FROM THE WATCH TOWER

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1078, 16 September 1930, Page 8

FROM THE WATCH TOWER

THE DEAT]lljE iS'ff ARMY Soldiers in the Czecho-Slovakian Army mutinied when invited to eat a stew called szegedingoulash. I’ve sampled some curious dishes, I’ve tasted some strange-looking liash, But never :i stew with a name like S-Z-E-, etcetera, goulash. No wonder the warriors couldn’t Subsist on such quaintly named stuff, And mutinied —Heavens, who wouldn't? Its title alone was enough. The meaning? Ah, that is a mystery, But here is my personal view— The name of that baffling concoction. Translated, means, •boardinghouse stew.” DIOGENES. ROMM E MEMORIES The man who was present, and the man who wasn’t, Were talking about the battle of the Somme, an occasion recalled by yesterday’s anniversary, and also, in a sense, by yesterday’s weather, in which sunshine followed a misty morning. The veteran of four years of trench warfare heard again the din of battle, inhaled again the smells of dust and dead mei . again the grey shapes of the tanks crossing broken ground to be targets for German guns. The other man looked out of the window and saw the sun shining pleasantly on City roofs. “Yes, it must have been a great day,” said he. The veteran came out of his reverie. “A great day? It was ” and the rest was unprintable. HOGS IDE AND BUCKET Tiwakawaka: Mention on Saturday of the essential work of correcting some of New Zealand’s place-names after they have suffered from the attentions of official European hands since 1840, prompted me to mint m the Post and Telegraph directory, an illuminating volume. I was appalled at some of the gruesome names. 1 offer a selection of the worst —Merrijigs, Taffytown, Crushington. Cobden, Bog Roy, Bogside, Busket, Washdyko. Luggate, Glentanner, Glentunnel. Crookston and Goose Bay, all in the South Island, thank goodness! No wonder South Islanders always want to come to the North Island. Just imagine having to confess that one was a New Zealander, born in Busket, Goose Bay, or Merrijigs! The Govern ment really should do something to prevent these atrocities. PRO FES SO It* PDA V Professor Picard, the scientist who contemplates a journey to the upper air, several miles higher than anyone has ever been before, has failed to overcome the initial hurdle of rising from the ground in the special aluminium ball which he has prepared for his adventure. He intends to have another try, but in the meantime he should be perfectly content. It is better for his plans to miscarry just now than when he is 10 miles above the earth. Better for him not to be able to get up than not to be able to get down. He has parachutes, for use in emergencies, but how they would avail him in dropping from a height of ten miles has not been stated. He would be slowly refrigerated in dropping through the Arctic upper regions to the thin belt of air that surrounds the earth, and in. those circumstances all his precautions would not prevent both him and his plan from becoming a complete frost. QUEST OF THE COSMIC DAY The object of the professor’s flight is to inquire into the daily fuiibtionings of some obscure phenomena which he is pleased to call cosmicrays. It is not clear, however, that even if he tracks the cosmic ray to its celestial lair, and observes it in its native habitat, men will be any better off. The cost of living will remain the same, it will still be difficult to wring the means of sustenance from a deficient social scheme, and temporary tram stops surrounded by networks of ropes placed in Queen Street by benevolent local bodies will still make the lives of citizens a nightmare. The professor appears to have some vague ideas about utilising the cosmic rays or the upper air as a route for aerial transports erf the future, but sceptics will see in this only another form of competition with the railways, and a corresponding likelihood of further taxation. SPORT AT ONE HUNG A Let millionaires sail their expensive yachts, ancl crowds watch cricket and Rugby, but the place to see real devotion to a sport is the Onehunga Wharf, any Sunday when the tide is running in. There is a notice near the wharf which says, on the authority of the Auckland Harbour Board, 'Fishing on this wharf strictly prohibited,” but the anglers and the line-fishermen blithely ignore it, and with their parcels of pipis or their little cans of less salubrious bait, they spend the day in hopeful waiting, perhaps relieved by an occasional catch, of a slight argument about crossed lines. the sport is indeed fast and furious, but more often a catch is something of a novelty, and word of the event is passed along the wharf from lip to lip, even as the beacon fires oil the hills of Forfarshire signalled the news of the recent happy event at Glamis Castle. In between times, the fishermen on the Onehunga Wharf beguile their time with reminiscence. “I fished here all the run of a tide one day, and got nothing until high water. And then I got four dozen/' Hope springs i eternal.