Tropicalities

'THE “Sydney Morning Herald”

Washington correspondent, A. D.

Rothman, writing in the “Herald” of

June 2, on personal recollections of the late President Roosevelt, tells this

story of Canton Island, the Anglo-

American Condominium, half way between Noumea and Honolulu. The Gilbert and Ellice Islands Colony supplies the British officials to Canton —that is, British administration is in the hands of the High Commission

for the Western Pacific.

117 HEN the US Army cartographers W presented Roosevelt and Churchill with giant-size globes, the President displayed his on his desk and twirled it with evident pleasure when journalists commented on its size.

After a conference, I, with several colleagues, went up to examine the sphere, and as I approached it, I observed, “Mr. President, it seems that all the continents on this globe are in a non commital yellow colour. From my school days I have been accustomed to see all British Territories on the maps in red.”

“Oh, you know,” the President said quickly, with a twinkle in his eye, “it is all ‘one world’ now; we are together everywhere; take Canton Island, for in stance ** “Maybe,” I said, “but I am told the British Resident on Canton keeps.pretty well to himself. Britishers coming in on air-liners go down to see him and he tells them he never visits the hotel which is operated by Americans, contenting him self with running up the Union Jack in front of the Residency in the morning and taking it down in the evening. He says he never goes near the hotel.”

Quick as a flash the President said, “Until the beer boat comes in!” * DEEP sea cruising is an unpredictable pastime. When the schooner “Cimba” left Suva for Auckland recently, it was estimated that the trip would take two weeks. For the greater part of the voyage, “CimbV’ battled into head winds and reached Auckland on May 12, twenty-four days out from Fiji.

At one stage of the proceedings, the crew—consisting of Mr. G. F. Russell (owner-skipper), Mr. J. Malloy and Mr.

Frank Beddoes, all of them Fiji residents —found themselves nearer to Norfolk Island than to New Zealand.

During the twelve-day stretch that the schooner was held on the port tack, every article of clothing the crew possessed became saturated, the small cabin was more or less a-wash, and meals could be prepared only at odd times and eaten on-the-wing. Every member of the party had several near-misses from being washed overboard.

In short, it was a typical trans-oceanic pleasure cruise. Adventure? Sure, sure.

And one way of beating the travel ban — for those with the necessary cast-iron gizzards. But sufficient to make the average land-lubber ill in prospect. * AND now, in honour of the “Cimba” party, we reprint a poem from London “Punch.” The poet thinks that when all else fails a spot of ocean cruising, per small ship, is the way to educate our erring Hun.

“Cimba's” crew should appreciate it; it is called “Channel Crossing,” and here it

Into the lumping, thumping seas we go, Two hundred stinking prisoners below, The hatches fastened, and the Master Race Still not contented with their living space.

But here the Herrenvolk can raise no roar, And SS stands for “sea-sick”—nothing more.

“There are no islands . . was the Fuehrer's vow.

Poor brutes, they know that there are islands now.

This boundless turbulence through which they crawl, This is the Channel they believed so small; This heaving wilderness in which they toss They thought to conquer and were keen to cross.

Maybe, when every other hppe is done, This is the way to educate the Hun— Send every Prussian for a lengthy trip, In heavy weather, in a little ship. * rE wai*has taken away our chief form of amusement window-shopping.

Vicarious shopping - pleasure, no doubt; but that still is the best way to describe it.

We of isolated Mangaia used, in pre war days, to have a good time thinking what a good time we’d have if we were having it.

Mail-order catalogues were the medium of imaginary orgies of spending—Fryte’s of Bristol, Sayers-Sawbuck’s of New York, Montague-Shard’s of Chicago, etc., etc.

All full of lovely things (—and cheap!).

Now, we never see a catalogue. The firms concerned have succumbed to im port-export licences, war-created short ages, depressed NZ currency (£l=l2/6), lack of shipping facilities, and such sad evidences that civilisation is a failure.

The first act of the Peace Conference must be the restoration of the NZ pound to 20/-, plus the return of mail-ordering.

Or else, we haven’t won.—E.G.

PLANTER readers will be interested in a Sydney “Bulletin” paragraph con cerning a Mr. H. W. Simmons, of the Waite Institute of Adelaide University, who will shortly leave for West Africa.

It is stated that he has been commis sioned by the administration of Samoa (the writer neglected to mention whether it was Western or Eastern Samoa) to collect from Zanzibar or thereabouts, a particular species of wasp to deal with the rhinoceros beetle which is doing damage to coconut plantations.

The wasp in question is reputed to be death to the pest that has given grey hairs to more than one South Pacific planter. * ALSO from “Bulletin” is the controversy raging between readers as to just how long R. L. Stevenson was ill and how many Europeans were present at his burial on the mountain behind Vailima, Western Samoa.

One correspondent, “Fodgie,” clinches the matter by quoting from Moors’ “With Stevenson in Samoa” (Moors was the father-in-law of the late O. F. Nelson) who states that 19 Europeans and 60 Samoans were present. Stevenson, ac cording to Moors (and “Fodgie”) had no last long illness, but was making a salad when he had a haemorrhage of the brain and died within three hours.

“The Road of Gratitude” or “The Road of the Loving Heart” was not from Vailima to the tomb either, but from the main road from Apia to Vailima. It was made by Samoans who for political reasons had been kept in prison and whom Stevenson had fed (see “Vailima Papers”). The Samoans asked that while making it they should not be given food other than what their women brought them, so that the work would be a real “alofa” or labour of love. * rE story goes that an American Army officer in Noumea was given the pleasant job of escorting a USO girl on a sight-seeing expedition round the town. He did not let on that his know ledge of French was rudimentary, and was getting on famously when they reached the big statute in the public gardens in Coconut Square.

Suddenly the girl scanned the inscrip tion at its base, below the relief showing

the submission of the natives after the rebellion of 1878, and trustingly asked him, “What’s it say there?”

“This way to the PX,” translated the officer without batting an eyelid.

He was right, not about the translation, but about the direction towards which the immortal French hero i§ pointing.

The hero in question is Admiral Olry, one of the most esteemed Governors New Caledonia has ever had—it is a pity the Colony can’t find one like him to-day.

When the Minister for Colonies in Paris refused to confirm the Admiral’s grant of 100,00 francs to the settlers ruined by the revolt and subsequent cyclones, Olry sent him his own personal cheque on his private bank, along with a brief but sarcastic note.

The Minister had the decency to tear the cheque up, but that did not lessen the affection which the Governor had won by his gesture. The colonists were saddened by his speedy recall, for it does not do for a Caledonian Governor to be come too popular, and on his departure presented him with a silver lyre-bird, purchased in Sydney and suitably in scribed.—HELP.

(Editorial Note: Help Does Hot

explain what a “PX” is. Presumably it is American for canteen, or post office.)