CURRENT COMMENT

Taranaki Daily News, 10 February 1934, Page 13 (Supplement)

CURRENT COMMENT

OTHER POINTS OF VIEW

(By

M.O.S.)

Wai tangi? The Government’s paying for it. • # * • “Do you believe in Douglas Social Credit ?” I asked my friend Mr. Bumblesnitch. “Certainly not,” he replied, “we Bumblesnitches have always been of the orthodox faith.” ♦ . ♦ * * Where is my Paris gone ? Riotous living replaced by riots, trifiers by riflers, blondes by bombs, broken maxims by unbroken Maxims,- the casual city by a city of casualties. The place has become as respectable as Ireland. • * * * Further Thoughts on Domesticity. Ajax who painted the city red Has painted the bathroom white. Hector whose beanos were rare in their splendour Hoses his beans every night. * * * * Merry Gentlemen. (The consumption of gin in New Zealand is said to be increasing.) We once were gents or gentlemen But Bumblesnitch now hints Our designation should be changed To gin-tlemen or gints. • # # * Talking of Beans. A murrain on all those who on wet days are cheerful about their beans! I dislike rain, however good it may be for the gardener and his leeks and the plumber and his leaks. On a fine day you can lie on your back in the sunshine and think beautiful thoughts about Poetry and Luv and Beer, and sheer delight rises up in the soul like the rush of bubbles in a bottle of home-brew before it explodes. On. a wet day you wake up and the wind is howling like an epileptic tomcat and your landlady brings you cold rhubarb for breakfast. And you detest cold rhubarb. Walking down to the office you absentmindedly pat a damp and odorous dog. Then you remember that you owe the grocer 5Md, n& counting the packet of canary-seed and the wheelbarrow that you received free with a pound of tea. The rain thinks your spine is a drainpipe and runs up and down it like the neighbour’s daughter practising, her scales on the piano. There is nothing to be done all day. Even the rum’ and raspberry tastes rum. Your feet get frozener and frozener until you have to look down and count them to make sure they haven’t dropped off from frost-bite. At lunch time the raindrops run from your clammy hair, slide coldly along tne bridge of your nose and go plop plop in the soup. There is cold and soggy corned beef for tea.

Therefore a murrain on all those who say it’s good for the grass and ten thousand murrains on all those who are cheerful about their beans! •*. # * This, That, and Grocers. Aha my beetroots, I have a story for you. It was told at the Grocers’ Conference, at Hawera, so you need have no fear as to its propriety. The teacher was endeavouring to persuade her class that leisure hours should be spent in the indulgence of some profitable hobby. Questioning the children as to what hobbies they had, she learnt that little Tommy collected rabbits, little Johnny bred stamps and so on. Little Mary (the one with the sniffle, dear child) had no hobby, but wanted to be a naturalist and catch butterflies and moths. She didn’t know,how to begin, so the teacher, told her to buy a suitable book on the subject and bring it to school next day.- Little Mary duly did so, and next day handed up to the teacher “For Young Moth-ers,” by Sir Truby King. How very low. Let us talk about rhubarb.

Curiotis to think of grocers having a conference. I never realised before that so many people were passionately interested in the price of prunes. You would expect them to be countering each other and saying things like “Give ’im beans,” and “Coffee-vat,” instead, of having conversaziones. Do you, by. the way, pronounce the “t” in conversatzione ? Like Hitler, it’s a Nazi one to say. Personally I do, just to be superior. I pronounce the “k” silent, however, as in peanuts.

And the dear wee kiddies went back to school this week. Little buds, little blossoms, we were so sorry to have them out of the house again. All through the holidays, even when they killed the prize bantam with a shanghai, we thought of them as little treasures from the unknown, little darlings trailing clouds of glory. What a wonderful thing childhood is! . * * * # The Passionate Periwinkle. I had a periwinkle once A pretty periwinkle once Her eyes they used to twinkle once Her brow would never crinkle once as periwell I know. Her eyes they shone like tapers once She never read the papers once But now my periwinkle is a mass of periwoe. A periwinkle song she sung When all the periworld was young About a periwoman and a periwooer’s failings. She’d never heard of butter once And merrily she’d flutter once But to-day my periwinkle’s full of ■piteous periwailings. She used, to air her bedding once And talk about a wedding once, I told her she was heading once for periwearing times. She went without her stocking once I told her it was shocking once, She answered “Stocking’s.plural but I don’t suppose it rhymes.”

At conversaziones She would feed upon polonies And distress her mother’s cronies with a periwicked chatter. She used to do the Lancers once And flash me naughty glances once, She used to drink at dances once as if it didn’t matter.

She never cared for strictures once, I took her to the pictures once And saw a bunch of chorus girls that looked like pickled pork. She used to smoke a gasper once, x She’d asked me if I'd clasp her once I said I couldn’t grasp her once and ate her with a fork.

I had a periwinkle once A pretty periwinkle once Her eyes they used to twinkle once Her brow would never wrinkle once or pucker at a question. I’m sorry that I ate her now She makes me almost hate her now For she has turned a traitor now, and I have indigestion.