THE PEOPLE’S PEEP-SHOW.

Manawatu Herald, Volume XXXII, Issue 813, 12 March 1910, Page 2

THE PEOPLE’S PEEP-SHOW.

Wellington has had a doctors’ conference, a murder, and the anuual Dominion Rifle Association meeting. The subjects are allied, because all are directly or indirectly associated with the death of people. The elimination of disease would eliminate the doctors, kill drink and you kill the prohibitionist, kill rifle shooting and you slay a nation; hang a murderer and you do not revive his victim. Doctors seriously asserted at the conference that disease was being fought so successfully and persistently that events tended towards their own destruction as a caste. Success does not absolutely chase a doctor. He has been knpwn to reap an appendix for the cure of undiscovered indigestion, carefully attended the sciatic nerve when a strain caused lameness, pour quarts of coloured abomination into a patient suffering from malnutrition, lack of sunshine, food and air—and so on. The medical suggestion that legislative enactments might improve conditions caused by social sinning is eminently picturesque. When the evildoer parades without pressure before the authorities and acknowledges his sin, then the milennium may be definitely forecasted. When medical men and not nature improve the birthrate, increase longevity and prove that nature is not implacable, then let us tender the glad hand to the M.B. If nature desires to slay anybody she slays, even though the greatest specialist stands between. Nature fights doctors as well as disease, and the extraordinary success she achieves convinces one that her methods are still as good as those of a twenty-five years old doctor who is giving long life such a boost —at conferences.

Six hundred men—or maybe seven hundred have been firing hundreds of thousands of cartridges at targets this week, because in the opinion of people who wear

the livery of the authorised manslayer, firing at an immovable target is useful practice for firing at a mobile man. The science of pothunting has developed with such remarkable strides since persons used to light their “rifles” with a flint and steel, that some New Zealanders even make a tolerable living travelling round piercing holes in inoffensive stationary canvas. Once the writer had the inestimable privilege of speaking to a champion rifle shot. At the moment he was carefully painting his rifle with lamp-black. He had a tool-chest at hand in order to help him to hit a bullseye that had never done him any harm.

“ Did you ever shoot at anything but a target, sir ?” I queried with deep respect. “No,” he said. “Oh,” I faltered, and begged his pardon. “Are you practicing so that you will be able to shoot somebody someday ?” I breathed in trepidation. “ Course not.” “Do you win money by being allowed to practice with a Government rifle, with Government ammunition, on a range supplied by Government and manned at great expense by Government officials,” I tremblingly asked. “ I’ve won £I2OO in prize money in my time,” he said. “Just pushing bullets through canvas ?” “ Course.” “ Here,” I said, “is and a gold medal and a belt or two. Will you kindly go out and shoot a rabbit to death for me ?” “ Can’t be done. “ Why, a rabbit runs, and you don’t know how far he is away, and he’s the colour of the ground, and—and —oh, dash !” Here he hurriedly pushed his rifle into a bag, raised an umbrella and called a cab. It was coming on to rain ! The Hague Convention decided years ago that wars must not be fought in the rain, and that all the enemy should be attired in white jackets and tied to posts stuck in the ground.

Talking about murder reminds me that if the mau who shoots targets to pieces was called on to perforate an enemy of the King, he might get a V.C. If he shot an enemy of his own, the probabilities are that he would get hemp, which is a very horrid subject- Kong years ago in Australia I saw two camp-mates quarrel about the colour of a girl’s hair. “ Come outside the tent and I’ll show you,” said Bill. “Righto,” said Jim, and went. Nobody knew why Jim’s neck broke when Bill struck him, but everybody knows why Bill was transferred from the gaol to the asylum two years after Jim’s funeral.

Thkk there was that other case ol the kangaroo shooters. One man was at the hut door in the gloaming. A big kangaroo could be seen through the low scrub stuck in a wire fence, Harry brought his rifle out, and put a bullet through the white patch in the ’roo’s chest. Then he sauntered up to take the skin, hut his dead mate’s white singlet wasn’t white any more. Charlie had been getting through the fence with a pack of skins on his back. They had hitched in the barbs of the wire—that's all.

Just another kangaroo tragedy and a poisoning case, and I’ll tell you a poison comedy. It’s quite a long time since the Coolgardie rush happened, and the two South Australian fellows who wanted to get great hunks of the metal purposed cutting across a corner of the Great Desert with a caravan and horses. The evening I mean, the camp was on the edge of the last scrub that would be seen for days; and a big “wallaroo” thumped out ot the bush and headed away. One mate was sitting under the waggon out of the sun. The other was baking “Johnny-cakes.” He saw meat on the roof, and hastened to snatch a rifle from its greeuhide slings under the waggon. He did not shoot that kangaroo—and his mate’s bones have been picked dean long ago. Also he did not go to Coolgardie.

Tent in the mallee scrub. Nobody at home. Wandering rabbiter passing by. Kerosenetin bucket on the ridge pole—full of water. Big drink. Two men came home to camp. Dead stranger lying on bunk inside. Arsenic solution for keeping insects from skins in that bucket.

Cattle station in Queensland. Christmas time. Swagmen in travellers’ hut intend to celebrate. Only flour and mutton to celebrate with ; not even a pinch of bakingpowder. One swagmau steals away and commandeers halt a tin of baking-powder through a window in station store. Boss sees him, says nothing. Great hilarity in the travellers’ hut. Baking-powder bread. Hooray! Boss rides along. “ Any of you fellows steal half-tin of arsenic out of the store?” The look on the faces of the swagmen was awful. Some of them rushed outside and were ill. Many lay down and tried to die. Next morning the boss looked in to view the corpses. Three men were very ill in bed. “ I was only pulling your leg,” he quietly remarked. ‘‘That baking-powder really was bakingpowder.