THE POLYGLOT PAPERS

Gisborne Times, Volume XXII, Issue 1765, 5 June 1906, Page 3

THE POLYGLOT PAPERS

(By Alpha )

In the classical language of timehonored pantomime, “ Here we are again 1 ” and during my little term of literary hibernation, many interesting and highly diverting pantomimes have been, and still are being enacted. To wit, the great election pantomime, the Cook Memorial pantomime, the Harbor Works ditto, the Water-works ditto, the Railway Extension ditto, and as an exhilarating addition to the pro gramme, we have the Swimming Baths ditto. The'last-named is as yet an incipientdivarshun,” but we ex* pect to be liberally supplied with “ stacks of fun,” concerning it, while upon the others, with the exception of. the first., the curtain has not yet been rung down, Which suggests a problem as to whether any curtain of finality ever will ter ninate the smile-inspiring perplexities and emphatic contradictions that give such a pantomimic flavor to these fulminated “ schemes’ and “ questions.” I’ve noticed that with reference to any public matter, whatsoever, Gisborne loves to discuss, to argue, to orate, to get its back up, in sections, and will occasionally work itself into hysterics, and get its hair off, also in sections. Meanwhile memorials, with a sublime patience, can wait in an unseen back-ground, harbors can boil ovor, in their merrier moments, and administer surging shocks to inoffensive groynes and breakwaters, that are more likely to break than the water, waterworks can serenely remain in the idealistic regions of somewhere or nowhere, railway extension can extend its lines ] on theoretical paper, and swimming baths, —“ aye, there’s the rub! ” That scheme is as yet in its infancy—as compared with the others, and will have to cut its wisdom teeth and gurgle its way, likely enough, through many a torrent of words, words, words, before it calmly settles down to furnish aquatic entertainment to shirtless juveniles. lam not cynical, no, not an atom, but it would be a relief a,nd a treat to see things practically carried bqt instead of being interminably talked of and argued about.

But anent those swimming baths. They furnish an excellent basis for a three-fold, controversy, thusly : Fresh water v. salt, school-ground v. sea beach, public v. semi-private. Here is a right smart chance for controversially pugnacious Gisborne to pitch I its hat into the ring, skip the.ropes, and go at it pell-mell. The ladies are arranging for a social, with Mr Wau--1 chop and my splendid little friend, T. G. Lawless, acting as knights . errant, but if the ladies, bless their dear hearts ! would only organise a public controversy at His Majesty’s Theatre on the lines above indicated, they could safely count upon a month’s rush for seats, ct the least they would rake in three times the quantity of squiblums, and that hydra-headed seeker after “ startling sensations,” known as the G. P. would get. thirty times more of uproarious, hilarious fun than could be furnished by a I dozen socials.

So ladies, take the tip, and make a Bplaah With this hobby of>he Baths—it’s not too There’s'a lot of gladiators who would quickly a dash At each other, in a fury of dobato.

The Provincial Conference of tho New Zealand Parmors’ Union has had a sitting, and tho membors thereof have hatched a little clutch of resolu-1 tions amid much contentious, and, at 1 times, noisy clucking. The resolutions a*e promising enough, but I single out one for special delectation, 1 that one relates to the holding of a picnic and social, tbe double function being “ warmly ” championed by my j other splendid little friend, MrLissant 1 Clayton, who gives a nutshell reason for these gay an 4 festive bun-ban-1 quets, hops, and sing-songs in the following significant —more than significant—terms, “ their wives, daughters, and sweethearts should be got to take an interest in the Union, and push the farjpero along The ladies, as a rule,! had greater activity than the men. And this from a bachelor. Is my friend in real, downright earnest, or is th : s a wanton mesphistophelian shaking of another argumentative red rag

in tlio very tooth of combative Gisborne, cynically inviting it to “ come on ” ? To say tbo least, my respected friend is a very daring man, and tlio marvol is tliat delegate Lysnar didn t “ spring to his feet,” and shatter the Claytonian philosophy, or insinuation, or libel, or what you will, with a withering broadside whon this particular gage was thrown down.. But this pioposal, as my friend put.it, is just a little lamo in logic. While ho gallantly crodits tho ladios with displaying grontor activity than tho moil, lio previously says that thoy (tho ladios) “should bo got to tako an interest in tho Union,” which is a frank, though, perhaps, unwitting admission that tho proposed pushers roquiro to be pushed before thoy ongage in the recruiting business of pushing their male recalcitrants, by which admission Mr Clayton goes back upon himself, ergo, that the ladios, requiring, to .bo first pushed, are as much lacking in Farmers’ Union activity as the mon. And hero tho grave question arises, who will undertake the initial project of pushing tho ladios into an enthusiastic ardor for pushing thoir bo»trouser’d spouses, cousins, brothers, and swains into union fellowship ? I give up, it’s a problem too complicated, and bofore my excellent friond further declaros himself, I have no suggestion to offer

But is it, now, is it in strict accordance with the dignity of a corporate commercial body such as the Farmers Union by endeavoring to secure members through the medium of their stomachs, and by further beguiling them with picnic and social jollifications ? Somebody has said that “ Men and women are but children of a larger growth,” and it seems as if the Farmers’ Union fully endorsos that sentiment in its proposal to bring fresh clients into its fold by the hospitable bribery of tarts and tantatlins, also by the mesmeric spell of boauty’s witching smiles, and also by elegant terpsichorean glidings, on a waxed floor with your arm around her sylphlike form, and your senses deliciously intoxicated with the scent of the rose adorning her hair. This, in effect, is the proposal of a hard-headed business organisation that —but we will relieve our overcharged feelings, dear boys—

If you want to be a Farmero’ Union man, If you want to figure in " sassiely,” You can qualify youraeif to join the olan, By a merry course of pionio buns and tea, They’ll favor you with every social ohanoe, To gain a Union Btatus straight away, They’ll have you toted thro’ the mazy dance, By a - lady pusher, smiling, sweet, and gay. They’ll lead you into • pionio pastures green, Where Gipsy kettles bubble soft and low, Where graoeful nympba adorn the sylvan

eoeno, Flitting, fairy-hke, with oakelets to an! fro, You can dreamily imbibe the ohotoe Souchong, And of the sweet tamtattins take your fi'l, Yon can listen to a lady pusher’s song, That will make you wobble with a tender thrill.

The rosy prospect of these dear delights, So pleasingly seductive, should inspire, Aod stir to action all oar farmer wights, With ting ing sensations of desire, Then oorno from North and South, from everywhere, And teste the joys of this Aroadian piaD, . They’re waiting,—swee.hearts, wives, and daughters fair, To mrka eaoh wight a Farmsrs’ Union man.

One lioh little episode oocurred in oon* ncetion with the recent musical festival of the Salvation Army. A "soldier” and his wife, who—of course, is a soldieress — resolved to journey from tt>eir_ borne, stuatsd some dis'.arcs out of Gisborne, for ths express purpose of attending that festival, but, unwittingly, they deteim n» edlyt'tk old Father Time by bis scanty forc'cck, and came in a week too previous, there happened, however, to be someihing"oi” at the theatre on that parlieu ar night, and in full oonfilenoo that it was the festival, the gallant soldier and soldieress charged the pay office, vanquished the sentry thire with the required coin for almiesioD, and then triumphantly oajtared a couple of seals with the determined air of a detaohment of Taps annexing Port Arthur. Peop'e stared, rubbed their eyes, and stared aga'n. Yes, there oould be no mistake; there was a veritable, animated, red-faced Salvation Army’s uailorm and poke bonnet serenely and smilingly settling themselves for " a good time.” The bell rang, the ourtam went up, and the undeniable eoldier and soldieress .were perplexed, bewildered, bothered to see their comrades efieotually disguised in outlandish oostumss, and to bear them talking in a rich Hibernian brogue, and suoh talk—not a word about the festival. The play went on—first act, second act, and not a red guernsey or coal-scuttle head dress among theml The play went od. Surely that was not Captain Slattery metamorphosed into " Shaun the Posl 1” Well, the play went on, when suddenly the light came to the befogged, benighted, mystified Boldiet and soldiered. It was not the S.A, festival, but, oh, tell it not in Gatb, nor anywhere else ;it was—it was —oiel I. it was Rice’s Dramatic Company gaily disporting thornsolves in BoaoiosuU’s delectable Irishianii " Arrah-na-Pogue 1 ’ The play went on, but the horror-stricken soldier and soldieress hastily snatched up their knapsacks and went oS 1