POSTSCRIPTS

Evening Post, Volume CXVI, Issue 102, 27 October 1933, Page 6

POSTSCRIPTS

Chronicle and Comment

BY PERCY FLAGE

Mr. Savage: "I know something about shifting pug. I wish I knew haK as much about shifting the Government.^ Baffled pugnacity.

It doesn't seem quite fair to Mars. •The Disarmament Conference ia steadily degenerating into a wordy war of attrition.

And now we present tho Rev. F. J. Bloodgood, an English cleric, who is an active member 'of a London blood transfusion society.

Commenting on the Government reverse at yesterday's by-election ona nowspaper says that East Fulham voted for better houses, not bigger battleships. But nowadays in Europe you cannot b* sure about one without the other.

SILENT AND STRONG?

"Tho strongest mon in history hava ever been silent."—David Lloyd George. That was "years ago. The modern examples "tell the world" without reticence, and grow rich out of the recital.

ABLUTIONARY.

Anna Carman, of New Jersoy, has just been granted a separation because she had to bath her husband every; Saturday night—he disliked tubbing. So, as they have it in the U.S.A., Mr. and Mrs. Carman are "all washed up."

"SCANTIES."

Those Japanese bathing suits sold at 2}d, according to a recent cable, muaf be of the type that; Mary wore— Mary's got a bathing dress. The very latest kind; There isn?t much of it in fr,ont, And rather less behind.

"Q" POLICE CARS.

Scotland Yard, under Lord Trenchard, threatens to make it more and mora difficult for anti-social operators to ear* a dishonest penny. Apart from reorganisation at headquarters there will presently be on the road to cope with car bandits what is called the "Q bus." This model looks much like a. tradesman's ramshackle van that\rattles and bumps along, and will be driven by] a man in a greasy cap and a threadbaro suit to complete the illusion. But beneath the bonnets of this type are new super-tuned eight-cylinder engines developing enormous power and speed. With a touch of the accelerator they; can at any moment burst into an 80 tu.p.h. rate. Behind the drivor, and hidden from the gazo' of the curiousminded, sits a wireless operator listening with earphones to the dot-and-dash messages sont out in code from, th» Yard's transmitter.

"INSULT TO FARMERS."

Flagc,—Apropos Mr. Stuart's burst of righteous indignation in defence of the fanner as an employer of boy labour —let me say my piece. All that the "cookie" type asks of "his young hand from the city is that he -will work the same lJours: as the farmer himself, which means from dawn to dusk. He enjoys as many Sundays off as his "boss"—which is none at all. Eight months ago I barged into tho backbiocks from a city that didn't want nic and tied up with a small "cockie." For my keep and 2s 6d a week I was expected to milk twelve cows morning and night seven days a week, and when the kine were laotealising, grub gorse, or dig drains. As the "boss's" wife was away awaiting tho arrival of the stork, our meals were 80 per ceiit. bread a.nd butter, or bread and jam. My sleeping accommodation would haye been more to my; liking had the bed "linen" been a little less "fragrant'? and its regular tenants less voracious. "The "boss's" faur-poster was in no better fix, but so far as I could gather he didn't seem to mind. He looked at me really; reproachfully when I decided to leave, and I know he thought me utterly uagratefuL ■■ . . NOT FUSSY.

SWEET SOUNDS.

I like to hear the homely kettle hissinf By crackling fire, suggesting cakes and tea; * I like to hear the parrot mimic kissing, And squawk out swear words in such impish glee. I like to hear the happy bell-J>irds singing In camping days, in early morninf hush, As one by one they set the bells a-ring-™g, , And start the magic chorus of tha bush. ■ The air, these days, is full of vagrant noises, They come by gramophone, or wireless wave; 'Tis ghostly strange to hear the golden voices Of those whose lips are silent in th« grave. ' I like to hear the hammer, or the chisel, That tells of busy men at work once more; I love to hear "The Post" boy's cheery; whistle, That brings the "Postscript" column: to niy door. , I think you'll say my jingle is a jangl* Of jarring notes, with not much sens* or rhyme: But such is life—'tis nothing bnt 4 tanglo Of motley things, from simple t(» sublime. PEABLEEN,

WHO'S THIS HEBEWARD?

Dear Fellow-Optimist,—ln a short story written by Jack London appears a quotation from a poem which, quite frankly, I have never seen fully extended—you will know -what I mean. The aforesaid extract is: If she has spoken a word, Remember, thy lips are sealed; And the curse of the Dog be upo« him By whom is the secret revealed. . If there be trouble to Here ward, And a lie of the blackest can dear, Lie, while thy lips can lie,. Or a man is alive to hear. I should like to obtain a copy of th« whole poem, and am appealing to yoii as one who might help me out. I am, enclosing stamp—to be on the safo side, realising the days of toil and trial that have come amongst us. I feel that you won't disappoint me; |my main worry is—who is Herewardt —Yours faithfully, HOEI WAKAIRE. Perhaps one of column S's xeHdcrt will be able to satisfy our correspondent's curiosity.—P.V.