THE COMMON ROUND.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 19967, 8 December 1926, Page 2

THE COMMON ROUND.

By Wayfarer. It is a refreshing thing to meet an optimistic Diogenes; one who flashes the rays of his lamp, not in a spirit of satire and mockery, but in a real absolute sincerity which betokens a healthy belief that, despite the Government and politics and art unions, there may yet he found an honest man. Hereunder the lamp of Diogenes, flashing its expectant rays from the advertising columns of the Otago Daily Times and into every true Otago home: WANTED, bachelor, ago 25 to 30, strong, healthy, honest, sober, handy with tools, tidy and clean in habits, able row boat, in bay meet mail steamers, take charge at times of 'lsland Homo near Auckland, in Gulf, Duties; Milk, house cows, garden, odd jobs; home for life suitable man; no wasters need apply; light billet plenty fishing, ideal climate; must batch; wages suitable for job, £1 a week and found. Good luck to Diogenes, and may ho find that “God’s in his heaven ; all’s right with the world.” For the sake of the prospective honest man, however, I earnestly hope that, after he has carried out the requirements of his light billet, “the rest of the day’s his own” (to borrow the text of the old song). Though I am not a nautical man, times are when echoes of the doings on the waterfront of a Saturday afternoon penetrate my sequestered retreat, and 1 retrieve my stick from the waste paper basket and my hat from the floor where it has fallen, and fare down to the wharf, there to follow with inexpert eye the progress of the Sanders Cup trials. That is what I did on Saturday last, and I was very pleased indeed to sec that more than a little interest is still manifested in - Otago’s efforts to choose the right boat to send to Lyttelton—where, I understand, the contests arc to be held. Incidentally, the Maheno was about to sail when I arrived at the wharf, and the thousand or more people who were down there to see the trials found something additional to interest them. Most of them, in fact, had shamelessly forgotten the main purpose of their visit, and were standing alongside the departing vessel, watching the efforts of the tug to draw her bow round to the channel, and waving handkerchiefs to those on board, while others held the broken ends of streamers, some of which fluttered in the wind from the Maheno’s decks. I noticed, too, and I am sorry to have to say it, that the Maheno did not give way to the 14-footers as they raced round the buoy. The annoyance that the yachtsmen must have felt was surely, however, counteracted by the sight of such an enthusiastic crowd, all waving handkerchiefs at them as they shot past the Maheno. I, too, was waving a handkerchief, and in answer to my signal 1 detected a flutter of white from the Maheno. Somebody, I thought, must have made a mistake. Here is a strange thing—the people of Newcastle crying out for coal. Cr Hayward asked what had been done with regard to getting a better supply of water for Woodhaugb. The residents there were again calling out for water. Better! Again! The people of Woodhaugh, it seems to me, are quite a hardy race, or else the rain that daily saturates Princes street pedestrians is of a wetter and heartier type than that of which the parched Woodhaugh people cannot get enough to drink. Unhappy Woodhaugh. The rain that raineth every day fails to quench the unsatiable appetite of the dwellers in the Valley, and they call out upon Mr Hayward to arrange, if possible, for more. For the common weal let Woodhaugh cease their clamour, and, even if it means an occasional thirstiness, let them be satisfied with what they’ve got, little as it is. Otherwise, long-suffering Dunedin will be up in arms. A glance at the shipping news discloses the fact that the Maheno has paid her first call to Dunedin for 14 years. The ordinary news discloses that a contemporaneous visitor was Mr Hugh J. Ward, who was last in this city 15 years ago: two events of singular interest. It is of Mr Ward, however, that I would speak. His visit here was a flying one, but during his brief sojourn he was entertained at luncheon by the Rotary Club. And thereby hangs a tale. ’Tis said (mind you, I may be wrong), ’tis said that Mr Tapley, in welcoming the distinguished quest, damaged slightly his reputation as a man of accurate memories. The story is that he made appreciative reference to the great philanthropic work Mr Ward and “his charming wife, whom we knew as Miss Grace Palotta,” had done in collecting funds for the Dunedin Hospital 15 years ago. Several times in the course of his speech he identified Miss Palotta as Mr Ward’s charming wife (the tale goes), and he expressed regret at her absence from the festive boards; and nobody offered to correct the civic error by telling Mr Tapley that Miss Palotta was not and never had been Mrs Ward, but that she was leading lady in Mr Ward’s company at the time. It was left for Mr Ward himself to adjust matters. He is said to have remarked that the Mayor had made “an official statement that was a very serious thing to him” (and there was a burst of anticipatory laughter). It was the suggestion of his being a bigamist. He lost no time in clearing the matter up, and concluded by expressing the hope that “nothing would leak out about this.” Well, it has leaked out; which means that someone has broken faith with him. Yet, all’s, well that ends well, and Mr Ward is safely away from Dunedin. A brave newspaper correspondent in Hawera tells the strange story of how a farmer saw his ducklings being gobbled up by frogs. That is to say, the birds were enjoying their matutinal swim when a host of furious frogs dashed from their lair and grabbed one of the ducklings, whose cries of protest attracted the farmer. Taking in the situation at a glance he seized a pole and dashed to the rescue, with a reckless disregard of danger (how was he to know that the pond was not teeming with frogs?), but, although he dispersed several of the vicous marauders, he was unable to save the duckling, which was dragged incontinently under a log. The writer concluded the paragraph by observing that “the action of the frogs presents a problem which perhaps some of our naturalists can solve. It is beyond the majority of us.” One of the Government departments might be asked to forward a "please explain” to that particular frog community. Failing a satisfactory reply, a punitive expedition might be despatched. This sort of thing is to be strongly deplored. Taking their pleasures sadly, the good parishioners of All Saints’, Auckland, arc celebrating their diamond jubilee by awakening once more the ghosts of those dear dead days beyond recall to reprimand the “young persons” of to-day who never go to church; who have not “the selfcontrolled and disciplined state of mind to get up in time for communion at 8 a.m., but instead dawdle away the morning and arrive at 11 a.m.” Another charge is that “modern girls have no hair to wash, but instead they wash silk stockings and then they go for a picnic somewhere.” Is it really as bad as that? Somehow I cannot believe that all the actions of the youthful stalwarts of today deserve to have such sinister interpretations placed upon them. There are quite a number of young people who go to church of a Sunday, and some even go for a picnic after the morning service, and come back looking fresh and happy from their afternoon in the open air. Of course, another way to observe literally the Day of Rest is to stay at home and read novels, but most of these young folk

are too brutally healthy to do that. Mine not to reason, however, on matters of spiritual principle, but T would like to say in passing that I am yet able to recall those times When life was like a story holding neither sob nor sigh In the olden golden glory of the days*gone by. But I do not hold with those who argue that there is no golden glory surrounding the present day. “The world is a lively place enough in which wc must accommodate ourselves to circumstances,” as Mr Chester sapiently observes in “Barnaby Budge,” and even if girls have no hair to wash and the young men want pianos when they marry, there is always the possibility that fashions will change once more, while the young man may work harder than ever to earn the money for his piano. It’s an ill wind, etc. On cricket I have commented in the past: I have devoted an occasional paragraph to Rugby football; but of boxing 1 .have said little or nothing. I must admit that my knowledge of this seemingly rigorous sport is very rudimentary. I could not, at a moment’s notice, tell when it was that Los Murray defeated Firpo. Nor could I say when Georges Carpcntier met Battling Siki, if ever they did meet; but I do know this—that on Monday night Artie Hay defeated Silvino Jamito. I know it because it was published in yesterday morning’s paper, but in a few weeks’ time I will have forgotten that they ever met. In the meantime I will commiserate with Mr Jamito, who, wc are told, was “conquered but undismayed,” and wish him better luck next time. Mr Hay needs no sympathy for whatever bruises he may have received. The large end of the purse will be sufficient compensation for him. It was in the twelfth round that I felt really sorry for Jamito. The report says that it was all in favour of Hay, “who danced round Jamito, and hit him many a time and oft.” I should think that if there is anything calculated to aggravate a boxer it would be to have his opponent dancing round him and hitting him at * the same time. It is too much.