“The Melanesian.”

Letter to the Editor.

I had not intended replying to ‘Zeitgeist’s” virulent attack upon my “dear brown brothers,” and upon my humble self. But I have been “ordered” to; and no doubt her superior woman’s mind has reason behind it!

But how can one answer ghostly and cowardly nonentity? So I walk out, along our umbrageous suburban foot path to consider my “pointage.”

Firstly, the Melanesian, happily for himself and all of us, has Sir Hubert Murray to guard the slow, sure path towards civilisation from hot-headed “Zeitgeists.”

Just as I get to my friend Thingum bob’s gate, a terrific out-cry rings out!

My neighbour’s pretty daughter owns one of those tiny Poms —about six inches long; and all soft, orange fur and noise! This microscopic render ing of what a dog should be flings itself screaming, rather than barking, against the gate—as if a long brooding over revenge and hatred had at last reached fruition: and my life was to be for feit there and then!

I regard little “Zeitie” over the pic kets; and smile at the comic fury of this small “Spirit-of-the-Times.” Pup pie knows full well that behind the shelter of the gate he is quite safe from anything his irresponsibilities may have evoked! Then I open the gate and boldly enter: whereupon “Zeitie” wriggles up to be petted, his fairy plume of a tail going a thousand to the minute.

I am called a student of the archaeology of the Western Pacific. I have never posed as an anthropologist (which my attacker may not be aware is not the same branch of science) but it is possible that like the com mon person of dear old Jean Molière (Paquelin) I may have “spoken prose all my life without being aware of it.”

I am, etc.,

Arthur J. Vogan.

Sydney, 16/3/33.