SIGNS OF-SPRING

Taranaki Daily News, 23 August 1930, Page 17 (Supplement)

SIGNS OF-SPRING

A TRAMCAR COMEDY

(By

E.V.W.)

‘‘l heard the first pipiwhauroa this

morning,” said Brown, putting down his morning paper and surveying his fellow passengers in the 7.45 a.m. car to town. Nobody made any comment on Brown’s portentous statement, for nobody had the slightest idea what a pipi-something or other was. Tersonally I would have wagered that it was a new-fangled.name for a shell-fish. “The pipiwhauroa,” Brown continued, “is . the little bird which wings its way unerringly across the stupendous wastes of . land and . sea which .separate, -showy; Siberia from sunny New Zealand. It

is a species of cuckoo.” We all tried to Took intelligent,; ’ and, avoiding Brown’s challenging eye,, gazed out of the windows at the skeleton oil wells of Moturoa and the fishermen’s-huts. “My brother had a pigeon which flew from Invercargill once.began’a small man in the corner. • “From Invercargill,” scoffed Brown, and then, warming up to the subject, added, “Poof! What’s that? Only a paltry few hundred miles! Why, Siberia’s thousands of miles away; thousands.” (He waved his arm round from the

direction of Waitara to Opunake, and

nearly knocked old Watson’s spectacles off). That seemed to settle it. 'Siberia must have been more than a day’s walk from New Plymouth; that was a moral. “The pipiwhauroa is the harbinger of

Spring,” Brown continued, ind nobody had the temerity to contradict his assertion. For myself, I thought that’ it was a stupid remark to make. How could the pipi-thingemybob be the harbinger, or whatever he called it, of

Spring? Why couldn’t Spring be the er-harbinger of the pipi-bird? What had a little bird like that to do with the seasons, anyway? Weren’t they all set out in black and white in the Daily News calendar? Brown was dippy;

that’s what was the matter with him. He ought to consult a doctor! “When - Spring unfolds her mantle of green, and buds and blossoms -burst softly and cilently into blushing blooms of kaleidoscopic beauty,” continued ißrown, “then” (his voice rose), “and only. then ’is the dulcet note of the cuckoo heard.” “What sort of a noise does it make?” inquired a cigarette-smoking youth sitting opposite. Brown looked pained. Perhaps his 'breakfast did not Agree with him.

“Noise,” he said, sadly, as if some grave sacrilege had been perpetrated. ‘•Ah, my lad; do not use that coarse word, in reference to this lovely little feathered wanderer.’'

“Then what sort of a cry, or whistle, does it make?” asked the youth. Brown threw his head back, and thought for a spell. The youth sat forward, expectantly.

“It’s a peculiar note,” said Brown at length, “and rather hard to imitate, but it goes something like this.” He pursed his lips and uttered a noise (beg pardon), a sound or twitter which was something like nothing which I had ever heard before, unless, it was when the wife was trying to annihilate an aged rooster for last Sunday’s dinner. “Garn! That ain’t a cuckoo’s call,” said an aggressive looking man. “I have a cuckoo clock at home, and it doesn’t make that row!” “Cuckoo clocks and real cuckoos are entirely different things,” retorted Brown hotly, “and to compare the two shows...”

“That you’re ‘cuckoo’ ” snapped the aggressive person, “I’ll ‘cuckoo’ you,” roared Brown; and, blowing ominously, he added, “Just wait till this tram etops.” “There’s no need to get heated over a little thing like a. cuckoo,” I chimed •in, trying to pour oil on the troubled waters, “and the man who sold dur friend the clock might have got his aviary mixed up. At all events, we have heard, enough about Spring, and, let’s talk of something else.” “I see that cricket’s starting again soon,” I commenced, by way of creating a diversion. “That’s a sign of Spring,” said someone in the rear seat. I ignored the interruption and continued, “My youngest boy told me this morning that the bld football wasn’t worth patching again, but that the cricket bat needed binding." “More signs of Spring,” from the interrupter. Assuming what I considered to bo an aggressive attitude I turned round and scowled at . those seated behind, but everybody appeared to be deeply absorbed in tho pages of the morning paper. I tried a different subject. “Smith seems to be having trouble with his car,” I remarked as we passed a stationary automobile in South Road. “Looks like a broken spring,” muttered someone, amid titters. I hate persons who titter. It’s a silly habit, and •senseless. The tram slow© down, and Pratt, with a great bunch of narcissi in his hands, enters and takes a seat' next to me.

“Beautiful 'Spring blooms,” he says, presenting the bunch for my admiring gaze. Someone laughed loudly as I grew red in the face. I think it was, Brown; and if it was... then there would be TWO fights -when the tram camo to the terminus. Pratt looked somewhat huffed as I sought the seclusion of my paper, but went on making a perfect ass of himself showing the wretched, insignificant things to everyone else in the car, and on all sides there were stupid remarks like, “Aren’t they sweet!” “Just like golden amber.” “Reminds one of Spring in the Old Land.” I never saw a pack of men make such sloppy fools of themselves. It was sickening! But at last the terminus was in sight. Papers were hastily folded; lunch baskets, bags, umbrellas and top-coats gathered up; and all prepared to leave the tram. .Then the stop, and the rush; the crowded doorway, and the open air.

“A lovely morning, sir,” said the conductor to me, recognising an old sporting friend; and before I could reply, ho added, “What do you fancy for the early Spring meetings, old chap?” But J fled, leaving an astonished conductor staring, puzzled, as Brown and the rest tripped off laughing merrily.