FROM THE WATCH TOWER

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 792, 12 October 1929, Page 10

FROM THE WATCH TOWER

By “THE LOOK-OUT KAN.” THE SUBURBAN GARDENER Once I dug a garden plot, T’lanned it with a frenzy line, And in dreams that fragrant lot Bore me fruits and flowers divine. Cauliflower and eglantine, Sweet potatoes, roses red, Pansies, and a passion vine— Thus 1 planned my garden bed. And I pictured, in the spring. AVhen the air, like, bubbling wine, Made them grow like anything, Those amazing plants of mine, Sprouting strictly to design, Would appear above the soil With a freshness free and fine, And reward me for my toil. Thus inspired I loved to delve, Till some influence malign Caused me carelessly to shelve That ambitious plan of mine. Now, no matter how I pine, Not a verdant shoot is there. Rooted as by hungry swine Lies the earth all brown and bare. Fellow-sufferers of mine, Here’s a plea that never fails. If no verdant shoots entwine In your garden—blame the snails ! POSTPONED Occasional instances o£ religious fervour are too arresting to be lightly passed oyer. There was the recent case mentioned herein of an American preacher whose text referred to Solomon as "a six-cylinder sport.” Noav Aye hare the “Open air campaigners of Nery Zealand” inviting attendance at the Old Dock Site, where the question of “Christ or the Devil —which?” will be decided. The theme to be explored by the campaigners seems Avorthy of a greater fidelity than is indicated in the footnote: “N.B. —If wet, next day.” * * * HOCKEY BATS “Drizzle, drizzle, the party’s a fizzle,” is the title of a currently popular song. On mornings like the present it has a particularly sinister application. All Auckland comes into town with Its golf clubs on Saturday morning, and a hint of rain is sufficient to cast a deep gloom over the business quarter of the city. Not that there has been anything to complain about lately. A sequence of brilliant week-ends has been almost too good to be true, and it has been quite obvious that a break must come soon just to show the people who display bathing costumes in their windows that they cannot take liberties with established tradition. Perhaps there is something noble about the sight of people coming into town on a bright morning with golf clubs, or wbat an old Irishwoman of one’s acquaintance once referred to as “a bag full of hockey bats.” Just to preserve a sense of proportion the true golfer walks past those displays of bathing suits with averted head. The truth is that, popular beliefs to the contrary, golf in Auckland is not a Winter game. At least, it may be a Winter game nominally, but you have to wait till the Springtime to play it in comfort. THIS DENSITY If the inquiry into the proposed bachelor flats serves no other purpose, it Avill demonstrate that the City Council has not as much control at it would like to have, or thinks it has, over existing residential amenities. There is all sorts of humour to be obtained from boarding and living in flats by people who have no money to pay high rents but can yet manage to see the humorous side. In one establishment which has been mellowed by the hand of time the occupants must take great care lest more than one bathroom is in use at a time, otherwise the califonts might burn out or explode. Part of another place occupies a lease by the terms of which flats are barred, so the occupants of the apartments remain on the condition that if inquiries are made they are "members of the family.” No harm is done by these gentle subterfuges; and the people who live in converted flats are quite happy in their own way. Perhaps after all a lot of poppycock is talked about density of population. There are more ways than one in which a populace may be dense. THE WRESTLING BOOM

“C.W.” has a ring-side seat. “Dear D.0.M.: The wrestling boom is not confined to the Town Hall. We see it on broad meadows where frisking lambs tumble with their brothers; we see it in the farmer’s cart when the little pigs go to market. And I saw it in Albert Park this morning. Two blackbirds engaged in deadly combat mauled each other with a concentrated ferocity that rendered them oblivious to my presence. Nei’er was such a fuss of feathers. They were Damon and Daphne—you could tell their sex by the plumage. As is not uncommon in domestic encounters the male of the species Was being well drubbed. Daphne had Damon’s leg in her beak and pulled till he cried out — Avhich is good wrestling. Damon must have been reading Minhinnick’s column recently, for he had fear written upon him in large letters and—took early opportunity to escape. It was a case of ‘Bye-bye, Blackbird.’ ”