillors, in spite of the new Deep Creek scheme, persist; in exhortations to “go canny with the water. What with hosing restrictions and the threat to rob our milkmen of their individuality by sinking them in the co-operative pool of imimcipalisation, we Dunediners can hardly call our souls our own. We know not which way to turn for a reliable and fulsome beverage. Soon we shall be forbidden to drink water, and unless we agree to a municipal milk supply and what may be a discouraging rise in prices we shall be made to fed that milk is the source of most major diseases. . In the matter of milk doubts are sometimes cast on the value of pasteurisation. Is pasteurisation good for milk—and us? Some say R Yes.” Others say “ Oh, yeah? It » a puzzle. It’s a problem. What are we going to do about it? I feel inclined to remind reader* • that in the midst of all these centreversies a. heartening little paragraph appeared among the cables stating that a Dunedin beer had won first prize in an Empire competition held in London. Thank goodness, nothing is wrong with our beer. I leave the subject at that. , • * « • I have exercised my brains Till nothing much remains But dull and dismal pains In my dome. I have looked-for humour in Tokio and Berlin, And I’ve tried to fetch a grift Out of Home. Amsterdam and Helsingfors Are communities of bores, And nothing comes but snores From The Hague; While the life of Budapest Is banality confessed— Ditto, ditto, Bucharest, Also Prague. Well, there may he humour hid In the ruins of Madrid, Or'in Cheops’ pyramid By the Nile; And a thought suggested by What’s occurring at Shanghai Might inspire a man to try For a smile. There's His Grace of Sarawak, Who is looking very black, For he’s bid his daughter pack Up her kit; While the Duke of Windsor’s hr* Tides to keep him occupied v (But I scarcely think that I’d Mention it.) Yes, the world is just as dull As a fossil Piltdown skull, And it’s difficult to cull Any joke Prom the scraps of foreign news, Or to gather hints and clues Calculated to amuse Other folk. With the cosmos more or less In a sort of nasty mess. Made of blood and stodginess, Then a bard. When he aims at drawing mirth,; From the humans of thw earth. FhnJs tli' ■ 'ml the deni th Vei v bard.