THE POTATO PATCH.

Franklin Times, Volume 9, Issue 645, 28 June 1921, Page 11

THE POTATO PATCH.

What’s in a name? Apparently the residents of Cabbage Bay on the Coromandel Pennisula think that quite a lot is. For they are petitioning the Governor-General to have the district called Coleville. or some such name. Under the circumstances one wonders why they did' not chose Colegarth (which is a garden where cabbages are grown), or, perhaps, to be even more picturesque —Coleflower! This Dominion is Tull of instances where places bearing homely names have had them altered to something more highly sounding. Mullocky Gully*' Vinegar Flat, Duffer’s Creek, Drunken Bay, are all now hiding themselves under aliases. And don’t the Gisborne folk dislike their Poverty, To come nearer home. Glenbrook is substituted for Packington. But was the latter name changed on account of its ugliness, or was there some other cause for it? Why Glenbrook anyway? Perhaps some reader can supply the information. An article on the origin and meaning of local names would, I think! be very interesting. How maiiy of us are there who know the interpretation of Patumahoe, Pukekohe, Paerata, Puni, or the Mauku! And from whom do Buckland and Drury derive their names? Anyhow, it must have been some Anglo-Indian who was responsible for Bombay.

In' an A. and N.Z. cable, before 'me on the table (let us hope it is a fable), is this interesting' par re the Conference Imperial, whose members Ministerial, on business deemed material. have come from far and near. Now, by way of friendly greeting and prelusive to the meeting, there has beer a little eating" and drinking I imply, and the delegate with unction in convivial conjunction, have had talk about the function, and the name it should go by. And I see that William Massey, our most excellent embassy to this conference so classy, and the Secretary of*State had a little conversation as to what appellation would embrace the situation and be held as adequate. To Bill Massey, blithe and merry, sipping his seductive sherry, softly spoke the Secretary: “Don’t you rather think we should now tell one another what each should call the other, for I love you as a brother.'’ Thus the winning Winston said,. William, more or less discreetly, smiled 'and answered very sweetly, Tou may call me Mas sey.” ' Still, yet his friend methinks, he would have pleased p’raps more if but he could have answered (don’t you think he should have?) “Call me nothing else but Bill.” Then the wire goes on to mention how, at this great condescension Churchill, to relieve the tension, answers William in this wise: “Thank yea, Massey, then you call me Winston —it will not appal me, for your kindness doth enthrall me—hence these tears within me eyes.” This is what the cable states when it conjures up. these “statesmen” sworn to be fraternal, pledging there a love eternal, that the readers of this journal! may receive the news with zest. . . . To this schoolgirl con-

versation, cabled out in expectation that ’twill cause some sensation, when recorded in the files? Then, if this be Ms opinion, let the fold of the Dominion forward to this cable minion thanks from these dear silly isles

A week or two ago, on the centenary of his death, I wrote something about Napoleon. That poor pale peasant lad, who from the obscurity of a Corsian hovel went forth to conquer the world. An ugly little corporal who, riding through revolution, bloodshed and war, sprang from his saddle to the throne of France. Well, I have been asked since then what I meant by saying that he was segregated on “the steps” of St Helena. A linotype error —not mine. “Steeps, surely’' But don’t you think though that it is a good thing that I was not made to write that “he died on the steps?’ Talk about Bathos! Wei! it would have been a good joke anyway. And so much the better for being against myself. The late lamented Shakespear has informed us that Imperial Caesar dead and turned to clay might stop a hole to keep the wind away. But Napoleon dying upon the steps! Oh, la la! Does it not conjure up visions? His Napoleonic majestv, fat and fifty, sticking half-way up the back stairs and giving up the ghost in his endeaovurs to extricate himself. Or Nappy Buonoparte mounting the step ladder in order to hang a picture of Mr Blucher in the lavatory fails to hit the nail on the head and overreaching himself succumbs on the steps to an attack of heart failure. (V even yet, Nap. coming home late (or early) from Lodge Trafalgar, 1805. and carefully removing his Wellingtons so as not to disturb his Sleeping spouse, treads on a tack which her fair hands have placed to receive him. Can you hear the wild shriek that smites Mrs Buonaparte’s ears as her startled husband, throwijjjr. up his arms (ami also his ac-

coutrements), falls backward .with a

sickening thud. Tableau: Buonoparte laying at the foot of the staircases Dis heart, spinal column and good resolutions broken, supported by Mrs B. in tears and a pink kimona and, with death and whisky in his voice, gasping, “Oh, Josephine, why did I net come up on the elevator?”

—Cornelius