SPINDRIFT.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 16820, 24 August 1922, Page 6

SPINDRIFT.

Readers are invited to send in original topical paragraphs or verses for this column, which is a daily feature of the " Star." Accepted contributions should be cut out by the writers and forwarded to the_ Editor, who will remit the amounts A prohibitionist in the course of an address admitted that there were several passable hotels in Christchurch. But then of course they have no temptation for him. Some people find them very hard to pass. » m w “ Sugar Agent Mollasses a Fortune.” There is truth in that headline. “ Out of Bed Early.” Name of the alarm clock please. The man who takes a bath a. day in theory usuaßv works it out about once a week in practice. We, the most intelligent, the most highly educated race on earth. . . .vide several M.P.’s .... don’t average a bath a week these cold days. It’s a. Saturday Night’s ceremony for most of us with plenty of “ skips” in between. Somebody ought to start a hath boost, “ a bath a day keeps the doctor away” kind of thing. Soap manufacturers might he induced to assist, for such a campaign would help along the sales of their wares. I give this advice for what it is worth, but there are no fees necessary. THE RAIN. I wish they’d stop the awful rain—it makes me swear and curse again—it damps my spirits and my soul till I am fairly up the pole. The farmers think it’s quite all right, for it will make the pastures bright and send the grass up fathoms high, but to the public they will sigh and being such a doleful lot they’ll say it’s sent their land to pot. The motors in the muddy streets splash slushy mixtures on ray feet. The girls in dingy clothing clad depress the eye and make one sad. The traffic cop wears cape and gloves, and though his little job he loves, obscured are both his chiefest charms-—the waving glories of his arms. Malevolent old dames with gamps attempt to poke out both my lamps. Old-aged verandahs rain don’t check, so I get water down my neck. The whole dashed world is cold and wet—l know that’s bad enough, but yet what makes me mad and gets my goat is that the girl on whom I dote, when we walked homeward in the wet reluctantly expressed regret—cruel stoushing of a bitter fate —we could not linger at the gate. Betty Bronson was pretty but shy With a fugitive look in her eye. When the young fellows gushed She just stammered and blushed. And she rarely could make a reply. In the end they all voted her slow And to some other girls they would go, For a maid to succeed Must show plenty of speed ; All the Johnnies expect it you know. Billy Burrows thought quite the reverse And he said: “Too much talk is a curse. Dittle Betty I’ll wed And have silence instead, Yes, T might do a jolly sight worse.”

So he wooed her and won her consent, And with joy to their new home they went; But to Billy’s dismay She now chatters all day. And with silence is never content. For the floodgates are opened at last, All the talk she has missed in the past Now pours out in a stream That has shattered Bill’s dream, And he just sits a.nd listens aghast. There’s a moral this tale to commend: ’Tis that marriage with reason won’t blend. It has long had the name Of a lottery game. And so it will stay to thb end. A NEAR TRAGEDY. The man eh rank down into his chair appalled at his awful position. His wife faced him across the table. She raised her eyes in question, but he did not answer, so elie raised her eyes still further. Then she lowered them, and, in the awful silence that enveloped the room like a funeral pall, ho fancied he heard those eyes click as they returned to their normal position. His throat was parched ; his breath came and went. Again she raised her eyes to their highest limit. “ What are you going to do?” she demanded coldly. He did not answer- His throat was still parched, but hie breath had reversed; it now went and came. Watching her eyes rising and falling like the mercury in a, West Coast barometer he knew that he could not postpone the decision much longer ; but he well knew the awful consequences that awaited him if that decision did not satisfy her. Only one thing prevented his hair from turning grey under the terrible strain ; Me was bald. At last his voice broke hoarsely from his ashen lips and shattered the silence into a million fragments that littered the whole room. “ I leave it to you, partner,” he said. “Hearts!” she cried triumphantly, and as he watched her lay down her hand he knew that his doom had been averted, and he wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead and put them in his pocket. UNDER THE ODD UMBRELLA.

The pessimists are grumbling now— The while they stroke their fevered brow, And humbly to the old Clerk bow — About the beastly weather. you’ll always find that they’ll complain, For when it’s dry they cry for rain, And when its wet they growl again, And say a flood is threatening. But still, somehow, I sometime*, find The rain is really truly kind.— And I can’t say X truly mind— Beneath the old umbrella. For though the skies are grey, not blue, I always know inst what to do There’s only room enough for two, Beneath the old umbrella. And when we reach the little gate, I don’t glance round and hesitate. But kiss her ere it gets too late Beneath the old umbrella. And when the skies are blue, not grey, And all the world is glad and gay— For other rainy days X pray, Beneath the old umbrella. The pessimist* may growl and groan. But rainy days I claim my own— What hours of bliss and ioy I’ve known. Beneath that old umbrella ! SAYS THE ADVERTISING MAN: A constant drop of water Fears away the barde.st. stone. The constant gnawing terrier Masticates the toughest bone : The constant cooing lover Carries off the blushing maid. And the constant advertiser Is til., one that gets the trade. SINBAD