FROM THE WATCH TOWER

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1053, 18 August 1930, Page 8

FROM THE WATCH TOWER

By

“THE LOOK-OUT MAN.”

TIED EN, LAUGIITER “I can’t stand this much longer/' said W. T. Tllden during an American tennis tournament when spectators laughed at his failure to win a point. The crowd continued to laugh and, a little later, he defaulted and lost the set. —Cable item. A humble cat may look at a King And laugh if the sight amuses. But on no account must the gallery ring With ribald mirth, or anything That puts Bill Tilden out of his swing For the set in which he loses! The clumsy workman damns his tools And mutters his woes aloud. The Rugby man picks holes in the rules, To jockeys all the nags are “Mules,” The golfer thinks his caddies are fools— But Tilden blames the crowd. ’Tis the same old story over again: The winner may smile or frown, But the losing man must bear tho strain And do his utmost to refrain From a diatribe that will make it plain That he’s sore at going down. M.E. 1 * * * COUPON CRAZE Smokers of cigarettes, drinkers ot tea, and eaters of various packet foods have become willing slaves to the coupon craze. Coupons may be obtained with a dozen and one* “lines” of merchandise and, in each case, prizes are offered in return for collections of the little paper slips. So fascinating has this game become that few tea drinkers or smokers throw away their coupons. If one does not collect perI sonally, one knows someone who does, and each new packet is searched carefully. Discarded coupons have become as rare as discarded coins, and when they are seen they are snatched up eagerly. During the week-end a tramcar in a certain part of the City (in fairness to the subject of this incident, one must be vague) came suddenly to a standstill between stops. Out jumped the driver. He ran to the front of his car, stooped and picked from the rails a small piece of printed paper. “Ah,” he said in triumph, pocketing the find. A moment later the tram moved on, the driver keeping his customary good look-out. “BARKING SANDS" Dear L.0.M.: A photograph in Saturday’s Sun supplement shows two people playing with sands at Hawaii that are said to give forth a sound like the barking of dogs. It may interest your readers to know that quite close to Auckland there is sand of this type. It may be found on the beach at Stanmore Bay on the northern coast of the Whangaparaoa Peninsula, about a mile in a straight line back from Arkle’s Bay. My children and I visit this beach regularly. We found by accident that in some parts the sand, when trotten on, gives out a short sharp yapping sound like that made by “Poms.” This is especially noticeable on sunny days when the sand is hot and dry. The fact that someone thought it worth-while to acquaint your paper with the existence of this peculiar sand at far-distant Hawaii while being ignorant of the fact that the same phenomenon may be observed at our very door is a proof of the fact that the people of this country do not “see New Zealand first,” as the Government publicity placards and pamphlets advise them to. TIROHANCA. THEY SQUEAK TOO “Tirohanga” may or may not have made the further discovery that the sands on other parts of the New Zealand coastline squeak when trodden on. This type, though not as coarse as the “barking” sand, contains grains large enough to make a g title grating sound when pressed together. The grating on the part of countless thousands 6t grains has the effect of a sharp squeak like that of a small animal in pain. As “squeaking” or “harking” sand undoubtedly performs at its best after all moisture has been dried out by a blazing sun, many a small boy has ended his holidays with painfully blistered feet because of his liking for the “funny noise he could hear when he walked on the beach.” HOME-MADE WINE Almost every man, at one time or another, feels the urge to don his oldest and most beloved suit, grub about in the cellar for discarded bottles, and prepare to make a “home brew.” This is an interesting pastime, and a perfectly legitimate one, provided that the brewer does not follow the example of the New Plymouth man who was fined recently for selling his surplus to a friend. Nevertheless, the task is by no means as easy as it seems when one reads the family recipe book. In at least 50 per cent, of cases, after reducing the kitchen and workroom to chaos, wasting money on corks and a barrel, and spending a week-end in filling the house with smells of burning, the brewer will cork his bottles and put them under a corner shelf. Half an hour later he will succumb to temptation and sample one. Then he will face the family circle boldly and say, “Splendid!” Finally he will wait until the coast is clear, borrow half a crown from the household purse, and stroll to the corner hotel, a sadder and a wiser man. Home brewers who are actually able to market their wares deserve fame rather than fines.