AROUND THE TOWN

Hauraki Plains Gazette, Volume 48, Issue 2864, 17 November 1939, Page 6

AROUND THE TOWN

Jottings Of The Week

[ By

“ Whosit.”]

£70,000 for a new radio station in Auckland——we could do with a school costing less than half that in Paeroa. But funds are not available. * * * * Paeroaians who do their shopping on Friday afternoons must have noticed a tendency to stagnation in the flowing stream of pedestrians that usually frequents our pavements. Last Friday the climax was reached in the complete damming of the flow by a congregation of five assorted perambulators which stopped in the middle of the pavement while their pushers (and occupants) discussed their private lives. Mere congregations of people can be bumped aside, but the task of' shifting a perambulator slung athwart the way and manned (or rather womanned) by the owner, is not to be lightly undertaken. * * * A local resident who is temporarily baching learned something of the trials of a housewife recently when he decided to have a go at some washing. He managed the filling of the copper and the soaking of the wash quite well, then came the problem of soap. He discovered a nice, large, fresh packet of a certain*brand of soap flakes. In order to ensure a good job he tipped the lot in. To ensure an extra good job, he then put in a full packet of another brand, just in case the first didn’t work. Then he proceeded blithely to wash, secure in the knowledge that at least he had enough soap. The result was reported to ibe reminiscent of Santa Claus having a shave on a snowy day, in fact neither the water, the washing, nor in some places the washer himself could be seen for suds;

The bar of at least one local hostelry is haunted. Not by the ghost of any departed dipsomaniac but by nothing more nor less than a Rat. In the course of some years of pubcrawling and bar-hunting, this rat has apparently become quite an authority on the habits of bars, for every evening, sharp at six, it issues forth from its lair under the counter and goes the rounds, snapping up the inconsidered trifles of counter-lunch dropped by drinkers. It is stated that if the bar is not cleared by six, the beast comes out and makes quite a fuss about it." A move to destroy the rat has come to naught so far as it is believed to finish the dregs of the glasses and as a result is not afraid of anything.

* * # * THE FIGHTING FIRE BRIGADE It was six bells ringing, And the gardeners’ hearts were singing As they watched the water swinging Across the garden plot. Happy were they at their hosing, Not a one of them supposing That restrictions might be closing On the water they had got. But the Deputy is shirty. Fire Brigade! Fire Brigade! For the pressure’s down to thirty, Fire Brigade! Fire Brigade!

There are looks both dark and dirty When the firemen, growing shirty, ~ Find the pressure down to thirty— Which is really not so hot. * * * * The City of Flint seems to have given the experts on international law a few problems to discuss in the future but “Whosit’s” theory about the latest development sounds quite feasible. “ I reckon that German prize crew were darned glad to be interned,” he says. “At least they are sure of tucker.” $ * * * These war stories travel so fast that “Who Sit is fearful of telling one lest it be a fully ripe chestnut, but here is a trifle that “Whosit” hopes, and trusts, has not yet gone the rounds of Paeroa. The man had been down to Plymouth for his holidays. And, on his return to London just after the outbreak of war, said to a friend, “ Guess what I was doing when the first air raid warning sounded?” In reply to an obedient “What?” he said, “Playing bowls on Plymouth Hoe, and, like Drake, I finished the game. Drake may have played better bowls but I swear that he never ployed faster!” v

THE RUBAIYAT OF THE COW (With all due Apologies.) Awake! For it is early morning light Consider thou our painful cheerless light; Once more to shiv’ring don our sticky togs, Once more to toil and strive —and pray for night.

Old Angeline has strayed and likewise Rose, And Blossom, Buttercup, where no one knows. The bull is bogged, the calves are in the oats; One chapter of imperishable woes.

Ah, fill the Cup and in the Fire of Spring Our thousand worries to the winds we’ll fling; A few decades will paying prices bring, So let us thank our Stars —like anything!

Come, Strawberry, to fill the can that clears (Perhaps) the mortgage in a hundred years; To-morrow, why, to-morrow I may be Bankrupt, or swanking with the Profiteers.

The butter market reeks of Ayes and Noes, And slightly up, but mostly down it goes; And he who prays for “ups” and fewer “downs” He knows about it all—you bet he knows!

Myself when young did eagerly frequent “Experts” on farming and their argument I fell for, and the joke they played on me Now shows up monthly as—“ Arrears of Rent.”

Through them I toiled, and many seeds did test, And long hours daily laboured my poor best; And this was all the harvest that I reaped— Experience!. The Banker got the rest.

But fill the Cup, what boots it to repeat How Gorse and Ragwort spring beneath our feet; The Mortgagee will take possession soon And lose his reason; and Revenge is sweet!

The Car the Farmer sets his heart upon Gets bent, much mud-bespattered or anon Some Drunken Blighter in an Antique Bus Comes crash upon it, and its day is gone.

That inverted dray we call the Stye Whereunder crawling croopt the pigs do lie, Look not to them for profit now, for they Will net you nothing once the cows are dry.

Oh thou who didst with Mortgage and with Bill Invest the ground that I’m supposed to till, As one prize optimist you stand alone, My prospects hopeless are; my cash is Nil.

Ah! Interest on my Loan that knows

no wane, The payment quarterly is due again. What waste of paper, and of stamps displayed! * “Blueys” and Bills both come and go —in vain.

Hie with me to the Town and leave the lot, Send Quota and its advocates to Pot, Our pressing creditors were born 1 to wait; At least they can’t get what we haven’t got.

And when at length with halting foot they pass Where there are Cows no more ,and Weeds for Grass; And in their optimism reach the Spot Whence I walked off: then write me down—an Ass!