FROM THE WATCH TOWER

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 897, 14 February 1930, Page 8

FROM THE WATCH TOWER

HYMN OF PRAISE “Welcome rain.” —A timely heading in the morning paper. Oh welcome, saturating- showers. We love you just as well As all the gaily blooming- flowers That deck the bosy dell. In fact, just like the flowers in spring, We welcome you like anything-. For how we love to tramp to work With moisture in our ears, With water trickling down our necks. Or mingling with our tears. And. what sublime, refreshing zest This downpour gives the cricket test! Then sound the cymbals, beat the drum. And chant a song of praise; We’re happier now the rain has come Than we have been for days. The ram that wets our coats and socks Is welcome—as the chickenpox! NOT A CANNIBAL One of the most unsavoury personalities in history was Gilles de Rais, the original “Bluebeard,” whose life after a passing association with Joan of Arc was spent in a long orgy of killing at his castle in the South of ITrance, where some 400 children are known to have lost their lives. The name of Gilles de Rais comes again into prominence because a lecture on his life, to be given by a certain Mr. Aleister Crowley, has been banned by the Oxford Poetry Society. In discussing the ban Mr. Crowley observes calmly: “A false accusation has been made that I have not only killed, but eaten, children.” Here is a case of mild denial if ever there was one. To the average man, unjustly accused of this recreation, “false” would seem, to say the least, a distinctly inadequate word. PRINTED MONEY D-T.—Yesterday’s references to the romantic operations of the Royal Mint prompt the thought that the making of paper money for New Zealand is an industry that has not been encouraged in this country. One refers, of course, to legal moneymaking. The notes for the Bank of New Zealand are printed overseas and imported into New Zealand in bulk. This is by no means a risky business as they are unsigned and are worth no more than the cost of the paper and the ink with which they are printed. The making of bank-notes, in every sense, is an exceedingly complicated and difficult business.

DONKEYS * * * Children at the show grounds who made the discovery that nothing is Quite so stubbornly placid as a tired and disinterested donkey have learned a lesson that time has made proverbial. Contrary to accepted belief, however, donkeys are not stupid. In their own way they are as sagacious as horses, but they think slowly, and have a habit of acting with .a sort of irritating calmness that nothing Can ruffle. Moreover, tlfe majority are devoid of that friendly instinct which becomes a bond of understanding between a man and his horse. For centuries the donkey has been a beast of burden, performing the same backbreaking tasks in the same way, generation after generation. No wonder he thinks' along circumscribed lines, and with a deliberation that is mistaken for stupidity. NECESSITY’S LAW A donkey’s lack of emotion in distressing circumstances is well exemplified in the pet story of a prominent New Zealand medical man who was spending a vacation on a friend’s farm. One day the hired hand came bursting in with the news tliat the farm donkey was standing perfectly still, with its mouth wide open, and seemed to be in trouble. The doctor proceeded to the scene, and made the discovery that the animal had a white turnip stuck in its throat, and was on the point of suffocation. Realising the urgency of the case, the doctor shouted for a broom and some oil. A bottle of lubricating castor oil was forthcoming, together with a broom handle, whereupon the doctor snicked off the top of the bottle, poured the contents down the donkey’s throat, and rammed at the turnip with his homely probe. With a “plop” the turnip disappeared, and the donkey breathed again. Never in the course of the “operation” liad it moved from its original position. UNDER FIRE * ’ Up to the present New Zealand journalism has been happily free from the excitements and tragedies of newspaper life in other lands. The bomb outrage in Trieste, where an explosion injured three editorial writers, is typical of the sort of thing that takes place from time to time overseas, and adds the spice of risk to the scribbler’s existence. A colleague, now safely domiciled in Auckland, Is fond of relating the inside story of a feud among Chinese newspaper people in Canada, which reached its climax one evening when a ruthless gunman arrived at the office of the rival journal. Standing just inside the door, he picked off a group of Chinese reporters, afterward disappearing as silently as he came. The one consolation journalists have on these hectic occasions is that they are provided with a sensational story, readymade on the premises!.