THE POTATO PATCH.

Franklin Times, Volume 9, Issue 687, 25 November 1921, Page 5

THE POTATO PATCH.

A SCOT IN ARMS.' A correspondent to the “Times/’ who writes over the pen-name of “A Scot,” accuses me of having, in my last Patch, indulged in cravenish criticism of Burns. Well, one has always to be tolerant with “Scots” when they take up the cudgels in defence of their national bal'd. A grea\t deal has to be forgiven them, because they love much. But really, this particular “Scot” is, even in the first place when he refers to my little joke as “criticism,” flying off at somewhat of a tangent. I yield to no man, not even to “A Scot,” in my admiration of some of the qualities of Burns.. Of course it is only- a matter of opinion, I know, but nevertheless, to be quite irank, I do not regard Burns as- a great poet. He may be the greatest of Scotch poets, perhaps, but he whips in, his muse a long way behind Shakespeare, Swiinbuirn, and a score or two of others in beeween. But —for his broad humanitarian philosophy, his independent spirit, and (last but not least, although a Scot) his humour, there must, of one’s praise, be no stint. But, with regard to Burns’ “morals” (or lack of them), however,, no criticism is necessary. The subject matter, unfortunately, is only too obvious,. Admitting that “morality is more or less a relative term, one has only to go to the poet’s published works (let alone those of his biographers) to see how 'far shofrt his conduct falls of even the current canons of conventionality. ‘ Read his “Verses on Being Informed that a Girl was with Child by Hito” ; The Poet’s Welcome to his Illegitimate Child ” and that delightfully whimsical’(and truly Bumsian) poem entitled “The Rantin’ Dog /the Daddie O’t.” N In the verses firs/t mentioned, referring jto the expectant mother, he “I ha,e been in for’t ance or twice, And winna say o’er far for thrice, Yet never met with .that surprise That broke my rest.’' Which, being translated, seems . to imply that that sort of thing na happened two or.tlriee times oefore and, wha/t was more, he had never Lost any sleep over it. Naughty Bobby! -# THE BARD’S IDIOSYNCRACY. .... A man who writes like this would not J think, be very squeamish with regard to “criticism” concerning the “morality,” and, as a matter! of fact Lockhart tells us tha\t the poet rather welcomed the reputation of being a irake, and his biographer refers to this as being “a singular manifestation of ‘the last infirmity of noble 1 minds.’ ’’ Therefore, I think, that when Burns reads my little anecdote copied in the asbestos pages of “The Styx Valley. Times,” he will be “sailamused/’ and will, at the Hades Hotel, {recount i|t with glee to his shady fellows (or fellow shades) over “A richt guid-willie waught” of the Stygian brew.)

A PARALLEL. Perhaps I h.ave dwelt on the Bard long enough, bu/t, before leaving him to rest In peace, I might say that just after reading “A Scot’s” letter, happened to pick up Thomas Hardy's famous novel “Tess of the D’Urbevilles,” and, in the preface which he wrote in an earlier edition, noticed this concerning :—“A gentleman who turned Christian for half an hour, the better to express his grief that a . disrespectful: phrase about the Immortals should have been made.” The author goes on to say:—‘T can assure this great cjritic that to exclaim against the Immortals, singular or plural, is not such an original sin of mine as he seems to imagine.” Well, “them’s my sentiments,’’ in > a nutshell!

THEREFORE. Just as you can’t measure geniuses, when still in the flesh, by conventional standards so, when they have shed] this outer tegument of clay, you cannot apply to them the ordinary rule of "speaking nothing but good concerning the dead.” The very term “immortals’’ by which “A Scot” himself describes them, presupposes thajt they are still alive. Apart from this phase however, they are historical* personages, and if the maxim quoted by “A Scot” always applied, of what value would history be ? In therefore, while thanking “A Scot’’ 'for the nice things he said about “the Patch,”-I respectfully submit that no blame is attachable to me for my alleged criticism, any more than I would be deemed culpable had I described the manner in which Queen Mary th'e Fill'S i/ 01 England regaled the cletrgy v' th grilles and stakes, or had I. commented upon fhe matrimonial experiments of King Henry the Eighth. THE LIGHT (AND WATER) THAT FAILED. The Municipal activities of Pukekohe are being weighed in the balance at present, and 1 found decidedly more than wanting.

“Little drops of water, Little gleams of fight, Make folk in this quarter, Seize their pens and write Letters to the paper— Bidding powers that be Wake up, ere things taper To ni—hil—i —ty.” And (there is good cause for complaint too Even if comment on the short-sightedness of the past were not necessary, at least, something could be said with iregand to the supineness of the preseryt. An auxiliary plant is deemed impracticable, and (the best thing offered us is a restricted light supply, and the balance of power given to tue pumping of water,. Well, I suppose one has to be thankful even for small mercies. As the “Times” says : ‘ *ebI'uatfv is a long way off, and what

guarantee has the Borough that in the meantime, anything like adequate protection is assured in the case of fire.” I am inclined to think that if a conflagration should start within the Borough limits, during the summer months, it will be a case not of “the light that failed’’ but of the light that didn’t. I ' O—FISH—US. A rqther amusing little dscussion took place in the Magistrate’s Court (Wellington) the other day. A certain fishmonger was charged with selling crayfish after the hours prescribed by Haw for the selling of fish. The defence, argued with due solemnity by counsel], was to the effect that a crayfish could not be described' as a fish. The Magistrate wished to know “What was it, then —was it a bird ?” A : dictionary was produced to show that a crayfish was a crustacean, and therefore not “a fish,’’ This point was ruled out. Counsel then submitted that the crayfish, being boiled, was cooked fish, and therefore legally could not come under the category of “fish,” This ingenious contention was also counted out and a conviction entrered. Had the point ben allowed, a, now postulate would be laid down. Namely, “When is a fish not a fish ?” “When it’s a—boil.’’ CONGRATULATORY. I am suite that Pukekohe is to be felicitated upon the excellent arrangements made in connection with the unveiling of the War Memorial, as well as the very fine way in which the impressive ceremony itself was carried out. Some carping critic may /say that this Patch is not the place for anything threnodic, hut, nevertheless, at those gates. I would like to place some little bay. Looking at the marble slabs on the gates, one is struck (as one is, in like manner, by any other Waif Memorial) with the diverse interests represented oy the men who died. Death is the great leveller, and in one common overthrow. The Tyrant tumbles with |the Thrall: As dust that drives, as straws that blow, Into the Night go one and all.” Not that the men whose names are blazoned there were either thralls or tyrants. Far from it ! But the idea abides ! THE IDEAL. The names that are graved in that marble s'gnify all classes and. creeds. They form the register of a tittle corner in that Republic where there is neither caste nor sect, and! where “Beyond the path of the outmost sun through utter darkness hurled— Further than ever comet flared: or vagrant star-dust swfrled — Live such as fought and sailed and ' ruled and loVed and made our world.” And, loving the world as (they did, — did they give up the wor,lid for only an Ideal ? Confident that (right was imight—convinced that the sacrifice was common to all—crediting that by then immolation the world would be made salfe for the Smaller Democracy, they placed their names upon the roll-call of the Great. Bearing all things, believing all things, hoping all things, enduring all things, they passed, from the thunder of the trenches, into the old inviolable peace. So, it is fit that, in bronze and mai'jble, we should perpetuate their fame. For an Ideal they may have died. But for that Ideal'let us, with contrite hearts, give thanks.

THE REAL. Yes, we who are left with the real, let us regard the "Win* Memorial as a holy shrine, po which we may turn, ficmdhe yet unfulfilled promises of Peace,' and pray that when we, too, pass through those othert Gates, we will do so in full knowledge that the ideals jthe soldiers of the Great V\ ar fought and '.died for have been i euliseck and that they also may know of the consummation. INSPICTIS. I have been asked the reason why a a literary “naturae lanx,” suclv :.s this purports to be should oe given the name of the i oia to Patch.” Well for .those who do no, see the connection, will they pardon me if I inflict a little doggerel upon them, just by way of explanation Out of the stodge that smothers me, Flung by the pundits baton on batch, I take whatever dank there be To moisten my Potato Patch. Beneath the plough of pasquinade, Society’s sluggish soil, I scratch, And strew the seed wherefrom my spade , Will delve the tubers, when they hatch. Bevond this sheet of rural news, Looms there, a greater prize to catch ? “San fairy anne !” Whajt though my views, Find, an'd will find me > sans a match. It‘ matters not if they be“duds,” Or fun or lore from them you snatch : I am the sower of the spuds, “The Digger” of the Patch.