BY THE WIT

Evening Star, Issue 22448, 19 September 1936, Page 2

BY THE WIT

[By X.Y.]

“ The li.ne has come, " Ihc Walrus said. To talk ol uany things." There has been a time in the lives of most of us when the prospect of a defeat for the All Blacks was something too awful to contemplate. And when ni actual fact defeat did come their way it was regarded as a happening nothing short of calamitous. However, sentiments change with age. As the years roll on and the All Blacks, despite occasional set-backs, continue to have a good conceit of themselves, we begin to harbour traitorous thoughts that after all a defeat would not do our footballers any harm. At first we do not voice these ideas openly, lest we come to bodily harm at the hands of those who suffer fromj.fabid All Blackitis and who have not yet attained a more mature and international outlook. The _ next stage 'finds us becoming confident in the discovery' that our views are shared by one or 'two others. We grow bolder and venture to express ourselves in public. Finally, we are not ashamed to declare openly and in loud voice: “ Plenty of good lickings will do us good!”

♦ * * * This sort of thing works very well until wo find ourselves present at a game in which the All Blacks are playing. Then somehow or other, the old feeling of patriotism surges to the surface, and when wo see members of visiting teams charging through the black ranks we begin to feel that all is not well with the world. Why on earth don’t our fellows get a move on and catch up on the blighters’ score? Come on, you forwards! If only the Otago pack were there cn bloc! (Here we have patriotism run riot.) Wo applaud the visitors’ scoring movements, but, needless to add, full acclamatory joy is lacking, and we live for the moment when wo can raise an arm aloft from the dense crowd in a kind of Fascist salute in approbation of a score to New Zealand and yell anything that makes a big noise. Oh, yes, it is great fun, this football—especially when the home side is winning. Parochial, perhaps—hut, dash it, aren’t we all? ♦ * » « The winter-time was cold and wet, Quite cold enough to freeze My very marrow-bones —and yet 1 couldn’t raise a sneeze. I felt too fit _ And well to sit In slippers by the fire, Or use quinine Or aspirin To make myself perspire. I swaggered to my work each day, Offensively alert; My fellow-workers, by the way, Were positively hurt To think that I Should be so spry While they—unlucky folk— Condemned by, fate, Must punctuate Their work by cough and choke. They hated me—l’m sure they did—--1 Those germ-infested things. My very fitness put the lid Upon their sufferings. So, free from ’flu, The winter through, Untroubled by catarrh, The' life I led, - (It must be said) Was scarcely popular. The spring arrived, for spring was due, The leaves and flowers came forth; The wind arrived likewise, and blew' East,. west, and south, and north, , One day was fine, The sun would shine Throe hours, or maybe four; Then—dash it all! There’d come a squall, And everything would pour. Blow' dry, blow wet, blow high, blow low', Blow, cold, and then blow’ hot; No furry, greasy Eskimo Could dodge the cold I got. In May and June I felt immune; In August I was free; But when I dreamt I was exempt, September settled me! • * » * Australians in sport have not met with much success this year. Their lawn tennis players failed to lift the Davis Cup. Their Olympic representatives were 'mainly among the “ also starteds.” Two New Zealand entrants fought out the final of the ladies’ golf championship. The English Rugby Legaue tourists carried off the major honours in the course of their itinerary, and now the All Blacks have captured the Bledisloe Cup. But that is not to say that the Aussies will be downhearted. It is not their style at all. Past defeats will he forgotten in the preparations for “next time” and in anticipation of fighting out the destiny of the cricket ashes against the English team now on the water. As compared with their enthusiasm for Rugby, New Zealanders may be lukewarm about cricket. European countries other than England may ignore it and continue to live in darkness and the fear of war, and America, favouring a game called baseball, a modified version of which we Britishers gave up when we reached an adolescent age. may scoff openly about “ the beautiful game with the beautiful name.” But in Australia millions of people will feci that the season has been a gloriously happy one if their eleven can triumph against the formidable Englishmen in the test matches. It is a great thing to be a cricket-lov-ing country.

I had lunch in town last , Saturday. The restaurant was crowded, and the poor waitresses were fitting here and there at great speed. In an effort to bo sympathetic 1 remarked to the overworked damsel who was attending to the table at which I sat: “ Pretty busy, eh? You’ll be glad to see the last of us.” Quoth she; “I’ll say!” ’ Now at this I must confess to a feeling akin to shock. If the girl had remained loyal to our own colonial slang and been content with “ Too right! ”

the jolt would not have been so painful. 1 could even have overlooked “.Bet yer life! ” But it is distressing to think that Vmerican slang, as learned from the motion picture screen, should be making such inroads into our vocabulary. Nobody can have any special objection to Americans making use of their own slang expressions, many of which are to the point and some of which are actually picturesque. But coming from British people they sound peculiarly offensive, not perhaps because they are what they are but rather because of the first-hand evidence they supply that we are becoming copyists and are subordinating our individuality to the American influence. I hear that even in Great Britain the educationists have been' given reason to protest at this same kind of development. It is, difficult. to determine how a corrective is to be applied, but I understand that in London steps are being taken in the schools to find one. Wo should wish the authorities there every success and hope that their example will be followed in New Zealand before this “ I’ll say ” and “ O.K ” epidemic gains further ground.

Several months ago I mentioned in this cplumn that a youthful black cat had been introduced into the “ X.Y.” home. It settled down very comfortably and altogether gave very indication that if there is any good luck associated with black cats then it is the cats which have all the luck. The tenor of life in the house has gone on just as before, excepting for the fact that a good deal of attention has had to be paid to the feline member. As the animal grows its appetite increases. We have not been ungenerous. Special meat has had to be purchased to satisfy it, and no doubt its coming has had at least something to do with the extra milk that was ordered recently. An occasional mouse has been added to its diet, and I regret to report that the other day, revealing an activity suggesting a complete reversal of form, it managed to catch a bird—a pretty little yellow thing whose demise caused grief and a slump in the popularity of the marauder. There is no doubt that the cat is frightening the birds which frequent out semi-rural part of the city. Therefore plans are afoot for its departure hence. Relatives and friends tentatively approached in re possible transfer have been slow to respond. One family, does not like cats and says so in a manner that will brook no persistent attempts at persuasion. Another has a dog which does not like cats. And so on. At last I come to the point. If anybody wants a nice, clean black cat with a healthy appetite and an aptitude for hunting, with, possibly, a certain good influence over art union tickets, ho or she might please drop me a line and oblige, etc., etc.

It seems incongruous that Sir William Gilbert, librettist in the famous Gilbert and Sullivan comic opera partnership, should ever have had personal association with the world of speeding motorists. Yet, according to one biography of his life and achievements, he was towards the close of his career a magistrate with strong anti-speed hog notions and one who had a neat conception of how to “ make the punishment fit the crime.” His heavy fines became a byword—so much so that apprehensive drivers would travel by circuitous routes rather than give offence in the area over which his court held sway. One day a superior person who obviously thought himself immune from bylaws, “ made for chauffeurs and so forth,” was hailed before the creator of the ‘ Mikado ’ libretto, . He was fined £5. “Had you been a gentleman,” remarked Sir William, “ I should have fined you £10.” In the circumstances it may have been the £5 he did not have to pay that hurt this individual most. • • • • Now George O’Donohue M'Grath Was fired with wild ambition. To emulate Methuselah Was George’s special mission. And, brooding on life’s tragic brevity, He sought to cultivate longevity. So, guided by the truly wise, With, due deliberation, He took a course of exercise In strictest moderation; For, undertaken injudiciously. Such feats affect the system viciously. He scorned the gross delights of meat, As carnal, and material ; Preferring, for his health, to eat The nut and loaf and cereal. Methuselah, that millenarian, He held to be a vegetarian. Tobacco, root and branch (and loaf), He barred with holy rigour. Considering that plant a thief Of human strength and vigour. (Sir Walter, whom tradition blames for it Was executed by King James for it). All beverages with a “ kick ” Were simply out of question. Tea. coffee, cocoa, had a trick _Of causing indigestion; While gassy drinks, diverse and various, Were absolutely deleterious. So George devoured his Spartan fare, Till every undertaker Was contemplating with despair This earnest record-breaker. And speculating apprehensively If folk would follow him extensively. But people merely grinned and said: “ Our lives may well be shorter, But still, we’d just as soon be dead As live on nuts and water, If that’s the price he has to pay for it, Wo haven’t very much to say for it.” So George, of course, remained alive, _ And never thought of dying Until, when he was sixty-five, A lorry knocked him flying; And all the mortal frame he cherished so At last ingloriously perished so!