THE COMMON ROUND

Otago Daily Times, Issue 23688, 21 December 1938, Page 2

THE COMMON ROUND

By Wayfarer In accordance with our timehonoured custom, we are dispensing a few books this year as Christmas presents. From the lists of the 1938 publishing season we are presenting the following volumes to the following persons and institutions: House of Representatives: "The House of Dearth.” New Zealand Electorate: "Fain Would I Change.” or “ Island In the Mist.” The Prime Minister: " Commander of the Mists.” Mr R. Semple: “The Mysterious Mr I,” or “ Dictator’s Way.” Mr John A. Lee: “The Sky’s the Limit.” Mr Walter Nash: “Other People’s Money.” Income Tax Collector; “ The Golden Fleece,” His Victims: “The Devil to Pay.” Any New Zealand Capitalist: " Rich Man —Poor Man.” or " In Loving Memory.” Pre-Social Security Youth; “The Little Victims Play,” Professor Shelley: -• “ Hand-picked Howlers.” Uncle " Scrim ”: “Air Disaster,” The Primary Producers: “There Is No Return.” or “The Shadow Market.” Kaikorai Tram Company: “ Onward. Trolley! ” Cavalcade: "Fast Company.” Rt. Hon. Neville Chamberlain: " I Know These Dictators.” or “ The Snake Charmer,” Herr Hitler: “ Insanity Fair.” or “I See a Wondrous Land.” British Colonies: “ Not To Be Taken.”

Our Favourite Creditor: "Faithful Stranger.”

The great thing in procuring Christmas gifts is to make an appropriate selection, and we consider these books are being sent where they will do the most good. For our gentle and convivial readers we have in mind another volume: “ Sip! Swallow! ” or as an alternative: “ So What? ”

Which brines us to the not unpleasant necessity of sayine a few words about Christmas in a eeneral way. It is. of course as we all know, the Great Snare and Delusion. First of all. we spend too much; then we inevitably, in protestation, drink too much; and if this has not entirely ruined our enjoyment, we sit down stubbornly on Christmas Day and eat too much. After that, it is but natural for a man to berate his family, which ■is tripping about washing dishes, or playing tin trumpets, or tuning in on the new radio, according to age, for making too much noise. And if he persuades the family to stop, he rests his hands across his paunch and reposes himself for uneasy slumber, and when he awakes for another meal, this time of cold baked meats, he is sure to complain that he has slept too much.

But for all this, as most Common Rounders will be ready to admit, the season has its compensations, even when we refuse to allow ourselves to get sentimental about it. It is a marvellous thing, for example, to wake up on Boxing Day and to realise that all the fuss and pother’s done. And to think back and reflect that everybody seemed to have a good time in addition to a touch of dyspepsia. And to remember that there will not be another' celebration for nearly a week, so that_ there are several clear days in which to recuperate for the New Year. And to know that, whatever further assaults are made upon the digestion. at that time, plum-pudding need not be included. In fact, the compensations, even for the most dismal of us, tend to outweigh the disadvantages of Christmas, and that’s all there is to be said about it, save to express the sincere hope that gentle readers will enjoy, if possible, a really over-compensated Christmas season in 1938. Dr Schacht, who could get on better without Herr Hitler than Herr Hitler could get along without him, is the hero of an idyll to which his visit to London lends topicality: Out walking one day, Schachl argued that Hitler had been too drastic in his treatment of the Jews. “After all, they are the business men of Germany," he argued. “ Rubbish! ” Hitler declared. " Ger- . .mans are just as good—better.” “I wish I could agree with you." said Schacht, " but I can’t. What is more, I can prove my point. Come with me into this tobacconist’s shop —it is owned by a German.” They went inside. “A box of matches, please.” A box was duly produced. “No, I don’t like this type.” said Schacht. “The phosphorous is at the right hand end—l want them with the phosphorous at the left-hand end.”, “ Sorry, sir.” the tobacconist apologised, “but these are all I have.” “ I don’t see the point.” Hitler cornplained. as they regained the street. “There is another tobacconist’s over the way. owned by a Jew,” Schacht explained. “ Let us go in.” Then: “A box of matches.” he ordered. He repeated his complaint “ Not these —I want them with the phosphorous at the left-hand end.” “Ah, I know the kind you mean sir,” said the Jew. He took back the matches, bent behind the counter, turned the matches round and produced them again. “ That’s the kind I think? ” “ Exactly.” “ Right, sir. Five pfennigs extra please.” “ Now you see what I mean by saying the Jew is the better business man ” said Schacht. “No, I don’t,” Hitler replied “After all, it was only by a matter of luck that the Jew happened to have these particular matches in slock! ” But. unfortunately, though lie may be no business man, the kind of business Herr Hitler is disposed to indulge in is precarious for others besides himself. We have this contribution to public thought from a reliable romancer: A wealthy man in the north, wishing to indulge in some useful piece of philanthrophy. presented a good round sum to the local refuge for the mentally afflicted. Having taken counsel with the superintendent, he expressed a wish that the money should be used to construct swimming baths. He then departed on an extendeo trip abroad and on his return hastened to the superintendent to learn whether his benefaction had proved a success. “A success? ” said the superintendent. “Yes, I can assure you of that.” "Excellent! Then it is being made good use of?” “Indeed, yes. It’s really astounding how the patients have flocked to the baths. Why. on a fine morning it is nothing to see forty of them romping about in there. There’ll be a queue waiting their turn to go off the springboard, dozens sliding down the chute, and as many as three together taking fancy dives off the high dive. Yes. the baths have proved wonderfully popular. “And I anticipate," added the superintendent pensively. “ that they will enjoy even greater popularity when we get the water in.”

Readers will not fail to digest the moral of this tale, that they should always take a little water with it—and perhaps a grain of salt.

And now we have a little billetdoux for Mr Armstrong, ex-Minister of Labour, from “ Manufacturer,” who declares him responsible for the fact that “ in most hospitals to-day sponging and ' doing up ’ of patients commences shortly after midnight.” Among other cures or corrections which our correspondent prescribes for the hon. gentleman are the following: Could a number of people be persuaded to make an effigy of him and stick pins into it—this being an unfailing means of bringing an enemy low in mediaeval England? For myself. I want only to bespeak the part of calling on him about 9 a.m.. when he is still thinking with regret of his broken beauty sleep, to point out that he instigated the labour unrest which has even permeated the hospitals We are sorry, but we cannot assist our contributor. Pricking balloons, we understand, has a deflating effect upon them, but we do not think such pin-pricking would do much to our inflationary Cabinet. In any case, it is the currency which most urgently requires to be deflated, and most of us never seem to get near °nough to it to do that. “ The proposal which has been made by the Scittish Societies was that a contribution should be made . . by them . towards the cost of the kilted uniform. “Hoots mon! An’ here’s tae lookin’ up yer kilts.” “ For Sale, De Luxe Gentleman’s cycle. . . As a pedestrian we are glad to know that there are some really refined cyclists. The Wellington Fire Board’s protest against the press giving publicity to earthquakes has been answered by tremors all over the country. Might we suggest that at the next meeting they complain about publicity being given to big totalisator dividends, or to wool prices, or something of that sort, which we could welcome.