BY THE WAY

Evening Star, Issue 22817, 27 November 1937, Page 3

BY THE WAY

[By X.Y.]

44 The time has come,” the Walrus said, 41 To talk of many things.” I feel inclined to chortle a little this week and murmur something akin to that most exasperating remark, “ I told you so!” However, the point at issue hardly lends itself to egotistic vanities. It is too pathetic .for that, and really demands a measure of sympathy with the people concerned. It appears that quit© a number of residents of th© Lake Wakatipu district are not at all enamoured of bus travelling along the new lakeside road linking Queenstown with Kingston. They prefer tho more leisurely and more soothing boat trip to being whisked by bus round bends at a speed which is inclined to upset their 44 innards.” _ . I have always entertained similar notions. Indeed, when it was first being urged that the new motor road should be completed my voice, through this column, was as one in a wilderness protesting against any move which threatened the reign of the Lake Wakatipu steamers, and consequently an important feature of Queenstown’s charm. Of course, any attempt to stem the advance of motordom is rather futile. Acquiescence in tho clamour of worshippers of that malodorous god, petrol, is the price we have to pay tor progress. So be it. Lake County and Southland, in particular, wanted that road, and now that they have it there can bo no looking back with vain regrets on th© passing of the good old days. On with the march of the mechanised age. Let us bow to the inevitable and 44 step on it.”

Perhaps I am backward, oldfashioned, or what you will, hut I have never been able to understand the attitude of folk who fancy they aro in for something extra special by way of treats when they have a chance to travel long distances by motor vehicle in preference, for instance, to a train. Private cars could well be excluded from my indictment. It would be a foolish man who failed to discern the advantages of oar ownership in this land so full of holiday resorts inaccessible by rail. Opportunities to explore by-ways are not to be despised. However, when the train or bus alternative is presented I, for one, would always retain my allegiance to the iron trail. Freedom to read, smoke, stretch the limbs, and gossip has its appeal to such ns I. On this score much can be forgiven the “ puff-puffs ” . .' . even the dilatory “ puff-puffs ” so common in New Zealand. I notice! from a cablegram, hy the way, that it is forbidden in Germany to bunt hares with a locomotive. It seems that passengers on a certain train the other day were given an uncomfortable ride through the action of a sportive engine driver who was charged with wilfully setting his engine at a hare, thereby causing its death. He was fined 100 reiohmarks for game trespass. ■ It is hard to imagine what kind or train it was, for one gains the impression that it left the rails and started off on a cross-country chase. However, we do not need to become alarmed lest New Zealand engine drivers take it into their heads to go a-hunting, too. They know better than to waste their steam that way. They could never catch a bare. I doubt if they could overhaul an aged rabbit afflicted with rheumatism in ©very joint. For all that, our railways are not so bad . . . better than motor buses to travel in anyway. * * * * This tommy-rot Is all my owm It matters not, For I’m unknown. My genius hears This mouldy fruit; But no one cares A single hoot. I might achieve Supreme renown;' I might receive A laurel crown; But who could put This crown upon The ghostly “ nut ” Of mere “ Anon ”,?. So when you read On Saturday Some awful screed In ‘ By the Way,’ Don’t sneer or scoff, Or coldly scan These scrihblings of (A'modest man. They don’t proceed From “ Unde Scrim.” The thought, indeed, Might anger him. Nor yet, besides, From soaring souls Like Robin Hyde’s • Or Beaglehole’s, Well, up to date It’s always been My pride (and fate)] To blush unseen. If folk condemn

Or praise my verse, Good luck to them! I’m none the worse. I wonder why The Powere that Bo Should shatter my Obscurity, And make it so That I must sign My name below This stuff qf mine. Must I set down My name and style, And all the town Begin to smile; And say, “ Dear me. It staggers us To find old T. So frivolous”? Shall I be dragged Before the Beak Because I ragged Our Nash last week? Or feel the sting Of penal laws For libelling Good Santa Claus? • • • • “ He hasn’t an atom o‘f energy.” How often we say this of some poor chap who appears to be leaving undone those things which he should do! Frankly, it has been said about me, particularly when I am reclining in a deck chair taking the sun and surveying the garden with a “ never do to-day what you can put off till tomorrow ” air that Mrs “X.Y.” finds a trifle exasperating. It is she, as a matter of fact, who has been known to touch on the atom of energy which I am supposed to lack. But, look you, is not science now proving that the atom is indeed mighty? Atomic energy is becoming a power to be reckoned with. I read the other day that the transmutation of elements, which was made possible by the work of men such as Lord Rutherford, was of importance rather because of the potential release of atomic energy than because of any

realisation of the alchemists’ hope of producing gold from other elements. A few ounces of matter would be sufficient to drive tho Queen Mary across the Atlantic if energy could be released in this way. Here is something to ponder on. There is hopo for us shy gardeners yet. Probably just as much energy would bo required to drive us to the spade or hoe as it would take to set the Queen Mary about her business, but these few ounces of matter seem, speaking in an off-hand manner, easy of achievement. If only we can find the secret of the supply we may yet have a good crop of potatoes and cabbage and peas and all the'rest of them.

While on this subject of gardening. . . . I must say that I suspect the weaving of a plot between Mrs “ X.Y.” and a kindly neighbour, himself a keen gardener—the sort of chap who knows how to make these atoms work overtime for him. Tho idea is to persuade me to prepare ground for, the fine healthy young plants he keeps sending over to us. My better half does the persuading and my neighbour the sending. You will appreciate the fact that, in such circumstances, something has to be done about tending the garden. Can’t let the good soil be wasted. Can’t let healthy young plants die. Neighbour inquires frequently about the progress being mad© and now and then personally inspects. It is a hard life, but I have to admit that once tho atoms of energy are stirred up the task is not unpleasant. Pottering about with Mother Earth has its soothing and health-giving qualities, while the rewards by way of fresh vegetables and -pretty, sweet-smelling flowers are not to be lightly disregarded. Kindred spirits, take note.

“I am afraid the schools are not very particular about the speech of the primary pupils,” stated Mr Anderson Tyrer, the Trinity College of Music examiner, in the course of a talk to students and teachers. He also had something to say about the home influence and its effect on children’s speech. It would be as well to take notice of what Mr Tyrer says. It may be that the speech of young New Zealand is uniformly fair. That is to say, there is no marked dialect, and grammar and vocabulary (apart from imported and some native slang) strike a fairly satisfactory level. However, wo are undoubtedly careless in matters of voice production, and may he a trifle expressionless, too. The vowel sounds, as in the prevailing “ oi ” for “ i ” and “ i ” for “ a,” need watching by parents and teachers alike. One slang New Zealand word which is used freely not otily by pupils of primary, but also_ those who attend secondary institutions—and by adults, too —is “ hooray ” for good-bye. Where this word sprang from goodness only knows. When used in this way it is meaningless and quite silly. It is almost an insult, in fact, conveying, if interpreted strictly, the impression _ that there is reason for mutual jubilation over the leave-taking. The sooner pedagogues throughout the Dominion declare war on this ugly word the sooner strangers to our shores will cease to wonder at our weird but not very wonderful method of saying “ Good-bye.” By comparison, “ ta-ta,” “ bye-bye,” “ so-long,” and even “ too-ra-100 ” have their good points.

From ‘ The Foolish Dictionary ’:— Enthusiast: One who preacnes four times as much as he believes and believes four times as much as a sane man ought to. Evolution: A clever trick performed by one Darwin, who made a monkey of Adam. Explosion: A good chance to begin at the bottom and work up. Exhibition: .An overgrown department store. Usually opened a year or two behind time. Face: A fertile, open expanse, lying midway between collar button and scalp, and full of cheek, chin, and chatter. Feint: A pugilist’s bluff. Faint: A woman’s bluff. Fake: A false report. Fakir: A false reporter. « ♦ tt ♦ It’s quite a lengthy time Sine© 1 lamented in Some execrable rhyme The vanished petrol tin, That useful piece of metal ware, Once plentiful, but now so rare.. The petrol tin and case— This modern era brings No gadgets to replace . These much-regretted things, Whose passing 1 would fain deplore; But repetition is a bore. The hatpiil’s had its day; The hainpm’s gone for good. They’ve simply gone the way Of fillet, wreath, and snood; And yet—what tool could rival them For cleaning out a briar’s stem? For woman’s hair is short, And women’s hats repose Upon it with a sort Of faith—unless it blows; And then elastic, deftly hid, Restrains the too-impulsive lid. And talking of this last Suggests one doleful thing; Another age has passed, The mighty Age of String; The march of Time is passing hy That universal human tie. So fondly we had dreamt, But vainly, none the less,' That string would be exempt From Fashion’s fickleness. We thought it safe, beyond dispute, From any modern substitute. Yet, latterly, alasl We find, to our dismay, That string begins to pass, And twine has had its day. It has no power to withstand The all-encroaching rubber hand. Time’s ruthless hand is laid On everything we know; And soon, I am afraid, Will buttons have to go, And vanish in a dim eclipse Behind the shadow cast by “ zips.” No doubt I’ll soon be told I’m out of date myself— Lamenting days of old From my appointed shelf— l Where linger long-forgotten pins, Domes, buttons, string, and petrol tins. The younger set will stride Serenely on its way, Exhibiting with pride The gadgets of its day; But oh! what thing devised by man Could e’er replace the petrol can?