By the Way

Evening Star, Issue 23681, 14 September 1940, Page 3

By the Way

(By X.Y.)

When bombers fly across the sea, On devastation bent, And drop their cargoes here and there Upon the Continent, They always save a kilogramme (Or thereabouts) to batter Hamm. They scatter blastings on the Ruhr, And makes some trouble in Munition works in Dusseldorf And factories at Turin; But every time they have a slam Upon the railway yards at Hamm. They batter barges at BoulogneAnd transports at Dunkirk; They carry out at Nuremberg Some very earnest work; Blow up some tanks at Rotterdam, And then proceed to hammer Hamm. Berlin has seen a raid or two And so has Ratisbon; All sorts of little spots there are To sprinkle bombs upon; But what is broad deprived of jam— And what’s a raid that misses Hamm? The station master there must have A pretty hectic time, When trucks and rails and sheds perforin An unexpected climb. No doubt he often mutters “ Damnl Why did they station me at Hamm?” No doubt ho often seeks his bed To get a spot of sleep, Puts out the light and tries to play The game of counting sheep; But Lord! he couldn’t count a lamb Between the bombs that fell on Hamm.' He rushes to the station yard, And wrings his hands and wails. To see a heap of splintered trucks And knots of twisted rails; Then splutters out, “ Upon ray Sam, They seem to have a set on Hamm.” Lord Haw-Haw stands beside the “ mike ” At Radio Berlin, _ Concocting little fairy talcs To take the public in. It fairly strains his diaphragm To make a juicy lie on Hamm. So here’s a little friendly hint Which possibly he’ll like To use in bed-time stories for The children of the Reich; A little notion for a “ cram ” About the goings-on at Hamm. So here’s a notion, Haw-Haw dear, A bright idea to use. In proof that England’s policy Is influenced by Jews, For all the sons of Abraham Abhor the very name of Hamm! > ♦ * * “ What Dunedin should do is to take to heart the example of Lowburn Ferry. That little spot has been known to most of us for years as comprising a pub and a policeman, and yet it can raise £156 in a day at a Paddy’s market.” Mr Allen’s acquaintance with that most delectable hamlet is evidently more recent than our own, the policcman_ being a newcomer, relatively speaking. Maybe his advent was due to the progressiveness bestowed by the intrusion of the heavy industries. An outsize gold dredge has been under construction,' and the affix “ Ferry ” —which one hopes will not be dropped—has only a sentimental or a historic significance now that a bridge- spans the Clutha River opposite the “ Welcome Home ” Hotel. Prior to the “ industrial era ” a routine visit by a member of the force from adjacent Cromwell was all the supervision that was deemed necessary by the powers that be.

To go still further back, it is a reasonable assumption that about this spot a sizeable burn did discharge a failvolume of water into the Clutlia, but, like so many burns fed by Pisa’s snows, the old-time miners intercepted it with a race. When sluicing died a natural death the water did not run to waste. A visit to the district at about this time of the year will illustrate the fulfilment of a very old prophecy about how the wilderness would blossom. “ That’s how 1 got my start,” said a successful orcliardist, pointing to a scar on one of the terraces a little back from the river. “ A party of us took —oz of gold out of there. With my share I took up some land and managed to get a water right.” His packing shed in the fruit-picking season was a busy place, and the destinations attached to the cases disclosed to what remote parts of New Zealand they were being sent.

Years ago the hotel at Lowburn Ferry Was in the keeping of a manysided man. Not only was he mine host, but be was also farmer, butcher, blacksmith, and storekeeper, the last by deputy. As Lowburn is almost a complete stranger to rain—notable for this even in Central Otago—he was necessarily an irrigationist. But he kept the water in its proper place, and the produce of his kitchen garden had renown equal to that of any other commodity ho dispensed. No Dutchman ever grew better asparagus, nor any Celestial superior spring onions, lettuces, or radishes. On rare occasions he would relax and take an afternoon off looking up his opposite numbers as far distant as Bannockburn. A seat in his gig with

“ The time has come” the Walrus said, “To talk of many things.”

Mr Michael Sprat was an honour, and a sandstorm on the Cromwell Flat which the horse would not face was rather an, experience. Another pillar of the district was Mr Donald M'Leau, the ferry-* man, and a real Highland gentleman* To have the right man in such a bey position means much to a district. Hia small holding was an object lesson in intensive culture. For some reason the week’s cable about the grand spirit q£ the crofters of Harris and Lewis brought him vividly to mind after many years.

Again Mr Churchill has spoken to tha Empire. Four months ago,’ when ha assumed the Premiership, he told" tho Commons and his colleagues: V I hav* nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat.” Now he has put on record “ these cruel, wanton, and indiscriminate bombings of London ” as a part ofj Hitler’s invasion plans. Then he vrenfc on to speak of “ this wicked man, this monstrous product of former wrongs and shame.”, Perhaps different people will read different meaning's into thosa words. Possibly some will construe a reference to the Versailles Treaty. Mora probably the allusion goes even as fat! backs' as the end of last century, when Nietzsche’s philosophy began to taka hold of the German imagination—-’the philosophy of the “blond beast ” and the superman. It was, however, left to Hitler and his backers to put theso principles into practice. Gradually ifj developed, because first of all it Lad to suppress or destroy all decency _ and humanity inside Germany, so that finally every German, adult or adolescent’ or child, should become an instrument o£ annihilation to, all opposition, first front within, then from without.

If corroboration is wanted it may bai found in plenty among the writings ofi many German exiles who have brought themselves to acknowledge the vileness of what their countrymen have dona and are doing. Eva Lips, wife of a Cologne professor of anthropology (noifl holding a chair in ah American university), has given one of the best explanations of the process in her book a • What Hitler Did to Ds.’ She writesi Germany’s great men did not see that they were falling into the hell of hopelessness, that they were burying themselves alive, dooming themselves to a death from which there is no resurrection. With - the great men pointing.the way, what were the small fry to-do? The birds all shed their wings and let them fall into the fire and crept into the food trough beside the caterpillars. All the free, gay, flying creatures of the air discarded their colours, their songs, and all , their blessed gifts to court the Spider’s favour. They had been threatened with hunger. The Spider itself could not fly, but no one noticed this. • “Everything for. Germany,” exclaimed the Spider, “and I am Germany.”

A wind is blowing in the East (That portion known as “ Near ”)] And takes with violence increased .. Its usual career. , , Through Budapest And Bucharest, Sofia and Belgrade, It whistles loud; The trees are bowed. Their branches stripped anij flayed

Here is no steady breeze, come forth To hasten ships along; From east and west, and south a north It issues fierce and strong. No wall or hedge Can blunt its edge, No shelter make a calmj Its dust is blown Upon the throne. And eddies round the farm.

The streets resound, the steeple rocks* Tiles clatter to the ground; While scores of puzzled weathercocks Are whirling round and round. A nation splits, And little bits Go scudding round the com* pass, To meet their fate _ From those who wait. To profit by a rumpus.

A crown blows off a sovereign’s headj He vanishes in chase. His offspring picks it up instead, And wears it—for a space; While everywhere, On land and air, In mad, delirious caper, Like butterflies They sink and rise, Those myriad scraps of paper*

The Danube’s stream is surging white* The Balkans roar and rumble; Who knows what still will stand up* right? Who knows what next will tumble?. Who says the row Is settled now? _ . Who says the -wind is quiet !J Their ears are full Of cotton wool, But still the tempests riot!