FROM THE WATCH TOWER

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 726, 27 July 1929, Page 10

FROM THE WATCH TOWER

By

“THE LOOK-OUT MAN.”

SEVENTH HEAVEN A Hottentot named Windvoel, aged 128, has taken his third wife, aged 47. Confetti for a Hottentot — Yes, s-prinlcle well this fellow — Though very old it seems he’s not Quite in the sere and yellow. Scorning his six score years and eight, iVith steps that do not falter, He follows still the blithsome fate That lures men to the altar. A toast to gallant Windvoel, May bliss his marriage leaven, May he deserve his blushing belle — The bride of forty-seven. —SQUIDGE. “SAINT MAGGIE” Strenuous work is nothing new to Miss Margaret Bondfield. the woman Cabinet Minister who, facing truculent unemployed who forced their way to her board room, has early learned that the sweets of office are not without distasteful experiences. In her young days as a draper’s assistant she could only take a bath, once a week, by running three-quarters of a mile to a public bath, where she had to bathe and dress in fifteen minutes. Such things, as well as turbulent interviewers, would try the patience of a a saint, and that is what they call her —“Saint Maggie.” ... A COPE EXCUSE The latest humour of Mr. J. McLeod, manager of the All Blacks, who seems to make a point of confiding all his troubles to the rapacious Sydney Press, is his plea that the bitter cold of Brisbane affected the play of his disciples. To New Zealanders this will be quite evident. It must have been terrible for those poor fellows, Sonntag, from Dunedin, and Geddes, from Invercargill, to be swept from the tropical atmosphere of their native heaths to a place so near the Antarctic circle as Brisbane. New Zealanders, used to hothouse weather, will applaud Mr. McLeod’s resource in advancing this fresh excuse. But it will leave the Australians cold.

TOUR VERY GOOD WEIGHT

The weight Is a matter of deepest import in these dark days of bodily affliction on every hand. Like everything else, it’s a little difficult. Tf you’re fat, and getting fatter, rocks ahead. If you’re plump, but losing yonr plumpness, have a care. If you’re slim, disaster lurks in that schoolgirl outline. In short, there Is no possible variation without its dismal portent, and though there Is admittedly a happy medium somewhere, nobody knows exactly what it is. In the circumstances one doesn’t know whether to be grateful or reproachful toward those enterprising merchants who place weighing machines in their doorways. The weighing machine these days is like a motor-car or a petrol pump—all glitter, and a little hard to resist. More Especially is this the case now that one type of machine offers a printed card bearing the date and the weight. In the future portly citizens with “bay windows” will be able to gaze reverently at these records of mounting obesity. All very sad, but in the meantime it is of interest to note on the back that a man’s average winter clothing weighs 91b, while a woman can manage comfortably with 51b. No wonder Mawson restricted his Antarctic adventure to men. They are so hardy! “CIjAM.J AMFRIED ' ’

This column’s sentiments about July weather have been endorsed by no less a celebrity than Robert Louis Stevenson, by proxy. “H.M.N.” forwards his lines, “The Blast,’’ written in 1875. It begins plaintively enough: ‘‘lt's rainin’. Weet’s the gairden sod, Weet the lang roads whaur gangrels plod— A maist unceevil thing o’ God In mid July— If ye’ll just curse the sneckdraw, dod! And sae wull I!” Yon can almost hear the skirl of the pipes in it, but listen to this other stanza: "He’s a braw place in Heev’n, ye ken, An’ lea’s us puir, forjaskit men, Clamjamfried in the but and ben He ca’s the earth— A wee bit inconvenient den, No muckle worth.” The slightly irreligious sentiment may not be obvious at first glance. This particular Sassenach was obliged to secure a translation from a Caledonian neighbour, and learned to his joy that “clamjamfried” means crowded, and is a word that might well be added to anyone’s vocabulary. As “H.M.N.” observes, the sentiments of the poet are thoroughly appropriate to Auckland In July. And here's the grandest sentiment of all: “But since we're in it, willy-nilly, IVe maun be watchful, wise, and skilly, An’ no mind ony other billy Lassie nor God. But drink—that's my best counsel till ’e Sae tak the nod.” Aye, an’ it’s a braw day the day. Here’s luck to it.