Editor's Walles.

Otago Witness, Issue 3854, 24 January 1928, Page 83

Editor's Walles.

CURED HIM.

Placing a phonograph on the dining room table, Mrs Ravenyelp said to her husband: “ I have an odd record here, and I want to see if you can guess what it is.”

When a weird succession of sounds began to come from the instrument Ravenyelp knitted his brows and tried to identify the sounds. “ It’s a saw cutting through a knot,” the ventured. “Guess again,” said Mrs Ravenyelp.

“A trombone in pain.” “No.” “An owl with its toes in a trap?’ Mrs Ravenyelp shook her head. “Give it up,” said Ravenyelp. “I agree that it’s as bad as all you have named,” Mrs Ravenyelp remarked, “ and hope it will save a lot of argument in future.” “But what is it?”

“ It’s a record I made in the bedroom the other night to prove that you really do snore, and to let you know how awful 'it sounds.”

FATHER TO SON.

My boy, I pray, although at times you doubt me — Think this one thought unto the end about me: I, as your father, serve no selfish pleasure; You and your interests are my dearest treasure. Tis not to kill your happiness I check you, I know how swiftly storms may come to wreck you. I hold you back, not merely to enslave you. I cause you grief, from greater grief to save you. You’ll live to walk with skilful men and clever, Men who can do the things which I could never; But, oh, my son, know this though others charm you: I am the one friend who will never harm you.

I will not hurt you, wrong you, or deceive you, I will not take all you can give and leave you. I may seem sterner far than people do, But no one lives who loves you more than I do.

My boy, I ask but this whene’er you doubt me, Always remember this one fact about me: When all my little faults and whims you’ve noted, I am your friend, unselfishly devoted. — Edgar A. Guest, in Answers.

WISDOMETTES.

The lack of money is the root of most •■evils.

The perfect man is usually a perfect imperfection.

* * * Some family skeletons are padded beyond recognition.

* * * Ability is the art of doing only what one is capable of doing.

Many a man works himself to death "trying to make a living.

Many a true word has been spoken regardless of grammar.

* # ♦ The prettier a girl is the more often she wants to be told about it.

Shoes may come and shoes may go, but men kick on for ever. * * *

When a woman is unable to convince a man she calls him a crank.

Lovers often keep the drawing room ■dark while trying to strike a match.

Millionaires who want to die poor might try razor factories in Russia.

She was only a dairyman’s daughter, but her face cowed many a man.

If seeing is believing, men should have implicit faith in women these days.

The man with £2OO never hesitates tyhese days about what kind of car to Jbuy. He always buys a £4OO one.

Many married people to-day manage to patch up their old quarrels until they are as good as new ones.

A prominent vocalist says that when singing we should clench something in our hands. We generally do. It’s the soap.

SPLENDOUR.

There is no splendour Brighter than to be Thoughtful and tender When a tear you see. There is no glory Greater than to share The sad, swift story Of another’s care. There is no labour Holier than to stay Fast by your neighbour Through his troubled day. For what is clever, Daring, skilful, wise, Is vain endeavour If all friendship dies. Who gives to duty __strength and thought Will lose the beauty Which by love is wrought. — Edgar A. Ghest.

THE UNCERTAIN LOVER.

“ Only last year, in sweet December! Only last year! Only last year! ” So runs an old song 1 remember, A song not inappropriate, dear, Of kisses and a lover's token, And vows that have, alas! been broken— An all-too-common tale, I fear. ’Twas last December that you met me (Or was it, now, the year before?). You vowed that you would ne’er forget me, That you were mine for evermore. And now, it seems, you have forgotten Your promise, which is pretty rotten, And wounds me to the core. What’s that you’re saying? “Don’t be silly”? It wasn’t you at all, you say. Well, maybe it was Joan or Millie Or Ann or Ermyngarde or May. But don’t inform me that has torn it. My heart is yours. Ah, do not scorn it! I love you, anyway. —C. E. 8., in Home Chat.

A MARK HAMBOURG STORY.

Mark Hambourg, the pianist, who has been to Australia more than once, tells of an amusing experience which happened during a South African tour. He was going to a rather outlandish place in an extremely outlandish train, which made a habit of stopping every mile or so. At one particularly long stop many of the passengers got out to stretch their legs, and the pianist wandered down the railway bank and sat in an adjoining field. Suddenly, however, he awoke to the fact that his train was under way once more. He shouted and waved violently, but all in vain.

Luckily such things as expresses are unknown in that part of the world, so, by running furiously, Mr Hambourg managed to catch the train and haul himself into a carriage!

OUT OF THE PAST.

This is rather a subtle story. A playwright, lately returned from Hollywood, relates an experience with one of the high officials of a super-com-pany with whom he discussed that burning question, the uplift of the films. The official strode up and down his luxuriouslyfurnished room.

“We are not afraid to spend money profusely to put films on a higher level,” he declaimed, with an accent glossed over by much practice. “ Our concern with the commercial value of our product is really secondary. For the advancement of our art we are prepared to sacrifice ” Suddenly he stopped, seized the visitor by the coat lapel, and riveted his eyes on that object. “Phooie!” he exclaimed. “Such a rotten job for a buttonhole, I couldn’t believe it! ”

SPOILT THE SHOW!

In the little Welsh theatre an opera was being produced. In certain passages a trumpet should have been blown offstage for effect. Judge the conductor’s consternation when, as the climax came, there was no sound of the trumpet. Very much annoyed, he went on with the music. The second climax was reached, but still the trumpet was silent. When the overture had finished, the conductor rushed to the wings. There he found the trumpeter still arguing with a theatre fireman.

“ I tell you, you can’t play that thing here,” asserted the latter in loud and angry tones. “ There’s a concert going on! ”

GOAL-BEGRIMED PRINCE.

An amusing experience which befell King George as a sub-lieutenant in the Navy is related in the new book written by Major Graham Brooks, called “ The Dukes of York,” a volume which is dedicated to the present Duke of York, and is a summary of the lives of all the Dukes of York.

Major Brooks writes: — “ One sultry noon in the early ’eighties an American citizen was being conducted over H.M.S. Canada, then doing duty on the North American and West Indian station. The ship was coaling, and the young sub-lieutenant, who was so cheerfully acting as the visitor’s guide, was smothered with coal dust. “ The tour over, the American thanked the captain for the courtesy which had been extended to him, and commented warmly on the interesting and able manner in which his youthful guide had explained the mysteries of a warship. “‘ I guess,’ he added, with a smile, knowing that Queen Victoria’s grandson was serving on board at that time, ‘on a day like this, when you’re coaling, you keep your Prince wrapped up in cottonwool.’

“ The captain’s eyes twinkled merrily at this remark, for the visitor’s guide with the grubby face was none other than Prince George—now his Majesty the King.’’ The Dukes of York have all had romantic lives. Two were murdered, two fell in battle, five have ascended the throne, three were exiled, while one never set foot in his country. All the Dukes have had love romances, while two were notorious “Don Juans.” The second Duke became in 1406 the first royal author of a book in our language. At one period there were two Dukes of York. One was known as the “Bogus Duke,” son of the Old Pretender, and he was the only Duke of York who never set foot on English soil, and the only Stuart who never loved a woman.

“ CORNFLOURS.”

Cornflowers growing please the eye, Cornflour buns delight the taste; If to make them you should try, They’ll get eaten in great haste. Half a pound of cornflour take. Six ounces flour, six sugar white, ’ Baking powder—which will make Cakes and buns so nice and light— Should be added, teaspoons three, Four ounces butter; mix all these, Then three beaten eggs must be Stirred in, too, by slow degrees. Bake. These “ cornflours,” made with care, Are in season all the year!

WHEN THEY WORKED.

An American mining engineer was spending a few days in Wales, and, having become friendly with a local miner, asked the latter to show him round. The American was quite unimpressed and inclined to sneer at most of the things he saw. “ Say,” he remarked, “ we’ve mines back home so deep that it takes half an hour to go down and half an hour to come up.”

“Well,” said the miner, “that mine there is deeper; it takes half a day to go down and the same to come up! ” “Apple sauce!” snorted the other. “When is the work done?”

“Work! ” answered his guide. “Oh,the night shift does that! ”

THE REASON.

Tommy: “Mamma, didn’t you say last week you wanted the carving knife and the chopper sharpened?” Mrs Brown: “Indeed, I did. Bless his little heart! How thoughtful you are! ” “Well, I’ll take ’em round to the cutler’s for you.” “How sweet of you to offer to do such things for your mamma, dear. I’ll wrap them up.” “No, don’t wrap them up. I want them to show. There’s a boy out there waiting to fight me: but I fancy when he sees me coming he’ll go home.”

A CORNISH BULL.

Two Cornish miners coveted a cow which belonged to a neighbour, and laid plans to steal it. On their chosen night it happened that a travelling player with a trained bear had asked for and obtained lodging at the neighbour’s house. The owner put the cow in a shed in order to give the bear the run of the barn. The thieves arrived, and one went to secure the cow while the other watched. A clamour of cries and blows came from the barn. The noise filled the night, and the lookout cried: “ Hae gotten ’im, Tam? ”

The horror of the unknown was in Tam’s voice as he replied: “ Hae gotten ’im? Nay, ’ees gotten I! ” —Cornish Arms Bulletin.

STILL ROOM.

At a public dinner a certain bishop was genially patronised by a millionaire. “ I never go to church/’ the millionaire said. “Perhaps you’ve noticed that, bishop ? ” “ Yes, I have noticed it,” said the bishop gravely. /

“No doubt you wonder why I never go to church, don’t you ? ” the millionaire pursued. “Well, I’ll tell you why, bishop. There are so many hypocrites there.” “Oh, don’t let that keep you away!” cried the bishop, smiling. “There is always room for one more, you know.”

THROUGH A TRAIN WINDOW.

The meadows in the summer glow Are beautiful to see; The ripe corn standing row on row, The bronzed and crimson lea. The little stream that ripples through The well-fenced meadows wide, The arching sky, so clear and blue, Above the countryside! Through moving windows I can see A panorama vast, But. oh, I’m glad as I can be, The train is moving fast! For far across the fields there stands A slight that’s mighty fine— Where someone waits with outstretched hands— That little home of mine!

ONLY A DREAM.

He listened intently. His wife and her mother were talking. The latter was saying: “You have indeed secured a splendid husband, and I think you ought to treat him, with more tact and consideration. Don’t always want to know where he is going, and if he comes home late be agreeable and wait until he explains before you begin asking a lot of awkward questions. He's just the sort to appreciate any generosity on your part. Be kind to him.”

He stirred uneasily, trying to Hear more—then awoke.

RATHER TALL.

They were very young and very happy and very foolish and very newjy wed. And they kept a kitchen garden. “Angelina, darling,” said the youthful husband. “ as I was passing through the garden I saw some asparagus ready for cooking. Perhaps you’d like to go and gaththe first fruit of the season your-

I tell you what,” said the young wife, anxious to conceal her ignorance in the vegetable department, “we’ll go together. You shall pluck it, and I will hold the ladder.”

DON’T WORRY.

Methuselah ate what ha found on his plate, And never, as people do now, ’ Did he note the amount of the caloric count—

He ate it because it was chow. He wasn’t disturbed, as at dinner he sat, Destroying a roast or a pie, To think it was lacking in granular fat, Or a couple of vitamins shy. He cheerfully chewed every species of food, untroubled by worries or fears Lest his health might be hurt by some fancy dessert— And he lived over nine hundred years’

OVERDOING IT. -

Mr 8., who was dining out, had done lavish justice to the good things before him. By way of a graceful apology, he remarked, with a beaming smile directed towards his hostess: “ I’ve always heard, ma’am, that the highest compliment one can pay to the housekeeper is to eat heartily. You will observe that I have been exceedingly polite.” “ Thank you - . Mr 8.,” smiled back the hostess. “ Indeed, I think that you have carried politeness to the point of flattery.”

THE LITTLE BOY WHO IS SLAPPED.

Sometime this little boy, misunderstood, And, cuti’ed and slapped and scolded to be good, Will have a little' boy resembling him. Then he’ll look back on his own home’s

grown dim. Then he'll look back on his own home’s

mistakes (A heart grows, oh, so tender when it breaks), And gently he will guide his little boy Into a cloudless world of childish joy! — Anne Campbell, in an exchange.

A NIGHT OF STARS.

Now bright, now dim, they light the evening sky. We stand and gaze; the common world

. goes by. It is as if the door of heaven swings To give our souls a glimpse of holy things.

If there should be no other world than

this. No further beauty than the present bliss, This is enough: to feel for just a bit One with the glory of the infinite!

DISCOURAGED.

They were talking about a young man who had just passed them in the street. “Yes,” said one, “he fell in love with a girl at a glove shop. He bought gloves every day for a week, so to discourage attentions she became a manicurist.” “ Then he had his nails manicured every day. I suppose? ” remarked the other. “ Just so. But I don’t think he will worry her anv more.” “Why?” ’ “ She’s found employment with a dentist.”

MY LITTLE HEARTBEAT. We have an understanding, he and I, Although he's but a child upon my breast. In his young presence I am happiest. To his quaint questionings I give reply. It is my arms that hush his plaintive cry. It is his trusting hands that make me blest. Together we are linked in joyful quest Ot deeper comradeship as days go by. When I am sad, he, too, is filled with tears. He mirrors me. Dissembling is an art He has not learned. If laughing words he hears He smiles, and when I’m troubled, weeps apart. As much my very self in these brief years As is the measured beating of my heart! Anne Campbell, in Women’s Weekly.

WHITER THAN THAT.

Barbers are generally recognised as the worst kind of gossips, and Bent was hardly as exception. He prided himself on being first with the news, and on one occasion he rushed up to a fellow-craftsman and blurted out:

“Have you ’card about Lester’s wife? She's dead! ”

r /. en< i gasped in sheer astonishment, les, continued the other, “I was the first to 'ear, so I told Lester. ‘Stop work an go 'ome; your missus 'as died,’ 1 says.

( Good eavens! What did Lester say?” hirst he dropped ’is razor and then is iace turned as white as your shirt” Bent paused and lifted the other’s coat. ,-x X „ say as "'bite as your shirt? No—whiter.

THE WONDERFUL CARDEN! Mrs Brown has a wonderful garden, There is surely no other so fair; Every separate rose is the finest that grows, Or so she is wont to declare. You will surely be brought in to view it If ever you’re passing that way; If you saw it but yesterday, that doesn’t matter. She’s always excited and brimful of chatter:

There’s another new bloom out to-day! You may think you have seen other blossoms

More worthy of taking the cake — That, in fact, hers are not such a wonderful lot—

But that’s where you make the mistake. Her neighbours are bored to distraction, „ But, since she is really so keen, They try to endorse all her rhapsodies brightly And murmur conventional phrases politely, Although these are not what they mean. But her husband’s a terrible cynic, He scornfully turns up his nose At the beautiful blooms she persistently' booms, And. so do the judges at shows. Yet still of their wonderful virtues She daily continues to tell, And her gardener spends most of his time in admiring The marvel, she shows him—which isn’t too. tiring, And suits him uncommonly well! — C. E. 8., in Home Chat.