By the Way

Evening Star, Issue 23717, 26 October 1940, Page 3

By the Way

(By X.Y.)

Tho garden occupied by us Is foul with white convolvulus. Some predecessor, fiend-possessed. Imported this infernal pest. His wife, a woman void of wit, Brought homo, no doubt, a root of it, Attracted by its dainty bloom. And begged for it some garden room, “ Because,” said she, “ the thing will

look So lovely in that little nook.” Ah, foolish woman of the past! May sunlight sear and mildew blast, May frosts cut back and worms devour That ninety-times accursed flower! May droughts and cankers burn it

brown, May cows come in and tread it down, May slugs assault its tender shoots, And grass grubs batten on its roots! May all my neighbours’ pullets scratch This nuisance from my garden patch!

It filled its nook some years ago, And then began to overflow. The circumjacent garden beds Revealed a swarm of nodding heads. Then, boldly venturing from thence, It clambered up the nearest fence. Beneath the soil its roots increased To north, and south, and west,* and

east, Until the highest apple trees Showed blossoms nodding in the breeze.

J resolutely set to work With rake and hoe, and spade and fork; But still, whate’er I tried to do, That devil-creeper grew and grew. 1 riddled every yard of soil With unremitting care and toil, Put lawns here, there, and' everywhere. And kept them mown with toil and

care, Effecting a. belated rescue • With brown-top and with Chewing’s fescue.

I’ve often lamentably thought. While sweating hard and mowing short. That “ lebensraum ” is not for all

Intrusive weeds that creep and crawl; And when for peace’s sake you give These nuisances their room to live, They squirm below and climb above, And twist and turn and pull and shove. Until you tumble to their plan Of grabbing everything they can.

The West Coast has many claims to distinction. It nurtured B. J. Seddon and Robert Semple. Its harbours and its population are equally bar-bound, there being more hotels per thousand people than in any other part of the Empire. It boasts a daily newspaper which scorns being grouped among the “ capitalistic Press.” Two of New Zealand’s most spectacular gorges give land access to it; its whitebait season is as prolonged as its rainy season; Sunday football is the rule rather than the exception ; and its gold-dredging industry has discovered the secret of perennial youth. In days of long ago “ The Coast ” had close affinities with Otago, but the piercing of the Arthur’s Pass Tunnel and the completion of the Midland railway altered all that. Recovery of lost ground can hardly be hoped for if and when the Haast Pass road becomes negotiable for wheeled traffic and petrol coupons are more abundant. Which of the two will happen first depends on the whims of Messrs Nash, Sullivan, and Semple.

The West Coast has its own particular brand of politics, and consequently its own particular type of political audiences. If any politician should be at home in addressing them, surely it should be Mr P. C. Webb. But when those audiences are composed of railway men only, or waterside workers only, the obvious toughness of the task, in these days of ballots and camps, is enough to test the fibre of the most elastic of envoys. Mr Webb did not flinch from boldness of statement; The rights and wrongs of past wars did not enter into this conflict; Communist critics of conscription in New Zealand were hypocrites; a new era had come into being; pin-pricking tactics and industrial sabotage were things of the past. It all read beautifully in the papers. But there was an aftermath. Apparently our New Zealand censorship is not the perfect instrument it is supposed by some to be. The Prime Minister had recourse to the whitewash brush, and one more reporter joins the select herd of scapegoats in the wilderness.

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

Among devotees of dancing and of the astonishing noises to which it is executed, “ swing ” is an important factor. In the political field it enters also, and many people are becoming curious to see whether it will be in evideuce in Waipawa on November 16. Elections during a war crisis may seem as out of place as an attack of hiccups at a funeral, but they must be allowed to run their course. The many distractions, such as raider scares (with .an* other aggrieved, but unscathed, skipper of a fishing craft as a trophy), queen carnivals, art union results, man-power ballots, and the doings of Beau Fere’s progeny iirthe spring racing campaigns* cannot altogether obliterate the significance of how one particular electorate will react to the new era which high authority has informed us has already arrived. To the argument that Mr Christie is a sound man, a “ moderate Labourite, has the fanners’ confidence, and was only narrowly unseated at last! election, the expert election analyst has one answer: “But the swing; what about the swing? We must watch for that.” And so we shall.

At present the world seems to he indulging in a game of General Post. British forces are garrisoning Iceland; Germans are in occupation of the Channel Islands; the United States are establishing bases in Newfoundland; and cows, having doubtless received telepathic news of the use to which London’s tuba railways are being put as air raid shel-. ters, have invaded the Lyttelton railway tunnel._ Then, of course, there is the infiltration of German “ tourists ” to almost every country where access does not involve . a sea voyage—inta Spain, the Balkans, and Iran. The wonder is that so many “ foragers ” can be spared from the combatant forces and from the “ repression ” agents in the huge areas of conquered, but not completely cowed, countries in Europe. It looks like a rather frenzied search for new allies and fresh supplies. Also fresh! emphasis is being placed on what commercial circles call personal contact. Goebbels’s pre-war boast that he could win the nest war with words from his stand before the microphone is being falsified. The German forte has been, long preparation; but, plans having gone awry, the Reich is having recourse to improvisation. The dovecotes are perceptibly fluttered, while Stalin looks on jeering, and prophesies revolution.

“So I Himmler passes through Madrid,” An adequately pompons phrase. Describing what the fellow did When everyone’s obsequious “ lid Was lifted in his praise.

They scatter choice selected blooms Upon the Hero underneath, Until his limousine assumes An aspect mostly worn by tombs, With ribbon, card, and wreath.

Alas, alas! I wish it were A mournful, mute affair like that—* And other tributes filled the air— The addled egg, dissolving pear, And dear departed cat.

But now the servile Yes-man throws His offerings of fragrant smells— Carnation, lily, stock, and rose— For Fate has planted all the Noe* ■ In prison camps and cells.

What is the Spanish word for, “ yes ”8 I never learnt it. Anyway, I’d like to venture on a guess That 'it is short and effortless, An easy word to say.

They have a version in Budapest{ Belgrade is busy practising; In Sofia and Bucharest, However differently expressed, They say the same old thing.

Berlin says “Ja ” and Rome sayo “ Si.” This much, at all events, I know; While helpless Vichy whimpers “ Oui,’t Which means just what a Japanese Would say in Tokio.

In all the world, in every race, In all varieties of speech, Folk say it with an evil grace, Because they’re living in a place Which Hitler’s arm can reach,

But, should that bloody hand growl weak, And should that arm be slashed away. The nations now afraid to speak Will rise with one accord, and shriek An everlasting “Nay!”