CURRENT COMMENT

Taranaki Daily News, 15 July 1933, Page 13 (Supplement)

CURRENT COMMENT

OTHER POINTS OF VIEW

Milk vendors at Hawera during the tWeek held a conference about the retail price of milk—ln other words, a teat-a-teat. ‘/** * * . Fatuous Tale. f A certain Dilapidated Deadbeat once decided to be Original and tell the Truth, hoping to gain greater rewards for his Audacity than he had previously obtained through Sympathy. “Everyone,” he said to himself, “knows that my story about the Aged Grandparent, the Five Orphans and the Wicked Financier is Bunk, and so in future I will give them the Dinkum Oil.” Then, putting on his hat and a Jaunty 'Air, the Dilapidated Deadbeat knocked at the door of “Mon Repos,” an eminent-

ly desirable residence (all Mod. Con., H.

■nd C. Washtubs and Pig Pen) and when ' the housewife came said: “Good morning, madam, I have a Profound Objection to toil and prefer to sustain my enormous 'body by Scrounging. I should like some Sroast beef with plenty of Gravy. The housewife, however, was Shocked ■t this and said: “You Miserable Wretch, I will summon a Cop,” so the Deadbeat beat it to the next house, resolving to return to his old Guff. “Oh, Lidy,” he said to the next housewife, “will you give me a Bite as I am starving and have an Orphan and Five Widows dependent on me.” The housewife was touched to the Quick although she seemed to have heard the tale very orphan before, and brought the Deadbeat a Modicum of stale plum cake, and a cup of Weak Tea with sugar in it. Moral: Never tell the truth.

Herr von Tschammer Osten, rather ostentatiously, has declared that the German woman’s first duties are in the home. His moustache (he must wear one with a name like that) quivers in righteous indignation at “cranks playing tennis for hours and then getting massaged and spending the evening in the bath. Doubtless the gentleman proceeded from the pernicious practice of tenms-and-a-bath to the even greater evils of seabathing, dancing, picture-shows and reading good literature Poor old Germany! She (or is it he?) advanced with the rest of the world to democratic government, to a standard of culture, and to the emancipation of woman from the hoary shibboleths of the Dark Ages. Now, all in a week or two he (or is it she?) through the mouth of the ranting Hitler has forsworn democracy and set up a rigid censorship of literature, and through the mouth of Herr von Osten, has sought to drive woman back from the modern realms of freedom and athletics, to the primeval state where rocking the cradle was the most strenuous exercise permitted. Russia, as far as one can see, has taken a big step forward in this matter, while countries have ’stepped almost equally as far without officially acknowledging it. Germany has not merely taken a step backward; she (or is it he?) has jumped blindly as a startled pedestrian from the road of progress back to •the safety-zone of reaction. The vehicles on the road are certainly dangerous, as Russia is doubtless discovering, but Germany must come out of the safety-zone again some day. Perhaps he (or is it she?) will reach the footpath and join Britain in her stolid march towards true civilisation .... But what a colossal prude is Herr von Tschammer Osten! Nature was unkind •to woman, and the German, instead of paying, “This is unfortunate; we shall do what we can to make things easier for you,” blathers about rocking the cradle, damns games as crankiness, and, in. fact, fails to consider the feelings ® the woman in the matter at all. And these reactions are so futile, so certain to end. Mankind has advanced and will continue to advance in spite of all dictatorial interludes. The eventual emergence from this rather unpleasant reaction is the more certain since Germany was the home of nachtkultur, the sun-bathing craze. Perhaps that admirable cult was carried too far; it is hard to understand in New Zealand (portly businessmen and so on). On the thickly-populated Continent it did not seem to be regarded as anything so very incredible. And there must be some common sense somewhere in the land of the eagle. « * * * Bottled Heart-ache. Twenty-one years ago Dr. Alexis Carrel cut a fragment from the heart of a chicken and placed it in a test tube at th 4 Rockefeller Institute in New York, where it has been kept alive ever since. I heard a chicken cock-a-doodle For love of a hen in his yard; His heart was aching to canoodle And things were not so hard Till Carrel came and pulled him apart And never whispered “What’ll Become of the love of this passionate heart When I stow it away in a bottle? The body went, I fear, to fill A corner of the larder; The chicken’s heart is throbbing still With undiminished ardour. I see the scientific men With cruel relish dining; The bottled heart still for its hen Perpetually pining. * * * The Salesman Sold. After giving Press representatives a troubled time in their endeavours to interview him, Mr. F. Hart, winner of the “Luck at Last” art union, capped his career by disappointing a number of salesmen and sightseers at the Hawera railway station. Rumour had it that Mr. Hart was to leave for Wellington Ly train, and a collection of insurance, salesmen, land agents and other representatives of the commercial world gathered at the station. The intended , victim, anticipating such a reception, left | by car. They were gathered at the station Full of eager expectation 'And impressive calculation For all the salesmen picked him To be an easy victim For a fellow in the know. There were breezy ones and narks There were managers and clerks There were honest ones and sharks For everybody there Was hungry for a share Of the lucky winner’s dough. There were salesmen full of hope That they could sell him soap Or bicycles or rope; And ladies to elope In pink and heliotrope They came from near and far. Impatiently they waited And hopped and hoped and hated With ardour unabated . They held their hats and twiddled them While the easy victim diddled them And went away by car