THE COMMON ROUND

Otago Daily Times, Issue 22833, 18 March 1936, Page 2

THE COMMON ROUND

By Wayfabeb,

A Btory which, like all that decorate this page, can be fully authenticated on payment of the usual preposterous fee: — An old Maori wag brought before a Native administrator in hia district, on the complaint of a neighbour named (surely truth is stranger than fiction) Smith, It was stated that old Horn had stolen one of Smith’s cows, and there was every reason for believing that he had. 'Of course, he vehemently denied it. . _ . , . , The administrative official had no wish to make an official matter of the case, nor had Smith, who agreed that the return 'of the cow would satisty him. The administrator took the old Native aside to reason with him. . “Now, Honi. you know Mr Smith is a good man, who would not lie, and he says you stole his cow.” \ “No. no. I would not take w any plurry cow. I got cows of my own." “ Look here, Horn, Mr Smith ut a very clever man, who never mistakes and he is sure you took it.” “Not I. I do not see his plurry cow ever.” “ Come, now, you know Mr Smith and I know him, and we know he couldn’t be wrong." , . , ~ ... “Oh-ho, so you think this Smith so plurry clever, you do ? ” “Yes. Honi, I do.” “Well,” says Honi triumphantly, I tell you he’s not so plurry clever as that. Mr Smith he come to my farm and he say I stole cow. ‘Then py korry,’ I says, ‘you show me plurry cow vou say I took/ Well, boss, Mr Smith, he go to paddock, where the cows are, and he point out a cow. That mine/ he eay. Ho-ho-ho, it not his cow he point out. but one of my own cows! So how clever is Mr Smith, now. not to know his own cow when be see it?

The authoritative “ Givis,” making a pronouncement on pronunciation, states that Claughton (near Lancaster) is Clafton and Eothwell (near Kettering) is Eoivel. Two odes which celebrate these various matters: — Now I’ll tell ol a Scotsman named Olaugh,ton. And a bonnle wee lass he was saughton. When he said " Marry mo ” She replied “ Hoots, monnle, "It you think I’d wed you, you re a daughton.” Then, to give it a truly international flavour, an Irish ode: — There's a big Irish lad lives near Rothwell, In a poor little bit of a hothwell; Though he can’t keep a job. For he’s too weak, be gob. When he gets in a schrap he s a mothweli. What we intended to say a week ago, discussing Pavlov’s experiments in making dogs behave more intelligently than babies, with the possibility that babies may therefore be trained to govern countries more intelligently than politicians, and politicians might then be persuaded to learn how to be intelligent as dogs (which limit their barking to occasions which justify it) —what we wanted to say is, it’s a pity dogs can’t talk. One of the moat tragic things about the animal, man, is that he never hears an objective opinion of himself. He meets plenty of other men (and women) who tell him what they think of him, and he occasionally has the chance of letting them know what he thinks of them. But these opinions are necessarily biased. It is impossible for a man to know just what a detached judgment upon himself would be, and he could only receive such if it came from some unsullied source —that is, from an animal which is not human, and therefore need not measure its conclusions by a human standard of ethics. Now if dogs could talk—but then they’d need to be able to use their paws as fists and manipulate machine guns, for there is no reason to suppose their pronouncements upon us would be entirely flattering. Happily, there are signs that the time may be coining when the inhabitants of the animal and reptile worlds will be able to express themselves. Pavlov’s dogs knew what to do when they heard the dinner gong, and an even more encouraging report comes from an American source. Perpend;—: It was back in the old days when the west was a-building. I was a young man then. An old Indian medicme-man cave me a pet rattlesnake named Pete. He was a smart snake, Pete was, quick to catch on. . . I was working with the old Baltimore and Ohio railway telegraph, and taught Pete the Morse code just to break the monotony. I’d punch out a question and he’d snap back the answer with his 'tail. He became very proficient at this, and was most devoted to me. Many's the quiet evening we spent together talking. One day Pete Became separated from me and was lost. Years later, tramping through the old territory, hunting duck. I came suddenly upon a rattler not 10 feet away, its head poised and ready for the strike. Hastily I raised my rifle and was about to tighten my finger when I heard crisp M° rse . . “ Don’t shoot, Bill.” it crackled, it s me. Pete! ” A little trouble taken, on the lines indicated by Bill and Pavlov, and we might soon have the sparrows around Parliament Building assisting ’in the debates and the sea lion at St. Clair giving the Amenities Society a bit of good advice. Incidentally, there is nothing new in our thought, nor improbable in the suggestion that such things may happen. Says Sir James Jeans: — If the universe goes on for long enough. eVery conceivable accident is likely to happen. It was, I think. Huxley who said that six monkeys, set to strum unintelligently on typewriters for millions and millions of years, would be bound in time to write all the books in the British Museum.

The point is, it seems a pity we don’t get them started. It is rather distressing to think of all the time, and thought, and tedium, in which authors, poets and columnists are involved writing imperishable thoughts when a, well-organised menagerie could do the work for them. There are other ways in which, by application, we might encourage the animals and other forms of life to serve us. Take, for instance, the excellent lesson in domestic science afforded by the coconut crab, as described in one of Nordoff and Hall’s South Sea narratives: — • During the day they hide in their holes. . . . At night they come out. . . . To catch them, one builds a fire, which never fails to draw them. ... It sounds incredible, but they walk into the fire and sit down quietly on the embers to roast. There is exhibited in this crab-wise act, surely, a consideration and sympathy with the needs of humanity, a selfless desire to serve, which might well be taken to heart, both by men and the creatures they eat. ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS. “How Old Is Ann.” North Otago.—We make it a rule neither to discuss nor to divulge a lady’s age. « Baldness,” Kurow. —Medical authority is agreed that the only, effective cure is to grow hair on the bald patches. “ Pretty Stranger,” Caversham. —We can understand your desire for male companionship during your visit, and suggest that you come up and eee us sometime. “Suburban,” Maori Hill.—Probably the best way of appeasing your wife would be to buy a bigger car than your neighbour’s, but as an alternative you might burn down his garage some night, or shoot him. The Victorian income tax commissioner has written to a taxpayer in verse. We do not anticipate, however, that there will be any great popular demand for poems from him.