THE GREAT WAR

Taranaki Daily News, 11 March 1933, Page 16 (Supplement)

THE GREAT WAR

WHY NOT START IT? MUSSOLINI LEADING ITALY. It would be a good thing for the world if it took up Signor Mussolini’s New War and made it the Great War of 1933. It would be a better it, having tried it, the world never tried any other, (says the Children’s Newspaper, London.) The new kind of war which Signor Mussolini is waging is the attack on the Pontine marshes. The Pontine marshes outside Rome have long been the symbol of stagnation, the home of poverty, the place of desolation, the breeding-place of malaria and other diseases. For two thousand years the curse of malaria, due to myriad of mosquitoes from the swamps and the rotting of vegetation, has levied a toll on the lives and health of the Romans worse than any war debt. Mussolini began ten years ago to lift this weight from the necks of the people by inaugurating a new system of drainage canals in the zone of the marshes, and this great engineering feat is proceeding to its accomplishment. The first fruits of it were presented the other day when the Duce inaugurated the new town and parish of Littoria, with streets and town hall complete, in the heart of the marshes. Thousands of acres have been reclaimed from them and have been brought under cultivation. It was partly Mussolini’s own zest for improvement, and partly the necessity of finding work for the unemployed, which urged him to the task, which Roman Emperors and Popes and Napoleon Bonaparte had tried and given up in despair, of subduing these man-eating marshes. But every fresh success drove him on to others; and now; half an hour from Rome, these efforts are on the way to adding a new province to Italy, as Signor Mussolini said the other day in a rousing speech. It is a conquered province, but it is the abode of peace and content Here the soldiers of the war can beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning-hooks. Here they can raise crops of maize where nothing grew before. Here, in the words of Mussolini, the Italians have carried out real warlike operations. “And,” he added, “it is the kind of warfare we prefer,” a sentiment which the whole world will be glad to hear from the lips of the Italian Dictator. So may it be, and all will echo his hope that the world will leave Italy in peace so that she may go on with’ her work. The hope may to some sound strangely on the lips of Italy’s strong man, but it is certain that if the world followed the lead it would find too much to do to turn its mind to the other kind of war. By next year, Signor Mussolini promises, more land will have been made fit for habitation and cultivation, and another thousand houses will be built. By 1934 a second parish or commune will be inaugurated, and by 1935 a third one, and 40,000 people will have been settled on the land. That will mean a triumph more to be applauded than the Triumph of any Roman Emperor. When we think of the stupendous amount of such work which is waiting for the world to do it, the reclamation of the Pontine marshes may seem like a drop in the ocean.. But it is a beginning. It points the way, and it is not the only thing that this blundering old world is doing when it draws its neck out of the hangman’s noose of armaments. In Italy they are draining Lake Arsa in Istria for more land, and the farmers are collecting the fish for food as a New Year's gift. In Holland the Zuyder Zee is becoming cultivable land. The Dutchmen also are conquering a new province. Italy and Holland are quite alive to the urgent problems of these days. This is the kind of war every nation in its heart knows to be the only one from which any simple soul can profit. ONLY A PAPER BAG! On the round silver pond the toy yachts were sailing, But small paper sweet-bag just clung to the railing; It fluttered, it trembled, it thought with a sigh, “How happy are those who can sail, walk, or fly.” .Then ten little fingers—and not clean ones at that!— ■ Tweaked the bag from the railing and spread it out flat. They pressed it, and folded it up like a note, Then pulled it, and poked it, and made it a boat! How cold was the water, how rough was the wave, But paper boat whispered, ‘Til be very brave, “For now that Em sailing this wonderful sea, . “What splendid adventures may happen to me.” But the ships with the engines, and those having sails Were annoyed with this old paper bag from the rails, And they pushed it away to the reeds on the bank, Where it floundered, and struggled, and very near sank, Then the sun went to sleep, and the paper boat saw That the ships who had masters returned to the shore. “Oh, somebody, somebody, claim me, I pray!” Cried poor little paper-bag boat in dismay. But only the night spread her wmg o er the pond, . The moon threw a beam like a bright silver wand. Then in a swift second that water was spread With strange-looking vessels that some folk had shed — x Orange peel barges, many match boxes old, . Were painted in silver picked out with gold. And each had a captain, for this was the fleet Of gnomes, and of pixies, and elfin-folk sweet. The Master, an elf, spied the paper bag boat, And cried, “Painter, give her a silvery “And name her The Chocolate Joy, for I know “That yesterday that was her heavy cargo!” And The Chocolate Joy was bought by a prince, And oh! the adventures she’s had ever since!

LONG AGO STORIES. CICELY’S MANNERS. Cicely’s mother was dead, and her father never visited the dark strange building where the girl lived till she was fourteen years old. Others girls came and went, but Cicely remained. Once Elizabeth Woodville, Queen of Edward 4th, lived in that cold place, and there her baby son—afterwards Edward sth, who was smothered in the Tower—was bom. When Elizabeth went away with the little Prince, Cicely cried because she had loved nursing the baby. “Shall I have to live in Sanctuary all my life?” she asked the kind butcher who used to bring meat to the hungry Queen and her children. “You’re safe in Westminster Sanctuary,” laughed the butcher. “If you came out, you’d go to prison, because your father the Duke is a powerful man, and the Kung’s enemy. Here,. I’ve brought you a bit of swan pie.” Cicely grabbed at the pie and ate it noisily. She had no idea how to behave, because nobody in that strange place of refuge was responsible for her. Being naturally a lively girl, and unfortunately

possessing a beautiful face, she was liked by everybody, and the kind butcher brought her scraps from his own table, and an old gown when she grew out of her rags. . ■ Cicely was quite happy, but rather pert. One day, as she stood within the Sanctuary door, she saw .a great lord riding by, and die hailed him. “Bless you, my brave gentlemanf die cried, “Throw off your cloak to show your fine figure. ’Tis a sin to hide it from the poor!” Then the great man dlsrpounted, and asked her who she was. “Cicely, the Duke of Bradford's daughter,” she replied, as she snatched at his velvet cloak, “Am I not worthy of fine clothes?” “I have come to claim you,” was the stem reply, “I am your father.” Cicely was overwhelmed with astonishment The horrified Duke put his gfeak round her to hide her rags, and took her to his beautiful house, where she was washed and properly dressed. That evening Cicely sat at her fathers side during a banquet of peace which he gave to the King.. But alas, she disgraced herself! She plunged her hands into the dishes of rich meat and sweets, she wiped them on her hair, sh® no respect to people, and her loud laugh caused her father to blush. “She must read the boy’s book of manners,” smiled the King. But Cicely could not read, so next morning her father read the boy’s book of manners to her, while she hung her head in shame. To her surprise, she heard that she must wash her hands well, and if her fingers became greasy at meals she must wipe them secretly on her shirt or tippet! “As I have no shirt, will my undergown do?” asked poor Cicely. “Boys have a lot to remember!” It was quite a long time before she learnt gentle manners, and became a gentle-lady! 7 ~~ y A STUPID TAUNT. BRAVERY OF A TAILOR. Four and twenty tailors went to catch a snail, The best man among them durst not touch her tail. So ran the old taunt.’ In those days brawny archers and ploughmen made fun of the men who were too delicate to do anything but sit and sew. It took ten tailors to make one man, they used to say. , But one of the bravest men who ever lived was a tailor called Kinthup, whose story is enough to kill the stupid taunt forever* This 'wonderful tale is related in Sir George Dunbar’s new book, Frontiers. Kinthup was a native of Sikkim and kept a little shop in Darjeeling during last century. He seemed, an ordinary sort of tradesman, but in his heart burned the fire that set Drake and Columbus sailing into the unknown. One day in 1880 the little tailor started off to trace the course of the Tsang-po River. Years and years went by. Everyone thought Kinthup was dead, and small wonder, for he was venturing into perilous places and among cruel people. The truth was that Kinthqp was alive, but had narrowly escaped death more than once. He was betrayed and sold into slavery; he escaped, and was trying to get through Tibet when he found that he had jumped out of the fryingpan into the fire. But at the last moment a kind-hearted Tibetan monk ransomed him. For three long years Kinthup worked for his rescuer, and then a day came when he had a chance to get to Lhasa, from where he wrote to the Government of India. He said he had marked a number of logs and hidden them in a cave; on a certain date he would throw them into the river, and if they appeared in India the course of the Tsang-po would be known beyond doubt. Sad to tell, the logj were not found; but Kinthup had done his best. After many adventures the little tailor got back to India and told all he had seen. Some people have thrown doubts on his truthfulness because he made a few sF a ?> but Sir George Dunbar makes short work of them. He says: “Imagine seeing the number of villages Kinthup visited in three years, and, instead of writing up a diary each evening, being obliged to rely on one’s memory until one came out of the country; and then to be told one has not got some of the village names right. There is no reason for doubting the word of the little tailor who nearly laid down his life for geography. It is pleasant to find his doings chronicled anew, for he deserves to be remembered. BEATING THE WIND. During a severe gale at Flamborough in Yorkshire a Treasury Note was blown out of a woman’s hand and was quickly lost to sight. She took another piece of paper and let that blow away too, and a nimble friend who followed it saw it come to rest under a wall, where, among a heap of litter, was the missing note! She had beaten the wind by her presgpee of .mind.