FROM THE WATCH TOWER

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 969, 12 May 1930, Page 8

FROM THE WATCH TOWER

By

“THE LOOK-OUT MAN.”

THE LAST STRONGHOLD

The last silent picture house in Queen Street is being fitted for the talkies. Under the stars in the Civic roof I sit and dream of the bygone age, When the films were silent, mute, aloof, And Charlie Chaplin was all the rage ; When Mary Miles Minter reigned, And oh, that beauteous blonde was cute ; But now, I admit, I am somewhat pained To think that the films were ever mute. Where are the charms of yesterday? Where are the boys like Wallace Reid, Idols of many a matinee, Heroes -all, of the silent breed? What did it matter that then no voice Cracked no quips, that it left unsung Tuneful themes—it was Hobson’s choice In the golden' flays when the film was young. We laughed and cried with the voiceless mimes, Sometimes gleeful and sometimes glum, So spare a sigh for the good old times When stars were beautiful—but dumb. STRONG BREW There are more ways than one of preparing for the British Rugby footballers, as witness the following headings from a contemporary: MATCH AT WANGANUI HOME TEA CHOSEN ENTERTAINMENT OF VISITORS But if Wanganui wants to make absolutely sure of winning the match, it would be better to have a stronger brew than tea set out for them. WIDELY KNOWN Glancing through Saturday’s paper, reader? may have noticed that the Rev. Lionel B. Fletcher, in advertising his well-known services at the Beresford Street Congregational Church, notifies that the church is situated “next Central Fire Station.” But it seems to ug that Mr. Fletcher does himself an injustice. He has not laboured all these years in vain. There would be much more point in it if the Central Fire Station advertised itself as being “next to Beresford Street Congregational Church.” SHIVERS Earthquakes iu Burma. Pegu shaken. Rangoon rocked. The news of the day seems to bristle with reports of them. There has been another in Persia, this time in the justly-famed district of Azerbaijan, which is “inhabited by Persians, Armenians, Tartar Turks, Kurds, Arabs and others.” Many casualties are reported, but the most important thing to New Zealanders will be whether or not Dr. Adams managed to get a good specimen off his seismograph. Apart from that the thing is merely a minor matter. Far worse is the catastrophe reported from England, and celebrated on a contemporary poster as follows:—“Ten wickets to Grimmett. Terrible Earthquake.” CRICKET SCORE And even then the catalogue of jests perpetrated by our merry sports writers is not exhausted. On Saturday appeared a Rugby result from Christchurch. It read: “Christchurch 328, Merivale 0.” WINDY SEA Coincidence! Just when somebody entered the sanctum on Saturday with word that John Masefiel'd had been appointed poet laureate we were clearing a spike on which a little extract from Masefield happened to be impaled. It had been there for months, and its original purpose in being there is now lost in the mists of antiquity. But here it is: Oh, I am tired of hric.k and stone, the heart of me is sick For windy, green, unquiet sea—the realm of Moby Dick, And I’ll be going, going, from the roaring of the wheels, For a wind is in the heart of me, a fire is in my heels. Barbaric, almost compared with the tranquil soliloquies of the late Mr. Bridges, but it will make the laureateship live as it has not lived for a very long time. JUST IN CASE It is extraordinary and baffling that a law-abiding place like Wanganui should have been the scene of so many violent crimes. As a source of hot news it has a record that leaves nearly every other town in the Dominion pallied by comparison. Notably there was its mayor, Charles Mackay, whose name has been scratched from nearly all the foundation stones he laid during his long term of office, while in the portrait gallery in the Council chambers a patch of wallpaper much darker in hue than its faded environment formerly marked the spot whence the righteous burgers had torn his photograph. There are two unsolved murders of the last decade or so waiting the attention of crime detectors. One of them is the baffling case of Chow Yat, a Chinese nurseryman, and the other the mysterious death of Mrs. Oates. Mrs. Oats was butchered with fearful ferocity. That night a reporter now prominently placed on a contemporary walked home from the office with a length of gaspipe up his sleeve. He was forearmed.