From The Watch Tower

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 731, 2 August 1929, Page 8

From The Watch Tower

By

“THE LOOK-OUT MAN.”

THE WARDER'S LAMENT

A record was created yesterday, when there were no prisoners in the police cells. Gaoler of the dungeon deep , In whose eyes great sorrow dwells, Tell us, warder, why you weep—- “ There's no prisoners in the' cells! Gentle gaotcr, cease to fret. Hearken to a sinner's plea. Hold us in thy lasting debt — Lock the door and lose the key! B. SYKES. DISTANCE LENDS ENCHANTMENT The latest impressive indication of the increasing versatility of our politicians is the fact that the Hon. J. B. Donald opened the Dunedin radio exhibition by radio from Wellington. It is a singular fact that innovations of this character usually originate in Dunedin. They are cheaper. ADAM'S GARDEN Touching on a learned scientist’s claim to have located the Garden of Eden in Algeria, it is to be hoped that the gentleman has not got his facts mixed, and is not confusing it with that other well-known art centre, the Garden of Allah. Any disposition to set up a rival attraction would probably be regarded by Mr. Robert Hichens as an infringement of copyright. BREAKING IT GENTLY A new line of business practice is introduced by the disclosure that certain motor firms seise the cars of defaulting clients while they—the cars, not the clients—are standing in the streets. If this fearful practice continues, street parking will soon become one of the lost arts. Motorists can take a chance on thieves, hut not on bailiffs. And in future the correct approach to a man who is driving away with your car will be: “Excuse me, are you stealing this car, or merely seizing it?” BURNING VP THE CITY Christchurch, though flat, is having a hectic time. Incendiarists are rushing about with blazing brands, and fires are breaking out on every liand. The fire-raisers seem to be of catholic tastes, equally at home in setting fire to the Mayor’s house, a petrol station, or a railway goods shed. Things have come to a pretty pass when a quiet night is such a rarity as to he signalised with the message:—“There were no fires tonight.” And it is a poor sort of civilisation which won’t let an insurance manager sleep peacefully in his bed. * . . GOOD FOR THE MUSCLES! Wonderful are the works of nature, particularly the woolly aphis, the eodlin moth, and other large and sinister brutes which threaten the peace of mind of orchardists. It must be great fun being an orchardist, especially in view of the intense enthusiasm with which people who know very little about orchards, and could not raise a tomato plant without divine assistance, take every opportunity to tell the long-suffering orchardist how to conduct his business. One of our omniscient local sheets has lately been telling its orchardist friends how to deal with the “muscle scale bark louse.” This ingenious creature shelters in crevices, and hence “it is very effective to scrub the limbs with a brush,” especially, as an ungrateful orchardist observes, when you have 20 acres of trees. it happens, this particular scale is named after its remarkable resemblance to a mussel, and has no connection with Sandow or brute force. The treatment recommended might prove to be a muscleraiser in one sense only. JUST A SAILOR S SWEETHEART It is not only we poor civilians who suffer from the intense competition when a warship comes to port. Last night a group of French sailors walked with attendant femininity down Queen Street, while a few paces in the rear marched three sailors from the Diomede. Arm in arm, they walked in commiserating manner, and they intoned this reproachful refrain: "You’d go with anyone. You’d go with anyone. First the Huns, then the Froggies. You’d go with „ anyone.” Of course the Frenchmen didn’t know what it was about, and weren’t worrying. But the girls knew the solemn import of the charge, with its implication of fickle affections, and they were correspondingly embarrassed. When they reached the corner of Quay Street they ran with their swains toward the Tourvilie. Across the road another French sailor was having linguistic difficulties. Perhaps the girl was not used to international conversations, for she finally cried: “What the do youse think youse talking, anyway?” But our noble ally just smiled graciously and prattled on.