By the Way

Evening Star, Issue 23699, 5 October 1940, Page 3

By the Way

(By x.r.)

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

A Lawn should be composed of Grass, With Lots of Earth below. My circumjacent Green, alas! Is not compounded so. Rome Fellow, doubtless, sowed it down, Around this Habitat; ; Then, feeling weary, went to Town, And took a Lawn-less Flat.

No doubt it was his Joy and Pride To tend that spacious Green. Quite possibly it beautified The whole suburban Scene. Ho raked it in the Spring, perhaps. And—this is evident— Installed this Battery of Tails To wet the whole Extent.

This Lawn was once a Paragon, The Neighbours all affirm. No Plantain flourished thereupon. It fed no Grub or Worm ; It put a Billiard-Cloth to shame For velvet verdantness. I curse my Predecessor’s Name, When 1 should rightly bless.

Ho must have been a Man of Ease, With lots of Time on Hand. I cannot creep on Hands and Knees Across a Rood of Land. I have no Time to scrape and scratch, As, seemingly, I ought; But merely try to keep that Patch Approximately short.

T see him now, this patient Soul, Uprooting noxious Weeds. And filling each resultant Hole With powdered Earth and Seeds; Unmercifully seeking out The Grass-Grubs in their Dens. And making rude Remarks about His neighbours and their Hens.

I’ve often wondered how he found The Time and Patience, too. For tending such a Stretch of Ground As meets my present View: A vast Expanse to face tho Street, A Drying-Green behind; And how the Fellow kept it neat Still occupies my Mind.

And now it is the Height of Spring, And I, with ’foil and Pain, Have scarcely Time to mow the Thing Before it grows again. I keep it fairly tidy, but To hear the neighbours speak, My Predecessor used to cut It seven Times a Week.

Small Wonder that he gave it best, And, seeking to be free, Just took a Flat, to get some Rest, And left bis Lawn to me. Now, Flatting’s not the Life I love. But still, 1 must confess, I’m now considering a Move To where the Lawns are less.

Mr Hebert Semple is understood to have assembled a comprehensive plant, unrivalled in the annals of the Public Works Department of New Zealand. But he has not been building a castle in Spain; nor has ho erected or acquired a pile of flats in Sydney. really should not be necessary for Ministers of the Crown to make disclaimers concerning the wall-papering or floor-cover-ings of their nests. It is only loyal and patriotic to assume that they are unfeathered, and ordinary citizens are not supposed to be curious as to whether they are encumbered or not. The Minister of Public Works is something of a psychologist. _ While bis colleague at the Treasury is piling on the agony with his further instalments of the conscription of wealth, Mr Semple, with his naive uncovering of his status as a property owner, and Ins comparison of his stocks of timber with tiie number of feet super required for the construction of a mouso_ trap, strikes a sympathetic chord in the afflicted taxpayer. We all seem to be living in a beleaguered city. • » * * The Mayor of Auckland is anxious to discover a New Zealand Lissauer. In Great War No. 1 the English cartoonists found many a subject for their pencils in the “ Gott Strafe England effusion of the maleficent German Jew. For example, one calls to mind across the years, the picture of a German middle-class family, having presumably chanted the “ Hymn of Hate,” sitting round the room before bedtime, with faces contorted, indulging in the niglitlv orgy of silent, wishful thinking about England. Like Sir Ernest Davis, most if not all, New Zealanders hate with’heart and soul the Hitler gang, but are somewhat chary of expressing theix* feelings about it in verse, whether set to music or not. The fear of making oneself ridiculous may be a deterrent. Bellicosity in the Anglo-Saxon usually finds a vocal outlet in scene such effusion as ‘ We’ll Hang Our Washing On the Siegfried Line ’—and even about that once popular ditty there is , to-day something of the ridiculous. • * ♦ * In the meantime it may be left for Germans themselves to say what fate should befall their present leaders. Dr Preuss, once prominent German industrialist, writes apparently with confidence of a punitive rebellion of the people against their oppressors outclassing all previous ones in ruthlessness. He says there can be no thought of an Elba or a St. Helena for Hitler and his gangsters; the only thing to do is to wipe out this curse completely. (A Maori shearer, straightening his back after a sheep’s exit through the porthole, said he would construct a Maori oven, heat the stones well, and insert the gang, but not cover them up.) Dr Preuss insists that the court martial must be instigated and held' by the Germans. But Vincent Sheean (IrishAmerican journalist) declares that the Germans “ seem to be actuated puaiuly by a national despair, into which the semi-sexual and semi-narcotic needle of National Socialism has injected some drug of maniac hope.”

One of the most noteworthy recent books comes from the pen of Hans Koehler, who voluntarily exchanged power and wealth as a high Gestapo official for penniless exile. He sees only two faint hopes for help from within Germany: A possible defection of the Reich army, which was never minded to shed blood for “ the corporal of the bogus Iron Cross, and the venality of every Nazi.” Koehler says that the jealo'usy and hatred and suspicion that rage between the Nazi bosses is wellnigh incredible. “ Himmler is the most powerful, for Ids card index of the weaknesses, crimes, vices, or indiscretions of every man and woman of note inside or outside the Reich makes him the prince of blackmailers.” The author gives inside gossip about the Nazi magnates and their “ ladies,” and, concerning Dr Ley of the Labour Front, about the vile orgies held to demonstrate “ the beauty of work.” There is also a story about the composer, Richard Strauss, who successfully appealed to Goering against a decision of Goehbels, and was subjected to a form of revenge one imagines to be typical of the little propaganda artist.

And what of the Italians? The be-fore-mentioned Vincent Sheean, recently there, says they are tired of Mussolini and his ideas of conquest. An Italian steward on a transatlantic liner said to him: “Here we sacrifice ourselves and sacrifice and sacrifice, without end and without hope.” One of Sheean’s anecdotes hinting that assassination is the only way, 'the Italians see for deliverance from the grip of Fascism concerns a man who went to a news-stand every morning to buy a paper. Day after day he glanced at the front page and then threw the paper away. One morning the news-vendor asked the reason for this action.

“ I am looking for a death notice,” the customer said.

“ But they are on the back page,” answered the news-vendor. “ The death notice I’m looking for will be on the front page,” replied the customer.

There came another reminder this week of the unnatural “neutral” within our boundary fence, as it were. A pilot of the 'R.A P. had to make a forced landing at Enniscorthy, famous in song, and was interned by the conscientious, or conscienceless, authorities. Under such circumstances does Eire send in a bill to England for the internee’s keep? And do storage charges mount up on the aeroplane, or does it become automatically confiscated? Let us hope he is given a good time, and that, deprived of his customary evening diet of Hamm, he does not lose condition and pine away. Another cable announced the death of a German aviator in combat over England, one Captain Eberhart Spiller. In his case lamentation over a hasty departure began in certain London circles over a year ago. It appears that many of the German Ambassador’s staff forgot to settle up 'before they left the country. From the sparse details available they had been hitting the high spots prior to the declaration of war, and in this particular case the defaulter subsequently returned to hit those spots again from on high. He overdid the job. R.I.P. •*# ' * At this belauded Time of Year Which Folk describe as Spring, ■ The Heaven should be bright and clear Enough for Anything. The Sun should shine with genial Heat And make me glow from Head to Feet. For Centuries and Centuries Those Poet Chaps have said That Spring sets metaphoric Bees A-buzzing in one’s Head, And sends one dancing down the Street With joyfully ecstatic Feet. “ Farewell to Winter’s Frosts and Snows ” : That’s how their Tale is told. “ Good-bye to Snuffles in the Nose, Adieu to Cough and Cold. No more we need, ’twixt Sheet and Sheet, Hot Water Bags for frozen Feet.” . In every Age the Poet spills Whole Bottlefuls of Ink On Hyacinths and Daffodils, And never stops to think That Flowers like these, however sweet, Can only bloom with chilly Feet. My Tom-Cat serenades by night The Lady of his Choice; Protracted are his Notes and quite Bing Crosby-like his Voice; But he, of course, is clad complete In sable Fur from Head to Feet.

But I am not a Poet, and Still less a Thomas-Cat. Cold Feet I simply cannot stand, And that, I say, is that. I cannot fashion Odes to greet A Spring which freezes up my Feet. A true-blue lyric Optimist May write, of Sense bereft, A Pencil in his dexter Fist And Paper in his left, And sing of Lambs that skip and bleat, Regardless of his icy Feet.

But this, as anyone could tell, Is not Yours Truly’s style. I scribble Reams of Doggerel To raise a random Smile, With Chunks of serai-frozen Meat Beneath me, in the Place of beet,

Confound the Spring, confound the War, And drat this leaden Sky. A Draught blows underneath the Door As freezing as July, 1 sit and shiver in my Seat, Lamenting my Antarctic Feet.

Bi o Winter’s well upon its Way Across the northern Seas. 1 hope that Adolf’s Brain-Waves may Likewise achieve a Freeze, And all his boosted Battle Fleet Be paralysed with frigid Feet! * * • *

Extracts from a letter written last July by an Otago farmer to his student sou in response to an appeal for funds; “ Dear Pat,-—Got your letter, and am charmed to hear of your progress, and to hear that you are now the partowner of a splendid motor car. That is progress, and no doubt you will benefit from Kevin’s experience, when he also became the owner of a motor car. Our car now is usually locked up, as we are allowed eight gallons a month, and that just about takes us to church and back again. I note you now require another - cheque or check. Well, I have a busy time this week writing out cheques, and when I came to write one for Terry I found that there is nothing left in the exchequer. So the wageearners must wait—which is contrary to the laws of this glorious country. My shattered financial condition is due to State laws, county laws, city laws, corporation laws, liquor laws, and I was going to say mothor-iu-laws. Through these laws I am compelled to pay a business tax, amusement tax, head tax, school tax, light tax, petrol tax, and Excise tax. I am required to get a car license, truck license, not to mention a marriage license and a dog license. I am also compelled to contribute to every society and organisation which the genius of man is capable of bringing to life—woman’s relief, unemployment relief, and the gold diggers’ relief, also to everv hospital and charitable institution in the country. For my own safety I am required to carry health insurance, life insurance, fire insurance, property insurance, burglary' insurance, accident insurance, storm insurance, war insurance, and old age insurance. _ “ My property and farm is so governed that it is no easy matter to find out who owns it. I am inspected, expected, suspected, disrespected,_ rejected, dejected, examined, re-examined, informed, required, summoned, fined, commanded, and compelled until I provide an inexhaustible supply of money for every known need; desire, and hope of the human race.

“ Simply because I refuse to donate to something or other, I am boycotted, talked about, lied about, held up and

robbed until I am almost ruined. However, there are a few consolations we now have .a National War Cabinet. Dan Sullivan has returned from 1 Aussie ’ with renewed health, and a lot of guns and munitions, so the war will be over soori„ There are rumours also of an early spring, and wool and butter-fat will b« a good price—so who cares? So her*