FROM THE WATCH TOWER

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 57, 30 May 1927, Page 8

FROM THE WATCH TOWER

By the LOOK-OUT MAN WOULD MAKE A CAT LAUGH Haring had read to him a telegram, which, in feehle code, instructed the recipient to lay money on certain horses, Mr. Mosley, S.M., observed that it would raise the suspicions of a tomcat. It was explained by counsel that some officers of the Telegraph Department “winked at’’ such messages. There is an old adage that “There are none so blind as those who won’t see.” In respect to betting telegrams, the officials are absolutely sightless. And by whose instructions? No departmental officer, who placed any value oil his job, would have the temerity to accept or transmit a telegram which contravened departmental rules, unless he had the implied or tacit consent of his departmental heads to do so. And no departmental head would dare accept the responsibility without the approval of the Minister. It would be interesting to learn the amount of revenue derived by the Post and Telegraph Department from betting telegrams.

THE RETURN OF THE WALTZ Jazz, fox-trots, bunny hugs and the like have their day, but the waltz endures, and is now regaining much of its popularity. Consider the vast numbers of young men who have made up their minds to propose to fair partners during the dear old dreamy waltz! And consider the numbers of young women who have said “No!” to young men who have trodden on their toes or the hems of their long skirts! But two good waltzers move idealistically, and many a marriage has resulted from a tender word in a willing air as the dreamy waltz went on. You can’t imagine anyone becoming tender during a charleston, a fox-trot or a jazz; nor whispering sweet whispers. All you could do in the circumstances would be to dot-dash out your proposal in the Morse code, with your heels. And your girl might not be a telegraphist.

ANOTHER ILLUSION SHATTERED The theory that a goat can eat anything and thrive has been upset by the deaths of three Angoras, at Trentham. They ate the leaves of a rhododendron plant and then passed on to better pastures—or so ’tis to be hoped. Goats will eat the family washing and then consume the clothesline, and they delight in the mastication of old tins and hoop-irons. The blackberry bush is a joy and a delicacy to them, and they prefer a rose-bush to all things gastronomical. But the rhododendron has them! The Look-Out Man is glad with a wicked gladness that he has a rhododendron plant in his front garden, for a vagrant goat of his otherwise sweet-scented neighbourhod has for weeks endeavoured to gain admission thereto. So far it has merely damaged the fence. For its convenience the gate will now be left open. Come into the garden, goat! ENCOURAGING NATIVE TALENT

The literary-minded who believe in encouraging native talent will appreciate the action of the annual conference of the Associated Booksellers of Australia, which has recommended all booksellers to support Australian and New Zealand authors by giving their works special displays and publicity, and has also decided to hold an Australian and New Zealand authors’ week. Both the Commonwealth and the Dor. Vn ion offer scope for good story-telling, and there will be no lack of native talent if encouragement is given it. Let us learn in song and story more about our own countries, and import fewer exotic sex-novels and other slushy emanations from the pens of writers whose outlook is foreign to the healthy environment of these young countries. In other words, let us strive for a literature of our own, a literature that will picture us as we are—so that we may know ourselves for what we are. THE BIG HOSPITAL

It is refreshing to note that everyone is not of the opinion of the Minister of Health, the Hon. J. A. Young, who thinks New Zealand now has all the hospitals she requires. Mrs. W. H. Smith, for instance, has built and equipped a 16-bed hospital at Wesley College, Paerata. If it is a question of enough big hospitals, yes—and we don’t want them any larger. The New Zealand tendency has been to extend hospitals, already too large and cumbersome, so that there might be immense monuments for the glorification of hospital boards, with wards named after the chairman for the time being. Flattering as this may be to the vanity of the chairmen, it isn’t very satisfactory to the public. If, for instance, Mr. Young were to fracture his leg on the other side of the harbour, twenty miles or so from the Auckland Hospital, he might perceive the necessity for a hospital on the North Shore. If he met with a similar misfortune at Henderson (which the Lord forbid!) he might realise the need for a cottage hospital to serve the needs of that district. It would be interesting to know how many people die annually as the result of treatment in urgent cases being delayed by the necessity of having to be carried many miles to big central hospitals in the cities. * * * THE HOT-GOSPELLERS

The militant street-preacher is still with us. You can hear him any Sunday evening on the quay-side, shouting down the Socialist orator, who is haranguing his own crowd a hundred yards away. “Do you know where you are heading to, my friend,” he asks an interrupter. “You are heading straight for the Lake of Burning Fire and Brimstone mentioned in the Book of Revelations. And would you like to know what company you will have there for ever and ever?” “Yes,” says the interrupter. "Well, you will have every scoundrel and villain ever bred since the time of Adam. You will have the scum of the earth to be your companions. How do you like the prospect?” The interrupter doesn’t, apparently, for he interrupts no more.