Bits from the “Bulletin."

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XL, Issue 16, 15 April 1908, Page 14

Bits from the “Bulletin."

Anderson, of Sydney, the Six Imported Hatters num, is now pursuing at law three Imported Hatters, who, he claims, left his employment without due notice. Truly, over-much Hatter will yet drive Australia mad. <»s►<?► Australia has secured another record, a coop of six South Australian hens having wiped out all competitors by laying 1,531 eggs in the year. This is another demonstration of our enormous resources. It leaves Australia with no possible excuse for neglecting to drive several conspicuous gentlemen out of politics. A remnant of aboriginal royalty 1 pit t in an appearance at the Milton (N.S.W.) show last week. Maria, who is a queen thereabouts, is now, allegedly, 90 years of age. and to visit the show she walked barefoot from Ulladulla (Holey Dollar of old), a distance of four miles. Her Majesty enjoys excellent health, notwithstanding her age. Her subjects have dwindled down to a round dozen, and give little trouble. When Maria refuses her royal assent to a Bill, it just drops. <•“<!»<•> The microbe of truth urges its host to unexpected declarations at times. For example: At a Sydney court, the other day, a woman, defendant was asked by the cross-examining sergeant, “Weren’t you fined £3O for sly-grog selling?’’ “No" (indignantly). “Was it £6O then?” “Certainly not.” “Well, were you fined at. all?” Then proudly came the response, “I was—l was fined a hundred pounds!” Yet that woman had probably never heard of the ancient yarn about the late Henry Parkes who, when twitted at. an immigration meeting in England with being paid £l,OOO per year to entice people to Australia, roared indignantly that the charge was a lie, “For Hi ham getting fifteen ’undred!” A wail from the far-off bride: “The little vessel that runs on the coast of the Kimberley (W.A.) district landed me, my three days’ husband, and, as I thought, all my baggage at my new home —such a desolate spot—and went on its way round the'coast. The box I thought was mine contained naught but a Bible, a pair of trousers, ami a coil of rope! 1 had absolutely nothing of my trousseau but the clothes I travelled in, and as it will be two months before we again see the vessel, I’ll have to cut a dash in the trousers, or wear the rope and carry the Bible.” Maoriland treated its Rumfords royally. But Auckland got a sad set-back. Crossing from Sydney, the Butterfly Impressario wired, “leaving by boat.” Auckland got out its brass band, its reception committee, its choirs of girls; it laid red carpet on the wharf, and smiled a smile like the entrance to Hauraki Gulf. Reporters rushed the incoming boat, and found one poor modest advance agent, who had failed to impart the fact that Butts were .to follow in the next steamer. The offender sneaked off the boat by the back stairs, and concealed himself from ah outraged populace, while a wail floated over the harbour city. The Earl of Dudley, Australia’s future Governor-General, arrived in Ireland as Lord-Lieutenant, a while back, a staunch Unionist. A year’s personal experience of the needs of the country turned him into a Wyndhamite Devolutionist, or advocate of Irish self-government by instalments—which is to say, in plain terms, a Home Ruler. (As Tariff' Reform is to Protection in England, the land of deceiving phrases which deceive not, so is Devolution to Home Rule.) The brilliant Wyndham—who, till he accepted, in an evil hour for his party, the Irish portfolio, was the most fervent of Tory Unionist* —’verted to Devolution shortly after he got the <q>|H>rtunity to address his mind seriously to Irish affairs. W hereupon he was forced to resign, and has since been, more or less of an outcast from Conservatism. The. fact that Dudley is known to have had thoughts of his own marks him out, to some extent, from the generality of Governors.

1 have just heard a joke about a bos pita! matron who controls an institution in a M.L. township where the patients never die; they just grow old in the wards. There is no Home for the Aged Needy, so the local hospital takes its place. The matron was called on to separate two combatants, one aged 94 and the other 86. The rascals got fighting over a religious |>oint. I believe the matron slapped them well, gave them some sulphur and treacle, and sent them to bed without any supper. ■»<s►«> Loyal L. Wirt, the cute Yankee Congreggtionalists, who wrestled with sin at Newcastle (N.S.W.), and afterwards at Brisbane, and threw up the latter job for reasons not unconnected with the infrequency of the dollar, has resumed business at Harrow-on-the-Hill, near London. As the show he is now running has about. £15,000 in hand for a new church, hall and parsonage, it is evident that Loyal L. is now wrestling with a substantial stake put up. <»•«>«► Miss Maggie McKinnon, a scholar at the Presbyterian Sabbath School, .Marrickville, has the rare and unspeakably dismal record of having, with the exception of one solitary Sabbath (which stands out like a bright oasis in a desert), an unbroken record of attendance at Sunday-school during the past 10 years. On the one occasion referred to her absence was due to illness. It seems almost a marvel that tae poor kid, in her intense desire to preserve her record of .ceaseless attendance, didn’t get herself carried to the Sunday-school premises on a shutter on the memorable occasion above hinted at. <£<?><?► “Boh” sends this tale of her household troubles: We have a new maid. Her name is Vere. To pronounce it properly, you must open your mouth like a young magpie demanding his counter-lunch. She told us when she came that her family had seen better days—that was. of course; before she disgraced them by taking a decent job. Vere has learnt elocution, and intones the order to the butcher. Also, when she shyly mentions —which she does about seven times a week—that she won’t be home until black midnight, she speaks in a “Heaven-has-heard-me-you-cannot-iiarni-me no'v ” voice that makes one ashamed to sniff at the old excuse about going tb see mother. Our maid leads a double life. When she condescends to do bur work she wears her hair up. ■When she takes her five-shillings-a-quar-ter accent out for an airing, her hair comes down, and yards of tan limbs propel our Vere round the corner. There “Mother” awaits her, clad in a suit of checks loud enough to stop a German band, and a tie that is an outrage, and smoking a cigarette that ought to be put out by a. fire-hose. This apparition is greeted with' Vere’s “Curfew shall-not-ring-to-night” voice, and she inquires in her “chest” tones whether the cold suffered from is bettali. Then they fade into the landscape, leaving a faint odour of vile tobacco and “butterfly” scent on the tired summer breeze. «><s><?> A speaker at the Sydney Women’s Patriotic League last week suggested that, as men were addicted to striking, they might lie brought to their senses by all the womeq in the community doing the same as a matter of retaliation. The ferry deekS are all deserted; There is but sand on Manly Beach; The parks where couples larked and ■flirted Blank in the frozen moonlight bleach; Triumphant rings the laughter raucous Of Judkins, Ardill and the like; 'The Women’s Vnion’s met in caucus, And all the girls arc out on strike. Of all the labour wars that vex us. None came our way like this la-fore; Tiro blow Inis caught our solar plexus And left us gasping on the floor. Before the union's interJTHion No fair free labour dares to flirt; No blackleg cheers our deep affliction And wayes at us a lacy skirt.