THE FRETFUL PORCUPINE

Observer, Volume XL, Issue 8, 25 October 1919, Page 20

THE FRETFUL PORCUPINE

S" NAFFLE"- writes. Last week . saw the fifth anniversary of the sailing of the Main Body from Wellington. A start had actually been made two or three weeks earlier. The two Auckland transports, the Waimana and Star of India, had sailed with orders to join the other vessels somewhere in the Tasman Sea, but they. were recalled on account of the presence in southern waters of two German cruisers, which could have plugged the British escort from a safe distance, and then asked the 8,000 New Zealanders on the ten transports to come out for tea or have a drink, or to kindly go home. The soldiers of the Main Body don't seem .to have any clear idea as to why the sailing orders were reversed,' but looking back it seems that someone in authority was much concerned about their safety. Whoever he was, they thank him. ' • ' * * They were very young and raw and innocent in those days, but how they strove to be the sophisticated soldier! One recollects that at least half' the. men on one transport believted that "to steal" was one of the laws of the service. It didn't

seem to matter whether they had need for the thing or not; it was a point of honour to pinch it. Before the Star of India left the Wai- :- temata a launch came out with some» additional stuff, which was shoved 5 in through a hole in the hull im the darkness. One youth, "Brook--ie" to wit, had been hovering round, and had noticed a a oblong box, which he judged contained plug tobacco. Watching his chance, he snapped it up, and got it to a dormitory, where he broke it open, only to find that the contents were horseshoe nails. They say that "Brookie" saw red for a month, and once bit the ear of the bosum for what ho considered untimely mirth. *. i « It was well that they did not know what the future held for them. Most of them were hit on Gallipoli, and one out of every four of'the wounded died. That is what gives the anniversary its element of sadness. It is so easy to picture those excellent men, now dead, who sailed on those ships. Trusted faces come thronging through the mist—Bluck and Marr, Weir and Wilson, Beer, the Dragoon and maker of soldiers, Clark and Hacker, and the hosts of others who are sleeping on the ridges. X * * To the men of the Main Body the comradeship of those distant days will be the finest thing in their lives. They lived in an atmosphere, of "all for each and each for all." In remembering faces of comrades who were left behind, the men who lived to return can say, "They died well. They died with the nobility which unselfish sacrifice bestows upon them." To few in peace is it given so to die.

Innumerable Auckland people remember with pleasure the penetrating wit and racy humour of that good old journalist, Mr. J. D. Wickham, who died at an advanced age recently, and wielded a pen up to the age of 80 years. His celebrity as "A Tramp, Esq.," was gained by his instinctive use of personalities, knowing as he did that people take more interest in people than in anything else on earth. He always kept the "personal touch" to the fore. He established "The Lance," the predecessor of the "Observer," and it may not be generally known that every cover of the "Observer" for 40 years has had a portrait of Mr. Wickham on it. * * * The jester there shown has the face of Mr. Wickham as he. then appeared. It was drawn by" Mr. W. Boodle, the artist of those days. Mr. Wickham roamed the North on "a cheval"—and the horses he rode were, in his estimation, fit to win Melbourne Cups. His. favourite charger was "Boomerang," and believing him to be a veritable Carbine (Carbine not then having been dreamed of), he handed him over to the late Mr. W. Adams to train. Although Boomerang was the best of hacks', he wasn't in the first class as a galloper, and Mr. Adams often almost despaired of his trust. © « ■ - ® The Rev. Jasper Calder's great heart enables that active parson to bear up under the punishing strain of a close finish at "the trots," the Rangatira tohunga's frown of regal displeasure, or the inflammed visage of a "berserk. wife-beater. The piteous plea of a tiny kitten will melt* the fabric of. his ecclesiastical heart. In the silence of St. Matthew's one fine day a faint "meow' was heard, and the Rev. Jasper traced the feline appeal to the basement. The Rev. Mr. Gillam. hnU; buated as he is from a long course >f war (and possessing the rank of [jiient. -Colonel), was ready to catch

the faintest whisper of gas or the loudest scream of shells, but could hear nothing. The keen sporting parson, however, tracked the sound, and found it belonged to a small and emaciated kitten which had fallen or strayed into the noisome depths of the church cellar. Jasper lowered food and drink through a grating, and rung up the district squadron of Boy Scouts, who, under an expert leader, paraded and rescued kitty, to the delight of the church. The congregation of St. Matthew's will be glad to hear the kitten is thriving. ®> ®> ®> Owing to the possibility of a recrudescence of flumonia, municipal authorities in New Zealand have been more than busy, especially in the south—making people clear up their backyards and be clean generally. One inspector, having nosed round the back of a model dwelling (down south), finding it in apple-pie order, knocked on the door. It was opened by a lady, to whom he said, "I must congratulate you, madam, on the extreme cleanliness of your surroundings—they are first class. The contrast next door is shocking— most insanitary and untidy. I hear that the woman neglects her five children, although why she shouldn't when her husband spends all his money in drink, I don't know." * * * The lady on the step turned purple. "What do you mean?" she screamed; "the next door house is MY house, and I'm only here making a call." And she slammed the door in his face. «? ® # "Green Puggaree" writes: It would cheer a lot of good old soldiers up_ a great deal if the advantages given to ex-soldiers of the Great War were extended to the old soldiers in 1899 —1902. Remember that the seven thousand old New Zealanders who served in South Africa were all volunteers— and had

a severer gruelling than soldiers in a much better organised but more dangerous war. The Mounted Riflemen of New Zealand were given four shillings a day, and no separation allowances were handed to their relatives. They were given no advantages of any kind on repatriation, and the "gratuity" was five pounds per man. • * * It wag with extreme difficulty they got a settlement on repatriation. Wounded men were not well treated, and the yearly parade of per-, manently injured men was a scandal. The position regarding the remnant of these men is that large numbers joined up the forces again for the Great W&r, and will, of course, share in the advantages. Another large body are in good circumstances, and will never cause the Government to spend a penny on them. * * * Another large number are dead, and very many are scattered to the four quarters of the earth. The remnant is small. If it is sound policy to lend money to ex-soldiers of one war it is equally sound policy to lend money to soldiers of another war. Those South African men were the pioneers of the New Zealand army, and there is plenty of written proof, not only that they had a rougher time than men of the Great War, but did the job as skilfully as the 1914-1918 men. ® ®> ® The German bagman will be round again shortly with a smile upon his square dial, and an order book in his hand, and New Zealanders are getting ready to shout drinks for him and yell orders into his ear. It will be useful for New Zealand traders to stick a ticket in their hats to show that Germans loved British trade' so much that they sunk 2,379 British merchant ships and killed 14,287 non-combatants. When Fritz comes round with his bag merchants might have the coun-ting-house hung with easily available photos showing murdered noncombatant Belgians, and a picture Of Nurse Cavill being done to death by Fritz's relatives. * * * It is impossible to resist again telling a little story, hoping this paragraph may reach the "Narrow Neck" camp. A celebrated French artist has a little picture showing two little French boys dressed as soldiers (paper hats and wooden swords), standing respectfully at a distance from a little French girl.

The wee girl is kneeling before a .small grave with a cross on it. There is a sling round her neck, and her arm is in it. One little boys says in reference to the grave, "It's her hand!" And you're going to shake the filthy hand of Fritz again, hem .- ®> ® . @> "Swank I Wash" writes: Quite a number of exceedingly decent chaps drift back into "civvies" with gladness arid modesty—and, like- Kipling's "Bobs," DO NOT ADVERTISE. Others flhere are who, having been "over there," insist on the public knowing it. One of the best ways for pushing it down the public thioat that you have been there is to carry a pair of gloves and waggle the fingers at the public—never to go out without them, and never on any account to leave them behind when you take your walks abroad. It is best to have two pairs—one of washable white leather for Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and one ppir of brown leather for the rest of the week. You mustn't wear 'cm—simply waggle 'em. • * * This is to show that you can afford to have warm hands if you want to be wrrm. and to show that you have bc'cu an officah. An extension of thj r . system would result in a man carrying a twenty pound chest of drawers around to demonstrate to the piebs that you didn't use a common pine packing case to keep your duds in. You could also have a pink silk singlet hung round your neck to demonstrate that the one you wore wasn't the only garment you possessed. I'm going to wear my silk socks with crimson "clocks" round my neck to prove that I am not one of those common boundahs who pad around in half-crown woollen hose. If the officah who waggles gloves around on a tropical day sees this paragraph will he kindly hang his best suit on his home railings to demonstrate his marvellous spending power? ® _ &' $ "Old Hand" writes: Apropos of the justice of any soldier of any war in the Government's loan and laud activities. The State handed out 40 acres of land free to Maori war soldiers. —and it was one of the best ideas ever conceived. To give ex-soldiers an inalienable right to a bit of freehold is the best reward he could have. As prior to this war soldiers got no gratuity worth speaking about, what about • coming to light Avith a forty acre gratuity to South African ex-isol-diers—No ?

Mr. Massey having heard from "all oyer New Zealand" that the anti-shouting regulation has been a farce, will probably have it repealed. Politicians pretend that it was a war measure, although the farce was never played until the war was nearly over. The deliberate nonobservance of the regulation merely proved the contention that you can't interfere with bone-deep customs without striking snags. » * * Every man had some, ingenious method of "beating" the regulation, and the only thing that ever happened was for some unfortunate barwoman or b,arman to be deprived of a livelihood while thousands of others escaped. Human beings are creatures of habit. The refresher is the best example of this. He doesn't (as a rule) refresh at all if he can't find someone to refresh with. He haunts not only the same refreshment bureau, but seems hurt if somebody else has his particular spot at the counter when he rolls up for his "spot." It is always curious that the British man buys hardly anything else for his friend or acquaintance except this univer- . sal "spot." * * * He doesn't, for instance, insist on his friend coming and having a spotted tie with him; his pal may go without socks for all the hose he will shout; and one has yet to hear of the acquaintance who will stick one up in the street and say, "I'll shout you a seat "in Church to-mor-row—here's a thrum to put in the plate." How did the shouting custom originate? Well, the swell with a cellar of choice wine and a butler to burrow in the cob webs "shouted" for his guests in his own mansion. The average man hasn't got any mansions, butlers, or cobwebs — but he imitates the squire by asking his friend to share the hospitality of the pub at his expense. Mr.-Mas-sey having heard from all over New Zealand that the regulation is a farce, has not told us whether he has ever broken it himself —but he recently said that politics doesn't pay—and perhaps politicians don't pay either. @> @> @> What shall we do with our boys? An advertisement in an Auckland paper settles the question:— Boy or Youth wanted for Egglaying Competition (Railway Re-. serve), Mt. Albert.—Apply Manager, on ground. An extension of this profession among the youth of this country will help us to scorn the foreign yolk.