FROM THE WATCH TOWER

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 139, 2 September 1927, Page 8

FROM THE WATCH TOWER

By “THE LOOK-OUT MAN”

THE HALLS OF THE GREAT Dr. Nicholas Murray Butler, president of Columbia University, says that, for the first time in 2,000 years, the world is without a really great man. The trouble with Dr. Nicholas Murray Butler is that he does not know New Zealand. Let him visit this country, and spend just- one little evening listening to the debates in the House of Representatives. THE INTERPRETATION EHAKCH A Maori wrote in his native language to the Government Printer for a publication which ordinarily cost 6d. Before he could understand the order, the Government Printer had to send the letter to the Native Affairs Department, which charged 10s for a translation into English. It is suggested that, though the Government refuses to pay for further translations of the kind, it should establish a Political Interpretation Branch for duty in the Press Gallery at Parliament, to interpret to the public, through the Press, the meanings of Ministerial explanations and answers to questions—if they ever have any meaning. POLICE TOO HUMAN Spectators at football matches at Athletic Park, Wellington, are said to be annoyed with policemen on duty following the play as it moves up and down the field, and a member of the ■ Rugby Management Committee has complained about it. It being clearly indicated by the interest they take in football that the , police may sometimes be human, they should be excluded from these matches. What the Wellington people .want is marble policemen at their athletic gatherings. They should subscribe for the erec■tion of a statue of Mr. Commissioner Mcllveney. THE POOR AUTHOR ■JeroniT K. Jerome, whose “Three Men in a Boat” has probably been read by millions of delighted readers, died practically a poor man, the whole of his estate being valued at approximately £5,000. Judiciously Invested, this may bring his widow an income of £5 a week. Had J.K.J. written stuff of lesser literary merit than his ' Three Men,” “Paul Kelver” and the delightful “Passing of the Third Floor Back” —such, for instance, as “The Mystery of the Bloodstain,” “The Marquis and the Kitchenmaid,” or “Tlie Love-struck Duck” —he would probably have left a large fortune. But some of the most meritorious writers in the English language have died in absolute poverty, while many of the writers of the sentimental slush or salacious sex story which an enlightened generation now gobbles up are coining money. It is good to know, however, that it is merit and not money that carves the memorials that endure.

“WE" OF THE U.S.A. The peu ol General Sir lan Hamil-' ton may occasionally he as caustic as it is generally brilliant. Writing of the visit to Paris of the American Legion, Sir lan declares that the only reason why the “Old Contemptibles” are shy of France is that they cannot afford it —that their clothes are not good enough to be seen on the Champs Elysees. “Whether or not the Americans won the war,” he added, “they certainly won by the war, while we lost by the way.” It could not have been more succinctly put. American publicists would be much more illuminating if they were to cease lecturing and writing on “How We Won the War” and told us “What We Won in the War.” * * # SONGS OF THE BANANA That there is money in silly songs is evident by the offer of the publishers of “I’ve Never Seen a Sraight Banana” of a reward of £IO,OOO for the discovery of such a phenomenon. A Jamaican planter has claimed the reward. The inference is that he placed a young lunatic banana (made mad by the adulation of song) in a straight-jacket, and that it grew accordingly. But the new song doesn’t seem to have become the rage; leastways, it isn’t being whistled by the entire small-boy population and barked by all the dogs of Auckland: as was its late lamented predecessor, “1 "3, We Have No Bananas.” There is no accounting for the popularity of some silly songs—they have a certain “catch,” and there you are! “Abe, My Boy” was another instance of the popularity of piffle. One remembers the advertisement of a Melbourne merchant for a smart office boy—stipulating “one who cannot whistle ‘Abe, My Boy.’ ”