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Title:      The Bachelors' Guide to the Care of the Young
Author:     L W Lower
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Title:      The Bachelors' Guide to the Care of the Young
Author:     L W Lower

The Bachelors' Guide to the Care of the Young
and other Stories.


The Bachelors Guide to the Care of the Young
Why Girls Leave Home and Wine Not
The "Dook" Raises Thirty Bob
Information Received
"Tiger Lil" Meets Her Master
Le Us Be ill
Wooden If I Were Yew
Beckonings of Fame
Netting Operations in Full Swing
The Dignity of Labour
The "Dinkum Oil" About Investing the "Oscar"
Nothing Like Love
Straight From Horse's Mouth
Y--the Tax?
Chivalry, Thou Art Not Dead
Teapot Scandal Unmasked
Xmas Food Annoys Us
Them W's the Days
How to Find Out if Spiders are Poisonous
The Gift of Tongues
Missing, One Soul
The Napkin or the Lapkin
Pigeons and History
Has a Wooden Expression
Cruel Tactics of the Emu
Rhythm's the Thing
Fat Lot of Good It Is Reducing
Let's Peep Inside
How to be Refined
Spreading Brightness in New Guinea
Art of Becoming Acclimatised
Homes Should Have a Prawn Room
Human Exhibits Below Par
Buffalo Fly Go Away
Drama of the Halides
Police Say Ha! Ha!
Heth Charms But Not for Him
Watchman, What of the Wife?
Count the Benefits
If You Buy This Elephant You've Got a Hide
His Mind is in Pawn
Matter of Chance
Be Careful with Babies
That Cramming Feeling of School Days
Why Women Are Braver
In Re Cars
The Perfect Husband
"Call Me Aggie"
Stock Staring Mad
Women Gamblers Shouldn't
Be Kind to Landlords
Give Us Noises
Something New About the Buffaloes
All-in Textbook
Yards and Feet
Musical Interludes in Long Bay
Ourselves Unveiled
A Waggish Tail


I HAVE noticed with astonishment the absolute ignorance of bachelors in
regard to the care of the young.

To begin at the beginning. It will be noticed in a fresh baby that it is
of a pale, prawn-like color, and is bald and toothless, exhibiting all
the evidences of senility. This is the usual thing, and the minder is not
to be alarmed.

The first thing noticeable about the baby is the yowl. This must be
stopped at all costs. There are various methods, but the principle to
keep in mind is--at all costs. Watches are very good; a firm hold must be
kept on the chain, however, as I have on two occasions lost a perfectly
good watch through the child swallowing it.

This mania for swallowing and sucking things may be indulged to an almost
unlimited extent. Door-knobs are excellent, though the holding of the
baby to the knob is somewhat tiring. This may be overcome by unscrewing
the hinges of the door and placing it in an accessible position.

Babies of an artistic nature or of practically any nature, may be left
with a tin of stove-polish or a bottle of red ink or any other medium for
an almost indefinite period.

In cases of persistent howling, a belt passed over the top of the head
and buckled securely under the chin is an infallible remedy. This must be
used only in extreme cases.

In handling, care must be taken that the baby is held in a more or less
vertical position, the head being uppermost. The child at times has
tendency to jerk from the holder, and in the case of a beginner this may
lead to disastrous results. Sticking-plaster and other first-aid
appliances will be found very useful on these occasions, and a supply
should always be kept on hand.

Where a baby has to be held for any length of time, a short loop of stout
twine passed around the neck, and fastened to the wrist of the holder,
will prevent contact with the floor.

Never allow a dog to lick the face of a baby, as any number of diseases
may be communicated, and, in the case of a valuable dog, this is most
serious, and may lead to its loss, or, at the best, a falling-off of
condition, and an absence of lustre in the coat.

On two or three occasions I have found the addition of about one-third of
a cupful of rum to the feeding milk very effective. Only the best O.P.
rum may be used, as babies are very delicately constituted internally. A
better way is for the minder to have four or five cupfuls himself, when
it will be found that an extraordinary number of ways of amusing the
child will suggest themselves.

Should the little one inadvertently eat anything it shouldn't, thoroughly
rinse or gargle the mouth with phenol, lysol, or any other good

In undressing the baby for the purposes of putting it to bed, bathing,
etcetera, the beginner will find great difficulty in undoing the numerous
buttons, tapes, and various other fastenings with which it is lashed.

An efficient and obvious method is to insert a penknife between the skin
and the clothing and peel the mass off in one operation.

In bathing the child, never fill the bath right up, as it is only in
exceptional cases that it will float. A cold shower and a brisk rub down
with a stiff towel will have an invigorating and tonic effect.

In conclusion, a little helpful advice to the unwilling minder will not
be amiss. Should you have been lured into minding a baby before, and wish
to escape a second demand, a convincing excuse must be made. Lodge
meetings and appointments, business or otherwise, are received with
suspicion. By far the best is the statement that you feel your diphtheria
coming back, and that you seem to be breaking out in funny red spots all
over the body. This may be said in a conversational manner just as the
request is about to be sprung. I have used this or something similar, for
some time now, and it has never failed yet.


WHY girls leave home is for three reasons which follow closely:--

(1) Because they are going out.

(2) Because of the washing-up.

(3) Because they live in a caravan, and the home just went on.

Stella, Alma, and Elma left their homes at Parramatta on Sunday night.

One of them is 5ft. 4in. in height, has light blue hair, and bobbed eyes,
and was dressed in a red complexion. The others were dressed practically
similarly with slight differences.

Hurriedly reading over the police description, we gather these few meagre
facts for the benefit of the girls, who may wish to disguise themselves.

Speaking in a high moral tone, girls who leave home are confronted with
all sorts of temptations, which is probably why they leave home.

Let us quote an instance. A girl, Daffodil her name was, met the managing
director of a chocolate-wheel in Martin Place. He handed her a bat, on
which were the numbers: 4, 27, 36, 42.

She visited all these numbers and at last met her doom. Fifty-three the
number was, girls. She fell to the depths and became a decoy in a
ping-pong dive.

The rapid transition from milkpoles to metho. was almost believable.

She now has a part-time job as a spirit-lamp in a Palmer Street
lodging-house. Recently cut twenty per cent. because she was running
short of breath.

Another case. Miss X (we could give her real name, gentlemen, but we
don't want a rush) left her humble home because she couldn't stand the
smell of ducks and roses. Years afterwards she returned and her chauffeur
dumped a tenner on the doorstep, which the stern old parents kicked into
the mould of the garden, carefully noting the spot.

(We should like it to be noted that it was the tenner and not the
doorstep which was--er--see above.)

Then there was the other dramatic occasion when the grey-haired father
cried "Out of my house, you trumpet; no darkening of doors!" The occasion
was when the erring daughter came home and paid the back rent.

Said the old father: "My father owe the rent for this house, and his
father before him--and his GRANDFATHER! And what was good enough for them
is good enough for me!"

Poor girl tottered off into the night and into the night club. Wept
bitterly into her gin. Gin and weep became a popular drink. It had a sad,
sweet taste.

In her old age she got a job weeping into the gin. The customers
complained that she was going off and she died in the gutter at the age
of 84. This was a lesson to her.

MORAL: Be good, sweet maid unless YOU can be clever.


THEY drained their glasses, and Bill, his head resting in his hands,
leaned on the bar and peered disconsolately at the bottom of his glass.

He looked like a misanthropic crystal-gazer expecting the worst.

"Dook! What's 'Ulva' mean?"

His companion gazed at the United Licensed Victuallers' Association's
mark at the bottom of his empty glass.

"Ichabod," he said.

Bill said nothing. "Dook" Deverell was always springing something on you
like that. He had the gift of the gab. Full of knowledge. The source of
his beer money was unknown, but he had a way with the ladies and a
courtly air, so they called him "the Dook."

"Well, we must take things philosophically," said the "Dook," breaking in
on Bill's gazing. "We've been celebrating your success as a punter since
Thursday, and it is true that this beauteous Saturday morning, dawning so
full of promise, finds us broke. But still, I think, it's just barely
possible--I might be able to raise a pound, but--'Dook'!"

Bill's face seemed to split laterally.

Outside, a motor horn snorted joyously, and a sunbeam side-stepping a
wowser-cloud, slipped through the half-open door, streaked along the
floor, and placed one dazzling foot upon the bright brass rail.

"'Dook'! Good ole 'Dook'! Go an' get it! I know you'd--"

"One moment," interrupted the "Dook," "I said I might. I don't like doing
it--it's not quite above board, if you know what I mean."

"Crook!" said Bill, surprised.

"No! No! But it's a friend of mine, and he might think--there are some
people one can't ask without--er--"

"Aw! Never mind 'im, 'Dook.' If 'e's a dinkum cobber, 'e'll part up and
be glad to. Don't you worry yer 'ead about them finickin' ideas, an',
anyhow, we've done twelve quid of my cash 'ere on--I'm not slingin' orf
'Dook.' I know you'll spend it when you've got it--but if you can raise a
few bob--well, don't hum! and ha! about it--just go an' get it."

"Well," said the "Dook," stroking his chin, "since you put it that way, I
suppose I have no alternative. Let me see, it's half-past seven. I'll be
back before eight. Wait here."

He buttoned his overcoat, gracefully raised his hat to the barmaid, and
passed out into the street.

"Good-bye, Mr. Deverell," she said.

"The 'Dook's' a b--marvel," Bill remarked.

The smile which had sped the parting "Dook" fled from her face, as she
turned to Bill.

"Indeed!" she said haughtily, and floated regally to the other end of the
bar to water the rum,

Twenty minutes passed drearily. The bar was deserted. An occasional old
man crawled in for his morning rum and milk, and crawled out again.

The bar door swung.

The "Dook" appeared, smoothing the nap of his hat with a careful sleeve.

"We were successful," he said. "Thirty shillings--fifteen for you, and
fifteen for me."

Hebe floated to the counter.

"Yes, gents?"

The game was on again.

"'Ow did you do it, 'Dook'? Strike me, you'll do me--"

"Not a word !" said the "Dook." "I had to--er--tell a bit of a tale, so
to speak."

"Yes, but 'oo--?"


     "'Fill the Cup--what boots it to repeat
       How time is slipping underneath our feet:
       Unborn to-morrow--'"

"Aw, all right!" said Bill, "don't start on that dam po'try again."

It was ten past six. The thirty pieces of silver, eked out with shillings
borrowed as the victim offered, had spun out the day, and Bill, having
concluded a five minute hand-shaking and shoulder-patting with the
"Dook," made his way homeward.

"Struth," he muttered, "ain't been 'ome since Thursday."

Arrived at his door, he let himself in carefully.

"There you are, you drunken brute!"

The blast smote him, and he rocked gently on his feet. He seemed to be
standing there for minutes, trying to get a word in.

"And drunk again! As if it wasn't bad enough" . . . sob . . . ("B'lime,
she's going' to 'owl!" thought Bill) . . . "bad enough to be run in for
righteous be'aviour an' 'sa'ltin' the police" . . . sob . . . "and Mr.
Deverell good enough to come and get the thirty shillings to pay your
fine--and instead of comin' home, you go and get drunk again!"

A spent force, she leaned on the table, and wept.

"Strike me, 'Ooray!" said Bill, and sat down.

"So that's where 'e got it," he muttered.

"Well, I'll be--! Gorblime!" he said softly.


IN a dark side street, off the Cowper Wharf Road that skirts
Woolloomooloo Bay, six men lounged where the moon could not see them and
smoked in silence.

Though only 10 o'clock, no traffic disturbed the quiet of the night, few
pedestrians showed themselves, and the houses were dark and silent. Far
up the road a gramophone ground out a comic song that sounded lonely,
mournful and hushed where the water lapped the wharf piles. Two lean
Lascars, with the long loose-kneed stride of their race, slip-slopped
past in the garb and slippers of their native land, clinking a few
shillings and looking for a girl who drew no colour bar.

A slatternly woman appeared at a doorway, peered furtively up and down
the street, and then slipped out into the open with a bottle tucked under
her arm, and shambled hurriedly away.

From around the corner of an hotel a man appeared, walking quickly and
glancing behind him.

"There goes 'Information Received'," said one of the men, nodding toward
the hurrying figure.

"He's a b--," said one of the squatting ones quietly. "He's a pimp of the
worst sort. He's the bloke who put young Donny away over that Rose Bay

"'E's put more than Donny away, Botter; there's a dozen men in Long Bay
now what wouldn't be there only for 'im. 'E air't a white man's boot-

"Why dontcher bump 'im orf, then?" asked a little hunchback, spitting
between his boots.

"Bump 'im orf? Wake up to yerself! 'E's got all the D's in Sydney lookin'
after 'im; besides, even if we all know 'e's a policeman's nark, nobody's
been able to prove it, 'ave they, Botter?"

"No. But all the same, he is a pimp, and if a man could only get him to
hit first it'd be easy. No need to do him in--just kick him about a bit."

"'I'm 'it first! 'E 'asn't got the guts of a louse! Was you at Mike's
joint when the Dago threw the beer in 'is face?"

"De Dago got pinched foh larceny two days aftah--on information
received," put in a huge negro, who till then had been silent.

Botter clicked his tongue and shook his head disgustedly.

"'E's got a nice little missus," said the hunchback. "I dunno 'ow she
sticks with a b--fester like 'im."

"She's got a bonzer leg. Is that Bull Gorman?"

Six faces looked up.

"Yaas," said the negro, "dat's Bull. Hoi, Bull!" A tall man paused on the
opposite side of the road, waved his finger once, and then walked towards

A voice hissed hurriedly in Botter's ear:

"Ain't Bull sweet on the pimp's missus?"

Botter nodded his head, then looked up at the whisperer in sudden

"You got it," he said, and rose to his feet. "Ar, there, Bull! 'Ow's it

"Not bad," replied the new arrival, squatting beside, "Camel," the

"We was just talkin' about Rubber-'eels," said Donnelly, the man who had

"The pimp?" asked Bull, abstracting a pouch of tobacco from "Camel's"

"Yeah. We was just wonderin' 'ow we could handle 'im without gettin' into
trouble. Botter reckons it'd be a good idear if we could get him to go
for the king hit on one of us. Then we could do 'im up in self-defence."

"'E'd go for the king hit on the baby if 'e thought it's milk-bottle was
worth 'avin'; but that's about all. I'd like to 'ave a crack at 'im--'e's
your tobacco, Camel--I'll bet them students'd 'ave a great time with 'im
in the 'ospital."

Botter coughed.

"His wife's a nice little piece, isn't she, Bull?"

"Too right! I'm gettin' in good with 'er."

Botter coughed again and studied the chewed end of his cigarette.

"Well, supposin'," he said, "the pimp got to hear about it. He'd go for
the bash on you, wouldn't he?"

"'E might. What are you--oh, I see. Well, I don't mind. Go ahead and tell
'im. Suits me. Tell 'im first thing to-morrow mornin'." He rose to his
feet. "I gotta get away now--got some business on. See y' later."

They watched him swagger down the road. Donnelly rose and stretched his
cramped legs.

"Think we'll go," he yawned. "It might work," he added. "Will you tell
'im, Botter?"

"I'll tell him all right," came the answer. "G'night."

The hard-faced group dispersed and slouched off to their beds or their

The night wind swirled chillily along the chaff-strewn road. And the
stars winked knowingly down at a city feigning sleep.

Two o'clock next afternoon found Botter stepping lazily into the hotel
for his afternoon rum. "Bull" Gorman was there.

"'Ow did it go?" he asked, as the other made toward him.

"No good," said Botter. "I told him and he wouldn't bite. Reckoned he
didn't believe it. He believes it all right, but he's too much of a
miserable sod to do anything. He'd sweat on you, perhaps, and get you
landed sooner or later; but I don't think he'd raise his hand to you, no
matter what you did."

"So that's 'ow it is, eh? Don't mind me playin' sweeties with 'is missus?
Well, that'd do me!"

"Watch yourself, son. What are you going to do?"

"None of your business. Two rums, Mike, fer two bums!" he called, as the
hotel proprietor came to the counter.

Over their drinks they delved in the mysteries of race horses and
weights, until Gorman, who had been out all night on "business," drifted
off to have another few hours sleep and left his friend to drink "with
the flies."

Five o'clock came, and with it a crowd of thirsty laborers to the pub.
Six o'clock--six-thirty, and the last lingerer had been pushed out the
side door. The rumble of lorries died away, and the waking night yawned
from the breeze-stirred bay and stretched a lazy arm across the dusty

Eight o'clock, and the first lounger strolled along to the little side
street and sat on the kerb. Each night they came, sometimes only a few,
sometimes many; talked about horses, women, men, fights--or, perhaps,
talked not at all, but merely smoked and spat and watched.

One by one they swaggered, slunk, shambled to the corner, and squatted or
leaned against the wall, each man in the same position he occupied every
night. The six were there. The nigger was a little drunk, and crooning
softly to himself as he dug a huge jack-knife into the soft tar of the

"Bottah," he said, his teeth gleaming in the darkness, "How did dat
scheme woik?"

"Slipped," said Botter, and told them what had happened.

"Ah wish dat crawlin' skunk was heah now," said the nigger, jabbing his
knife viciously into the pavement. "Ah feel like it."

As if the words had conjured him up, the hurrying form of the pimp passed

"Hey!" called Botter. "Come here!"

The man stopped and slowly walked back.

"Oh, it's you, Botter," he said nervously.

"Yes, it's me."

He gazed into the face of the pimp, who stood with his back to the light.

"How did you get that scratch on the dial?"

The man hesitated and touched his face tenderly.

"Y'know what you told me about Bull Gorman?' he said.

"Yes!" came a bark of expectant voices.

"I went up to the room a little while ago, and there 'e was with the

"As early as this!" exclaimed the Camel.

"Yes--not nine o'clock yet! The wife ducks 'er 'ead under the bedclothes
when I walks over to 'em, and--"

"Yes--go on."

"And Bull Gorman sits up and says, 'Get to hell out of here, pokin' yer
nose in where yer not wanted!' and slaps me across the face with his open
hand. 'Take ten bob out of my trousers pocket and go and get yourself
some beer,' he says, 'and don't come back till the morning!' He said it
in a most insultin' way; it made me as wild as blazes."

Botter gasped.

"What did yer do!" crackled a medley of rasping voices.

"I fixed 'im. I went to 'is trousers pocket and took all 'e 'ad--two
quid. 'Im and 'is ten bob. My wife! Ten bob! A man's got a bit of pride."

In stunned silence they watched him walk away and vanish round the

The nigger, the whites of his eyes showing startingly in his black face,
dropped his knife with a clatter to the pavement.

"Bah gosh!" he said, "ahm glad ahm black!"


OLD Raven was sitting on the doorstep cleaning his pipe when I crossed
the road to ask him an idle question.

Raven was the local fount of knowledge and the "Who's Who" of the 'Loo.
If there was anything one wanted to know, from the treatment for a
sprained ankle to a question of law, or why Sullivan gave his wife a
black eye on the previous Saturday night, one asked the "Old Bloke." The
answer was always there. He had been the owner of a book-shop, and his
interest in his goods had left him almost blind, and very wise. Local
gossip flowed into his ocean of knowledge and swelled it, muddily. He had
lived, learnt, and listened.

So when I asked my question, I knew the answer would be ready for me, and
told lengthily, for the sun was warm, the pipe was cleaned, and the "Old
Bloke" was a talker.

"Raven," I said, "what's become of 'Tiger Lil'?"

"Didn't you hear?" he asked, his pipe ha'f-way to his mouth. "Where have
you been?"

"In Brisbane for the last three months? "Where is she? I haven't seen her

"She's dead, son."


"Yes. 'Micka' Black killed her. He's in for life. Sit down."

He moved his feet on the lower step and I seated myself.

"I'll tell you," he said. "You know what sort of a girl Lil was?
Black-haired, blue-eyed, and beautiful--"

"And good."

"Good, yes; but a she-devil with men. I don't believe that girl had a
heart. She'd lure 'em on till they were half ratty with love of her, then
she'd insult 'em and laugh in their faces."

I nodded. I'd been bitten once.

"She taught all the larrikins round here their manners, and everyone
liked her, except the women. But then"--he waved his pipe--"nuff said.
Y'know the Sunshine Social Club? No! Well, it consists mostly of the mob
on the corner near the barber's, and some of 'Blooder's' mob. They used
to hold booze-up dances and all that. It's knocked on the head now.
That's where she was killed. But I'm getting ahead of myself. You
remember 'Micka' Black?"

"The woman-hater?"

"That's him! He was the only bloke that wouldn't bow down and worship
when Lil raised a finger. He had her puzzled--and narked. First of all
she used to get close enough to attract his attention, and then ignore
him. It always worked with the others, but it didn't with him.

"She used to be hanging out the window when he was coming from work, and
falling across him, accidentally on purpose like, at odd times. But he
took no notice of her. Then she went after him in earnest. All the women
round here were talking and giggling about it. They used to hate the
sight of her, y'know. One of 'em, Peggy Burton, got a bit game one day,
and chipped her about it.

"When they pulled 'em apart, 'Tiger Lil' had a bunch of hair in each
hand, and Peggy laughed and cried all the way to the hospital. After
that, they just whispered about her over the back fences.

"Anyhow, this bloke 'Micka' must have been made of solid wood. She
couldn't land him, until about a fortnight before the finish, when he
started to slip.

"They were up at the Sunshine Club's hall, the mob and a lot of the girls
making arrangements about a dance that was going to come off in about ten
days' time. Somebody asked Lil who she was going with. 'Bluey' Gannon
took the cigarette out of his mouth and said, 'I'm takin' Lil.'

"'Ave another pick,' says 'Micka' Black; I'm takin' Lil.'

"When everyone sits up and Lil smiles. 'Bluey' and 'Micka' were cobbers,
but they started getting nasty straight away, and when they put it to Lil
and asked her who she was going with, she said she'd go with the best man
of the two. You can just imagine her, and the way she'd say it.

"Well, of course, it came to a fight, and they broke half the chairs in
the place milling round. 'Tiger Lil' was standing on the table cheering
the pair of them. It was a pretty blood-red fight, even for these parts,
and 'Bluey' finished up with a broken jaw. When it was all over, Lil
stepped up to 'Micka' in front of the mob, and said, 'You can take me to
the dance, 'Micka', and held her face up to be kissed.

And 'Micka' said, 'You can go to blazes now! I've just belted me best
cobber's jaw in for you, you little--' and he grabbed his coat from the
bloke that was holding it, and left.

"Tiger Lil" was as white as a sheet, and sort of dazed like. The mob took
'Bluey' up to the hospital, and none of the girls were game to speak to
her, so they left her standing there and cleared off.

"Two days after this 'Tiger Lil' and 'Micka' Black were as thick as
thieves. God knows how she got round him, but when he fell he went with a
rush. He followed her around like a dog, and she was seen kissing him in
the middle of Bourke Street opposite Woody's joint. It had everybody

"The women talked, of course, about how she threw herself at him, and all
that; but I don't know, it had me beat--and still has.

"Anyhow, the night of the dance came round, and everyone's there, and
about half-way through 'Micka' brought something extra, special to light
and told them all to fill up their glasses. Then he stood in the middle
of the floor with his glass in his hand, and said: 'Ladies an' gents.!
Seein' as yore all 'ere to-night, I'm goin' to tell y' a bit of news.
Come 'ere, Lil.' And Lil walked out on to the floor and stood next to
him. He put his arm around her shoulders and said: 'Me- an'- Lil is goin'
to be married, ain't we, Lil?'

"Then Lil jerked away from him and faced him, and they tell me she looked
like the devil himself. She was shaking with venom. 'No!' she hissed.
'You can go to blazes now, you--' and slapped his face!

"He stood there looking at her, his face white and the glass of stuff in
his hand as steady as a rock. Nobody moved or said a word. Then Lil
smiled at him--smirked.

"He put down his glass--on the floor--very slow, with his eyes on her all
the time. Then he straightened up slow, took a step towards her, and
grabbed her by the throat with one hand. Then one of the girls screamed,
and the mob rushed him.

"They got him away after a time, but Lil was dead!"

"'Scuse me, Mr. Raven, but Jacky's gone an' cut himself with a knife, an'
I think he's cut a artery or somethink. Will y'ave a look at it?"

I rose as the woman pushed the bleeding Jacky forward.

"Going? So long!" said the "Old Bloke." "See you some more." And I left
him to the display of a little more knowledge.


WE have been lying in ambush for a long time, and at last a doctor has
confessed that he is treating imaginary diseases with sham medicine.

One of our most cherished possessions was blood pressure. We went to see
a doctor about it, and he sounded and plummeted us and said, "Mm'm!" He
then retired to his office and sharpened his pencil.

That was half a guinea.

He came back and wrote a lie, which started off, "Mis X. 1/2/'32; R/ . .
. Sodi Chlor. grs xx.; Ext. Glycy. liq. m.XV. Mitte M&N pc."

Which meant a hot bath between meals, in water, and a complete change.

We were cured and were foully done out of a complaint which we had nursed
for years and had got us a deal of sympathy while we had the opportunity
of suffering.

An even dirtier trick is when you go to the studio suffering from all the
symptoms of cancer, and the fool pounds you on the back and tells you
you've been eating too much water-melon.

For all he knows you might have the acute appendicitis you first

There is even a book on Medical Judas-Prudence.

Our advice is to treat yourself.

Tell yourself to go for a long sea-trip, charge yourself 10/6, snap your
fingers in your face, don't go for the long sea-trip, and pocket the

Better still--owe it to yourself for eight months.


WE were sorry we were not present when lovers of trees were enrolled last
week as "Men of the Trees" by Mr. R. St. Barbe Baker, world authority on

Some time ago we were deeply interested in trees, being connected with
the birds'-nesting industry. We learnt to tell a tree by its bark.

Even when they didn't bark, it was a simple matter to kick them in the
trunk and identify them by their yelp. You can do the same with

Oh, woodman, spare that tree, and all that sort of thing, but at the same
time, we realise that if the wooden pool-marble factories, the timber
merchants who supply the sticks for apples on sticks and all-day suckers
are to gain a living, the slaughter of trees must go on.

But there is such a thing as reafforestation, and the man who makes two
trees grow where only one grew before is not only a public benefactor,
but is going to make it awkward for picnic parties in the bush.

And there is the consolation that the white ants have not yet had to
apply for the dole and the taxpayer is not yet out of the wood.

Mean to say, most of us are still on the beech.


MARATHON swimming is not to be decried by the unthinking masses. Life is
strange, and who knows the moment he may be called upon to swim for 75
hours 35 mm. 11 sec.?


We dare say to any one of you that asked NOW at what moment you would be
called upon to remain in water for 75 hours 35 mm. 11 sec., you could not
answer us.

We have, however, a gnawing sorrow. We were pointed out in a crowd.

The pointer said: "See him? He once stayed in the water for 75 hours

And the pointee said: "Why?"

Since then we have been a broken man.

Mrs. Katerina Nehua insists that for her next marathon swim she must have
warm water.

Sympathy leaks out of our every pore. We have been a marathoner for some
time. We hold the world's record for loofah-whanging.

We once managed to stand a leaking shower drip on us for half an hour
while lying in a warm bath. This is unofficial, as there was no
timekeeper present.

In other branches of bath sports we were less fortunate. In the world's
soap-finding contest we slipped on the soap and luckily landed on our
sponge. This disqualified us. The next year we were disqualified again.

It was said of us that we took off from the washbasin and went in off the
bath-heater, contrary to regulations. After considerable argument it was
ruled that the bath-heater was not a part of the bath within the meaning
of the Act.

It was then that we took to marathon swimming. We stayed in the water for
75 hours 3 min., being fed with a shot-gun in the meantime.

We have decided, in the light of that experience, that before we swim
again the water must be thicker and properly flattened out.


THESE be stirring times, especially for the police. The "Daily's" casual
lunatic, who went mad studying Mr. Mares' weather forecasts, has just
turned in a special article on police activities.

Readers will understand the kindly spirit that prompts us to publish it.
We don't want to disappoint the poor devil. He might wreck the office.

*   *   *

Very few of the general public have ever seen the police net, although
most of them have read about it. One of the peculiarities of the police
net is that it is always closing in.

Despite the fact that we were armed with a special permit from the
Fisheries Board, we were unable to view this much-used adjunct to police
activities, but, judging by recent hauls, we should say that the net is
so large as to take the whole force to handle it, and that it has a mesh
about twelve feet square.

On his attention being drawn to a "News" poster, "Extending the Net for
Killers and Satyrs," a detective stated that the net was always extended
at first, and when it had been extended long enough, they closed it in,
in the usual manner.

"We have not yet caught any killers," he said in answer to an inquiry,
"although there seems to be plenty about. We've landed a few satyrs, but
they were all too small, so we threw them back. You should have seen the
one that got away, though!

"We have been making excellent hauls of loiterers, vagrants, jay-walkers,
and tram-scalers, but so far we have not netted many killers.

"However," he added in a sing-song voice, "the police are following up a
clue, and expect to make an arrest shortly."

While we were at the police station a squad of police entered with
buckets and scrubbing brushes, their arms covered with soap-suds up to
the elbows. They had been scouring the suburbs.

Whenever anything happens, the police immediately scour the suburbs.

This is what is meant by a "police clean-up."

A pick and shovel party left shortly afterwards to dig up information,
unearth clues, and open up a new avenue of inquiry. The whereabouts of
the avenue is being kept secret for the present, but it was whispered
that the police intend to break new ground.

This is all we can say on the subject at present, but the public may rest
assured that if the police do discover anything, they will lose no time
in giving it full publicity.

Lastly, we would like to draw attention to the parlous condition of many
of our constabulary who have been engaged in dragging the rivers.

Any housewife who has had to drag a bucket of water along the floor will
appreciate the strain of dragging a whole river.

As things are now, a man sent out to drag a river is given no
instructions about where to drag it, and the consequence is that he just
drags it, and drags it until he is worn out, and has to drop it.

Is it any wonder that our rivers are all out of shape? Something should
be done about this injustice, and many other injustices under which the
police suffer, and a little more sympathy and cooperation from the public
would not be amiss. The police are doing their best.

Just as we left the station five men who had been arrested on a charge of
being 5ft. 10in, high were brought in. One of them had a bruise on his
forehead, and his left ear was very much like the right ear of one of the
wanted men.

Something is bound to happen shortly.

*  *  *

If any reader can supply the police with information he should do so
immediately. Co-operation is needed, and if the police don't get it they
will have to be issued with bathing costumes to enable them to cope with
the crime waves in comfort.

All the police want to know is, who did it, where is he, and when would
be the best time to arrest him. Without that information they are

*  *  *

The article went on to say something about "this clarion call to the
law-abiding public," but sufficient space has been wasted already.


How many labourers, while wiping the mud off their faces, pause to
consider the dignity of labour?

Very few, I am afraid.

It is a deplorable fact that most workers consider work as a kind of
trial or penance, a mortification of the flesh, which will be rewarded
in, Heaven, if not in the Arbitration Court.

Donning their working clothes on Monday morning, they have a feeling of
being yoked up for the week. They define work as a straight stretch of
blackness joining two pay-days. They drag themselves like slugs from
their beds. Monday morning is synonymous with Monday mourning.

Instead of eagerly looking forward to another day's enjoyment with their
shovel, they grumble, blaspheme the boss and all his works, and curse the
fate that prevented them from picking the programme at Randwick the
previous Saturday.

This is a wrong attitude, and militates against the workers' own
interests. How can our employers become sufficiently wealthy to endow
public libraries and subscribe to soup kitchens if we don't take an
interest in our work?

And in endeavouring to cultivate this assiduity we have countless shining
examples to emulate. The sands of time have been trodden into a pulpy
mass by the number of distinguished boots engaged in leaving footprints
on it.

Take Rockefeller. Every morning at half-past 10 he leaps from his bed,
breakfasts on a charcoal biscuit and a glass of soda-water, gathers his
golf-clubs together, and trudges off to work in his Packard.

No complaint, no whining, no wishing to God he had been born a Zulu. The
proper spirit.

Consider Henry Ford. An ordinary man accused of having made thousands of
Ford cars, and further burdened with the responsibility of having sold
them for the money, would break down. Probably take orders, or confine
himself to a monastery.

But our captains of industry are made of different meat. While
Rockefeller is toiling on the golf links, Ford is doing the rounds of the
factory hospital, inspecting the maimed and injured; giving a kind smile
here, and the sack there. Gently chiding a careless workman for having
got his legs cut off in the rolling mills, and spreading brightness and
cigar-ash all over the hospital.

Then off to visit the widows and orphans of men who did not know what a
good job they had. Idlers, these men, too tired to keep out of the
machinery. Despite the fact that they threw his machinery out of gear and
hindred production for five minutes while they were shovelled out of the
way, Ford visits the widows and orphans, magnanimously overlooking the
faults of their departed breadwinners.

His work is never done. He fills in the time between managing newspapers
and laying foundation-stones by signing cheques. Coming home in the
evening he removes his hob-nailed boots and falls exhausted on his bed to
dream pleasantly of a day's work well done.

Here are examples to copy. Try to copy them. Endeavour to regard your
work as a pleasant hobby. Let your alarm ring a message of glad tidings
instead of something approaching a death-knell. Forestall your alarm
clock, if possible. Sit up and rub your hands together and say, "Aha!
Work this morning!" And bound out of bed. Don't open one eye and mumble,
"Another blanky day," and then drop off to sleep again.

Give your overalls the place of honor in your wardrobe instead of
throwing them into the dog-kennel on Friday night. When you come home,
stand your shovel in the hallstand and hang your pick over the end of the
bed that they may be constantly in view.

Say to your wife, "My word, I'm beautifully dirty to-night. I've been
working in the loveliest, slimiest sewer you ever saw. I must tell you
all about it after tea."

After awhile you'll get into the spirit of the thing, and you'll be
hanging round the job on Saturdays and Sundays, and taking the children
to see the pier-hole Daddy dug.

Keep the examples of the great always before you and in time you will win
a name for yourself.

I can guarantee this. The variety of names you will earn, for yourself
will astonish you; and who knows but what you may be buried in Martin
Place and honored as the Unknown Labourer?


IF there's one thing I hate, it's these share-selling bowler hat blokes.
If ever you see anyone with one of these crash-helmets on, and a coat
pulled in at the waist, Flaming Youth socks, and a forced-draught fag
funnel, avoid him like the plague, or a probationary policeman.

Marjorie introduces this bloke to me in the saloon-bar.

"Mr. Spivells," she says, "This is Mr. Hamilton-Waynecott. I've just been
telling him how lucky you were winning that prize in the Casket."

"Congratulations!" he says. "How do y'do, Mr. Spivells," holding out the

"Fair," I says, as he waggles my hand about.

I dislikes him on sight. He's got this rotten bowler hat on, and, to make
it worse, he's got a little cricket team battin' on his top lip. Looks
like a dead-beat caterpillar had crawled on to his face, and then filled
in his time-sheet.

"I suppose you'll be looking for a good investment now, Mr. Spivells?" he
says, gazing at me as if I was the fatted calf.

"No," I says. "I've been urged enough. I don't want to hear any more
about Menangle, Warwick Farm, Rosebery, Kens--"

"Oh, no, Mr. Spivells!" he says. "You misunderstand me. Let me explain."

He orders two whiskys, which strikes me as a pretty good explanation.

"You've heard of the Anglo-Austro-Russo-Australian Oil Prospecting
Syndicate, Mr. Spivells?"

"No," I says.

A man gets a bit cranky havin' his ear bit in all directions.

"No?" he says, surprised. "Well, I suppose a busy man of affairs at times
allows his tired fingers to wander from the pulse of finance. The Anglo

"Just call it the gang; I'll understand."

"The Syndicate has already been formed, and boring has commenced at
Pyrmont and Circular Quay, and also at Lithgow. The results, so far, have
excelled our most sanguine expectations."

"They would," I says, giving Marjorie the office.

"Yes! Our expert reports that he has gone down six thousand feet, and
already traces of oil have been discovered after barely scratching the
surface! At any moment now, during the sinking of the next four thousand
feet, another faint trace may be discovered! Allow me, Mr. Spivells," he
says, as Marjorie comes to light with the drinks, "I insist!"

He wins the argument.

"Where are you holin' out?" I asks him.


"You're in the wrong joint," I points out. "Now, if you started at King's
Cross outside the barber's shop where the yellow cab rank is, you'd get
all the oil you wanted, and the borin'. done free."

"We are down twelve thousand feet at Pyrmont--"

"Yes. And any moment you're liable to be knocked horse-de-comeback with
the rush of cases of benzine as they spout out of the hole."

"Mr. Spivells, many an investor has been sorry that he never grasped the
opportunity when it is too late. Look at New Guinea! Look at the Yellow
Cabs! Look at the mechanical hare!"

"You've had too many," I says, patting him on the shoulder. "There ain't
any mechanical hares or Yellow Cabs in here. Tell me where you live and
I'll take you home."

I sinks my tonic and takes him in hand. "Look here, Waistcoat," I says.
"If you keep white-antin' around you'll come out somewhere about Texas,
where they've got lots of it stacked in barrels. But if you think I'm
goin' to pass over the frog-skins so a lot of cranks can tower all over
the place with a brace and bit filling Australia with holes, you're
playin' your organ outside the wrong pub."

He regards me for a while, and then selects another club from the bag.

"Mr. Spivells," he says, "you're a sporting man--"

"I am," I says. "And I know who's goin' to lay down at the Stadium on
Saturday night, and whose turn it is to win the Flying at Victoria Park.
You can't tell me nothing."

"Investment in oil has an element of chance that would appeal to a
sportsman," he says, ignorin' my remarks. "You might call it a
gamble--but it is a gamble on a hand which only needs one card to win,
and that card is in the pack, ready to be drawn!"

"I remember," I says, thinking back, "when I tried to collect on one of
those hands--four hearts and a diamond. One of those 'nearly' flushes.
I've still got the marks on me."

"But, Mr. Spivells," he says patiently. "Professor Samuel Hicks, of the
Bunkville Geological Correspondence College in the State of Oregon, has
certified--here, I'll read it to you."

This was a newy on me--bein' in a state of Oregon. I ain't ever heard the
charge before.

He mumbles over the prospectus:

"Hereby. . . faint traces of oil . . . and I am fully convinced," he
reads loudly, "as to the genuineness of the faintness, and that it bears
all the faint traces of a faint trace of mineral oil! There, now!"

"I suppose," I says, pointing to his coat, "that wouldn't be it?"

"No. That's those damn sausages," he says, glaring at the counter-lunch.

"No, Waistcoat," I says, "it's no good; you'll have to perdooce something
better than a certified grease-spot that smells like it might explode.
Now, if you was formin' a company to sell Union Jacks with a permanent
wave down at the Trades Hall, I'd give you a hearin'. Or if you borin'
these holes of yours in a straight line, so they'd be handy for fencing;
but this lurk of makin' ready-cut homes for tired rabbits is outer the

"Outer the question?"

"I'm sorry to knock you back. You seem a decent sort of bloke except for
that bloomin' egg-boiler you got on. Anyhow," I says, "I've already
decided what to do with my spare oscar. I've invested it on the best
snooker player in Darlinghurst on an even Steven basis, and I'm floatin'
him into a company.

"I'm lookin' for a few more investors who's shrewd enough to get in on
the ground floor. I got a monopoly of the lift, and the stairs is
blocked. Tumble? See y' later," and I leaves him sweatin' on the next


LOVE is an abstract thing used by soft people as something to take their
minds off their work.

If it were a concrete thing it would be too hard for most of us. You may
cement friendships, but concrete love is mortar-fying.

Some say love is a disease, but it's less of a disease than a complaint.
No woman incapable of complaining ever gets married.

Ask any married man.

Love is a thing that gnaws into your bosom and then recommends a good
brand of ointment, and will bandage you up so that you get worse.

The term, "He fell in love," is significant. He fell in--Love.

Men who fall deeply in love go off their meals. After they get married
they go off for their meals. Love is universal. It is just the same in
Darlinghurst as it is in Oonadatta, only in Darlinghurst, it happens at
shorter intervals.

Love-sick is a term generally applied to those in love. It shouldn't be.

Love makes the world go round. That's why it is flattened at both ends.

Love is to man, a thing apart (and better that way), 'tis woman's whole
existence (especially where the alimony is concerned).

There is nothing like love.

As for bargain sales--well, a husband is woman's most precious bargain.

ove! ove! ove.


WE judged the horses yesterday. From what we could see from the
grandstand, they seemed to be all right.

Each one seemed to have the correct number of legs and looked to be wide
enough to sit on without undue discomfort.

Though how they get their tails knotted up like that beats us.

Temperament, we suppose.

On the other hand, after spending most of our lives among horses--we
lived for 12 years with the one horse--we can state definitely that
Nature provided horses with tails, not to show which end went into the
cart first, but to whisk flies off.

The knotted tail would, of course, not only whisk them, but so stun them
that by the time they came to, the horse would be somewhere else.

Clydesdales may be picked out by the uninitiated quite easily. Their
feet--well, only a few of them are allowed into the ring at the same
time. They have beards on their ankles. Mostly used for dragging brewer's
waggons, they are known as draught horses.

The bottled horses are in a different section, the prices for the latter
being exhorbitant.

We can say nothing authoritative about Suffolk Punches at the moment, as
we haven't tasted them.

The withers of exhibited horses this year are a great improvement on last

Probably this is accounted for by the excellent withering conditions now
prevalent in our country districts.

About the other breeds of horses in the fetlock and wither class, we are
unable to go into details.

It came on to rain, as a matter of fact, and we can't bear to see horses
standing in the rain, so we went to see Whatsitsname, "half man and half
woman. She will disrobe for you!"

Which is more than you can say for a horse.


Five to two . . . ?

Five shillings to two shillings . . . ?

Ten per cent of that . . . eightpence decimal four?

You can't do it! The racing game is killed with this betting tax. We, for
one, shall not be seen again on the Flat.

Strike me! It stands to reason! A man can't have eight point four taken
out of his winnings and not feel the strain!

Not only the strain of losing the 8d. point four, but the waste of time.

The bookmaker said to us: 'But, you see, Mr. Lower, five twelves are
sixty and two twelves are twenty-four, which makes a total of
eighty-four. Now, 10 per cent. of eighty-four is . . . 10 over a hundred
into 84 . . . eight point four!"

"Dot!" we said in a stern voice, "and carry one. Making it eight point
five. Do you think I'm a mug!"

"But eight point five makes it eight and six!" he exclaimed.

"Now, let X equal the horse, Z the bookmaker, W the punter, and Y the
tax," we said.

"That's it!" he cried. "Why the tax?"

Well, it got that way, we said: "We don't want to give you back the
money. That would be charity. Put it on the next."

So he did.

And now we are square.

We should have been an accountant.


LIFE, according to Professor Cason, of Rochester University, New York, is
marred by 507 classifiable annoyances. He has compiled a list allotting a
maximum of 30 marks for the supreme annoyance.

He gives 22 marks to "Hair in the soup." Flies are up near the front with
25 marks, while cockroaches are running a close second with 24, and
"dirty beds" romp home with 28 marks.

Speaking for ourself, we know the whole 507 of them. We travel in the
same tram with him every morning.

He's a "shunter," among other things. A shunter is one of those chaps
who, by slapping you in the chest, digging you in the ribs, breathing
into your face, and talking right into your mouth, gradually gets you
backing away until you finally finish up some 20 yards from the place
where he first started to tell you his story.

If we had the courage, we'd give him just 1 mark--fair between the eyes.

Apart from this, local annoyances are fairly easy to classify.

First Class Annoyance, Grade A.--Being broke, 30 marks.

Going to work, 29 marks; the boss, 28; the assistant boss, 27; inaudible
and non-working telephones, 26; men who invented telephones, 25;
stop-start-stop-start trams in rush hours, 24; dropping the bottle at
6.15 p.m. when it's too late to go back and get more, 23; traffic cops,
22; rainy weekends, 21; . . . you see the idea?

All you have to do is to get about 3-cwt. of paper and a gross of pencils
and start in making a list of the things that annoy you.

Professor Cason, who started this game, questioned 21,000 people over a
period of several years. Probably they were too polite to tell him what
really did annoy them most. But you needn't do this.

You'll find plenty to go on with. Especially if you start on Monday
morning, after a wet week-end.


THOUGH depression may still be here, chivalry is not dead. Probably
because politeness costs nothing.

Abraham Wicks, taxi driver of this town, drove a well-dressed gentleman
from the Quay to the Hotel Australia, the fare being 1/4.

"I'm afraid I have not sufficient money," said the fare. "Will you accept

And the taxi-man got five pennies and one shilling's worth of stamps. He
took it with that innate politeness so popular with taxi-drivers.

Take our own experiences. We said to the driver, "We are afraid we are
stone, motherless,
hearts-of-oak. Will you accept empty bottles, a pen-knife, and two dirty

"Oui!" said the driver (an educated man). "But I shall have to give you
the change in spark-plugs."

"It is well," we said.

We turned to go, but the training of a thousand years drew us back.

"You have served us faithfully for the past ten minutes," we said. "If
ever you need a reference, come out to La Perouse."

We took off our left boot. "Some little recognition of your service," we

"Thank you, sir. Thank you!"

We stood on the steps of the Australia and watched him push his taxi back
toward the rank.

We are glad that it was mostly downhill.


TEA is to be taxed. Consider it. You may not be able to become
infusiastic about it, but
caddy on.

Tea was invented by advertisers. All tea is better than other tea. Tea is
next to U in the alphabet, but far away from me.

When tea-leaves--we come back.

What happened when a Government tried to tax America's tea? The boys of
Boston threw all their tea into the local harbour. Since then they have
thrown in a little milk and sugar as well, and have been drinking it ever
since prohibition.

We consider it significant that the sturdy pioneers who made America what
it is to-day threw their tea into the harbour.

Tea is dead leaves which make a brown stain when put in water.

It is one of the most insidious drugs yet discovered, and is full of
tannic acid, which gives rise to Encyclopedia Brittanica with
complications such as BIL to CORL. Not to mention appendices.

The Commonwealth Government is throwing millions of cup, saucer, and
spoon makers out of employment by taxing tea.

An unemployed miner might become a farmhand, but who ever heard of anyone
drinking brandy out of a cup and saucer?

The idea is wrong.

Instead of putting a tax on tea, it would be far better to prohibit tea
altogether, and collect the fines from the tea-runners, the sly-tea
shops, selling-tea-without-a-licence and being found in a common teasing
house, consorting with tea after hours  . . . the thing reeks of money.

Tea has ruined more reputations than beer ever will. People who drink
tea, TALK.

Let us drive off from this tea.



EVERY time we hear a rooster crow, we feel sick. Ever since Xmas Day.

We know you don't want to hear anything about Xmas Day, but some
well-meaning friends have invited us to a New Year's eve dinner. It
threatens to be something like Xmas dinner, and we're not going.

It's about time somebody with a certain amount of influence, like us,
said something about this dinner business.

We've gone to an enormous lot of trouble to get Monsieur Patrick
O'Reilly, head chef at the Hole in the Wall, to compile an ideal menu for
NEXT year.

"Ze--what you say?--ze cocktail, 'e should come first. For zis eet is
best one pint of cold beer. Eef eet is to be a beeg dinner, three pints
of cold beer," said M. O'Reilly.

The chef's suggested menu is:--
Soup (off).
'Arf and 'arf.
"Curried Tongue" avec spuds.
"Set of Smalls" avec floor varnish or sauce.
"Single" aux peas.
Prawns avec whiskers.

"Ze menu is veree sniftaire and bonzaire," said the chef. "Eet is so much
bettaire to eat 'im standing up. One can zen chase ze little pea when 'e
pop off ze knife, wizout knocking ze chair ovair."

A very sensible idea, too.


BOASTFUL remarks have recently come from the vicinity of Parkes. Eggs
have been
hatched in the heat-wave, without the aid of the hen.

"A householder gathering eggs, found that one had rolled from the nest
into the sunlight. It was perfectly fresh, but cooked."

Stay those "Oh, yeah's"! We have been in places where it was so hot that
men's moustaches burst into flame. Elderly gentlemen with beards were
razed to the ground.

On our poultry farm new-laid incandescent eggs were always on deck. The
fowls had to do their laying on the run. Every time we heard a cackle we
had to rush out with a bucket of water to put the hen out.

You don't know ANYTHING about heat. Many's the time we had to crawl
inside the stove to get a bit of coolth.

People going to the city would find themselves stranded in the middle of
the bush, owing to the railway lines melting and running off down the

Then there was the girl who went out in a muslin frock, which burst into
flames as soon as she got out of the shade. After that the whole male
population of the town joined the fire brigade. We, ourself, walked about
for a fortnight carrying a ladder, and always seemed to be in the wrong

We believe that things became much worse later on, but in the meantime,
with the rest of the wealthier people, we had biffed off to the Sahara
Desert for the winter sports.

Shortly after that we were frozen to death in Egypt. We always were


OF course, we ain't as sprightly as we was in the old days, but after
hearing about Commodore Bartlett, who arrived in Sydney after an absence
of fifty years, it takes us back to the time when we lost our cutlass in
the bush in George Street.

Poor old Sir Henry Parkes--Henry, we used to call him in those days. We
went to see 'im on his pedestal. Why they should 'ave built him with a
pigeon on 'is 'ead . . . but we suppose one must move with the times.

Well! Well! Well! When we comes to think of the old horse-trams drawn by
bullicks, and the thruppeny shaves and the thruppeny cigarettes and the
thruppeny bar.

The emus in King Street used to be a source of trouble. They 'eld up all
the traffic in King Street, and many good man fell orf 'is velocipide in
them days.

Sunday mornin's you'd see a row of us bathin' our foreheads in the old
Tank Stream.
That's 'ow it come to be called the Tank Stream.

The rum was good in them days!

The poor old Postmaster-General! Every eight years the mail used to come
from the Old Dart, and all the letters what was addressed to boys 'oo 'ad
been speared by blacks, or mauled by native bears, 'e used to deliver
frum the Dead Letter Office, on a boomerang.

'E threw one at the wrong address one day, and they threw it back, and 'e
forgot to duck. This wus before your time.


WE learnt at a lecture on spiders at the Museum last night that there are
1200 varieties of spider in Australia, but only three of them are known
to be poisonous.

We are not in a position to affirm or deny this, as we do not care to be
bitten by 1200 spiders just to find whether there is a fourth venomous

A spider usually has four pairs of eyes, and, so far as we could gather,
not one solitary eyebrow.

While stressing the serious effects of a poisonous spider-bite, the
lecturer explained that a well-known doctor had assured him that the
aboriginal method of scarifying the bitten part, and then having relays
of blacks to suck out the poison still remained the best method of

It therefore will be seen that by far the safest method of getting about
in a garden or other spiderous place is to be followed by relays of
blacks. This, however, in a small garden may be impracticable.

Singular intelligence is displayed by the spider in that it is unable to
take nourishment except in the form of liquid. This probably accounts for
their ferocity when pushed or sniggered at.

Apart from a few trifling things about legs and webs etcetera, this was
about all the lecturer knew about spiders.


WE were not in it. We missed it by five minutes, having to wait for a

Nevertheless, the Esperanto Society's deputation waited on the Minister
for Education yesterday, claiming that a drop of Esperanto wouldn't do
any harm to the general goodwill and brotherhood of man.

The Minister agreed to establish an experimental class in one of the

We would like to say, while we can get a word in and stop scraping your
feet, that we were always strong for Exasperanto.

O, yu wire, wire you? Yesoui, he grabbled, tooth-brushing slightly (as
was his wont when aroused). How glauber you look thes eniblicks. Doo up
votre inob-laces. (Esperanto.)

It may be seen by the casual observer that we speak the language. We have
the gift of tongues. We are acquainted with all tongues, including tinned

Let it be said, however, that we anticipate trouble in the school where
the experimental class is at. (Grammar? We have no need of it.)

"You owe me eight marbles!" cries the youth in accents loud and clear.

"Ergoules!" replies the lad from the experimental Esperanto class. "Thou
glamst mon avec with verst conglamerously musht. Gram you i's."

A bit tough. Not the sort of thing to start a riot of brotherly love, you

Alas, you are right.

There is one very good reason why you should become an Esperantist like
us. The creditor says, "About that quid!"

You say, "Lonters, mon agras. Vorty granmothers cam berong."

The creditor thinks that it will be O.K. next Friday, not wishing to
display his ignorance.

Any good? (Tush! It is nothing.)

Join the class.


A WOMAN whose faith in men had been lost, who wanted to die, has been
brought back from the depths by gardening.

"I started to dig up my biggest bed," she writes. "Before I was half-way
through, I was saying, 'I'll have snapdragons here, hollyhocks over there
. . .'"

We have had the same experience.

Before we started gardening we were a mere wreck. However, we soon fixed
that. We went gardening. In no time we got rid of our soul and said we
will have hollyhocks here and sunflowers there. . .

We grew a glorious crop of snails here. And cut worms there.

We used to go out when the dew was on the ground and look at those
cutworms and feel that we had not lived in vain. We could feel our soul
coming back to us, dragging its hind feet. Our snails we would look on
with a fatherly eye and say, "Look at the little things eating our
nasturtiums," and be glad for their sakes that we had planted the

And when we got on to the lawnmower, our soul got so big that we could
scarcely stand it. However, we managed to get our soul under control by
planting dandelions, thistles, St. John's Wort, Capeweed, and paspalum in
the garden. We completely got rid of our soul by planting lantana in with
the dahlias.

In order to get our soul into real good condition, we engaged three bags
weed-killer and some artificial fertiliser which soon killed off the
garden and left us with a beautiful crop of weeds. The snails and
cutworms then died of starvation.

Since then our soul has gone back to normal shape and the wife's brother
mows the lawn.

There are no aphis on us and our soul rest quietly among the slugs.

The Medium said that he was happy.


THE table napkin, alias the serviette, has a little brother--the Lapkin.
The lapkin is the American idea of a non-skid table napkin. Instead of
being square, it's rectangular. Americans now sit down to a square meal
with a rectangular napkin all round.

For some time we have been considering the patenting of the "strapkin,"
which fastens under the legs, also the "grapkin," which consists of a
waterproof cape, fastening at the throat and buckling at the ankles.

Sufficient attention is not paid to safety, apart from etiquette, at the
dinner table.

For instance, on Sunday, a man had a watermelon seed removed from his ear
by the local chemist. We suggest, with some hesitancy, that he should be
more careful when eating melon.

The ordinary method of drinking soup is also highly dangerous.

It runs down the chin, corroding the front stud, and setting up gangrene
of the Adam's apple.

A straw or glass tube would be easier, safer, and less wasteful, and it
could be even sucked through a tin whistle, which would give far more
beautiful effects, properly fingered, than the ordinary spoon soloist
could hope to produce.

Why not strapped elbows?

You know, when you're cutting your steak the fork suddenly drags it
apart, your elbow hits the next diner just over the heart, and he's out
to it.

If you're standing up (supposing the steak is extra tough), you're liable
to knock a man's brains out.

But is all this improvement really worth anything?

The American lapkin may stay on the lap, but we prefer the old type which
always falls on to the floor and gets mixed up with your boot-lace, and
gives you an opportunity, when recovering it, of seeing whose feet you've
been flirting with.

And which of the ladies have their shoes off . . . 'n jazz garters. . . .

Taking everything into consideration, we think they're better, square.


IN the cool, grey hours of the early morn, when we have watched the
office cleaners dragging their varicose veins from floor to floor, and
the milk carts tearing past us at a great speed, in order to get to
places where old-age pensioners wait on pub doorsteps for rum and milk,
we have observed the pigeons.

We have heard them quacking on the outsides of various public buildings
while waiting for the door to open. May we digress a little?

Thanks. Not at all. A trifle, you assure me. We remember one night at the
Embassy in Rome, the Duke of Borthinramkikelamt (pronounced "bert") said:
"So I said to my architect, 'What about the pigeons?' And the architect
said, 'Duke, I forgot 'em. We must add to the facade a few balustrades,
gargoyles, and ornamental stonework.'"

It is on record that the Duke then handed the architect an olive, five of
which, complete with coupons, would procure a nickel-plated, soap
container. We believe that the olive is still in the family to this day.

And what, you ask, trembing with eagerness, made you dig up this pigeon

Placing a fatherly hand on the shoulder, we reply in soft, gummy tones:
"We saw it in a newspaper that pigeons should be carried on Passenger
'planes, or, failing that, distress rockets."

Pigeons are much better than rockets. (Byron.) The difficulty of lighting
a pigeon so that it will leap into the air and go off in green sparks
must be obvious to all.

But can you put a small ring on the leg of a sky-rocket?

No. This must be obvious even to those who have never reared a

There are two kinds of pigeons. Homing pigeons and those who belong to
the Buffalo Lodge.

Therefore, let us have pigeons.

Give the bird a fair go. Doves have dove cotes.

A pigeon must go all through the winter without one.


IF an investor in the State Lottery won the first prize 200 times in
succession in one year, he would be able to pay most of the 2,000,000
which is lost to Sydney annually in damage done by borers. This would be
very jolly of him.

A much better idea would be to get rid of the borers.

This may be done by filling up each hole as it is made. The borer makes
another hole, and so one proceeds until the frustrated borer goes raving
mad and bores itself to death.

The borer is also known as the furniture beetle (not to be confused with
the lounge lizard, which lives entirely on upholstery and cigarettes),
and may be recognised by its wooden expression and vegetarian outlook on

In the case of a virile and energetic borer, specimens of which may
frequently be found at the Stock Exchange and at various golf clubs, the
same methods of extermination are applied as in the first instance.

A strong-minded furniture beetle will not go mad after having its exits
plugged up. It will keep on boring until the article of furniture crashes
to the ground and the pest is crushed beneath the ruins.

It wi- - p-ea-e many to -earn that for the -arger furniture
beet-e-variou- reme-ie- have been devi-e-.

Of th-s- we mention two. One i- to -mear the article with jam in which is
mixe- a -ittle -trychnine, an- the other, to -en- a ferret in after them.

At this stage the borers were in complete control.


SAD news comes from Wangrabelle.

It seems that emus chase the sheep and kill them by repeatedly jumping on
their backs. They do the same thing to pigs.

It is supposed that the emus do this out of a spirit of sportive
destructiveness as they do not further mutilate the animals after killing

Anyone who knows anything at all about emus must know that it's not the
fault of the emus. They have nothing else to do. They are merely emusing

As an emuologist who has made a close study of emus for many years, we
say without fear of contradiction that if the sheep or pig, as the case
may be, would only keep steady, the emu would not have to keep jumping on
and off.

Experiments have proved beyond all doubt that a pig or sheep once jumped
on begins to wobble.

The Emu Research Society, of which we are the founder, in combination
with the Be-Kind-To-Emus League, has jumped on the backs of 3425 pigs,
and a similar number of sheep in the course of experiment, the animals
being kindly lent by owners of piggeries and sheeperies.

In every case the result was fatal, this may be accounted for by the fact
that there is a total of 132 in the experimental party, and even though
the investigators jumped one at a time, the animal selected soon weakened
and was ultimately flattened out.

Emus cannot be curbed. An emu which was born in our own home and fed by
our own hand, returned to its wild state at the end, and after laying an
egg in the jardiniere, kicked the back out of the fireplace.

The solution lies in breeding stronger sheep. More powerful pigs. Given
the right physique, look what a saving in freights would be effected if
farm produce could swim to the London market.

There's something wrong with the backs of our sheep. The knees of our
pigs are not all that they should be. We ought to look into the backs and
knees of our sheep and pigs. In the meantime, you leave our emus alone.


RHYTHMIC housework exercises are now being taught in a London school.

For instance, the correct attitude in which to do the sweeping is to
"stand nearly upright, moving the weight from ore foot to the other, and
drawing the broom evenly over the floor and (this is important) humming a
tune in an even rhythm as one goes."

How this method would work with a one-legged sweeper who couldn't hum, is
not explained.

In the dish-washing, complications would ensue. "The Moon Shines To-night
On Pretty Redwing," might work all right on the plates, and "Marching
Through Georgia" might do for the pots.

But what are you going to do about the egg-whisk? Also, no snappy
tea-spoon music has yet been composed.

Then, again, take washing-day. It'd be crook to come home and find the
laundry resounding with the song,

I have put them in the tub,
I have given them a rub,
But my husband's at the club;
I have no hope.
I must warble here al day,
Till that cow comes with his pay,
Meantime, I Sing and say,
"I have no soap!"

That way lies hysteria.

Still, there's a possibility of the breadwinner coming home at midnight
singing, "The More We Are Together," and the housewife sitting up in bed
and saying, "Ha! Dear old chap! He's mowing the lawn."

Mean to say, it's possible.


AS for Mr. Barney Worth, now in Prince Alfred Hospital, and weighing 40
stone . . . snapping of the fingers.

We have known them much heavier. A friend of mine, by the name of
Battledore, Ernest Battledore, son of the old Battledore, who will be
best remembered as the senior partner in the well-known legal firm of
Battledore, Battledore, Battledore, and Battledore, world-famous battlers
of the early 'eighties, he was so heavy that he couldn't weigh himself
all at once, and had to do it in two goes.

We advised him to reduce.

We are perhaps the greatest expert on reducing in the whole civilised
world. The uncivilised part doesn't matter. We once lost eight pounds in
one day. Out at Randwick, it was.

We said to him: "Batty, you'll have to reduce." We always had to bellow
out loud at him, because he would insist on wearing tight waist-coats,
which forced the rolls on his neck up over his ears, making him
practically deaf.

"Abstain from all fatty foods, such as candles, lubricating oil, and
petroleum jelly."

He made no reply. He was a quiet sort of man.

Never let his right hand know what his left hand was doing. As a matter
of fact, he couldn't. He hadn't seen his feet for twenty-five years.

Used to come up to me and whisper, "Where are my feet now? How are they

He once got wedged in the main gateway to the Sydney Showground, and they
had to postpone the Show until they got him out.

*  *  *

VERY time he took a deep breath his boot-laces came undone. It was

However, he took our advice, after a while. He abstained from all fatty
foods, and went in for exercise. Every morning he walked a hundred yards
with eight overcoats on, and a fireman's helmet. He put on four pounds in
varicose veins the first week, so we had to cut that out. I suggested
that he pine away.

We had read frequently of young men who had become stricken with a great
trouble, or a woman, which is practically the same thing, and they had
slowly pined away until they were but a shadow of their former selves. He
objected, saying that it wasn't a very lofty ambition, and he had no real
hankering to become a shadow. We gave him up after this.

Strange how he died. While attempting to pull his socks up he broke his
back. They enclosed his remains in a gasometer, and buried him in an
abandoned mine.


IMITATION is the sincerest form of flattery, and in borrowing this idea
from the "Sunday Sun" and "Sunday Telegraph," we show our appreciation of
the new domestic journalism.

*  *  *

The charming home of Mr. and Mrs. John Bowyang, tucked away in Pelican
Street, Surry Hills, is a revelation in piquancy. From the backyard one
has a view of every other backyard in the street, and the tall
chimney-stack of Tooth's Brewery looms majestically in the distance.

An antique casket, known to connoisseurs as a "dirt-tin," stands by the
back entrance. It is one of Mrs. Bowyang's great sorrows that the lid has
been pinched.

Mrs. Bowyang has an artistic taste and an eye for effect. Two lines have
been stretched between long poles at either end of the yard, and when
these lines are full of clothes, the sight is bewitching in the extreme.

Empty salmon tins, kindly thrown over the fence by the next-door
neighbours, and a worn-out bath and a coil of wire-netting on top of the
washhouse roof complete the picture.

Fascinating though the yard is, it is not until one enters the house
itself that one gets a glimpse of the interior.

The motif throughout the whole house is one of antiquity. The wall-paper
is mellow with age, and the ceilings have not been kalsomined for 47

Hardly any of the doors shut properly, and the windows are held open by
bright clean lemonade bottles.

Mrs. Bowyang points with pride to an old meat safe which hangs in the
drawing-room, where the lodger sleeps.

There is a history attached to the old safe.

It was rescued from Mark Foy's big fire many years ago, and for a long
time the parrot lived in it; but as the family grew the parrot had to be
given away and the infant Bowyang sleeps in it now.

The old clock is another interesting relic. It was given to Mrs. Bowyang
by her mother, who was one of the Maloneys--the Woolloomooloo Maloneys
who were so prominent in society a few years ago when the younger set ran
a two-up school down at the wharves.

Though it has been in the family for many years--excepting occasional
visits to the pawnshop--the alarm still works.

The bedroom furnishings are symbolic of that affectionate family life
which seems to be fading into oblivion in these modern times. There are
two double beds and a stretcher in the room, cleverly arranged so that
one may walk from one bed to the other without climbing over.

Mr. and Mrs. Bowyang and little Jacky sleep in one double bed, the three
youngest girls in the other, and Mr. Bowyang's brother-in-law, who is out
of work, sleeps in the stretcher.

Mrs. Bowyang's hobbies are washing and mending, and some of the mending
she does is nothing short of marvellous.

Business takes Mr. Bowyang away every morning at 6.30, he being engaged
in the sewer-digging profession; but he still finds time for his
diversions, namely, washing up and placing tins where the rain comes in.
The younger children have a magnificent playground in Pelican Street,
where they have a jolly time daubing themselves with mud, eating stray
apple-cores, and escaping being run over by passing lorries.

Viewed from the front, Mrs. Bowyang's home is extremely attractive. It
seems to attract all the dust in the streets, and although it has never
been renovated since it was built, it is remarkably cheap for 25/- a
week, and the brass door-knob takes an excellent polish.

The writer was intrigued by the quaint, old-world, worn-out, bashed-in
atmosphere of the locality, and it was with great reluctance that he
left. He lingered for a while, hoping to see the owner of Mrs. Bowyang's
residence, with the idea of strangling him when he saw him, but realising
the futility of the idea he left.


CULTURE and refinement are things that everyone should have. Like pants
and catarrh. Some people are as common as pyorrhea. They have no
refinement; they consider that it is manners to leave the room when a
lady enters it; whereas it is only prudence, as many a married man can
tell you.

Of course, some people have never had a chance to get cultured; their
environment and companions do not allow it. You wouldn't expect an
alderman, for instance, to be refined, or lift-drivers, or politicians.

Some of them, of course, are more or less fit for society, and a great
deal of thanks is due to the correspondence colleges that taught them.

Still, every man has at least the instincts of refinement bred in him.
Real refinement comes when he learns to drink his soup in a subdued tone,
or in a minor key, and spills only a modicum on his vest.

But when a man can say, "Yes, thank you," with a mouth full of hot
vegetables--that is culture. More than that, it is an achievement. It may
even be ventriloquism.

Doubtless the strong and hairy-chested will dismiss culture as being
unnecessary. There are different kinds of culture, or rather it has
various aliases. Etiquette is one of them.

If the hairy-chested one sat down to a banquet and found himself
confronted with an array of cutlery and gastronomic implements seemingly
sufficient for a major operation, he would be lost.

Possibly an uncultured man would walk on the inside when escorting a lady
friend. What. would a gentleman do? Why, merely change his money from the
inside to the outside pocket, and walk on the outside.

It's all a matter of early training. If you have been taught to eat with
your hat on, and an eye on the door, you will do so. If, however, you
have been properly trained to hang your hat on the cruet, and watch that
no one gets a bigger helping than you do, that early training will stay
with you, and help out in the best circles. Right out.

Then there's the matter of paying calls and leaving cards. Irregularities
in these rites should be punished as a penal offence.

The first time one pays a formal call one leaves a card, or two cards,
depending upon how many people are included in your visit, and the number
of cards you have to spare. The visited one, returning the call, leaves a
few more, and so on, until the pack is exhausted, when they must be
shuffled and cut and passed to the dealer. I'm not too well up in the
card-leaving business, and will not pursue it further. My own method is
to cut my initials on the hall-stand. People remember your visit then,
and look forward eagerly to your return.

I'm afraid I've wandered from the broad outline of culture, and gone into
minor particulars. I am sorry. But there would be no picture were it not
for the little dabs of paint. There would be no politicians were it not
for the gold passes. There would be no city aldermen--

You have often seen a man seated in a tram, with his face hidden by a
newspaper, while women stand. You know this is not correct. He knows it,
too. He knows he's incorrect, but what is the correct thing to do?

He should be guided by his own sense of chivalry. He could either read
his paper aloud, to lessen the tedium of the standing; he could invite
one or two to sit on his lap, or he could pretend to be asleep. On no
account should he tickle a lady under the arm when she is hanging on to
the strap.

When he leaves the car he must raise his hat, bow, and, indicating the
seat, say, "One of you may sit down."

It needs no book of regulations to become skilled in these niceties of
behaviour. The foregoing is an instance where instinct alone should guide

Remember the two great rules, and you will never go wrong:--

(1) Always help the weak if you can't avoid it.

(2) Make sure that others do for you what you would have done for them if
you'd thought of it.

That is all. As the French say, "Dieu et mon droit," which means, "My
God, you're right!"


IT has come to my notice, said he, tugging furiously at his moustache,
that the Seamen's Union is being white-anted. White ants are responsible
for the holding-up of ships. The enormous strength of these little
creatures can be approximately guessed at. It is nothing to hear of them
holding up two or three ships at a time.

The headline in the "S.M. Herald," "White-anting the Seamen," sent a
thrill down down my back (and I have a small mole in the middle of my
back, making it much harder for the thrill, especially when I have my
tight singlet on which only goes to show you); and the thought of the
poor seamen, riddled with white ants, decayed inside, although looking
all right on the exterior, and having to have their feet painted with
creosote fills me with dismay.

The methods of the white ant are strange but good. It inserts a small
hole in the furniture with its beak and burrows into the wood, kicking
the sawdust out with its back feet. Any householder coming home late at
night and finding a heap of sawdust alongside the kitchen table, should
say, "Ha! Ha! White ants!" Of course, it is not compulsory to say this,
the "Ha! Ha!" may be left out if you are not a bachelor, but, anyhow,
immediate action must be taken.

Carefully smash the table with an axe. Grasp the ant by the wrist and
lead it out into the open. Gently stun it and put it on one side.

Peel an onion. Squeeze two nutmegs. Stir briskly.

Belt the ant a few times in the face with an anvil. This will teach it a
lesson. A simpler method is to carve a piece out of the piano and bait a
trap. White ants like pianos. They have musical ears.

Learn to play a white ant in six easy lessons! Send no money. We trust
you! If not satisfied, send ant back!

READ THIS! "Dear Sir,--Three weeks ago I was a social disaster. All I
could do was to stay in the kitchen and wash the glasses. Then I bought a
white ant with musical ears. Since then I have been invited to go to
all-sorts of places. I have even been invited to go to Blazes. People
take notice of me now. There is always a scatter when I come along with
my ant. You may use this letter as you like. I enclose photo. of myself
with your white ant. The one on the left is me.--Yrs. truly, L.
Frobisher, Laverton, Q."

But to get back to it.

The ant, scenting the chunk of piano from afar, plods doggedly into the
trap. The rest is easy if the trap knows its work.

A more subtle and fiendish method which makes the Royal Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Ants, wake up in a cold sweat at two o'clock in
the morning, is the billiard ball trick.

The ant is pushed into a room, in which there is one billiard ball. It is
impossible to nibble a billiard ball. Try it yourself.

That way lies madness. Which is exactly what happens.

The frustrated ant gnaws and gnaws and gnaws and gnaws and gnaws (I get
paid by the line for this) and gnaws and gnaws and gnaws and gnaws, and
what happens? Nothing. This preys on the ant's mind until it becomes
hopelessly mental, and is carried away frothing at the mouth. Which is
very sad, and I hope I have not upset you.


A LETTER received by Sir Neville Howse from the Administrator of New
Guinea describes the gathering of natives at the Abunti Government
Station on the Spec River. In order to encourage the natives of various
tribes to mingle amicably it is the practice of the Administration to
hold a singsong every Christmas. The sing-songs are a great success.

* * *

In an interview with Mr. Ed. Hunter, an educated New Guinea Christian, we
were informed that the yearly sing-songs are all that they are cracked up
to be. The free fight which generally concludes the sing-song is eagerly
looked forward to by all tribes. Christianity is making great strides; at
the last service held on the Fly River the missionary received five heads
in the plate and a stab in the back.

Speaking of the Fly River natives, Mr. Ed. Hunter said that the amicable
relations mentioned by the Administrator had borne awkward fruit in at
least one instance. It appears that the Fly River natives, mingling with
the Spec River natives, have produced a new generation contemptuously
referred to as Fly specks. So far the natives have kept calm, only a few
being foolish enough to lose their heads.

By the courtesy of Mr. Ed. Hunter we are able to publish the words of one
or two songs which are very popular at the annual meetings. It has been
found necessary to censor them here and there, but they are practically
complete. The first one, curiously enough, is sung to the tune of "Bye,
Bye, Blackbird," a well-known fox trot. It is one more instance of the
influence of civilisation.

"Oo-oo-oo-ah!" (This is chanted before each song--sort of cranking up.)
Plenty hiki here to-night.
Bullamacow he all right.
Good bloke, Guvment.

T'row 'way spear, buryem axe,
White man catchem plenty tax;
Brrrp! Brrrp! Guvment.

No more killem white pig at em Mission;
Christian now, black boy he goem fishin'.
Catchem young, treatem rough;
We learn all dat Christian stuff;
Guvment--good bloke.

* * *

The following is sung about half-way through the party:--

"White man very good sorta feller,
Catchem fever, turnem yeller,
Drinkum whisky, cursem ants,
Knock about in 'jama pants.'

White men swear like--hell;
Say black dirty--smell;
Damn mosquitoes,--flies,
Blastem Guvment's eyes.

Black boy talk Australian now;
Play two-up, fair-dinkum, cow;
No more chewem betel nut,
Play up too much with the----stomach (or words to that effect.)

The song, which is sung just before the free fight, is even better than
this, but we do not consider it advisable to publish it.

Mr. Ed. Hunter concluded with the hope that the Administration will find
means for the prompt removal of the bodies after the sing-song.

Last year they were left lying all about the place.

It is to be hoped that by similar methods King's Cross and Surry Hills
will become civilised in the near future, and an employers' and
employees' conference conducted on the same lines is a suggestion which
might well be left to a Prime Minister's consideration.


AMONG those who slid down the gangway of the "Strathiposa" yesterday were
the Chief Tennis Court Steward and L. W. Lower, the celebrated author,
artist, and debtor.

"I am not really a millionaire," said Mr. Lower, "until to-morrow when I
get paid."

"It is true," he went on, "that I had to engage the whole of the upper
deck for myself and thirty-two secretaries. One of my secretaries saw
your Harbour Bridge for me. I expect his report any minute.

"Your harbour and climate are being investigated, and samples of both
will be shortly presented to me. I feel sure of a favourable impression,
which will be registered on my card-index in due time.

"Since my last visit, eight years ago, I have noticed many changes.
F'rinstance, one man who had a fish-stall on the Quay has at last buried
that fish.

"I must confess that New York has nothing to beat your Bradman, your Phar
Lap, your Harbour, your Bridge, or your Premier.

"As regards the last, if we had anything to beat it, we'd send it to you,
as one nation to another. I feel sure of this, because my secretary said,
'That's one of the things you gotta be sure of.'"

"How do you like the Australian beer?" asked the interviewer.

"I don't mind if I do!" was the ready reply.

Fancy him getting acclimatised in one day!


IT has been discovered that private "private" bars exist in many wealthy
homes in Sydney. One privately owned bar at Point Piper cost 1000. Four
hundred drinks are on the menu. Another place has a 5000 lift installed.

Often we would have given one (1) pound to avoid walking up creaky stairs
at 2 a.m., but not 5000.

The privileges of wealth seem to have been over-exercised. Every home
should have a private bar--and a prawn-room.

Also there should be a separate room for settling fights and a singing
room, with the chorus of "Sweet Adeline" built into one wall.

And, of course, "The More We Are Together" on the other wall, "Mother
Machree" on the other wall, and "We're 'Ere Because We're 'Ere" on the
remaining wall.

Also it would be necessary to have outside the bar a spring mattress
arrangement, which, when you were chucked out, would immediately chuck
you back in again.

This would save a lot of struggling on the part of those who couldn't
walk. The cafeteria system would work well while the visitors were able
to serve themselves, after that it would be necessary to have a corps of

A lemonade bar could be situated somewhere near the back gate for
visitors, who didn't like prawns.

In our own private bar, the bottles are arranged side by side--both of
them--and in re and anent this, we warn you that it is no use putting the
stuff under the house, because that is the first place she looks.

Better to leave them in the pockets of a pair of trousers that need a lot
of patching and general repairing.

The smaller stuff, like flasks, can be safely left in the shaving cabinet
if you have the key. A rather bright idea is the fishing room.

In this room, a boat is moored to the floor, and corkscrews for opening
the bait are attached to the rowlocks or some other portion of the boat.
Thus one may fish in comfort and with the usual results.

We hope to see all flats and dwellings adequately provided with these
conveniences in the future, not only because it teaches the community to
be self reliant, but also because it saves the resident and citizen the
trouble of remembering where he lives.

In the words of the Two Black Crows, "He lives where he is."


DISGUISED as a bull, we strolled into the bull pen at the Showground
mooing loudly to disarm suspicion. Having been to America, we are
conversant with most languages, and can speak bull.

The Aberdeen-Anguses--or, rather, the Aberdeen-Angi--speak with a marked
Scottish accent, but anyone who has been to the talkies as much as we
have can understand anything.

One bull remarked that the exhibits of human beings weren't as good this
year as last year.

"They gather," he said, "in grandstands and about the ring, and once a
day we lead our keepers around and have a look at them."

There was some discussion as to whether Clivdale Norman Monarch Beauty's
Pride of Aberdeen's Financier Bald Blairo's King was really entitled to
the blue ribbon.

At this juncture we commented on the quality of the chaff.

A fellow bull agreed that it tasted like the back of a couch. This put us
in good. We said that we had had our hoofs pared that morning, our horns
polished, and our bodies laved in scenty soap guaranteed to make our hair
curl, but we objected to walking around the ring.

We chewed our cud and said that we rather missed our cow. Dark glances of
suspicion were cast at and upon us.

"Misses his cow!" exclaimed Bonnie Lord of Bontharambo to Isabanker of
Abington. "He ought to be glad to get away from her."

Bulls are human.

To cover our confusion we hung our head in the straw, and chewed.

"He's eating his bedding!" they cried with one accord, and in a loud
voice. We did a little more mooing, but it was of no use. We were
discovered as an impostor and cast out.

We would never be a success as a bull.

However, we may congratulate ourself on the fact that we were neither
gored nor bored. Bulls are human, but not too human.


EVER seen a buffalo fly?

Now, don't lie to us! On Friday nights, for instance.

Buffalo flies are causing a lot of damage in North Queensland. We have
made a close study of buffalo flies, starting from the birth of the
insect and working up through the calf-fly stages until we managed to
secure fully-grown specimens of the buffalo fly itself with horns
measuring 8ft. across.

The flies live entirely on buffaloes. They fly to about the height of a
buffalo's back and then hover in the air, waiting for a buffalo to walk

The method of egg-laying is of great scientific interest. You are, of
course, aware that when a buffalo is pleased, it wags its tail.

Taking advantage of this, the fly grasps the animal's tail firmly between
its two front paws and waves the tail gently from side to side.

The buffalo thinks he is pleased, and smiles. The fly then lays its eggs
in the wrinkles. As regards ridding the north of buffalo flies, we think
it would be better to get rid of the buffaloes. You can swipe a buffalo
fly, but it takes a good man to swot a buffalo.

However, if the extinction of the flies is insisted upon, we suggest that
a lot of empty tomato sauce bottles be scattered about where the insects
are most prevalent, they being very fond of tomato sauce.

On finding the bottles empty, the flies would become enraged and smash
the bottles.

They would then cut their feet walking on the fragments, dirt would get
into the cuts, and they would all die of tetanus.


THE big show, "The condensation of a-B Dibromocarboxylic acids with
benzene in the presence of aluminium halides," by Prof. J. C. Earl,
D.Sc., Ph.D., and H. C. Wilson, last night was missed by thousands.

The curtain rose at the rooms of the Royal Society of N.S.W. sharply at
eight. Soft music heralded the approach of dawn on the stage as a-B
Dibromocarboxylic (a Greek able seaman) entered with Benzene.

Benzene: Why hast thou druggist me hither?

Dib.: I called, and thou chemist, my love. (They condense.)

Benzene (breaking loose): But where is Aluminium Halides? We were
supposed to condense in his presence!

Dib.: Poor old Al.!

Benzene: Unhand me, sir! (Enter Prof. J. C. Earl, D.Sc., Ph.D., and C. H.
Wilson, leading chorus, which includes Dr. H. G. Chapman, Sir Edgeworth
David, Dr. J. A. Dick, Mr. James Nangle, and Sir Henry Barraclough.)

It's a long way to Condensation,
It's a long way to go.
It's a long way to Dibromocarboxylic,
It's the sweetest acid we know.
Farewell, aluminium halides!
Farewell with benzene!
It's a long, long way to condensation,
But an a-B has be-e-en!

Cries of "Author! Author!"


"Police laughed yesterday at the suggestion that a clash between rival
gangs was responsible for a wild shooting episode on Saturday night in
Surry Hills. Injuiries showed that the incident was a display of bravado
on the part of half a dozen hoodlums. One man, who had been hit with a
bottle, was taken to Sydney Hospital."--News item.

WE can see it. Struck on the head by a bottle, the victim giggled himself
into a state of unconsciousness. Laughing heartily, the police placed him
in the ambulance. The doctor chuckled softly as he stitched up the wound.
He said it was the best he'd seen yet, and had the patient heard the one
about the Scotsman, the Irishman, and the Jew?

Out of pure bravado, the victim coughed blood, and then swooned.

The police then laughed heartily again, patting the victim on the back,
and telling him he was a fair devil.

Outside the hospital seven shots were fired at the policemen, who, having
a sense of humor, grinned broadly.

He then expired on the pavement.

Shrieking with merriment, the other policemen walked across the road and
arrested one of the gunmen for a joke.

The gunman was charged next day with "showing off" and playing practical

"It's as good as a circus," remarked the judge. (Laughter).

"Tell you what I'll do. I'll sentence you to the rising of the Court," he
added, smiling broadly.

Whereupon the defendant chuckled hysterically.

The whole underworld is convulsed with laughter, and the police are still


WE went last night to a Music Lovers' Progressive thingummy club. Having
given our
ticket up at the door, we forget the name of the place.

The sinister object of this concern is to foster a lot of music all over
the place, and generally encourage it to go on.

It is also going to "foster the spirit of friendliness among music-lovers
through the M.L.P.C.A. Club rooms and social gatherings." This means that
you may go up to a street player and say, "I have lost my whistle. Let's
have a tweep at yours."

Music we regard as a set of noises set out in secret code by retired
Morse telegraphists with a grudge on the people upstairs; but we are all
for this "spirit of friendliness."

It shows a kindly spirit if, when you are at a party, you can say of the
chap singing "Perfect Day," "He may be flat now, but, by gee, you should
see how tall he is when he stands up."

Whether this fostering of friendliness toward musical people is a method
of self-defence we are not in a position to say. Still, we would like to
put in a good word for the Angel Gabriel. His rendition may make
musicians turn in their graves, but let us not have any criticism before
we hear it.

We'd hate to be playing bridge with Gabriel and him hanging on to his
last trump like that.


We have often wondered who those people were who seem to have nothing
else to do but watch men digging the road up or working down holes.

They are private detectives. They watch.

EVERY morning in the Agony Column is the information.

"Detective Agency. Persons watched from 5/-. Lowest charges. Easy terms."
One detective agency says it "will go anywhere." Further down in the
column, someone else offers to watch people for 4/6. There is competition
even in the watching business.

When watching falls as low as 4/6 a go, it seems a shame not to have
someone watched. For instance, the Boss is seen going out. The detective
(engaged by the whole staff) is immediately put on the job. He reports,
"Boss seen entering club at 1.15 p.m. Having Turkish bath." This, of
course, means at least three hours off for the staff.

Then, "Boss leaving club at 4.20 p.m. Seems to be in bad temper."

All work like made.

With increased business, watching costs could be lowered to the point
where even the smallest purse could afford a little investigating.

Little difficulties would arise, naturally.

"I've had a very tiring day," you would say on arriving home.

"Oh!" the wife would reply. "Is that why you spent 1/4 in the public bar
of Swamper's Hotel, on the corner of Sussex Street and Moore Park,
remaining there from 5.32 p.m. until 5.59 1/2 p.m. on the 24th inst.? . .
. while I've been slaving away in the house.. ."

"Stop!" you'd reply, producing your notes. "You can't tell me you've been
slaving when I have definite information to say that you were leaning on
the fence, 27th paling from the left, standing on a bucket, marked X in
the diagram, from 2.10 p.m. until 4.15 of the same date, discussing . .

It would be goodo, if one could get someone to watch the detective.


Well, said he, wringing out his boats, we have learned to swim. What's
more, we have learned to swim uphill. This, despite the fact that we were
struck three times by fireballs and twice struck by lightning while
passing over drains.

NOT only this, but we also won the office competition for hailstones. The
first entrant said that they were "big as pullet's eggs." A mere
inexperienced youth, he had no chance.

The sizes worked up to duck eggs, passed the "fill a cup" stage, steadied
a bit at oranges, and seemed to be all done at coconuts, entered by a
Strathfield competitor.

We won with watermelons. It was a most successful storm.

The next-door dog was drowned with all hands, the garden which we have to
slave in every Saturday afternoon has been smashed flat, our
mother-in-law's cockatoo was struck dumb, and the gas meter is out of

Somebody rang up the "What I Saw" department late last night and said
that there had been a storm, and the Chief Sub-editor burst a

And, what's more, we couldn't visit the wife's aunt last night because
the weather was too unsettled.



Things must be very bad in Hobart. They are selling their elephant. He is
selling his elephant, you are selling your elephant, we are selling our
elephant thou has put thine elephant up for sale (Grammar).

AS proof of which, here's the advertisement:--
13 years old, very docile and accustomed to giving rides to children. Any
reasonable offer will be considered.
Town Hall, HOBART.             W. A. BRAIN, Town Clerk.

Some say, on the one hand, that Tasmania is trying to pay off its
deficite by selling its elephant.

Others, on the one hand left to them, say that it is a political move,
that it is a white elephant, and Lang wants it.

The whole situation is intriguing and needs looking into by people like
us who were born among elephants.

The very fact that the elephant lives in the Town Hall is interesting.

That the elephant gives rides to children links it up with our Uncle
Ernest, and must be very interesting to zoologists. And our Uncle Ernest
didn't look a bit like an elephant. Nature is marvellous.

Probably Tasmania is sinking beneath the weight of the elephant.

If it is sold, it will have to be taken from the centre of the island in
a balloon, because if it got too close to the coast the place would tip

The elephant is a handy thing to have about the home. The elephant's
chief occupation is being an elephant.

They should be scene and not herd. Anyone found carrying an unlicensed
elephant will be prosecuted with the utmost rigger of the law.

The elephant is a friend of Edison's, because it made the first trunk

We have reproachfully said to our wife, "Where are our elephants?"

Can a man do more?


Lea ct?


E p cke dsh.

(Shh! Pretend you don't notice him. He's quite harmless).

YES, poor fellow, one of our best patients. He went that way through
reading an advertisement containing a list of unredeemed pledges for sale
by auction.

Gy twd st!

That's a grey tweed suit. We're trying to explain it to him gently. He
thinks an e p cke dsh is an elephant's portable coke dish.

He hasn't quite made up his mind whether a "Gnts g albt" is gnats going
to Alberta, or a giant's green albatross.

Lulule in cse is, of course, obvious, but it takes a little study to
realise that an "ep shving snd" is really an epileptic shovelling sand.

Sprk and B st rg?

Yes; oh, my word, yes!

Pr ear-rgs? Well, that explains itself. A pair of ear-rugs--Eskimos use
them. Now here we have "plne, trp, brce."

The middle one seems to be tripe; the others must be onions and gravy.

A "prsryng pn"? It's a persevering prawn.

Don't know what a "pr shck absrbrs" is! Oh, I see; you're a teetotaller.
What a lovely room padded all round, too. Well, well! There goes William
the Conqueror.

Fawn st ht ins shppr.

Drop in any time. Always welcome, you know.


Lay them back in the moth-balls and lavender; the 12 horseshoes we wore
yesterday because it was Friday, the 13th.

THE four-leafed clover is withered and you can put away your ladders.
You'll have to decide for yourselves about the snakes.

We wore our sacred gallstone yesterday and it did us no good. Most
unlucky. Had a ticket in the 16th State Lottery and didn't win first

This is a remarkable coincidence, because we didn't win first prize with
our last ticket. There must be some mystic significance in that.

Black cats are unlucky. We know this for a fact, because we kicked one
yesterday afternoon when we found it eating our chop.

Thank heavens we hung on to our lucky sixpence. The tram conductor bit it
and then handed back what he couldn't digest and said, "Crook."

We had to get out and walk, and it probably saved our life up till now,
because we don't get enough exercise and might die of fatty degeneration
at any minute.

We have decided that luck is all a matter of chance.


Babies are in again.

World-known residents of Hollywood are having them. Actually wheeling
them around in a languid perambulator.

MUST be very awkward for fashionable celebrities with a first baby. It is
in a spirit of kindness that we proffer instruction and advice, which

The top part of the baby is the part with the knob on it.

The ends which wave about are the legs.

It is not generally known that the baby must be held knob part up if the
thing is to make any progress.

Babies on the bottle should be taught to use an opener at about three
months. The label should be removed, so that the child will not form any
prejudices against a certain brand which may affect him in later life.

At about six months chewing should commence, either on a bone ring or on
the doctor's bill. Things being as they are, we recommend the doctor's
bill, because a bone ring is just about finished in two years.

At two years the child's left leg should be tightly lashed to its left
ear and rapidly whirled around. This will give it a good idea of what
constitutes a good citizen and taxpayer.

It will probably kill the kid, but everything is for the best.


A terrible thing has happened at East Maitland Boys' High School.

THE school is so crowded that four classes have been forced to take a
week's holiday. We presume that all the boys' protests were in vain.

"Just give us a few mathematical problems--a logarithm . . . anything!"

"No!" said the headmaster. "Here's your fishing rod. Go!"

Awful thing to do to a boy just when the locust and beetle season is
coming on. That's what comes of overcrowding.

Right from a child we were against overcrowding of schools. We always had
a feeling that we were one too many.

Us by ourself, or the teacher by himself--yes. But the pair of us by
ourselves . . . No.

As a boy, we were brilliant at school. We shone at hi-cock-alorum; our
locusts squeaked more loudly than any of the other pupils' locusts. Dunno
how it came about; we just seemed to be able to get more out of them.

At tearing lumps out of our trousers we were absolutely on our own. We
can't claim any credit for it. It was a gift. We held the flyweight
record for window-smashing.

Our teacher got muscle-bound rewarding us for our prowess at hurling the

At arithmetic and such we were fair, but uninterested. We knew that two
and two made four, and were satisfied with that. If we were told that
eight and eight made sixteen we accepted it philosophically.

But why anyone should need to know the result of buying 11 dozen cabbages
at 8d., another 7 1/2 dozen at 6 1/2d., and how much profit would be made
if he was 36 years of age and his father didn't come home till 11
o'clock--this always left us with a deep feeling of contempt.

We passed through school loaded with information and marbles.

The fact that Captain Cook won the battle of Trafalgar in 1876 has
changed our whole life. This much we can say for the benefits of

But we still think that that school was overcrowded. Sort of crammed in.


The headmaster of Eton has said: "Compared with women, men are cowards."
 How true! How past, present, and pathetic.
We see it all.

ARE you coming to your dinner?"

"Yes, dear! Yes, dear!" and the village blacksmith bit a piece off his
anvil, kicked the half-shod horse in the stomach, told the horse owner
that he was sorry, and hurried in to dinner.

And his wife said, "That's right, come here looking at me when your face
is like the tan . . . muscles like iron bands. . . . I'm only your wife.
. ." etc., etc.

We see in our mind's eye, Richard Coeur de Lion stealthily lowering the
drawbridge. Gently hoisting the portcullis so that it does not squeak.

Removing that part of his armor which clinks.

"Where have you been?" says a muffled voice.

"I've been to a battle, dear. Most important battle. I . . ."


"But, listen. . ."

"Night after night, night after night. Self, self, self! Me lying here
listening to every sound, waiting for the police, expecting the
ambulance, never knowing. . . ."

"But, my sweet. . . ."

"Don't 'my sweet' me! Why I can. . . ."

"Varlet!" whimpers the warrior. "Are all the hounds within their

"Yes, Sire."

"Well, drive one out. I would fain sleep in its place."

Saying which, the King strode from the chamber and slew the varlet, all
the dogs, and half the men-at-arms, and then fell into fitful slumber.

Are we any different now? And all the poor ignorant bachelors rise in a
misinformed body and shout, "Yes! I wouldn't stand it!"


A gang of car thieves, experts at altering cars so that their owners
shall not know them, have been rounded up by the police.

THIS need not deter anyone thinking of going into the business.

Car altering is easy once you get the hang of it. For instance, running a
car into a tram makes the car look entirely different.

One need not go to these lengths in most cases, however. For example,
imagine the astonishment of a driver who pressed his horn-button, and
instead of the familiar "Hornk!" the thing went, "E-eek!"

He would probably stop the car and go around the back and have a look at
his number-plate, thinking he had been nursing a viper in his bosom.

We know a car driver who owned a Studebonker. That's what it was.

Yet that same man, when the vehicle stalled in the middle of King Street,
called it an entirely different name. As a matter of fact, he called it a
number of names, seemingly unable to make up his mind.

And the way people fall for this disguising! Hundreds of people have
hailed what they thought was a Purple Cabs Ltd., taxi. They have ridden
in it from Park Street to the Railway and discovered that it was an
independent pirate Heliotrope Taxi, and been charged the equivalent of a
week's board and residence for the trip.

There are possibilities in this altering business. If you are seen in the
car by the wife in the company of--well, in company--all you have to do
is to kick the windscreen in just before returning home.

Then you can say, "Are you sure? What kind of car was it?"

Follows the meticulous description.

"Ah!" you say, holding up the left hand to procure a drop of silence.
"Did it have its windscreen kicked in? No? I thought not. It wasn't me."

(That, said he, is a good one. I should have kept it for mine own use.)

But a parting word. Apart from painting the differential pink and
disguising the gear lever as the brake, and putting the back tyres on the
front, there is one sure way of altering a car. And that is to get off
the main road at Willoughby and just drive around.



Five minutes ago we wrote the word. What a train of thought and happy
memories. . . . and gas bills, and milkmen breaking the saucer with which
you covered the jug.

THE dear days when you held her hand, hating to let it go. These days
when you are handcuffed to it, and can't go.

The perfect husband? Look us over.

A husband should be kind, gentle, and understanding. (We are speaking
from experience). He should be courteous and cheerful. Economical and
liberal. Stern, brave, and pusillanimous. Ready to face the tasks and
cook breakfasts of the day with courage.

He should be tactful enough to ask for his tobacco money without starting
a fearful row. After the row, he should sympathise with his wife, who has
developed a splitting headache through shouting at him, and he should
bring her aspirin tablets.

He should be a bashed-in, baggy-kneed, penniless, perambulator-pushing
tea and toast-making, dogdandling, eye-averting mutt.

Shouldn't be?

Strange how Cupid leaves his bow for his club.

LOVE!!--Mine's a pint with squash.


Hooray for the Dean of Canterbury!

HE has said: "I am no blooming good as Dean of Canterbury. That's why I
don't wear gaiters. Give me a run for my money. Call me Dick Sheppard.
Give me your right hand, invite me to your socials, let me be a pal."

That's the stuff to give the troops! With such a precedent, any minute
now we're expecting an announcement from Mr. Scullin on the same lines.

"I'm no good as Prime Minister and Federal Treasurer. That's why you
don't wear socks. Give me a run for your money. Call me Jimmy. Give me
your right hand, left hand, and both feet. Make a pal of me. Put kisses
on the bottom of your income tax returns. Invite me to your funeral."

But, of course, it is in the church that this democracy will make the
biggest difference.

You will be greeted at the church door by the Dean, and he will say,
"Well, well! If it's not old Bill! How the hell are you? Haven't seen you
for years. Come inside. The boys are just having an ace-pot for the last,
and then we'll start the service."

It might even catch on when the Mayoress of Tasmania or some other
distinguished lady attends the official opening of the Girls' Christian
Reform Guild in the parish hall. (They have a new parish hall in Tasmania
on the site where the old Mechanics' Institute used to be.)

She will probably enter on a scooter and yell, "Whoopee, girls! Smoke up,
don't mind me. Whaddyer think of me new garters. Trot out the beer and
call me Aggie."

The thing will probably receive a serious setback when the Dean of
Newcastle slaps one of the local miners on the back and says, "Hullo, you
old cow! How's the old coal-stained body?"

The miner will hand him one and the Dean will go out for the count, and
some more.

Democracy is all right as a hobby, but you can't come that stuff on us


Have you noticed how the prefs are getting ord on the Stock Exchange?

The forward market has now to be called on 'change after cash
transactions in each stock are completed!

Oh, gosh! What are we coming to!

BUT you don't understand. You think that the Stock Exchange is a place
where you can swop two calves for one fully-grown milker.

How wrong you are! How wrong you are! (Same song--different words).

Let us explain. All right, don't let us explain. Please yourself.

But we insist. Supposing you have 250 ord. shares in Consolidated Garden
Seats Ltd. Are you going to pref? Not on your life! Oh, no! You're going
to bear and bull.

You rise in the morning and say, "Shall I be a bear or a bull to-day?"
The wife tells you, but you take no notice of her.

You immediately buy a lot of shares from a man who hasn't got them, for a
certain sum which, if the worst comes to the worst, you will have to

Con. G. S.'s Ltd. fall 1 3/4d. You immediately bear. You margin.

Have you tangible asset over liability, indicated by the surplus?

Can you dump holdings? Is the market value representative of the average
fluctuation? Is it and how? You go to your broker. You say, "What will I
do now?"

He says, "Bear the margins with bulls. Liability the assets with average
fluctuations--then all you have to do is debenture forward."

You have his advice. Garden Chairs (Cons. Ltd.) immediately abnormally
variate. It remains only to security with turnovers.

You are saved. The price of eggs goes up along with garden chairs, and
you live in Bellevue Hill with gout and high blood pressure.

The Stock Exchange is in Pitt Street.

We leave the rest to you.


As the only man who ever threw an egg sandwich on the wheel at Monte
Carlo and stopped the works, we are deeply interested in the new rule of
the International Sporting Club, which bars women gamblers.

THE last time we were on the Riviera four women suicided. Whether it was
because they lost heavily, or because of our tragic beauty, we are too
modest to say, but the fact remains, if they hadn't been gambling they
wouldn't have seen us, and probably would have been alive to-day, though
unthrilled. Women should not gamble.

They should not gamble, because when they lose, their husbands have
nothing to take to the races on Saturday.

They should remember, when tempted to have a few bob on something at the
S.P. joint, that every eightpence lost is a pound of sausages gone west.

This careless "There goes the gas money" attitude which many women adopt
is distinctly ruinous.

The landlord may be beaten by a short head for the rent, but very few
landlords are sporting enough to accept the sad news with a smile and a
"Never mind. Try again next week."

Women haven't the stamina for gambling. Very few can conceal that
goose-flesh feeling brought on by four aces, they cannot walk long
distances from remote places like Canterbury, Rosehill, and Warwick Farm,
and most of them can't shuffle for nuts.

And, besides, they get home too late to get the tea ready and a man can't
live on tinned salmon ALL the time.

Anyhow, they don't need to gamble. They get the cash ultimately, just the

A man wins a few quid, comes home, has it confiscated, and is given 1/6
to buy tobacco with. And then he says he's had a winning day!

Ha! Ha! Ha! It makes me laugh sardonically!


Kindness to Landlords Week has been officially opened by an unemployed,
resident of Vaucluse, who, taking advantage of the recent State
legislation in regard to rents, has invited his landlord to come and live
with him, providing he pays for his board.

THIS kindly action might well be emulated and even surpassed by those
possessed of a kindly heart and the will to do. Especially the will to

Landlords are a peculiar race. They are mostly visible once a week, and
then only at the front door. They ring the door-bell carefully (being
their own bell), or furiously, for the same reason; or futilely, for the
simple reason that the tenant has crept into the ice-chest and pulled the
door shut, thus proving conclusively that he is out.

An outcast race, they live entirely on eviction notices, which they gnaw
in their garrets with great relish, surrounded by bailiffs clamoring for
their fees, which is a quaint form of amusement.

It was only about five months ago that we, ourself, became short of
money. Most disturbing experience. You've no idea. We had christened a
pound note. Smashed it in the face with a bottle of Pilsener and declared
the pound officially opened.

Landlord came grovelling for the rent on Monday. Kicked him in the
forehead as usual. Left at 2.30 in the morning so as to save the
neighbors any disturbance; took away all the lead off the roof, and in
the bathroom, as a memento of our stay, and left a note signed
anonymously by us, using another name on account of modesty.

We frequently meet him in the dole queue, but he bears no malice.

He is too weak.


We are not in favour of it.

Although possessed of a musical ear (we get ringing and buzzing noises in
it, due to chronic guitar), we regard with misgivings the Commonwealth
Government's scheme for the formation of a National Orchestra at a cost
of 70,000 a year.

IT is doubtful if enough musical cousins, brothers, brothers-in-law,
nephews, and uncles of Federal politicians could be found to make up an
orchestra under political control.

The expense is another thing. A musical critic says, "A big musical
library would have to be maintained at, say, a cost of 2000 a year."

The library would be used, we presume, solely for reed instruments, which
seems a waste. Players could take their instruments home with them

With an economical Government in power, the conductor would also act as
usher and chucker-out, restrictions would be placed on the amount of
sliding to be done on slide trombones, and the drummer would have to cut
down his banging by 50 per cent. to save wear and tear. In the case of
piccolo or any other solos, time would be deducted from the idle players'

The orchestra would gradually decline into a gum- leaf and bull-roarer
band, or might even ultimately consist of the Speaker as a mouth-organ
expert (of which expertness there is no doubt), and, of course, the

Which would bring us back to where we started. And we are not in favour
of it.


Engineer of the Commonwealth Railways, Mr. J. McIlwraith, returning from
Northern Australia, says that buffalo abound in these regions. "Buffalo
abound," meaning, of course, one bound to each buffalo.

BUFFALOES are a sort of wild cow, only there is more of them and they are
wilder. They hunt in lodges.

Like share salesmen, their commercial value lies in their hide.

The horns of the animal extend from the head outward. If this were
reversed, it would annoy the buffalo. Nature provideth for all things.
When alarmed, they blow their horns; this they do with their bellows.

A small buffalo is a buffet. No traveller has yet carved his initials on
a live buffalo. This is probably due to illiteracy on the part of the

The yak is a relation to the buffalo, and was named by a Scandinavian
explorer, after his brother, John.

The bison; well, the bison is of various sorts, such as the soup-bison
and the pudding bison. Same as the buffalo and the water-buffalo,
although the latter is rare in this country, even on election days.

Now let us see, what elks is there?

Nothing, unless we mention buffalo grass, which is grown extensively by a
suburban people who have not got a single buffalo.

Which is pure ostentation and straining after effect, like wheeling a
perambulator around Potts Point.

In Roseville, the nearest thing to a buffalo is a lawn-mower.

In North Australia, the farthest thing from a buffalo is a resident of
Roseville. This is the Law of Compensation at work.

People we should like to see hunting buffalo are as follow: Messrs.
Hitler, Mussolini, Quisling, and fill in the rest for yourself, all under
the experienced guidance of Dr. Goebbels.

Break, break, break, on their cold grey heads, oh, buffalos!


IN an endeavour to assist the Minister for Education, who deplores the
large amount spent on textbooks, and aims at economy in schools, we have
evolved the All-in Text Book.

This will combine history, arithmetic, geography, and other odds and
ends, in the one book, thus saving a vast amount of expenditure.

As an example, we will show you portion of Chapter 8, which deals with
the signing of Magna Charta.

"Twice eight is sixteen," said King John to the assembled nobles.

"Therefore," cried the nobles, "let X equal A, plus eight!"

"What a world!" said the King, wearily.

"'World,' is a common noun," said his adviser, "governed by the
preposition 'what.' It spins on its axis, and is slightly flattened at
the poles."

Thereupon the King took up his pen, and signed the Magna Charta. Then,
drawing himself to his full height, and, with a sneer on his lips, he
said, "If I had twelve apples, and I gave two to Fitzwalter, four to
Pembroke, and three too the Master of the English Templars, how many
oranges would I have left? Work THAT out!"

He then retired to Windsor to gnash his teeth. See the idea?

We shall probably be knighted over this.


TALK about getting the Xmas shopping done early--you should see us and
our grandfather--The old man bought us a box of matches to light our
cigarette_lighter with; as for us, we taught him a new song.

It was when we came to the women's presents that the trouble set in.

We heard about some cheap stockings at the other end of the town, so took
a taxi to the spot, went red in the face, came away with the stockings,
forgot our change, taxi cost more than the stockings, got home stockings
wrong size.

Me grandfather is different.

"What size?" asked the girl behind the counter. "Well, she's got fairly
long legs," said me grandfather. "I should say about a yard, and what was
left over she could roll down."

"But the foot that is where the size--"

"All right! All right!" said me grandfather. "'Er mother used to take
size three."

"This stocking is size three," said the girl.

"Yer better make it size six, then," said me grandfather, "because she'd
make two of her mother."

Highly successful, he was. Got the stockings. Right size. Right color.

Left 'em in the tram!


WIRELESS sets smuggled into Long Bay Gaol! Fergit it!

When you've been in gaol as long as we have.... There was the boy who
brought in a pianola, note by note, and saved up his crusts to make the

There was the Human Gorilla, who used to play the harp on his cell bars.
Mournful, it was.

Then there was a bloke call Fred (LL546792). Used to play the saxophone
on his porridge.

"Goofy" was a lifer, and head of the class. Best thing he ever did was in
1897 (or it might have been 1945--we lose count of time). Laboriously he
traced on his soup plate the words of "The Prisoner's Song."

Securely fixing the plate to the floor of his cell, he put his fork in
the grooves, and ran round and round. It was practically a perfect
record, except when he tripped.

All the boys burst into tears, and three warders were drowned. Eight of
the more refined ones had their good-conduct stripes washed off.

Matter of fact, one of the lads offered to go out into the street and
convert the police force.

Wireless set . . . ! Give us an onion and a handkerchief, and we'll make
a reaper and binder.

Give us a sentence and a blue pencil, and we'll make a good sub-editor.
We'd like to see anyone keep us in gaol.

Or even just keep us.


BEEN looking ourself over, prior to joining the nude sun-bathing club.

We did it gradually. Removing the hat, we looked as if we were not going
out. With the coat off, it would seem that we were going to do something.

The vest, collar, and tie cast aside, we resembled a week-end potterer in
gardens. With the braces off, a sort of anxious look spread o'er the
countenance, and a feeling of You - go - to - the - door - I think - it's
- the landlord pervaded us.

In shirt, socks, suspenders and boots, we looked a bit ridiculous, but
after tearing off the socks, boots, and suspenders we discovered a
remarkable likeness in ourself to Ghandi.

With the prospect of living for rest of life on goat's milk, and, seeing
that the only goat we have does not give milk, we cast the shirt aside.

There we were. Our face--beautiful. Our neck raw from shaving. The
shoulders bent from years of worrying about gas bills, the torso like a
wrecked Zeppelin, the knees knobbly, the feet spread out, and the ankles
with the funny little bones that wear your socks out.

Looking at ourself sideways, we looked like a voice crying in the
wilderness. Looking at our back we got a crick in the neck.

We cannot forecast any success for the nude sunbathing club.

And another thing, imagine the political heads of our glorious State, in
the nude.

Revolution! Immediately!

The cult is doomed. This, doom it may concern.


A STRONG argument for Manx dogs has been introduced by the manager of the
King Edward Dogs' Home, who was paid 19/5/- for the tails of 154 stray
dogs at 2/6 a tail.

It would pay us and our father-in-law to keep a lot of dogs and buy
cigarettes with them, getting 1/6 change; which would be spent on more
dogs; thus making us a millionaire and forcing us to drag ourself
enthusiastically off the labor market.

It might even be possible, after prolonged research, to invent a dog
which grew one tail after another, indefinitely.

A man with a herd of dogs could put the Income Tax Department to a lot of
well-earned trouble.

On the other hand, a man with one dog would probably, in these times, say
in a choked voice: "Here, Boy! Commorn! Commorn!"

He would look the dog in the eye, sorrowfully. Steeling himself, he would
say, "You may be a dog to me, but you're only a half-crown in the bank's

It has its sad moments, but it also has its economic possibilities. Such
as, "Excuse me, but have you change of a bull terrier?"

"Sorry, but all I have is an Airedale pup and two Chow Chows."

You then walk away disappointed, as usual.

Which is the basis of all economics.

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