CY THE WAY

Evening Star, Issue 22146, 28 September 1935, Page 2

CY THE WAY

[By X.Y.]

“ Thr lime h.is come, ‘ rho Walrus said, ‘ To LiJJi of many things. ’* One who doubtless regards himseii is a sage remarked in our hearing the oilier day, “ As long ns there is human nature there will be war.” Not being acquainted with the speaker, we did not comment on his statement, but merely drifted away on our premeditated course, pondering. “ As long as there is human nature there will always be war.” This is by no means an original kind of remark. In the Stone Age it is certain that some skin-clad gentleman, all puffed up with his little ideas on philosophy, said “As long as there is human nature men will continue to club each other to death over trifles.” Later on in history some wiseacre of the times has surely given it as his opinion that “As Hong as there is human nature people will believe in witchcraft and sorcery,” or “-As long as there is human nature there will be serfs.” And so on.

Personally, we are hopeful enough to think that, even if the League of Nations, rendered less potent than is desirable because of limited membership, fails to heal the breach between Italy and Abyssinia, it will eventually become established as an international court of whose judgments will .not be treated lightly. As an instance of the manner in which human beings can be won over to the principles _of arbitration, one has only to mention our own Maoris. Time was when tribal battles appeared to provide the spice of life. Now the Maoris are quite content to fight out their troubles before a pakeha judge or magistrate. Indeed, it is said that Maoris dearly love a court case. .They will travel, miles to hear one in which any of their kith and kin are engaged. Now, a system that is good enough for the Maoris should be good enough for any fire-eating foreigners. There is not the slightest doubt hut that an international court of law would provide all tho scope for argument that is necessary to satisfy human requirements. The Mechanical and Cocktail Age may have its disadvantages, but we do think that the world' is improving. In the near future there will be a still wider recognition of the need for _a closer alliance between tho adjective “human” and the adjective “ humane.” t # « * « Mr Newman, a, Buckinghamshire stockbroker, refused the usual sobriety tests for motorists, and proved himself sober by standing on his head and drinking a glass of water.—Cable. A The chap who drives the King’s highway And Wakes the wayside dusty, Should always be, 1 beg to say— , Both capable and trusty. He should not travel to the deuce By too enthusiastic use Of whisky, beer, or porter; No driver is a sober man And fit to drive, unless he can Stand south end up And drink a cup Of undiluted water. Perhaps a tipsy driver might, In spite of his confusion, Pronounce “ a braw, bricht, moonlicht nicht ” Or “British Constitution.” But, oh! he’d find it troublesome To stand upon his cranium A longer time or shorter, While traffic cops with faces grim Stood round about, exhorting liim Both then and there, i With feet in air, To drink a glass of water.

A man who’s well and truly tight Might walk, or run, or toddle; But, oh! ho couldn’t stand upright Upon a giddy noddle. (Though saying “ upright ” seems absurd When “ downright ” is the proper word.) No chronic pub-resorter, By any happy circumstance, Would ever have the slightest chance Of standing down Upon his crown To drink a glass of water. [ But all the same, it makes me think--However well-intended ' The test—could any fellow drink The stuff while thus upended? Without considerable force It might pursue a downward course, And reach another quarter, Proceeding like a common drain, To give him water-on-the-brain— A sad mishap For any chap Who drinks a glass of water.

And so I hope our “ cops ” won’t try The test devised by Newman, A chap who must have been, say I, A trifle superhuriian. But if they do I, hope my friends Keep sober till their journey ends, As any driver oughter. For water, taken m reverse, Is bad as rum and ten times worse. A glass per head Might kill them dead, Though full of harmless water.

Let us cheer with the rest over Otago’s popular Rugby win against Canterbury last Saturday. There is no reason why Otago should not accept her share of responsibility' for the safe custody of the Ranfurly Shield and be faced with the variety of problems which other provinces have learned to associate with its retention or with the attempts to retain it. We feel that our Rugby legislators, stout-hearted men one and all, will be quite prepared to face an exciting future, and, for once in a while, play the role of the hunted. . As a matter of fact, we have a feeling that in Dunedin we shall not now hear so many derogatory remarks about this much-discussed trophy. Had we the artistic ability of a Bateman, we would glory in drawing a sketch en-

illcd. say, ‘ The Rugby Union Menier Who Moved That the “ Log of .Vood ” be Thrown Into the Sea.’ * ♦ ♦ * At last Fleet street is getting to '.enow its Bernard Shaw. A London writer states that Shavian interviews are no longer as popular as they once were, one of the main reasons being that readers are growing weary of - a type of wit which has become trite and commonplace through Mr Shaw’s slavish adherence to it. Further evidence of this decline in popularity is indicated in a tilt which Nathaniel Gubbins, of the ‘ Sunday Express,’ has had at G.B.S. Mr, Gubbins draws attention to an extract from a typical Shavian interview, and then asks with whimsical pathos when and why he should laugh. Here is the extract: “ However, Mr Bernard Shaw said after having chuckled a little, ‘I do- know that my new play is a modern comedy, is called “ Millionairess,” and will be produced in London during the coming autumn or winter season.’ ” We sympathise with Mr Gubbins in his puzzlement. But nevertheless it should be clear to everybody by noweven to those of us who dwell far away from the literary centres —that “ chuckles ” and “ twinkles in the eye ” are all part of Mr Shawls publicity campaign. He sometimes warns his interviewers of impending humour by chuckling before he has spoken a word. And a twinkle in the eye is, of course, sufficient to sustain the- fun from beginning to end._ Strictly speaking, we should not criticise G.B.S. We should he grateful to him for allowing his mannerisms to supply the key to some of his brilliance. . Herr Hitler, they say, is a man of many “ doubles.” We do hot mean to infer that he travels all over Germany seeking out punters who are prepared to consider the fortune-making possibilities of betting charts. Herr Hitler neither smokes nor drinks, and it is probable that he never gambles. The “ doubles ” in question are really human beings, fellow-countrymen of Hitler, -whose stature and physiognomy closely resemble those of their chief/ Whenever the Nazi leader does not feel like being assassinated he sends one of his doubles out into the cold, hard world to risk the bullets of the malcontents. It is said that there are now so many imitation Hitlers in Germany that the revolutionary marksmen are at a loss to identify the real thing. Therefore their trigger fingers are. stilled. However, the day may come when some crazy political assassin; wjll risk his life for the sake of a pot shot. And Herr Hitler in the flesh may be at the uncomfortable end of the gun. In that case there would be a chance for Charlie Chaplin to become leader of the Nazi party. Heil! Charles Chaplin!

Most of us, when we feel the need of an iron tonic, take our medicine in the good old-fashioned way—out of ' a glass. True, the stuff may taste like rusty iron or steel, but we are sincere in the belief that it is more easily assimilated as a liquid than in the form of screws, nails, and knives—a diet for which, according to a cabled message from abroad, an amazing Londoner seems to have a distinct pairtiality. Still, it is remarkable what some people will swallow. _ There will bo evidence of this during that dreadful period ’twixt parliamentary session and election day, when all manner of rash statements and promises will bo concocted on the hustings, and digested by gullible electors. If it were possible to analyse the mind of the average elector at the end of the campaign, perhaps the achievements of London’s champion swallower would not be so noteworthy after all. « « « • A true story, with its setting laid in a small seaside store not 20 miles away from Dunedin: — While several residents and visitors were passing a few minutes away in conversation with the storekeeper a local man rushed in, and, maintaining an air of portentous secrecy, leaned over the counter and made a subdued but agitated appeal for spirits. As the man himself seemed hale and hearty the bystanders naturally concluded that somebody very near and dear to him had been smitten with a sudden illness. While the obliging storekeeper hastened away for the “ necessary ”, the. applicant for succour was the object- of much solicitous inquiry, the tension being relieved only when he explained that a dog had chased his cat into the creek and had nearly drowned it. “ Gosh,” muttered the village wag. “,1 wish some bloomin’ dog would chase me into the creek.” * * » • The grass was adequately green; ' The sky approximately blue; The air a sort of happy mean, A prudent compromise between The Bay of Whales and Timbuctoo. I toddled down to work at eight—(Man’s ancient curse—it must be so) With outwardly prosaic gait, But inwardly inebriate And oscillating to and fro. There’s something in the air of spring, A subtle sort of you-know-what, Which'makes a man inclined to fling His legs about, and jump, and sing, ■, Though, visibly, he does it not. And yet, a casual passer-by Would obviously never guess That such a sober stodge as I Was all a-bubble, heavens high, With undiluted friskiness. Excepting just a tune or two ' I hummed (pp) while plodding on—r Some simple little airs 1 knew, From ‘Springtime in the Rockies ’ to That little thing by, Mendelssohn. But then, alas, alack-a-day! I met a fellow I detest, Because ho has a nasty wqy — When other chaps are feeling gay— Of making everyone depressed. He didn’t know the sun was bright; He didn’t see the daffodils; Ho only made some stale and trite Remarks about a frosty night, And influenza germs and chills. He prophesied another war Before the present year was out, A slump—more deadly than beforeWith unemployment more and more, And, possibly, a drought. And then he spoke of politics— The Budgetary plans of Coates, As worth approximately “nix”; Concessions merely being tricks To catch so many thousand votes. So all was bad as bad could be, Intolerable, burdensome, Because the fellow couldn’t see What seemed so obvious to me, The simple fact that Spring had come. Our roads divided thereabout. He went his way and I went’mine. The air grew mild, the sun came out, The cherry-flowers began tft sprout, And all the town began to shine.