Editor's Wallet

Otago Witness, Issue 3899, 4 December 1928, Page 83

Editor's Wallet

BAD TEMPER. Temper is an awful thing, It flames up like a fire; And if it is not smothered out, It blazes high and higher. It burns the smile upon your lips, And scorches brown the twinkles. And dulls and smokes your happy eyes. And leaves your face all wrinkles ! WISDOMETTES. A pessimist is a man who expects to find microbes in kisses. Tell a woman only what is necessary—she will find out the rest. Non-stop motorist—one who is looking for a place to park bis car. There is nothing so disagreeable to a healthy person as wasting time. The reason some people stay out of debt is that no one will let them get in it. , hostess who doesn’t make vou feel •it home often makes you wish you were. Girls like to marry men who are safe, reliable, and cautious. But does that type ever propose ? The only time a woman takes a leaf out of her husband s book is "when she tears one out of his cheque book. FLOORS TO MATCH WALLS. Floors to match walls—that new idea Jn home decoration which started Chelsea way—is being followed now in many homes going in for renovations (says a Daily News writer). The simplicity and comparative inexpensiveness of’ the •’brushed” floor has probably helped towards popularity. For another thin>u the paint brush can cleverly imitate anything from a marbled to a stippled effect 'The stippled floor is the newest. I saw a very delightful one done for exhibition purposes lately by a famous firm of decorators. The floor matched the' stippled walls exactly, the variegated twocolour effect being obtained by the use of ivory paint on a white ground A. striking border about a foot wide 'in *a stencilled key design gave the floor an air of completeness one seldom sees Prussian blue on primrose produced walls ■of a dull lemon shade in another room. And here the painted floor was of brushed grained oak—another instance of clever floor painting. Even a bathroom floor can be treated to a brushed tiled effect

CLOTHES MADE FROM ROCK!

Asbestos is the only mineral that can be woven into fire-proof garments and moulded into instruments impervious to flame. With asbestos armour and tools men can fight even a flaming oil well. The messenger dogs of forest rangers in California are clad in asbestos coats to defy timber fires. The material, fibrous and crystalline, elastic and brittle, heavy as rock in its crude state, yet as light as thistledown when treated mechanically, has withstood the heat and enormous pressure of volcanic fires and earth adjustment, apparently without alteration. Changes in temperature cannot make it expand or contract. Since the earth was in its infancy these veins of silky fibres have survived when the hardest rock has worn or melted away. Some believe that those who survived Nebuchadnezzar’s fiery furnace were clad in asbestos, while ancient writers tell of a “ stone carded and woven to form handkerchiefs,” the fabrics “ cleansed by casting them into fire.” Gas burners, iron holders, mats, and stands, and asbestos composition floors Are but a few of the modern conveniences made from this mineral curiosity.

a, DIAGNOSIS.

V Diner: ‘‘Can’t eat this soup.” Waiter: “I’ll call the manager.” Diner (when manager arrives) : “ This soup —1 can’t eat it.” Manager: “ I regret that. I’ll fetch the chef.” Diner (when chef arrives): “I can’t eat this soup.” Chef: “What’s the matter with it ? ” Diner: “Nothing. I ain’t got a •spoon 1 ”

HOW TO DROP OFF.

Blinkers was very worried indeed. He was suffering from a bad bout of insomnia, and he resolved to call upon his doctor and 3 ask for some advice on the matter. “ Doctor,” he said, “ I can’t get to sleep -at night.” “ There are always ways and means of coinbating that,” replied the M.D. “ You think you are hopelessly wakeful, but mental effort has a great deal to do ■with that. Just imagine you are walking rm a tight-rope one thousand feet above the ground. Step by step you advance on the tight-rope——” “ Yes,” interrupted the patient, leaning forward in his interest. “ You’ll soon drop off.” HOW TO ESCAPE. Tn the towns of Hungary school chil•dren are to be taught how to walk and how to avoid being run over (says the Daily Chronicle). Of course, the motor traffic there is nothing like what it is with us, not even in Budapest. Yet there are a lot of accidents, and the authorities have got scared. They say it is necessary to give such instruction as they ■contemplate as much in the interests of motorists as of those who go on foot. And it will be given during the time -allotted for gympasties. Very suitable! ■One needs to be a bit of a gymnast to survive in these days.

THE BIRTH OF BATHROOMS.

One of the numerous curious fogs in which the student of the social history of the past century finds himself coughing and groping is. Just how and when did bathrooms happen to us? 1 can recollect no other fact of Victorian life and times with so many conflicting declarations affecting it (writes a social historian in the London Star). In this, as in so many other problems, however, a penn’orth of positive evidence is worth a pound's worth of negative, and I am glad to have my collection enriched by some data with which Dame Margaret Lloyd George recently provided a foreign journal in the,course of a vivacious paper on life in Downing street. "In 1908. when Lord Oxford and Asquith moved into No. 10 Downing street, she wrote. " the Prime Minister’s residence had no bathroom at all ! 1 1 emembei being taken over the house then and being shown the attics, where there were a sufficient number of footbaths stored away to pave Downing street from one end to the other.” Oxford, too. that other home of lost causes, long clung to the sort of antediluvian bath which is trundled into the bedroom trom some spider-haunted depository in the landing's hinterland, and surrounded by small steaming cans, reminded one of a great beast in the juirde brought to bay by dogs. It was the scarcity ot bathrooms more than anything else which impressed the A ale athletes who visited the University last summer, though, to be sure, Nir Paidson. their captain, hastened to reassure us that w hat Oxford lacks in plumbing it makes up in atmosphere -a pro" nouncement ot which you mav make what you will. Not long ago Mr Inglis provoked a spate of contradictions when he declared: "No house, palace. mansion, or otherwise boasted a bathroom before 1886.” An oldjjidy reported that when she was a child. 77 years ago, there was a bathLl’fl'n 1,1 parents house on Campden Hill. An old gentleman reported the existence of a bathroom (with shower bath) in a big country house in Gloucestershire 63 years ago. And a former lieutenant-colonel revealed that there was not a bathroom in Windsor Castle until the succession of King Edward VII, who had several installed at once.

SHINE, SIR!

Bootblacks, it seems, are in a fair "way to become as rare as hansom cabs, and it may be that to the next generation the once familiar chirrup of “Shine, sir ? ” will have as quaint a ring as "Milk below, maids! " has to ours (writes Mary Morrissey in the London Evening News). The last century has seen a complete change in the ethics of boot-cleaning. " Sir, you are not fit to black her boots was a pretty insult for one gentleman to hurl at another when blacking was a noxiouns concoction of vinegar, and brown sugar, and boot-clean-ing a grimy and unsavoury business at which even the scullerymaid turned up her nose, so that a “ boy for the boots ” was a necessary adjunct to every wellappointed household.

It has Jost its sting in these degenerate days, when my lady sees no shame in cleaning her own pretty shoes with fine creams and a polishing pad dainty enough to grace her dressing table. The elegant hero of the Victorian story books who—final proof of gentility—had never cleaned his own boots is as mythical to the modern maiden as the cookery books of the period with their pints of cream for a “ simple sweet.” Your Georgian blade was a lavish patron of the bootblack, squatting on the corner with his pots and brushes, and an ancient wig with which to wipe his clients’ shoe buckles, and your Victorian, too. dearly loved a “shine.” It was a 'mint of honour with a gentleman then that his footgear should always be shining and speckless, and no home amateur could match the gloss which the expert knew how to give the dullest leather.

OUR MECHANICAL AGE.

My grocer has a little machine, The neatest thing that ever was seen. Which weighs the butter and marge and cheese And bacon and lard with the greatest ease. And calculates what should go on the bill With the highest arithmetical skill. There's another machine to slice the bacon, And another by which your change is taken, That shows you the total and rings the bell And gives you a ticket receipt as well. And the draper has got a machine so spry It will measure the yards of stuff you buy And will calculate what the price will be Of a quarter at seven-eleven-three. And when 1 go to the railway wicket There’s a clever machine bites off my ticket And almost puts it into my hand As if it could really understand. Wherever I go I seem, indeed. To find a contrivance to suit my need. And won’t it just be perfectly topping When we get a machine to do the shopping ! — C. E. 8.. in Home ('hat.

WHAT DID HE MEAN?

The young wife came in as hubby sat gazing at his empty plate. “ I hope you liked that cake, dear,” she asked. “I took great pains in the making of it.” “ Yes, dear.” he returned, as he tried to move in his seat, “ but I believe the treacherous thing has passed those pains on to me! ”

OPERATIC FOUNTAINS.

Illuminated fountains are as popular abroad as fireworks displays, and now inventive man has gone a step further (says a Daily Chronicle writer). At Aachen, in Germany, near the Belgian frontier, a new fountain, lit from underneath, accompanies the orchestra, and the music is interpreted bv tn. coloured jets, which rise and fall in rhythm with the violins and brasses. Ihe inventor is Willy Jungbeeker, an officer in the former Germany navy. He derived the idea from playing a gramophone in a U-boat.

The music dramas of Wagner lend themselves best to this aquatic treatment, l ake " Das Rheingold." Each motif is given a colour. The Rhine maidens' music is yellow. YVotan is royal purple, Siegfried is blue. Loke is red. and Erda i; green. So as the orchestra weaves the musical fabric the man at the switcl board follows by playing the colours and regulating the sprays with the crescendo of the score. From al! over Europe people are journeying to watch the fountain music in the city of Charlemagne. TWO AT ONCE. Ihe telephone bell in the doctor's library rang wildly, and the medical man had to get out ot bed to answer the phone. It was an urgent call, and hardly had he replaced the receiver when the bell tinkled again. Another urgent call. M.v dear doctor. 1. must apologise for bringing you out on a night like this.” said his first patient, a man who always had something or other the matter with him.

“Oh. don't trouble about that!” replied the medico, with grim weariness "As a matter of fact. I have another patient to see in your neighbourhood, and so I can kill two birds with one stone.”

JOBS BOYS LIKE BEST.

V hat occupation has the most fascination for boys of to-day? Most human boys pass through a stage when they aspire to be highwaymen, pirates, or something romantic, but this phase does not last long. Older boys nowadays seem to have a more prosaic ambition.

The headmasters of 12 schools have taken the views of 850 boys, and it was found that the most popular career is that of the transport service, which gained 158 votes. The building trade was next with 141. and engineering third with 130. Only 96 voted for clerical work and 62 for professional life. Other popular occupations were those of sculptor, ships steward, money-lender, rancher, window-cleaner, jockey, priest, hotel boots, and chimney-sweep.

HOUSEWORK FOR MEN.

Nirs G. Horton, who has the imposing title of Parliamentary Secretary of the National Union of Societies for Equal Citizenship, told a gathering of women at Oxford recently that men were not invariably helpless in domestic affairs, and that a husband and wife, both professionally engaged, could quite well share the housework between them (says a London Evening Standard writer). Such a statement would not sound so much like news in most other countries, but we are slow in growing out of a superstition that there is something vaguely improper about a man doing housework.

In France the man employed to make beds and do housework generally is a commonplace, while here he is a sort of freak.

THE UMBRELLA COLLECTOR.

A very absent-minded man, accompanied by his wife, was returning home from the theatre. As they reached the door of their suburban home the man clutched his wife’s arm. " Now who is absent-minded ? ” be cried triumphantly, producing two umbrellas from under his arm. “ Y oirve forgotten your umbrella, but I've mine and yours as well ! ” The woman gazed at him pityingly. “ Idiot ! ’’ she exclaimed. “Neither of us had one.”

A BEAUTY “ HINT.”

A fashionable “ beauty doctor ” that I met abroad gave me. in a burst of friendly confidence, a piece of very good advice (says a London Star writer). " Of course.” she added, " we as specialists use all our various creams and treatments, but if our clients pursued one very simple plan of action our customers might not be so numerous. Half the complexion trouble arose from the pores of the skin becoming clogged, and this means that the pores are not in a perfect state of cleanliness.

“ To keep them absolutely free to function as Nature intended, use small swabs of fresh cotton wool well moistened with Lan de Cologne. The spirit does marvels. It tones up the skin, and when you see hew dirty the swabs are as you discard them you will realise that it takes something strong and penetrating really to remove the dust that is picked up hourly and retained, despite ordinary cleanly care. Of course, the use of cream and powder is a good thing, but that ‘ spiritual ’ application does more than most people imagine. It acts also on the nerves with stimulating effect, and that, with the sweet perfume, braces up anyone who is feeling rather run down.”

AN ARAB MEAL. A positively royal couscous was brought m on an immense dish, looking as though a besieged army could easily tighten their belts and live on it for a month. There were sinister-looking, sleek grey balls I the tripes d’agneau) artistically posed on the sloping sides of a veritable mountain ot semolina, over which were scattered raisins and peas and little bits of cabbage and cauliflower. From little caves delved in the semolina hard-boiled eggs and carrots and potatoes peeped shy]\. A landscape gardener could not have designed that dish better, though my heart sank when I saw it. To me cons* cons is an embodiment of all my worst nursery nightmares ot Irish stew and semolina and boiled greens. My soul abhors it. and when the sauce piquante, which almost burns the skin off your lips, has been poured over one’s portion, the agony is complete. As a matter of fact that meal was sheer torture. The next course was leufs sur le plat swimming in olive oil. Alter that came deceptive-looking sausages, looking deliciously hot and sizzling, the first taste of which was excellent, but afterwards one realised they were lavishly seasoned with felfel (red pepper), which brought tears of anguish to the eyes and flayed one's throat. As the culminating point of our misery there arrived a dish ot Arab cakes, cunning confections of what looked like almost paste twisted into fantastic shapes, with a walnut or an almond, or even a boiled egg dyed green or red with vegetable dye. introduced to make them look still more beautiful. These cakes were made with native honey, dates, oil. carroway seeds, and so forth, and how Esmeralda managed to eat a whole one without being ill 1 do not know. Happily, at this point my guardian angel sent a hungry cat to come and nestle at my feet, and while Aicha was absent making the tea. and our host had gone to tell her not to boil the sugar with it on our account, I was able surreptitiously to drop three parts of my cake into the cat’s mouth.—Dorothy Buck, in " The New Lotus-Eaters.”

A CITY HOME.

Although the motors rush along And wild flowers grow no more. And fled are all the birds of song To nest beyond the roar ; Although the trees are coming down To make more room for men, ’Tis home within the busy town To which I turn again. 'Tis not a winding lane I fare. But one that’s straight and wide. The pavements now are cold and bare. Long since the flowers have died. But still I keep a patch of grass. And save a rose or two For all the busy men -who pass In summer jjme to view. 'The city home is in a street Where once the wild flowers grew. And once the song birds used to meet On meadows wet with dew. Now wall by wall the houses stand And all the trees have gone And concrete covers far the land The cattle grazed upon. For commerce drives the birds away With all its noisy roar. And speeds its motors day by day Where wild flowers grew before. And progress builds the busy town By piling bricks in air. But still it’s home when night comes down. And all life's joys are there. —Edgar A. Guest, in Tit Bits. ESPERANTO. A man took home with him a book on Esperanto, and during the meal regaled his family with extracts pronounced according to instructions. At last there came a strange-sounding word, evidently pronounced with difficulty. “And is that Esperanto ? ” asked his wife, innocently. ‘‘.No ! ” was the reply after a while. “ Fishbone ! ”

PERFUME IN ST. POL. 1 here is the sound of water running, but that is all one hears in this central street, for the song of the nightingale is -lost between the houses. Up and down the street, under the arches—the low arch with the window ami the farther away higher arch —there is not a soul to be seen, but the scent ot the hay and the lime blossom is like a presence in the town. Indeed I think of the perfumes as presences: think of them as saints with bare feet, walking up and down the steep street of St. Pol at night: flocking up the narrow ways between the houses, the many steps from the, ramparts to the church. I’ar from all the country round comes the perfume from fields upon fields of lowgrowing white jessamine and from fields upon fields of bright pink Provencal roses —roses like moulded china roses on Dresden rose bowls: all the perfume flowers tor the parfumerie at Grasse; with an extravagance of meadow-sweet along the roadside.

I hroughout the day for close upon three weeks the people have been busy gathering flowers and orange-flower buds At midday the orange blossom gatherers, having eaten and drunken of the good red wine ot St. Pol. spread out the cloths in which they collect the buds, ami curl round like bees ami sleep beneath the trees: while the rose gatherers seek a deeper shade ami sleep there, and all the countryside sleeps. Ami every evening mules and donkeys and little carts and men ami girls come into town with sacks upon sacks full of orange buds and pink roses, which the middleman will take into Grasse next morning, and the empty sacks which are hung out over the edges of the ramparts to dry—the coarse, torn, empty sacks, like the bodies of poor, work-worn people—t°o, ex bale their souls in perfume.— Elinor Mordaunt, in T. P.’s Weekly.

LYONNESSE.

Where long grey waves across the sullen sea Roll smoothly from the sunset’s dying fires, Once was a city of a hundred spires. Set in fair hills, upon a pleasant lea; And still across the waters, eerily. When the loud winds are hushed its far bells ring. And those who hear are silent, marvelling That a thin sound has immortality. So Time’s illimitable waters sweep Over lost men and nations, levelling all. Yet, sometimes, bravely, from the shadowy deep A clear voice greets us like a clarion-call. Though towers and ships and armies leave no trace. Men’s thoughts still move upon the waters’ face. —M. F. Knox, in the Windsor Magazine.

AN UNFAIR RACE.

The scene was the Law Courts, and the plaintiff a Mexican gentleman. When the Mexican entered the witness box he talked as fast as his knowledge of English would permit. He began to get rather muddled after being pulled up several times by the judge. Suddenly he caught sight of the shorthand writer, and noticed that the man was taking down everything he was saying. Whereupon he began to talk faster and faster. Finally he threw up his hands m despair and cried out: “Don’t write so fast: I can’t keep up with you."

LOOKED RATHER LIKE IT.

Rabbit pie was going to be served for dinner at the somewhat dingy boarding house, and the boarders were all looking forward to the novelty. poor husband was a wonderful artist. ’ sighed the boarding house keeper, as she hacked at the pie crust. “And he used to say that he always found inspiration in my cooking.” A gloomy-looking young bank clerk, who had be-n studyimr ] ler efforts to cut the pie, suddenly, spoke. "A sculptor. 1 presume,” he remarked, and then lapsed into silence once again.