FROM THE WATCH TOWER

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 904, 22 February 1930, Page 8

FROM THE WATCH TOWER

By “THE LOOK-OUT MAN,”

THE BOLSHEVIK’S ANTHEM Soviet Russia continues to make war on Christians. The colour of my flag- is red, It goes so well with green. For green’s the flag of jealousy And —you know what I mean. My motto’s such a simple thing, “Equality for all.” My method is much simpler still— The rifle and the wall. My anthem is a thing of fire And has a strong refrain. It keeps the people’s spirit up, And drowns the voice of pain. My daily labour is to see My brothers fed and shod. My friends are all who think as I. My enemy—is God. DICK WHITTINGTON. • * • LIBRARY VAN Travelling libraries are the latest bright Idea evolved by the Auckland City Council. The commendable aim of the library committee is to extend to people at Tamaki and Avondale the same benefits as are enjoyed by the residents in suburbs where there are established libraries. The difficulty is that a travelling library would always work under severe limitations. Punctures, carburettor trouble, and dirty plugs might interfere with its schedule. On a rainy night, the nonappearance of subscribers would virtually place it out of commission. Owing to the lack of space its patrons would be able to enjoy none of that leisured roaming among the bookshelves which makes the average library subscriber’s life worth while. On the whole it is probable that the library van would not be so well received as the plecart. * * * THE ROAR OF THE CROWD The relative merits of test cricket and test tennis form an interesting subject for speculation. In the larger seise cricket retains Its hold on the imaginations of the people. Passengers in tramcars will ask the conductor how the cricket is going, but they will not question him about the tennis, for the simple reason that democracy’s most representative figure does not trouble himself about such affectations. But as a spectacle it must be admitted that tennis has a great deal to commend it. There is an intimacy about test tennis that cannot be found at a cricket match. Even though a Duleepsinhji is batting, cricket seems a game of leisured movements. The solemn deliberation with whieh the players cross over after the overs, the stately progress of the score, the pauses while an umpire adjusts the bails, and the cbnscious dignity with which the players march in for afternoon tea, all seem to heighten this impression. * * « THE VETERANS Not so many years ago, Auckland seemed to be losing its respect for cricket. Less than £2OO was taken in all at one test match, but yesterday considerably more than that figure was taken in one afternoon, and today all records should be broken. Hence it appears that we are becoming more cricket-wise. Yet we still pay our dues to tennis, and old and young will gather to see crack tennis players in action. Once the elders of the community despised the game. Greybeards who had been raised on cricket refused to interest themselves in its niceties. But now there is even a generation of bearded critics. Old men in the stands at Stanley Street explore their memories and decide that Kalms is one of the finest players Australia has ever sent across to us. The whole history of tennis in its modern development can be reviewed in the memory of a middle-aged man, but already there is a gallery of veterans, and more and more will be added to their ranks, until at length the players of today, gathered among the whiskered pundits, will say with a toothless chuckle: “Ah, but you don’t see tennis today like we had in my younger days, round about 1930.’’ RACING COLLEEN Turning from mundane things, let us consider the charming features of the latest feminine invasion, represented by the appearance oi Miss Fay Taylour on the racing motor-cycle track. Alarmists may regard this innovation as the latest symptom of feminine degeneration. There are still those who consider that broadsiding and backsliding are synonymous, and that motor-cycles and women are as much opposed and incompatible as beauty and the beast. Hence it may be a relief to know that beneath her workmanlike racing outfit Miss Taylour retains the charm and graces of her sex. The much-travelled but volatile Irish girl still takes a naive interest in people and places, and she and her movie camera were bobbing about all over tbe place at the Stanley Street tennis courts yesterday. Incidentally, Miss Taylour plays a more-than-average game of tennis herself. She chose motor-cycle racing for an occupation where other girls might choose shorthand-typing or dental nursing, and she is making a handsome income from her original choice. . _