OUR AUCKLAND LETTER.

Pukekohe & Waiuku Times, Volume 9, Issue 571, 1 October 1920, Page 4

OUR AUCKLAND LETTER.

(By FIREFLY.)

Things generally are only midstream here. No coal to be had, and all trams stopped. Verily "it's a mad world my masters." These periodic industrial upheavals are becoming an expensive farce in this Dominion, and a large number of people who have nothing to do with industrial unrest have to suffer. The coal is in the ground, the wages are good, conditions generally better that ever, yet we have to import coal from Newcastle. The farmer, who works longer hours, we never hear of "going slow." The piessman he never strikes, being born a humanitarian. His aim is fair play and full justice for the people. Now the trams are stopped, hundreds of apprentices, male and female, will have to expend their scanty earnings on motor fares, which will absorb every penny they earn. The writing is on the wall, and the day is not far distant when levelheaded workers will see that these upheavals are against themselves as well as others. As things are we are living in a fool's paradise. It certainly is somewhat amusing to any ordinary observer at the local plays to see the large number of patrons of all ages continually chewing chocolates and peanuts, while the chewers are chattering away as if they were at a picnic, the acting on the stage being (to many of them) a mere secondary consideration. The worst offenders are the giddy maidens in their teens. My eyes the other night located a trio of damsels who, after "polishing off" a lemonade each, attacked with vigour chocolates, peanuts and bananas, while their conversation was a continuous discussion on the dress and headgear of one of their own sex, who, of course, was not present. A nautically looking man close by exclaimed to his pal, "Bli'me cholly, I've seed the gum chewers and the Yankees chew, and I've chewed many a quid o' bacca afore the mast, but 'ang me, Bobby Burns was right when he wrote: Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursels as others see us. It wad frae monie a blunder free U6 And foolish notion. Street telephones on the penny-in-the-slot principle which have been inaugurated here for some years have supplied a long-felt want and are a boon to the general public and the press in particular. The pressmen find it impossible to be in half-a-dozen places at the one time, hence the telephone comes in handy. Very few of the public know that the pressman often lies awake half the night thinking over what "copy" he can procure next day. Talking of "copy" reminds me of an incident in the Boer War. When getting too near the enemy for copy a stray bullet smashed my water flask. Was water in it, asks the reader? Ah, well, I'll be non-committal, and decline even to say "when mon."

The camera fiend is with us to a great extent, while the autograph girl is a confounded nuisance. One no sooner gets comfortably settled in a chair, when out is trotted the autograph book by some blushing damsel. Therefore I prefer to- remain single, wandering alone in sylvan glades smoking the pipe of peace. The house shortage in Auckland and suburbs has now reached the acute stage. It was stated by a solicitor in court here that his client had walked 200 miles looking in vain to find an empty dwelling. To-day a telegram reached me which, when decoded, read thus: "Firefly," Northern Club, Auckland: "Please report on shortage of houses in city and suburbs, facts, only, 'Times,' Pukekohe." Eager for "copy," I strolled out to Remuera to begin my enquiries, when I came upon a man sitting on a fence rail. He wished me good-day, so halting to chat with him, I found he had been house-hunting for three months. "Copy" being uppermost in my mind I vaulted on to the rail and sat beside him. "So you have been house-hunting," said I. "Yes, my man," he replied, as he started to fill his pipe—and began thus: I've searched for houses all in vain, In shining sun and pelting rain. My heart is sick unto the core Travelling round from door to door. I've wandered north, south, east, and west, , Up every road I thought the best, Back streets, side streets, and the main, Round the suburbs and up the lane. On house hunting still I'm bent, But cannot find one tenement, It may seem strange, of this I'm sure, You cannot here a house procure. War brides, yes, my friend, they came, Took every house that's worth the name. Financial men they bought and sold Anything the nail would hold. Weary,,saa, friend, aye, and not too well, Upon this rail I took a spell. Agents from one to the other I was sent, But they, of course, had none to rent. For years a house I had, but it was sold, As the landlord needed much the gold, He had a mortgage due to pay, And sorry was I could not stay. Scores of men and women I have met Trying hard a house to get. But alas, friend, 'twas all in vain, They still are tramping round again. I have no time for further talk, I must renew my weary walk. Adieu, I said, I wish you well, And hope you find a place to dwell. Your efforts are true nobly grand, Friend, farewell, here is my hand. , Ah, the clock, I hear its chimes. Go, I must, with "copy" for the "Times."