From My Verandah

Te Awamutu Courier, Volume 56, Issue 4044, 6 May 1938, Page 3

From My Verandah

Notes on the Passing Show

By

J. T. P.

The Anzac, Reunion. Judging from the impressions ol the Te Awamutu Diggers who returned from Sydney on Tuesday after a memorable Anzac reunion the peaceful expedition was well worth while. The gesture conveyed by their participation in the Anzac commemoration as part of the New South Wales sesquicentennial celebrations was not lost on the Australians, who took the visitors to their hearts and entertained them right royally. An “unexplainable emotion,” in the words of the Hon. Vincent Ward, M.L.C.. seemr to have been experienced by all when they set out and it remained with them till their return. Perhaps the quoted phrase can best be interpreted as that peculiar reaction of the me niory and the emotions to a reunion, after a long period, of men who were comrades in circumstances that brought out the best in human na ture. The great Anzac parade, in a sense, symbolised all that was implied in the service and self-sacrifice rendered in the war. These men were among the survivors of a stupendous and harrowing experience that tried and proved their qualities as individ uals, as soldiers and as comrades-in-arms. These men participated in a great march past, which brought, to them emotions akin to those experienced at a school reunion. In a flood of reminiscence the years were shed, and they became, boys again. But only in spirit. As one of the Te Awamutu men remarked on his return on Tuesday: “We attended everything we had put our names down for, but when we got into the hurly-burly again we found that we were not so young as we thought.” The March Past. One Te Awamutu Digger directed J.T.P.’s attention to the fact that so great was the main Anzac parade in Sydney that it took more than -two hours for the 60,000 men to march past 12 abreast. Calculations, he added, showed that had they been in the more conventional fours it would have taken six hours to pass a given point. Significant as was this parade, a little thought suggests the idea that there are two march pasts that will never take place One is a march past of war dead. The toll in human lives of the Great War was such that a march past of war dead would take far longer Ilian is usually imagined The army of the fallen, marching past a given point four abreast day and night, would require, in the case of British dead, nearly four weeks. The French would require a few days longer. The Russian dead would require three months. This gives some idea of what Russia suffered. For all the Allied fallen, nearly eight months would be required. The enemy dead would require nearly five months. A procession of all the men killed in the war, marching day and night, would take more than a year to pass a given point. These are the figures for one war. If one added all the wars together, the march past would not be ended in a lifetime.

China's Deathless Army. Another thought obtrudes itself — the other parade that will never march past a given point. It is the population of China. Even if it were possible to marshal the people of China for a huge march past they would never march past a given point. The Chinese number more than 400,000,000. Time is against them in a grand march past; or is it in their favour? If it takes more than a year for 10,000,000 men to march past a given point, it would take 50 years for the entire population of China to make the march past. But that is not all. About eight or ten million little Chinese would arrive to swell the ranks every year. The march past of the babies would be at a slower rate than that of the adults. It would.

therefore, require the best part of a year for the newly-borns to march past. In another decade they would require more than the full year. Therefore, the population of China could never march past a given point. This, perhaps, gives an indication of the sort of problem that the Japanese have tackled. Two-Up in the Main Street. The old-time glamour of the Great War apparently seized the Diggers, the police and the populace as well when the big Anzac gathering took place in Sydney, judging by reports made by some of the Te Awamutu men, beg pardon, they should be referred to as “boys”—off the chain of course, free, hilarious and not caring a Continental. Army humour had in no way languished with the passing of the years and the desire for a little gamble, so inherent in the human breast, was as pronounced as when housey-housey ami Crown ami Anchor were played to the accompaniment of the booming guns ami when Hie cries of “Lay it down thick and heavy, where you like ami how you like,” were drowned in the resound ing explosions all round. And so in the piping days of peace, 23 years after The Landing, Diggers of the Great Reunion had another sort of reunion- in Market .Place, of all places. A ring was formed, a kip produced and soon the old familiar cries were rending the air “A dollar I’ll head ’em,” with side bets, “I’ve got money for tails,” and all the jargon associated with a two-up school. Along came a sergeant of police and —no, you’re wrong, he did not run the boys in. Instead -“Here, boys, you’re in the way there. What about shifting over to that green-patch?”— a little strip of unused land. “Right Oh, Sarge, if you can head ’em,” shouted the ringmaster. The sergeant, old soldier and good sport, essayed the task—and headed ’em all right. Thereupon he was carried shoulder high to the new rendezvous —and the game went on more merrily than ever. Truly Sydney gave itself —and the freedom of its great and beautiful city—over to the Diggers. | ;

Three Phases in Life. Mr George Spinley has been reelected unopposed for his second term as Mayor of Te Awamutu. And the red sparks flew all round, my boys, And. the red sparks flew all round! And the anvil rang trim and true, And the jobs were real 0.K.! And the townspeople shouted with glee: '•Spinley a mighty smith is he!” And. the green grass grew all round, my boys, And, the green grass grew all round! And old Jersey waxed fat and happy, And the butterfat came like rain— And the townspeople shouted with glee: "Spinley, a mighty farmer is he!” And. the ratepayers did dance all round, my boys, And the ratepayers did dance all round! And old George he, smiled and, closed his eyes, And got all the votes, too true! And the townspeople shouted, with glee: "Spinley, a mighty Mayor is he!” What's the Use of Worrying? A municipal election on Wednesday

next and as much interest in it as if it were being held in Timbuctoo. J.T.P. can’t even place a bet at any sorts of odds as to the two who will fail to catch the judge’s eye. King Demos seems to be suffering from a bad attack of Inertia; even our old friends “Pro Bono Publico,” “Disgusted Ratepayer.” “Mother of Ten,” etc., etc., seem to have gone to byebye. "Success.” Two letters and a number of contributions this week so, in the parlance of the commercial propagandist, “business is humming.” Well, to begin with, J.T.P. is taken sorely to task by one correspondent, who gives vent to his criticism in terms of the following letter to the editor: Sir, I wish to take very strong exception to J.T.P. dragging in the Church into his notes last Friday. He prints a poem named “Success,” which as he candidly shows, has a touch of bitter irony —and dirt —in it. Well, I never went to the war, and if I made money 1 certainly did not wring it out of my country’s agony but got it only through hard work, of which I don’t think J.T.P. has ever done an honest day in his life. To cap all he crowns me as a hypocrite. “As I sit in my pew” and ask who is better off “me or them mugs of the R.S.A.” 1 am no hypocrite going to church, and J.T.P.’s statement is a slander on me and the R.S.A. as well. You, Sir, ought to suppress such rotten innuendoes. FARMER.

Just so! A guilty conscience makes the correspondent wear the cap which he has made for himself. The word “church” was never used in the poetry, and if it had been, could apparently not have been inappropriately applied to the one with an uneasy conscience. Reminds J.T.P. of a cer 1 tain recorded incident: War profiteer (to the Bishop): You know I would came to church, but I would feel such a hyprocrite. The Bishop: Nevei mind, my dear man. Come by all means. There are so many there already that one more will not matter. "Our Mother Tongue.” The second communication is mild by comparison. Here it is: So J.T.P. is distressed with the school kids because of the way they sing the National Anthem. Too right he is. Well, I guess he ain’t got much else to do than throw a hammer at the poor kids who speak only the language they are taught. If J.T.P. wants to do his stuff then let him have a word with the picture censor or whoever gives us the King’s English as it is to be spoken. Why plaster the poor kids if they say “Right Ho, old cock,’ “Orh Yeh,” “Sez you,” or “I’ll say” every time they are spoken to. If J.T.P. will go into a huddle with the picture censor then maybe—yes, and maybe—there will be less Americanisms in speech and manners.. Yours, etc.. ENGLAND. J.T.P. quite agrees with the correspondent; the use of American slang is just as abhorrent as the mutilation of the King’s English when singing the National Anthem. It is time more attention was paid to the niceties ot our mother tongue, which at present is in danger of being massacred.

Headman: The Record Breaker. It was curious and significant but none the less a fact that the announcement in England of the extension of the rearmament programme preceded only slightly the arrival in Britain of the Australian cricketers! Visions of Bradman, no doubt! “There is such a thing as the smile on the face of the tiger,” wrote Mr Howard Marshall in the Daily Telegraph. “Bradman at the luncheon table and Bradman at the wicket are rather different propositions.” Probably not even Mr Marshall imagined how soon and how emphatically his words were to come true. Bradman’s 258 in the first, match of the English tour on Saturday last gave the impression that he is as able and versatile as ever, and the progress of this wonder batsman will be followed

with unabated interest. By scoring 258 runs against Worcestershire, Bradman registered his third succes sive double century against this county in the opening match of the Australian team’s tour of England. Don Bradman was born in 1908. He has played in 23 test matches against England, scoring a total of 3406 runs, including 12 centuries, at an average of 89.63 runs ?.n innings. Altogether in 33 test match.es he has scored 4659 runs, including 18 centuries, at an average of 97.06 runs an innings. Here are a few of his records in test cricket: (1) Most hundreds; (2) most double hundreds (10) ; (3) four hundreds in a series twice; (4) hundreds in four consecutive test matches twice; (5) three double hundreds in a series: (6) two centuries over 300; (7) most runs in a series (974); (8) most runs in EnglandAustralia matches in England; (9) most runs in tost cricket by an Australian; (10) 1000 runs in his first seven test matches. A prodigious record, causing an English critic to remark that “England will be playing against Bradman—and the rest.” In the circumstances the general impression is that Australia will be too strong for England in the test matches, but only Time can endorse or refute this forecast. ‘ The first four matches, Worcester (as proved to be the case), Oxford, Leicester and Cambridge were not expected to prove difficult, but

after these, the M.C.C. match will probably offer stiffer opposition Bradman’s centuries, and all the questions that regularly arise when Eng land meets Australia on the cricket field, are certain to be a popular topic of conversation in Te Awamutu and Otorohanga, as indeed . throughout New Zealand, during the coming months. Two Pertinent Questions. Where did the facial eczema outbreak come from? Where did the measles come from! The Cow. Being one of Professor Moomoo’s weekly radio talks to farmers by Charles Stanley, sent to J.T.P. by a Kihikihi correspondent: Good evening, everybody. The subject of my talk this week is “The Cow.”

As you all know, the cow is a com plicated and ingenious invention foi turning grass and water into butter -fat. Why anyone should want, to produce butter fat at the present time 1 cannot say; but the fact remains that largo numbers of people do; consequently the cow is one of oui most populai products.

There are many different types ol cow. Each manufacturer produces his own model, but the essential parts are the same in all designs.

All standard makers equip their cows with four legs, one at each corner of the cow. The object of this is to raise the cow’s body and head well off the ground, thus enabling her to get a wider view of the scenery. The extra height is also useful when chewing clothes off the clothes line. The possession of legs also allows the cow to move about, thus assisting her in getting into cabbage patches, strawberry be?ds, etc. By equipping each cow with four legs instead of two the herd is enabled to make the cowyard twice as muddy. All models of cows are also fitted out with a head and a tail. The purpose of the head is to allow the cow to say “Moo,” thus enabling city children to identify' her as a moo-cow.

The head is usually attached to the sharp end of the cow, and the tail to the blunt, end.

The tail is generally used as a fly whisk. Some of the more up-to-date types of cow, however, have discover ed that when properly controlled it serves splendidly for another purpose —viz., to flick dirt in the eyes of the farmer when milking. Like all sports, this requires practice to be come perfect; but when once a true aim has been acquired, milking time becomes a real pleasure. The most important part oi the cow, however, is the receptacle in which the milk is prepared and stored. This is called the udder. By r a very clever arrangement, this is divided into four compartments, each with a separate tap. By this means the milk is divided at its source, so that one part goes to the landlord, jne to the mortgagee, one to the Government, and one to the farmer. Sometimes one of the compartments will become defective. In such cases the farmer is omitted.

The cow is a very simple animal. Her principal pleasure is in getting in front of motor cars. For this reason many kind hearted farmers turn their* herds on to the road towards dusk on a Sunday evening, as the city motor traffic is returning homewards, so that as many of their cows as possible may join in this simple pastime. In recent years there has been a very commendable movement to ini prove the*general standard of cows in New Zealand. The method adopted is simple, but very effective. Once a year every farmer selects all the worst ot his cows, and sells them to other farmers. These cows are called “culls,” except when you do this yourself, in which case they are known as “specially selected pedigree stock.” The cow’s husband is called a bull. Like the commercial traveller, he seldom sees his wife, but the result is just the same. There are two classes of cows—those that pay and those that don’t. There are a lot of cows who don’t pay in New Zealand. Good-night. Good Practice. With the Minister of Defence as a guest, the cruisers Leander and Achilles carried out firing exercises in the Hauraki Gulf. The trip should have proved useful practice for the Minister, who, after this experience, should hardly notice interjections and noise in the election campaign later in the year. Rugby Once Again. On the ball, on the ball, on the ball: ’Midst scrum mage, three-quart'Crs and all. By sticking together, we’ll keep on the leather. And, shout as we go: "On the ball!"

The rollicking old footie song comes rolling down the Corridor of Time from youth’s glad days on the wild and woolly West Coast to the opening of a new Rugby season in Te Awamutu and Otorohanga, with the intervening districts throwing in their weight as well. Fortunately 1938 opens auspiciously locally, with apparently plenty of that burning enthusiasm which spells “Success.” Such a condition is to be welcomed for more reasons than one. It has, of course, been remarked with truth that Rugby is a moral tonic, to which observation a Te Awamutu wag has expressed his entire agreement as. in the game, “a man can rid himself ol innumerable repressions simply by socking another one of the opposition in the middle of the scrum.” Be that

as if. may, it remains that Rugby football plays an important part in our national life, being, in the words of Mr Frank Milner, C.M.G., rector-of the Waitaki Boys’ High School, “educationally a tonic and morally bracing to our youth.” It is widely recognised that Rugby makes tor self mastery, for self-control, for co-opera-tive team work and self-effacement for the side. In boyhood there is no sport to equal it as an incentive to strenuous physical recreation. And to quote Mr Milner again: “I am prepared to affirm that the wholesome devotion to Rugby and to like out-ot-doors virile exercise is a real moral preservative, an antiseptic to physical lassitude and especially to sexual obsessions and secret vice which beset so many boys in the adolescent stage of life. . . In every case of normal health the great thing is the positive approach and not the repressive attitude, the engrossment of the youthful mind and enthusiasm in healthy bodily activity, in wholesome fresh air sport to the point even of physical weariness.

So Mr Milner, who has had the confidence of many hundreds of boys, welcomes Rugby not only for physical but for moral reasons. The glorious tonic, vital interest of Rugby is therefore all the more welcome, . he concluded. Old players themselves, most of them having memories oi gruelling struggles, of triumphs and defeats, learned to temper victory with modesty and to bear defeat with generosity of spirit. All of which reinforces the widespread conviction that Rugby provides for the best ideals in a manly sport—and is therefore worthy of all public support —though an appeal for that is hardly necessary. The Succulent Oyster. Unless there is a catch in it, literally or otherwise, we must accept the statement by Mr W. Ott, chairman -of the Bluff Harbour Board, that the huge total of 60,000,000 oysters were procured in the Foveaux Strait area last season. Such a record is an indirect tribute to the popularity of the succulent bivalve, to which assertion as it applies to Te. Awamutu, Jack Tolich could no doubt bear testimony, as it also is tin even greater tribute to the fecundity of the mother oyster which latter condition puts quite into the shade the gluttony of the oyster gourmets. At first sight it incredible that a holocaust causing the capture of 60,000,000 oysters could be repaired in a single year, especially when you are prepared to count your own families in ones and twos. On the other hand. Mother Oyster counts her family by the million. a mood of matronly optimism The mother oyster lays 500,000.000 eggs in a season. Maybe she knows that only 500 of her offspring will ever reach maturity. Half her family get eaten up before they hatch. If the newly- ** hatched oyster makes a landing on a sandy bottom it dies. In any case still more enemies await it. If there was not this wastage among the little oysters, 40 oysters would produce enough descendants every year to feed the world. As the oceans would • soon be choked . with oyster shells, maybe it is as well that the oystei does not have it all its own way.