The Wanganui Chronicle. MONDAY, JANUARY 4, 1943. HEGGS IS HEGGS

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 87, Issue 2, 4 January 1943, Page 4

The Wanganui Chronicle. MONDAY, JANUARY 4, 1943. HEGGS IS HEGGS

the famous Mrs. ’Arris said, or would have said had she occasion to do so, or had she lived in Wanganui during the Christinas season that has just slipped into the past, “Heggs is Heggs.” The ordinary commonplace egg, the product of the cackling hen and the waddling duck, is no longer a commonplace. It is a rarity. It is only iu a time of dearth that the value of anything is appreciated. Most husbands, for instance, are not regarded as being particularly valuable pieces of furniture, although they may get an occasional dusting. It is only when one of them gets mislaid or fails to arrive at his assigned destination that his value becomes apparent. Then the agency of the law is set in motion, a great deal of complicated machinery creaks and groans, and such harsh sounds as alimony and divorce and separation rend the air. If only the air were rended it wouldn’t matter so very much, but by the time the misplaced husband has been worked over there isn’t much left of him. It is then that the husband realises that it is cheaper to keep a family than to maintain a steady vice.

Turning back to the subject of Mrs. ’Arris’ Heggs, it may be said they are precisely like husbands. They tend 1 o become scarce in wartime, presumably because the hens are pacifists and all go strutting off to the Taupo district and wear delightful denim suits and spend their days seeing that they do nothing very useful for conscience sake. The scarceness of eggs, or the presence of pacifism seems to be the outcome of Nature operating under wartime conditions, for what patriotically-minded Buff Orpington would desert his country in its hour of need if he were not chicken, hearted? Surely Lady Orpington is not to be blamed for the condition of her heart, seeing that Nature, and not she, made it the way it is.

Eggs are like husbands, too, in that if they are left alone for any length of time they tend to deteriorate. Why an egg should be spoken of as high when it goes down in condition is one of the mysteries of the kitchen which has not, as yet, beqn revealed. At one time the high egg was saved up for the high personage when he appeared on the platform to save the country from going to the dogs. The high egg was a sort of stimulus to low comedy when narrow minds were confronted with broad issues, such as providing a square deal all round. What effect upon public life has been exercised by the egg has not yet been investigated by historians, but it is probably the most fruitful field. It has provided the overworked statesman with indigestion; it has provided the overwrought audience with a diversion, and on occasion it has regaled the average man with an easily-cooked tea when his wife was playing Mah Jong with a very dear friend. But, alas, all these things are as yesterday, for now there are no eggs. “What! No eggs?” was a familiar slogan for a custard advertisement years and years ago in the piping days of peace. But now it is not the chicken but the, man who asks that question, and not of the chicken, but of the Government. Some two years ago Mr. William Polson, by the exercise of a prophetic vision, realised that unless something was done about it there was going to be a shortage of eggs in New Zealand. So he went on a pilgrimage with his loins girded and his staff in his hand, although he didn’t go so far as to adorn himself in sackcloth. In this pilgrimage he egged on the farmers to increase their poultry. The farmel's responded, but despite the praise bestowed upon Mr. Polson by the Standard—and he has never been the same man since—nothing was done to provide the farmers with chicken feed. That the farmers felt fooled on this subject didn’t matter very much. But after two years something really had to be done. So someone constructed what was called an egg floor in Wanganui. Presumably this was for the purpose of encouraging the hens to lay by numbers with a drill sergeant to instruct them in accordance with King’s Regulations on the subject—see paragraph 221, subsection L. But still there are no eggs to be found on the floor, Here is a sorry pass. 'What is to be done about it? Well, we have the time-honoured precedent. Let the Government take over the control of egg production and let Mr. Patrick Charles Webb be in constant attendance on tlie egg floor and take off his hat to every hen that lays an egg. The miners have been so encouraged by Mr. Webb constantly “dipping his lid” that they have, increased the output of coal, so if the hens are properly handled their pride might be enlisted and they might be induced by the aid of unrestricted travel on the railways to attend regularly at the egg floor and increase the egg output to an all-time high. What is expected is a high output of low eggs. That point must be made clear. It. should also be emphasised that no eggs should be aimed at Mr. Webb’s beatific countenance when he raises his hat.