FROM THE WATCH TOWER

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 992, 7 June 1930, Page 8

FROM THE WATCH TOWER

By -

"THE LOOK-OUT MAN.”

A RACIXG AFTERMATH I dreamed a strange, prophetic dream, One packed with psychic forces; I dreamed I held a converse with Ten kind, obliging horses. They told me all I wished to know, With winks and sly grimaces, Concerning which among those ten Were out to win which races. Xot only that, but racecourse-bound, I passed three coal black cats. And stopped to pick up off the ground Three horse-shoes, on the flats. I plunged on each and every race, Cock-sure that I would win . . . Today, by many pounds I'm out. The tote, alas, is in. * * * AWAKEXIXG THE DEAD So it has been admitted officially that the Auckland Public Library is sadly overcrowded and urgently in need of extended space. This, however, will not be news to habitues of the place, for they have suffered these many summers (and winters!). All agree that the reference-reading room, for example, though of pleasant residential dimensions, is hardly the thing for a large and growing City. As a result of this limitation, casual visitors are obliged, when seeking certain books at the rear of those quaint little alcoves, to indulge in the antisocial sport of Awakening the Dead. The dead frequently protest mutely but balefully before returning to the amazingly varied and abstruse works that form their pillows, and the thinskinned searcher is left reaching vaguely for more handy but possibly less satisfactory tomes. THE REALM ABOVE Visitors to the reference room often speculate as to the nature of the gloomy aST3&£ lining the vault above their heads. The L.O.M. once received the privilege (rarely bestowed) of ascending to this realm, and thus is able to shed some light on the mystery. The gallery, as one imagines it is termed, is packed from end to end with the most uninterestinglooking books imaginable. Why they are kept and who, if anyone, wishes to read them, are questions beyond ordinary speculation, but they are most zealously guarded—even barred. Beyond the gallery is a cavernous room —a place of unbroken silence —where rest massive samples of early Auckland journalism. No ordinary mortal may enter here. If he should wish to read of doings in past days, he must apply below, giving chapter and verse, whereupon a neophyte disappears aloft and returns with one of the samples. The ceremony is very impressive, and fills in a lot of the time we all have to spare in these dull days. THY THIS OYE A new sport for erudite Londoners —that of devising “nouns of assembly” —is being encouraged by a London newspaper. Captain Harry Graham, noted humorist and playwright, is a recognised expert in this novel field of collective nouns, but there are others as is proved by the following amusing list: A condescension of chauffeurs. A tapping (or giggle) of typists. A draggle of charwomen. A wizen of jockeys. A blather of politicians. An absence of plumbers. A screw of income-tax collectors. A grumble of dramatic critics. A flourish (or strut) of actors. A swagger of men-about-town. A mush of novelists. In more serious vein has been added, “a squadrilla of airplanes,” and “a parade of shops.” One might add “a jabber of talkies,” “a wrangle of councillors,”, “a scribble of reporters,” and “an immobility of shop assistants.” Perhaps nimble-minded readers have further suggestions. BY AVY OTHER NAME . . .

If precedent counts for anything, one essential for a wrestler is an extraordinary name. Most professionals take unto themselves ferocious noms de guerre such as “Tiger Man,”

“Panther,” and “Strangler,” each of which has a delightfully uplifting effect on box-office receipts. But boxers are not exempt from this practice, and some of them have been so well provided by their parents that there is no need of further elaboration. Consider, for a moment, a list of boxers all of whom took part in bouts in the Royal Albert Hall, London, on the same evening—May 8. First comes a Belgian, Van Haecke, a good, determined name, by Heck! De Stabili, an Italian, must have done well if he remained stable, and Jean Tonech sounds as though he would be “big medicine” for anyone. Sitnichenko, a Russian, defies inspiration, and the champion name of all is that belonging to a Greek—Voulgaropoulos. Heaven help the radio announcer on a night like that!