FROM THE WATCH TOWER

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1056, 21 August 1930, Page 8

FROM THE WATCH TOWER

By “THE LOOK-OUT MAN.” VAGUE VERSES (So. 2) Camera, so the cables spy, Must pack his boxing gloves away. Return to Franco, and learn to trifle With an array service rifle. I'm sure, had this been known before, Von Seeckt would not have talked of When Bradman first begins to bat, The bowlers may be young and fat: But by the time lie’s in his stride. The hardy ones who have not died WiJI each look just like Mr. Grace, With lots of whiskers on his face. The Bishops who at Lambeth sit Have really put. their foot in it. By causing quite an angry shout On subjects seldom talked about. ’Twould now be tactful to say: Let's Just leave this to the Church Gazettes! M.B. HOSPITAL IT A KMONY There is something almost pathetic tn the complaints of Auckland Hospital patients that they are annoyed by persons who visit the wards, sing ‘‘mournful hymns,” and distribute tracts on such cheerful subjects as "Is There a Hell?” It is pathetic because the intentions of the visitors obviously are so good. The difficulty is that the old saw, "One man’s meat is another’s poison,” applies to a large extent to religious belief. Patient A after perusing a series of warning tracts and listening to certain of oui less optimistic hymns accompanied on a portable harmonium, may feel soothed and spiritually refreshed. On | the other hand, after an hour of the same treatment, patient B may be found in a state of either extreme melancholia or hysterical frenzy. By all means let hospital patients kindly disposed toward the harmonium have their fun, but, for the sake of others, let the instrument be wheeled to the bedside, and insist that the only "stop” used be that which produces the tiny treble note inaudible at a distance of a yard or two. PRO-NEW ZEALAND Tiwakawaka: A new kind of art union has come to answer the critics of art unions. The Minister of Internal Affairs, the Hon. P. A. de la Perrelle, has been asked to authorise the holding of an art union to raise money for the protection of native birds and trees. This appeal should surely meet tire approval of New Zealanders. At last native birds and forests, puzzled and then ruined by the operations of rabbits, stoats, weasels, goats, deer and all manner of pests, are to have a financial champion. The idea should be extended. We should have art unions to remove Scottish heather from the bounds of Tongariro National Park, Scotch thistle and ragwort from many districts of New Zealand, gorse from the fields of Rangitikei and from the slopes of the Mauawatu Gorge, and the Australian hakea from fields just north of Auckland. What a commotion there would be among the near-Scots-men and near-other nationalities to have their favourite plants destroyed in this way! Seriously, though. New Zealand should do its utmost to dispense with English rabbits and Scottish heather in order to save its native birds and trees.

LOSSES AND AVERAGE* All the world loves a good loser and admires a man with a “poker” face. King of all losers and “poker” face owners is the man from Quebec who, at Deauville’s casino, lost £SO,OOO in the course of a single night’s sitting in the chemin-de-fer room. In one hand, announces the cable, he lost the best part of £IO,OOO, which is not surprising, for chemin-de-fer is a variation of Daccarat, a game that is as rapid, simple, and expensive as tossing a penny against long odds. The maratnon gambler, be it noted, is a Canadian, which possibly is the reason for his wishing to do things in a big way. With a vast store of cash and a limit as wide as the prairie, the Deauville visitor may get his money back. On the other hand he may not. it all depends upon that most nebulous of natural laws—the law of averages—on which the majority of gambling “systems,” advertised and hawked in Britain as freely as racing tips, are based. in theory it is a sound law but, in practice, most people prefer a rabbit’s foot, a black cat’s whisker, or, at worst, a “pip in the pantry.” In honest circles this last would be described as a spare- ace tucked conveniently under the lower flap of one’s waistcoat. MEDICATED C.S.—Yesterday I strolled into a City cake shop to buy a few of those wellknown pastry sandwiches packed full of currants. When my turn came I found myself unable to remember their proper name, and was obliged to use an inelegant term beloved by my children: “Fly cemeteries.” In doing so I apologised to the girl assistant for my apparently revolting sense of humour. Said she: “Oh, we’re quite used to that. Customers often give our goods most peculiar names. The other day a woman called in to buy our ‘health bread.’ She said: ‘I -want some of your medicated loaves’!”