THE PASSING SHOW.

Auckland Star, Volume LIX, Issue 239, 9 October 1928, Page 6

THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.)

Our vivacious allies the French might be amused with a line or two in a recent Auckland theatrical programme. Thus: "Miss is alwavs dressed on and JOURNAL off the stage by , 374, AMUSANT. Rue Street, Honore, Paris." This quaint error opens up the question as to whether one should ever use a contraction. Why should you write "St." when it may mean either "Street" or "Saint '? Other needless contractions suggest that life is far too short to spell "Master" or "Mistress" out, and we continue to write them '"Mr." and "Mrs." The Rue St. Honore in Paris, by the way, is one of the celebrated streets from which the voice of the arbiter of fashion gives orders to the fashion world. And the arbiter-in-chief is nearly always an "M." and infrequently an "Mme." In America, where everybody is so awfully equal, science has rendered it unnecessary for the lady in the car to descend among the vulgar herd of pedesA MOVING FEAST, trians even when shopping. A great store has a car runway down which the unguided auto slowly proceeds. On the left of the car are ranged revolving shelves containing many kinds of foods. The lady snatches what she wants as the car proceeds. At the end of the dinery there is a turntable on which the car is automatically guided into the up track, which is lined with goods. The lady, who, it may be conceived, is still engulfing eggs and bacon as she changes direction, shouts her orders on the move between mouthfuls and is passed on at the street end to the cash desk with a bill in one hand, a sandwich in the other and a earful of goods. Of course, pedestrians are not permitted on this runway. My lady is only allowed her morning kill when she arrives in the street still grasping a corn pone, fried chicken or a Thanksgiving cookie. Sam calls the new device the "Automarket."

This is the time of year when, after a sunny day or so, you say to your smallholding friend, "Lovely day! Fine weather, isn't it?" and he looks darkly up THE at the fleckless sky and MUSTARD SEED, says, "Huh, well be usin' the hose before the week's out." It makes one wonder what might happen if everybody could order his own weather. When it's dry people who are not in the habit of making orisons pray for rain, and when it rains for forty days and forty nights there are universal petitions for cessation. Last year when there was a small drought on many peoplo prayed that predestined meteorological conditions might be rearranged for them, and in a country church a congregation gathered for this purpose. The clergyman was an astute man, and, glancing at his congregation, he said: "Friends, we are gathered together to-day to pray for rain. The foundations of religion are faith. Where is your own faith? There is not a single umbrella iu the church." You will have observed that the Prince of Wales gripped the paramount chiefs at Xairobi to him with hooks of steel by talking to them in Kiswahili, THE ABORIGINAL which sounds like a series MIND. of clicks, sucks and hisses. It appears H.R.H. learned this language while on the boat. M.A.T. once met a man who "got on very well with the blackfellows of Queensland because he knew their language." M.A.T. heard him doing it at a mission station. "Jackie, you go alongem budgeree creek and fetchem two fella boomerang; by cripes. I givem you a white fella penny." The mission black replied: "Sir, lam not excessively familiar with the pidgin Euglish in which you are pleased to make a request. Do I understand that you wish me to proceed to the blacks' camp at* the billabong and there induce my relatives to sell you some boomerangs?" "There, what did I tell you?" exploded the white fellow. "Easy as falling off a log, when you understand the aboriginal mind!" A Xew Zealand bowler who has returned with his globe-trotting companions makes the remark that bowls is more of a hobby than a business in the Old CUT GLASS. Country. Others have mentioned that overseas games are more like games and not so much like war. In the matter of bowls in Xew Zealand the businesslike aspect is the more excusable because so many of the addicts are gentlemen who, after a hard life of business, begin playing a game for the first time in their advancing age. You can't expect hard-headed business men to slough off the coat of commerce for a mere game, and all the keenness of a deal enters into the pastime. There is one aspect of bowls that gives it superiority over every other game. There are apparently no professional bowlers, and nobody ever gives an octogenarian a job because he can draw well or drive well. Still, the idea of playing bowls just for a pastime remains anathema to many local addicts, who pursue the game per lip and per gesture from sunny morn till' dewy eve, yesterday, to-day and forever. A game of bowls (either wood or pewter) has made lifelong friendships and smashed many others. A little disagreement over a score led to a sad rupture between two ancient friends, who thereafter glared at each other as they passed and almost hissed when they met. The rupture was so serious that when the daughter of the one announced that she loved the son of the other there was acute joint parental objection. Love finds a way, however, and the young people married. And the father of the bridegroom, something young stirring in his heart, sent the bride a pair of cut-glass bowls! And the two old fellows now roll 'em up (the woods, not the glasses) in re-established amity.

Old hands will remember with gratitude John Tunbridge, who was once Commissioner of Police in New Zealand, and who, barring Mr. Dinuie, was the last POLICE! imported Commissioner, although their predecessors and successors have usually been men born out of New Zealand. Mr. Tunbridge was the beau ideal aristocratic detective of fiction, tall, debonair, quiet and efficient. Mr. Tunbridge's one idea in life seemed to be to escape notice. It is possible he never wore a uniform while in New Zealand, and he certainly did not advertise. Those who remember the handsome Scotland Yard man will remember his predecessor, Colonel Hume, whose son, Major Hume, commanded the New Zealand Artillery for so long, and another son of whom «ave all he had to give at Gallipoli. The old%olonel was of the type of the army martinet, although he had a soft side, and no one looking at his Indian summer complexion and his rugged jaw would take liberties with him. has had every sort and type of Commissioner, the mildest perhaps being John O'Donovan' and the quietest Mr. Wright. Tunbridge will be the longest remembered, for he thought hard for policemen and their old age and accomplished much. He is perhaps the best friend the Civil Service ever had, as the general superannuation scheme was based on his police provident fund idea. CHAOTICS. And the lady's name is Inez mansew aids Miss New Zealand. Everyone is talking about Eeelllsir. A THOUGHT FOR TO-DAY. It ain't no use to grumble and complain* It's just as cheap and easy to rejoice: "lit? sorts out the weather and sends rain Why, rain s my choice. —James Whitcomb Riley.