FROM THE WATCH TOWER

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 489, 19 October 1928, Page 8

FROM THE WATCH TOWER

By “THE LOOK-OUT MAN.”

TIME OF .VO ACCOUNT A number of watches have been stolen from a case landed at Dunedin. They will never he missed in Dunedin. FEATHERS AMD TRESSES The shingle is doomed, and feminine tresses are to be worn again. This wiU correct a long-standing grievance of the office grumbler, who only recently observed that it was as difficult to see a good bead of hair, these days, as it was to get feathers off a frog. RED OR PINK Lady Cynthia Mosley, daughter of the late Marquess of Curzon, and wife of Sir Oswald Mosley, the LabourSocialist member of the House of Commons, who only recently claimed his title, has comDlained that she and lier husband are being snubbed and cut by English society. It'is one thing to be Red, but it is another to be put to the blush. » * * IMPOSSIBLE! More about Lord Birkenhead: In one of the cases in which' the then Mr. F. E. Smith, M.P., appeared for the prosecution, the defending counsel in his address to the jury said that Mr. Smith had commented on the fact that the defendant had had a drink with the boy’s mother, a charwoman. That suggestion was in very bad taste. A gentleman could drink with anybody, though counsel did not know if members of Parliament drank with navvies or charwomen, except at election, times. BEER OR FLORINS As building after building in Auckland reaches its full height, a flag of sorts flutters from the topmost parapet. This perpetuates an ancient custom among builders. The flag may be only a scrap of tattered cloth, or q pair of discoloured and worn-out moleskins, but it still has its significance. Formerly there was a ceremony appropriate to the occasion. The architects sent round a keg of beer, and all hands made merry. But nowadays it is generally with a bright new florin in each man’s pay envelope that the happy event is celebrated. THE WOODEN SOLDIERS The sergeant-major’s story: Stand easy, men. That exercise was very badly executed. I would like to tell you a little tale. When I was a boy, a very small boy, my dear grandmother gave me a box of wooden soldiers. I took them to the seaside, where I lost them. I was terribly distressed, but Granny, my dear old granny—her hair was white and her soul was whiter—said: “Never mind, Archie. You will grow into a big strong man, and some day you will find your wooden soldiers.” . . . And she was right, you wooden stiffs. I have found them. Dis-miss! REGISTRATION A visit to the office of the chief electoral officer provides an enlightening cross-section of human stupidity. The rolls close to-day, so the curtain falls upon the best part of the show. For days they have been breasting the counter. . . “I live in Ponsonby, but I want to vote for Mrs. Maguire.” A process that ought to be simple is invested with the most extraordinary difficulties. A lady who had not voted for many years wished to be registered. No, she could not remember where she voted last. And so it goes on. The heavily-burdened clerks show exemplary patience. It is all in the game at election time.

DOGGED BY A CAT Herr Fritz von Opel, inventor of the famed rocket auto, has been dogged by bad luck. He was attacked recently by the Association of German Friends of Cats, and by Herr Victor Fraenkl, chairman of the German League for Animal Rights. Inventor von Opel had placed a cat in his rocket car. He wished to test the resistance of a living organism to high speed. But the car never attained high speed. Instead, it exploded. The Cat was never found. Hence the cat lovers’ ire. IN QUEEN STREET It was a very wet afternoon. The stout gentleman emerged from a Queen Street hotel and stepped Into a motor-car, one of those nice, comfortable, closed cars that afford an elegant protection from the rain: and it was raining very hard. He was settling himself down into the cosy cushions, and grasping the wheel as with purposeful intent, when a stranger opened the door. “Excuse me, you are in the wrong car.” “My dear sir, this is my ear.” “No,” was the firm answer. “It is mine.” The stout man pondered. “By jove, I had forgotten. I left my car at home today.” He retired in disorder. Yes, it was a very wet afternoon.