A WAVERLEY WAIL.

Stratford Evening Post, Volume XXXII, Issue 70, 18 March 1912, Page 2

A WAVERLEY WAIL.

NOTHING BEING BONE: NOTHING TO WHITE HOME ABOUT. NEWS-GATHER EH WEEPS IN A PUBLIC PLACE. “GROSS INGRATITUDE” GROWL. Tho Waveiley correspondent of the “Paten County Press,” a gentleman, by the way, who, in general, is as prolific and verbose as “Laverock” when properly “lii-cd in,” has apparently struck a barren patch. The presumption is engendered, nourished and generally erected into a wellfound, dirigible and workable presumption by the belowtobefoumjl grumble which he inserted or caused to be inserted in the last issue of the “Press.” Perhaps, however, the grumble was the result of a liver attack. But to say so would not be polite, might not bo safe as far as present writer’s good and proper person is concerned, and it may even be found to be actionable. i Therefore, the remark is not made. But if the suggestion contained in the remark which has just recently carefully not been made is correct one may (and constant “Press” readers undoubtedly will) hope lie may suffer another attack. It would not kill him. 'And it would supply much liver tonic for the proletariat. The grumble hereinbefore mentioned follows:

Honest Injun, there’s no news—that is, news which may he used in this tri-weekly history of Waverley. Waverley has 'been 'jogging along exhibiting a splendid disregard for the worries of a newsless scribe. Nothing, absolutely nothing, has happened to disturb “the even tenor of its way,” hence these tears. All my pleadings for “copy” have merely returned an empty echco. “News,” said a friend in answer to my frenzied “News! There’s not enough news wandering around, true or otherwise, to fill the parish magazine. Waverley has on one of its fits of reticence. “Always t:-re way with Weverley,” he rattled on, “either a feast or a famine—going like fury one week, having a rest the next. Sorry for you, old chap.” To be candid, I did feel sorry for myself. This was the only man I met who was not “a magnificent combination of thunder and lightning, and earnest, whole-souled profanity,” in the words of Mark Twain, over the weather. ■ Good old weather! 1 ', , , , A splendid fall-back. 1 ‘ Oh, hub T forgot, 'bad old weather on this occasion. To tell the truth, I’ve been shying clear of farmers —they got so despondent over the weather. What a busy time old Jupiter Pluvius’ order department would have if they could order it. It would become so congested that we wouldn’t get any weather for a month. However, I could not evade meeting some of the sons of the soil—pardon, I mean mud. One regaled me with cheering facts about the harvest. “Most of the stocked crop in the district is sprouting,” ho told me. “Just think of it,” he moaned, “no crops last year, stocks sprouting this.” ■ “Rotten weather,” said another; “I’ve too much grass already.” I splashed on meditating. Too much grass! What next! Ingratitude, thy name is Man. I called on the secretary of the Kilts Protection League. “We’ve decided to gie ower the kilts till the cauld weather’s past,” he said.

That’s an item, anyhow. I dropped in to see the secretary of the Bowling Club. But I must not mention bowling. Its devotees arc beyond tea'rs. The only cheerful man is the genial “sec,” whose win over the redoubtable “O’B.” in the pairs competition lias made him immune from the dark melancholia affecting his brethren. Yes, there is no doubt that in this wet rain, the bowlers are out of their element. That’s what the secretary told me, anyway. Even motoring has gone out of fashion for the time being so there are no fresh experiences to chronicle in connection with Alf. Dixon’s car. “What of the Show?” 1 fearfully whispered to a member of the A. and

P. Association. “That’s alright,” ho replied, “we’ve squared Bates.” “Pain has spoiled shows, you know,” II faltered, “Spoil our Show,” and he glared daggers at me, “spoil the Show—this is the Waverley Show, you poor innocent. The weather's going to he good.” He wound up with great emphasis. Let us hope so. It will mean “copy,” by James! Think of it, ‘‘COPY.”