Editor's Wallet

Otago Witness, Issue 3912, 5 March 1929, Page 83

Editor's Wallet

A HOMING PIGEON. With weary wings, he paused in homeward flight To rest a little while upon the way. From the hotel veranda, with delight We watched him come, and hoped that he would stay. We fed him, and, like children, saw him eat; Forgot to speak, observing his grey wings. We knew his heart was brave, his wings were fleet, And fell to talking then of many things. If we had paused to think, we would have guessed, As daylight deepened softly into gloam, This bird was kin to us, who stopped to rest. We, too, were homing pigeons, going home. —Anne Campbell, in an exchange. THE BISCUIT. “Johnny,” said his father, as the boy took a biscuit from the plate, “ don’t you know that it is impolite to help yourself before your elders ? ” “ Why, pa, mother told me to help myself before you! ” “What do you mean?” asked his father, while his mother looked up with astonishment in every feature. “ Why, I heard mother tell Aunt Hannah that she hoped I wouldn’t take after you, and so I thought I’d take my biscuit first.” NOT STRONG ENOUGH. As a train was leaving a station it suddenly parted in the middle. Of course, the communication cord broke, and an ■old lady who was standing on the platform saw it hanging loose. “ Goodness me! ” she gasped in astonishment. ‘‘What has happened? ” “ The train has broken in two, madam,” said a man who stood near her. “And I should just think so! ” said the old lady indignantly, eyeing the broken -cord. “ Did they really imagine that a thing like that could ■ hold a train together? ” PERHAPS! Little Elsie was holding the kitten tightly in her arms, and talking to it as children are fond of doing. A thoughtful pause caused her mother to pay some attention to what was coming next. , “ Kitten,” said Elsie, “ I know all your little brothers and sisters, an’ I know your mummy, but I ain’t ever seen your daddy. I "spect he must be a commercial traveller.” TO THOMAS GRAY. They say you took seven years to -write one poem Labouring over every line like a telescope maker Over a crystal. What good did it do you? Cut off from your fellows, Your thoughts were interned in your graveyard, And you became so much a part of your

poem That school children to-day ask, ■“ Who wrote Gray’s Elegy? ”

If you but slew a king, Or stabbed a pope, Or buried alive a general in that graveyard, You could have done it in less time, And won more fame. Why polish a line And search for a similar sounding word To finish the following line? You could have sold enough verse To buy the church and all, If only you -were a Vers Libre poet, "Thomas Gray! —W. K. Jones, in the Lyric West. SOAPY LITTLE KISSES. Soapy little kisses! That’s the kind he gives to me. Lift him from the bathtub, Put him on his mother’s knee! . Cunning little baby! Wouldn’t slight a chance like this! Nothing could be sweeter Than a soapy little kiss! Soapy little kisses, If there were a way to keep Soapy little kisses! I would bury them down deep! Then when I was older, And there was so much to miss, Maybe I could have again A soapy little kiss! —Women’s Weekly. A GOOD SIGN. A certain minister, who was making a -voyage, expressed strong disapproval of the language used by the sailors. The captain of the boat agreed, but -declared that whenever they were threatened with real danger the crew ceased swearing. As it happened, a storm blew up soon .after, and the minister was very worried. “It’s very rough,” he remarked to a steward. “Are the sailors swearing?” “They are, indeed,” said the steward • candidly. “Thank Heaven!”—and the minister .breathed a sigh of relief. POTTED WISDOM. An expert is a man who is able to impress us .with how little we know. The philanthropy of some people con■sists of willingness to pass the hat. The secret of success lies in the man, and not in the material he works on. A person isn’t necessarily smart because ■ he says some things that are.

The last thing you want is generally the first thing you get.

Man has but little here below, but ■ even that little he keeps on wanting. A man who fails seldom gets any sympathy from the man who has never tried, reason that some people stay out •ot debt is because no one will let them Eget m it.

TOO MUCH TO SWALLOW. The lady of the house had just returned. “ Did anyone call while I was out, Violet? ” she asked the new maid. Violet nodded. “ Yes, ma’am. Some ladies belonging to the parish council came to see you—and I gave it them good and proper. Her mistress frowned. “ Gracious me! What did you say to them?” • “Well, ma’am,” said Violet, “they said they’d called to collect some money to get coal for the church, and I told them that you may look simple, but you’re no fool, for you knew quite well that the church is heated by steam.”

UNQUIET EARTH. When, they call earth quiet I think they do not know How life surges In wave on wave of power. The old earth shakes with Things that grow And laugher of dead women Caught in a scarlet flower.

■When they call earth quiet I think they .have not seen Old roads covered and Old paths lost. There is nothing more restless Than small, fine green That stirs in the seed that The wind has tossed. —Louise Driscoll, in The Times

BOYS, TOO. A well-known comedian is very proud of his three beautiful and talented daughters. One day an acquaintance and admirer of the comedian was talking to him about the family. “A funny thing.” he remarked, “you have nothing but those three girls.” The comedian looked at his friend in astonishment. “Nothing but girls! ” he echoed. “ Wliy, my dear old chap. I wish you were r jght. As it is, we’ve nothing but boys all over the place.” NOT NECESSARY. Iruant Officer: "Why haven’t you sent your son Johnny to school? Don’t you want him to learn to read? ” Proud Father: “ It hain’t necessary now that we have the talking movies.” WHERE THE WILLS ARE. Somerset House is known all over the world as the depository of old and modern wills, yet few people know anything about the history of the place. Most of the present building in the Strand dates from 1780, and in the front there are statues of Justice, Truth, Valour, and Moderation. The original house took its name from the Lord Protector of Edward Vi’s time, about 1540. The Duke pulled down all his neighbours’ houses and built what was considered one of the noblest royal palaces in England. He was beheaded on Tower Hill in 1552. and the place reverted to the Crown. Successive queens used it as their residence until 17/5 when Queen Charlotte settled down Buckingham House.” Down to 1837 Academy for 57 years held its exhibition at Somerset House. It is, too, the home of King’s College (the east wing), and the Audit, Inland Revenue, and Registrar-general’s offices.

UNHOSPITABLE. The master of the house went into the kitchen and informed the cook that his wifes aunt was coming on an indefinite visit. I’ve made out a list of all her favourite dishes for you,” he said. “ Yes, sir,” replied the cook. “And.” he added, “ the first time you serve one of them—you go! ” MESSAGE TO MARS. The wireless message, “ Lbve from Earth to Mars,” that was recently despatched from England is not the only attempt that has been made by people on this planet to communicate with the Martians. But they do not always find the authorities willing to co-operate. Thus a telegram which a woman handed in at a Paris office to be sent to a friend in Mars -was declined. The officials expressed a doubt as to whether the Martians understood French, so were unable to accept it. Even if it reaches Mars, however, a wireless message won’t do any harm. That is more than can be said of the giant rockets which some experimenters dream of firing, first at the moon and afterwards at Mars. "They would be likely to make a considerable “ impression ” when they landed, and if Mars is inhabited by people as intelligent as ourselves, might lead to reprisals. WOUNDED PRIDE. Two friends were having a tour round a zoo. Said one, “Where is that pelican, I wonder, that was here last time we came? ” “He’s dead,” said the other. . “Oh! ” said the first one. “I -wonder what he died of.” “I suppose it was my fault,” said the second one, with a twinkle in his eye ‘ I showed him the bill that I had from the seaside boarding house, and he committed suicide from jealousy.”

POWER OF THE PRESS. There was a young man from the West, Who loved a fair maiden with zest. So hard did he press her, To make her say “Yes, sir,” That he broke three cigars in his vest. “BUY A BIBLE!” The ordinary “ hawker ” is usually regarded as a nuisance, but there are nearly a thousand travelling salesmen who are doing work that is of the highest importance. They are the colporteurs of the British and Foreign Bihle Society, ■who travel from place to place and house to house selling copies of the Scriptures. These men are of all nationalities, and often their work takes them into the wildest country, where all sorts of danger, both from animals and savage tribesmen, must be faced. But their work goes on. Last year 17 of these men travelled 22,941 miles in Burma, visiting 54,927 houses and selling 44,323 volumes—Bibles, New Testaments, Gospels, or other single books of Scripture. In all, the colporteurs disposed of six out of every ten volumes that the society sold. The report of the society for last year, just been published, shows that 9,936,714 volumes of Scriptures were issued last year, of which 905,828 were circulated in Britain. The number issued in the home languages was greater than in any previous year, with the single exception of 1915.

TO AN IRISH BLACKBIRD. “Wet your feet! Wet your feet!” This is what he seems to say, Calling from the dewy thicket At the breaking of the day. “Wet your feet! Wet your feet!” Silver toned he sounds the call From his bramble in the thicket When the dew is on the fall.

Many times, in lands far distant, In my dreams I hear him play On his flute -within the thicket, Ere the showers have passed away. Years have passed since last I heard him, Since I said a sad adieu, To the early Irish morning With the rainbow-tinted dew. And I still can hear him calling, And the call comes clear and sweet, And I still can see the mornings With the dew about my feet. " Wet your feet! Wet your feet! ” Silver toned he sounds the call From his bramble in the thicket When the dew is on the fall. James Mac Alpine, in the New York Evening Post. TRUTH ABOUT CATS. A schoolboy, the worry of his teacher’s life, handed in the following composition on cats:— “ Cats that’s meant for little boys to maul and tease is called Maultese cats. Some cats is reckernised by how quiet their purr is, and these is named Purrsian eats. The cats what has very bad tempers is called Angorie cats, and cats with deep feelin’s is called Feline cats. I don’t like cats.” ALL THERE. A well-known author was visiting a free library, and the librarian, recognising him, conducted him through the building. “We have all your books. Mr C ,” said the librarian proudly. “There they are, on the top shelf, all of them—not one of them missing.” Whereat the author smiled weakly. LITTLE BILL. Hoity-toity, fiddle-de-dee! What in the world can the matter be? Such scratching and searching under the chairs. Such prodding and peering on the stairs; Bill has lost his new Saturday penny— A terrible thing, as he hadn’t got many. —lrene Heath, in Home Chat. AN UNREASONABLE PROPOSAL. They sat together in the pale moonlight. and he was proposing. “Darling!’ he cried passionately, “I would give the whole world, if it -was mine, to hear you say that one word Yes. When, oh when, will you sav it, dearest?” “ I will decide on Saturday,” she replied. “I am sorry,” he said, “but I can’t see you at all on Saturday. We have got a very important match away.” FOR SIX-FOOTERS ONLY. Yet another freak club has been started in London. It will be called the Six-Foot Club, and membership will be limited to men of six feet or more in height. This club has been designed to bring all the big fellows together. They are, among other things, going to protest against narrow theatre and cinema seats, small cars without sufficient leg-room, and similar inconveniences.

A club, with similar objects was formed in America some time ago,, and achieved a measure of fame by waging a vigorous campaign against the shortness of the average hotel bed and other features of modern life that left the big man rather “ out of it.”

UNNECESSARY. At the dinner party Mrs Malaprop, who had been reading up health culture, mistook Mr Donut, the barrister, for his brother, the doctor. “Is it better,” she asked him, “to lie on the right side or the other? ” “ Madam,” answered the man of law, “ if one happens to be on the right side it often isn’t necessary to lie at all! ” DAPHNE’S LOVERS! So many Daphne’s suitors are, The wisest thing to do Would be for all from far and near

To line up in a queue And let that lovely girl decide On each one’s claims as he applied!

There’s handsome Harold, who is keen On dancing—nothing more! No better partner can be seen

When Harold takes the floor. His talent is at once made clear, But ’tis his only one, I fear.

Though he can dance from morn till night And never seem to tire, His intellect is not as bright As Daphne would desire. His only chance the throng among Is just to dance and hold his tongue. He takes out Daphne quite a lot, For girls no more are “ caged,” But that, as you’re aware, does not Imply that they’re engaged. Indeed, I hope she would not stoop To wed that handsome nincompoop. —C. E. B. in Home Chat.

BLIZZARD SNOW. Mars will shoe Pegasus to-night; He blows his resting fires to white, And taking cold stars from his belt, He flings them into flames to melt. He pulls them from the fire with tongs, And hammers them. Like three-tiered

gongs His heavy blows ring out and leap Up windy scales like mountain sheep,

Then from his forge a whirl Of silver wasps fly out and swirl In angry swarms to earth. With fierce, Quick thrusts of blazing stings, they pierce My face with flaming needle tip, And ruthlessly they seem to rip My quivering skin apart, And make each jagged wound to smart With hissing poison. On they tear, Madly reeling through the air.

Now when Mars has ceased to blow His coals to flame, and embers "low, Flecks of foam, crust-edged with frost, Fall to the ground, nervously tossed From the lips of Pegasus. Shod To trample down the hard-packed sod Of clouds, he flings his great head high And climhs to deep draws in the sky. —Alexa Byrne, m the Measure.

HELPFUL. An old farmer once employed an Irishman to work for him. Pat was constantly putting the end boards of the cart on wrong. He would put the front board behind and the back board in front. One day the farmer printed on each board a large “ B,” and, calling Pat, he said:— “ Now, you blockhead, you cannot make any mistake. That’s ‘B ’ for before, and this is ’ B ’ for behind.” CHUCKLES IN COURT. Question at Bow County Court: “What did you say to the driver after the accident? ” Man: “I just told him what a —er —er —er —blessed fool he was.” —His Temperate Zone.— Willesden Magistrate: “Is your husband a temperate man ? ” Wife: “Yes; but only when he is sober.” —Lucky Man— A witness at the Old Bailey said he had sold a motor car which cost him £B5O for £2O. Counsel: “ What vintage ? ” Witness. “ 1915.” —Boss-eye!”— “ Boss-eye ” was called at Westminster County Court. Judge Turner: “What?” Counsel: “ A slight mistake, your Honour. The name is Italian—Bossi!” —Asking for Trouble. — Man fined at Marlborough Street: “ I simply asked the constable the difference between a Scotsman and a coconut, and told him that you could get a drink out of a coconut.” —They All Do.— “ The worst of my husband is that he thinks he has all the sense.”—Woman at Willesden Police Court.

THE PUN IS MIGHTIER THAN THE SAW. Only the brave desert the fair. In time of peace prepay for war. Pleasant company is always excepted. The best of friends must park. Reformer’s motto: “No” thyself. The first 20 years are the oddest. What has become of the old-fashioned? —From “New Teeth in Old Saws,” by Wayne G. Haisley.

FIVE-LINE LAUGHS, There was a young fellow of Acre, Who took off his hat to a Quaker; When the worthy man said, “You are very well bred,” He replied, “Well, you see, I’m a baker!”

A frugal young man, from Amoy, The waiters shocked, at the Savoy; “ Some nice bread and dripping,” Said he, “would be ripping— Bring me that and a cold saveloy.”

A reckless young fellow of Ceuta Once rode into church on a scooter; When he knocked down the dean, He said, “ Sorry, old bean; I ought to have sounded my hooter!” A pushful young fellow of Girton, W’henever he put a dress shirt on, By way of a stunt Would let out the front As space to display an advt. on. ENCORE. A pastor wanted to collect £lOOO for the repair of his church. He invited the mayor—a rich man—to see the state of the building. The mayor was not in a generous mood, but when a lump of plaster fell on his head he immediately wrote a cheque for £5OO. The pastor at once fell on his knees and exclaimed: “ Oh, heaven, hit him again.” PUZZLED HIM, TOO. For three solid hours the hoarse-voiced sergeant had been lecturing his men on the duties of a soldier, and he thought it was time to see how much they had understood of his discourse. Casting a "lance over the men, he fixed on Private Green. “ Why should a soldier be ready to die for his country? ” he barked. The man scratched his head for a moment, and then a smile of enlightenment crossed his face. “ Yes, sir,” he said, “ you’re quite right. Why should he?” A GOOD DEED. Old Rich Fellow (desperately): “If you refuse me, what is left for me to do? ” Sweet Girl: “Well, I read the other day about a rich man who made his will in favour of a woman who refused him, and then went out and hanged himself.” CURRENT FICTION. Too much current fiction is knocked off by men and women (especially women) whose world consists merely of ink and paper. They have never grappled with facts, never faced life in its reality. Emulation or restlessness of mind drives some of them deeper than the rest, perhaps, until they spin off artificialities that are_ worse than crude realism. Now and then we get a passage in the ideal or the imaginary vein that commands our admiration, but it lapses as often as not into obscenity, and stale obscenity at that. And all the while our young people are neglecting their magnificent heritage of great romance—Scott and Dumas, Stanley Weyman and Maurice Hewlett (what a pair of artists!) for the sake of this empty, sordid stuff. Naturally the victims ask for stiffer doses at each remove, and if that kind of thing is to be their guide in life, I am afraid our crime sheets will reflect the result.— Jeffery Farnol, in an interview reported in the Book Window.

THE END OF THE STORY. I’m glad we don’t live “ happy ever after,” As childish fairy tales declare we do. Were there no tears, we might not prize the laughter, And grey is lovely when it’s mixed with blue. The pain of life makes marriage so much dearer, ” And what can shake our love that’s grown with years? When we have trouble, then we walk much nearer, And smiles go ' deeper when they’re mixed with tears. I’m glad the wedding does not end the story. I’m glad the other chapters can be told, Where we can share love’s sorrow and love’s glory The true togetherness of growing old. SO IT WAS. Ikey had recently been married and had started in business when a fire broke out and practically destroyed his business premises. The insurance company with whom he lodged a claim for fire insurance was not satisfied as to the origin of the fire, and sent an inspector to ascertain the facts. “ Can you tell be how the fire first orginated? ” said the inspector. " Veil,” said Ikey, “it vos just a house warming.”

THE STRAW TICK. They filled it every little while With clean, sweet straw. I used to dream of clover fields

And earth fresh-tilled. It was the nicest lying bed I ever saw. I loved it when my old straw tick Was newly filled.

My room was very near the roof. The stairs were steep, And when I counted nine o’clock Up there I’d creep. I’d set my lighted candle down Beside the bed, And carefully I would fold up The crocheted spread. A patchwork quilt beneath the spread In colours gay, When it was very cold would keep The chill away. The sheets were unbleached cotton and Each pillow case ■■a.jf Was covered with a pillow sham All trimmed with lace. My little room seemed very near The starlit skies. I flung my window open wide To feast my eyes, And for that little room sometimes I feel heartsick! I wish to-night I slept upon A straw-filled tick!