Newsy Tattle

from the ‘Frankston and Somerville Standard’, 1912-36

Old hands tell me the roads were very bad on the Peninsula in the days when our grand dads were making eyes at grandma on the village green. One wet season two men were walking along the Rye road into Sorrento when they saw a hat lying on the muddy track. One lifted it and was astonished to find beneath it, a man, who said he was bogged. They attempted to pull him out, but found it very difficult.

Wait a minute, the muddy one asked, let’s see if I can get my feet out of the bally stirrups.


A sailor at the Base says it is harder to have the last word with a woman than it is to train a Westernport oyster to sing the Marseillaise!


Judging by the rumors flying about—though as a rule rumors are false—the match between Dromana and Carrum last Saturday was more like a miniature battlefield than a football ground. It is a pity that a better spirit does not exist. We are not blaming anybody, for we recognise that it takes two to make an argument, but we do hope a more pacific spirit will actuate players in future matches.


The bowling season opened auspiciously last Saturday at every important centre in the State almost everywhere except Frankston.

I had two brothers, but both are dead, said a city bowler recently.  One is at rest, and the other lives in Frankston.


A philosopher out Baxter way argues that whilst money may not be exactly a vehicle to happiness, it makes very excellent axle grease!


John Jakes was an artist. At imitating birds and animals, he could make Fred Hanton sit up and take notice—perhaps ! One night, at his home at Carrum, he was entertaining some friends, and his imitations gave birth to much fulsome praise.

When a dingo wants its mate, he explained, it howls like this – and he gave a yell that would deceive any respectable dingo. The sound had hardly died away, when his wife opened the door, and asked, Did you call me, dear?

His friends smothered a smile up their sleeves!


Bill Bigbloke was the head se-rang of the ‘Flying Axehandles’, a noted push of the bayside. His greatest enemy was Joe Samesi, who dabbled in esperanto, and boasted to his friends of the millions who already spoke the “universal language.” So far as language was concerned, Bill claimed that his was the true universal language. He had the ability to swear all day and never say the same word twice— in fact, he could make a bullocky blush with shame.

If a kwautr ov a milyun stutta sprantoe too-day, he wrote to Joe, i kan poynt too tha milyons who alredi spek mi langwij.


Shakespeare’s little nephew writes:—I was dreaming, and in that dream I went west. In due course, I reached Nirvana. St Peter asked where I came from, and my reply was that whilst on earth my abode was at Carrum. He stared a bit.

Alright, step inside, he said, you’ll be a bit lonely up here, my boy—we don’t get many from down that way.


It was a very dark night, and the Langwarrin Fire Brigade had just been called out — a house on fire. The dreary darkness made fire-fighting difficult.

Better let ‘er burn up a bit, lads, said the local Harry Lee, and then we can see what we are doing.


A bashful Queensland editor has discovered a green snake 25 feet long. That’s nothing to the chap who saw a pink crocodile in the Kananook, which had its head caught, in the Mile Bridge, and lashing the Fiocchi Avenue bridge with it’s tail. Of course, he was in a bad way — the man, not the crocodile.

One of the visiting artists sang a song in Welsh to put “Billy” in good humor, for the Prime Minister and Taffy are countrymen. It sounded very nice—the first line of the chorus reading something like this—xqirdehstlm-tdqxz (soft pedal here) and then xlzzvqopy and so on !


A correspondent to “The Standard” mentions the fact that many years ago, when there was only one house between Mordialloc and Frankston, a little girl was lost in the bush at Langwarrin, and no trace of the mite was ever discovered. It was presumed that she was carried away by the blacks which infested the locality. In Australia’s early history, there are many sad cases of unsolved mysteries recorded. In Queensland, for instance, not so many years ago, a little white girl was discovered living amongst a rather wild tribe of aboriginals. The lubra protested that she was the mother of the child and refused to part with It. Mrs Bhingi credited a neighboring pastoralist with its paternity! A lady, resident in New South Wales, who had lost her baby girl in the bush some years previously, was led to believe the child was hers, but she failed to positively identify it. The girl became in after years a prominent figure in Salvation Army circles. Her parentage was never determined, though the lubra for more than twenty years proclaimed her mothership.


The honor of being absolutely the first white child born on the Peninsula—and in the State—belonged to the late Mr Williams James Hobart Thorne. The memorable event took place during Collins’ settlement at Sorrento on Friday, October 25th, 1803. His progenitor was a sergeant in the Royal Marines. The infant was publicly baptised on Xmas Day by the Rev Robert Knopwood, M.A, -the Governor himself acting as a godfather, and naming him after Lord Hobart. The first native lived to a ripe old age in Tasmania, the tight little island where the good live long and the bad much longer!


The lecture was about the Origin of Species and the Principles of Evolution, and the lecturer had demonstrated to the Somerville people how Charles Darwin arrived at his theories regarding man and the ape. Little Eddie was much puzzled and asked his mother whether he had really descended from the ape tribe. Mum cast an optic at Dad, who was reading “The Standard” by the fireside, before she replied.

I don’t know, my boy, she said, I never knew any of your father’s people.

On behalf of the Editor, I wish to thank all who have sent along cricket scores, etc, this week. It is pleasing to see “The Standard” appreciated so much in the various parts of the Peninsula. I would advise correspondents to send in their scores as early as possible. And, my dear brethen, remember that brevity is a great virtue in my eyes!

The purpose of my existence as writer of these notes is to cultivate a spirit of good fellowship amongst all who indulge in sport on the Peninsula, and if we make mountains out of mole hills and introduce bickerings, my scheme is upset. And my desire is not to have it upset.

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