FROM THE WATCH TOWER

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 813, 6 November 1929, Page 8

FROM THE WATCH TOWER

By

By “THE LOOK-OUT MAN.” A MODERN MANDALAY (Special setting for soprano voices) By' the new-built South Road brewery, lookin’ westward to the sea, There’s a crowd of staunch reformers with a prayer for you and me. For the wind is in the quarter, and tke smells of good hop .brew Call to every bold Frothblower: “Come you back to Otahuhir,’’ Refrain: Come you back to Otahuhu Where the Devil gets his due ; Can’t you hear them lodge their protest with A hymn and plea or two? On the road to Otahuhu . . . Though we may not see their view We’ll agree they’ve got some plucked 'mi:-:; The Women’s C.T.U. DOUGHBOY. ANY EXCUSE Among the various excuses for feasting and jubilation, it is interesting to see that the Fijians include a serious accident to a fellow-tribes-man. At Korovou, near Rewa, recently, a labourer had his foot taken off by a wire rope. After getting him attention his companions and the nearby villagers at once fell to feasting and merrymaking. This cheerful ability to banish, gloom will commend itself to those of more enlightened races who feel that we take life too seriously. TAINTED TICKET “Ingill.”—“Dear D.0.M.: Mrs. Bessie Lee Cowie’s loathing of all strong drink and everything pertaining thereto is no new growth. When Mrs. Cowie, then Mrs. Lee, lived in Invercargill, and I was a very small boy, she happened to board one of the trams and sit in the seat next to mine. The Invercargill tram tickets of that day bore on the backs, ‘Drink Dewar’s whisky,’ a form of raising the wind that might commend, itself to the Auckland Transport Board. When Mrs. Lee was given her ticket she passed it on to me, saying, ‘Take this, boy. I cannot have anything to do with an advertisement for liquor.’ ” A QUESTION OF DEGREE “Sub-Inspector McCarthy urged that the man was more than intoxicated. He was drunk.” This item in the court news suggests that unless there is some legal technicality involved, the subtlety of our police officers is becoming really alarming. The subinspector may be interested in the view of a well-known authority: “Drunk—lntoxicated with or as with strong drink. Under the influence of an intoxicant. Inebriated. Drunken. See Intoxicated." —-Webster. “Intoxicated—Affected by an intoxicant. Under the influence of an intoxicating liquor. See Drunk." —Same dictionary. The ability to perceive differences in the degree implied by words like this is undoubtedly a gift. The inference will be that our guardians are becoming not merely well-informed, but absolutely erudite. OUTRAGE Taranaki people are exceptionally jealous of the proprieties. It is as much as the pious dairy farmers can do to subdue their scruples and milk their herds on the Sabbath. Hence it is hardly surprising that an airman has been fined for conducting passenger flights on a Sunday. Yet at Klt.ham, the hamlet where this striking demonstration of sanctity was given, they play Sunday tennis and Sunday golf with much enthusiasm. Apparently they are able to perceive some subtle distinction between flying and golfing. Some day the business of Sunday flights will be put on the same basis as Sunday taxi rides. In the meantime airmen will hope for the best, at the same time sparing a small meed of praise for the magistrate who, while fining- the airman and his assistant £1 each, was at least not so harsh as to send them “up” for their sins. THE SHOW IS OVER This morning the window dressers of city and suburban shops were busy removing the fireworks that have made such a brave show in the past few weeks. No window display has quite such a well-defined term as a fireworks exhibit. Up till G o’clock on the night of nights it is a thing of the moment, the vital attraction for juvenile eyes, the centre of all their aspirations and desires. Up till then, it is colourful, alluring, bravely gaudy. And then, of a sudden, the colours seem to fade. Guy Fawkes celebrations have begun, and in a little more than a moment they will be over. The city seems to swelter under a smoky pall for an hour or two. There are flashes like lightning from all points of the compass. Maybe there is even real lightning, a- little of the devil’s fireworks thrown in. Then the poppings and detonations suddenly become desultory. The last of the rockets cut their soaring green, yellow and fiery red curves against the sky, and Guy Fawkes Day is over i for another year. Let the fireworks ! be put away.