THE COMMON ROUND

Otago Daily Times, Issue 24738, 15 October 1941, Page 2

THE COMMON ROUND

By Wayfarer

With a hail to Rabbie Burns and the Bonnie Prince in passing, we greet the nationalistic spirit of their modern kinsmen as evidenced in certain kilted variations upon a popular Sassenach theme. Two amending versions have reached us within the week. Herewith the first; There’ll always be an England As long as Scotland stands. It’s just through poor auld Scotland That England’s wealth expands. Our friendly neighbour England We always will defend. We’ll fight all England’s battles; Her broken ships we’ll mend. And when the war is over And victory has been won, We’ll sing all England’s praises For what auld Scotland’s done. The other, in the same modest strain, commences: There’ll always be an England, We Scotsmen know that’s true; But there’ll always be a Scotland To see old England through. . . . From all of this it is to be deduced, in. short, that there'll always be a Scotland wherever two or three from north o’ Tweed are gathered together to raise voices, glasses, interest rates or pitchforks in unison. Ask Herr Hess! Ask the City of Auckland!

A faithful correspondent makes note of an advertisement adjoining our causerie of almost equally stimulating wares;

6ear “Wayfarer,” Advertisers sometimes say more or less than they mean, and occasionally add to the joy of nations by conveying an impression quite the contrary of what they intend. It was a Dunedin factory manager who advertised, “ Wanted, a young lady to press and fold,” which, to say the least, is pleasantly ambiguous. But what.does a local hotelkeeper suggest when he (or She) boldly proclaims: “My name is legion ’’ ? Are we to understand that his or her evil spirits will cause his or her customers, or should one say clients—to run violently down a steep place into the sea? St. Clair is not so very far away. If that isthe meaning, the customers or clients would, we imagine, hardly appreciate this allusion to their Gadarsne or swinish propensities. Or is this merely a subtle way of suggesting that, while elsewhere in the community whisky and brandy are almost unprocurable, in this favoured pub there is still abundance of those potent spirits aforesaid, together with rum, gin, and other favourite tipples of th? legion of the lost, whose mouths were made for drinking and for sucking at the bung?—Yours evet, Bung. And talking of instances of meaningful propinquity, what of the newspaper that carried the other day a full pictorial “cover” of recent events on the West Coast, including a portrait of the "Koiterangi Killer,” with advertisement adjacent; “Believe Me I Was Scared.” With diffidence,' but irresistibly, we are drawn to remark upon that extraordinary drama. Here, in an isolated bush settlement, the name of which would have meant nothing to 98 per cent, of the New Zealand population a week ago, sensational and all but incredible news has been made. It provides almost the classic instance in miniature of a story as old and older than our civilisation —man against mankind, the enemy who challenges society.

As in the major, contests between’’ the orderly and the outlaws, which, are wars, so in 'the microcosm of< Koiterangi, society has organised to remove the menace to safe living. Reproduced with perfect fidelity are the ponderousness but heavy assurance of the appointed keepers of the peace, whose habit is to grind slowly but exceedingly small; the conflict and dissatisfaction of the Impatient amateurs, to whose reckless inexperience difficulties present not a reality but a challenge. Divided counsel, wordy argument, disputation and delay, all brought to white heat by the omnipresent blast of danger, must for a time and in some degree precede the realisation that this problem must be met with thought and concentrated skills as well as with guns. Be the enemy one poor, crazed devil with a rifle, or a megalomaniac with 240 divisions to command, it is cold, disciplined co-operation, with every man resolute at his set task, however inglorious, that must reassert community law.

Our contributor “Bung,” by the way, finding himself somewhat involved in his epistle above with the “he (or she) ” aspect of his reflections, is reminded of a little verse which we have encountered previously. attributed to the kinema actor, Roland Young. Perpend:

And here’s the little, bounding flea; It’s very difficult, you see. We cannot tell the she from he, But Jne can tell, and so can she. This seems a perfectly satisfactory denouement, beyond which we have no concern unless we belong to the prying race of naturalists and biologists, in whom even the domestic habits of the earth worm arouse an indecent curiosity.

Readers who collect such things might like to add to their miscellany of philosophical versicles these also. On “ Relativity There was a young lady named Bright, Who could travel much faster than light. She started one day In the relative way, And came back the previous night. And on the triumph of Matter over Mind: There was a faith-healer of Deal, Who said: "Although pain isn’t real, If I sit on a pin And it punctures my skin I dislike what I fancy I feel.” ( The great unbelieving public will consider that this point is well taken.

The mysteries of the metaphysical are explored in the celebrated interchange which is said to have been originated by Father Ronald Knox, who ’neath the dreaming spires of his university wrote: There once was a man who said: “God Must find it exceedingly odd If He finds that 'this tree Continues to be _ .. When there’s no one about in the Quad. To which one who remains anonymous replied: Dear Sir, Your astonishment's odd, I am always about In the Quad, And that’s why the tree Continues to be Since observed by Yours Faithfully, God.

“ What manner of man i= this with the slouching gait, the tight-set eyes, clenching a cigar, the old-fashioned bowler hat . . .” Well, he seems the manner of man who doesn’t mind tobacco in his eyes, Anyway.

A prize is offered in Rome of 75.000 lire to the Italian citizen who can invent a device u enabling human beings to fly like birds.” There is no prize for those who may demonstrate the ability of Italians to scuttle like rabbits.