The New Zealand
Railways
Magazine
Railways
Magazine
Registered for transmission by Post as a Newspaper
Published by the
New Zealand Government Railways Department
“”
For Better Service.Service Copy
Vol. 7. No. 9.
Wellington,
New Zealand
April1, 1933
Contents
I hereby cerjpgy that the publisher's lists and other records disclose that the circulation of the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” has not been less than 20,000 copies each issue since July, 1930.
Deputy-Controller and Auditor-General.
The New Zealand Railways Magazine is on sale through the principal booksellers, or may be obtained post-free for 6/- per annum.
Employees of the Railway Department are invited to forward news items or articles bearing on railway affairs. The aim of contributors should be to supply interesting topical material tending generally towards the betterment of the service.
In all cases where the Administration makes announcements through the medium of this journal, the fact will be clearly indicated.
The Department does not idenjpgy itself with any opinions which may be expressed in other portions of the publication, whether appearing over the author's name or under a nom de plume.
Short stories, poetry, pen-and-ink sketches, etc., are invited from the general public upon New Zealand subjects.
Payment for short paragraphs will be made at 2d. a line. Successful contributors will be expected to send in clippings from the Magazine for assessment of the payment due to them.
The Editor cannot undertake the return of MS.
All communications should be addressed to The Editor, New Zealand Railways Magazine, Wellington.
Answers to Correspondents.
G.W.R.W.—Good sense of Nature, but poems too general; would like real N.Z. flavour—try it. G.S.McA. —Thanks for good wishes; try again. Rail.—Will need some ballasting, but may run it. Katiti.—Pars nearly there—story quite; probably next issue. C.R.A.—Literary analysis not quite suited for our readers; story misses. M.S.—Changing times are too hard to follow and the metre fails to help. J.S.—Interesting, but too general; a tale would be preferred. L.B.I.—Too heavy by half, and 33 days out! K.J.R.—Romance just misses. M.A.I.—Accepted the only lines about N.Z. R.P.A.—Lines good, but not for us. C.H.F.—Paragraphs mostly right. O.W.W.—“Railway Romances” gets there. O.W.—With your opportunities you should produce both newsy paragraphs and verses about N.Z.; others might suit elsewhere. C.R.G.—Will produce later. H.H.—Pleased with one story. A.B.P.—“Me Friends” a good one. D.G.D.—Too dismal. Note.—A number of interesting paragraphs prepared for this issue were unavoidably held over through space limitations.
Editorial
Aims of the Magazine
It is a matter of historical fact that the huge progress and development marking the last 60 years of New Zealand's life has been made possible by the operation and extension of the Government-owned railway lines through most of the fertile lands of the country, and between the principal centres of commercial activity. Although there are still some of our inhabitants who “never see a train” and others who have no further direct association with the services than occasionally seeing one, the yast majority use the railways directly at some time or another. But even these hardly realise how the trains of the Dominion, running day and night, help to bring health and wealth in their wake to city, suburban, and rural districts alike.
Railway operations in this country are inseparable from national prosperity. Even in places where traffic has gone to competitors the public has benefited through the moderating influence of alternative railway rates. But it requires the assistance of graphs and parables and comparative figures to realise the vast scale of railway operations—the quantities of coal and live stock; the frozen meat, butter, wool and fruit for export; the big lines of imports, such as fertilisers and sugar; the port traffics; the big movements of holiday, seasonal, excursion, suburban and other peak loads of passengers. All these are moved upon the Dominion's three thousand miles of track, the transport giant which renders national service of an all-embracing nature.
It is only natural, therefore, that the New Zealand Railways Magazine, which for the past seven years has been putting the railway case before the public who own the lines, should become a national publication telling also the story of the country which the railways have done so much to build up.
Much of the tourist traffic within the Dominion is dependent upon an adequate presentation of information regarding the various localities whose natural attractions present special features of interest to the sight-seer, the student, the health-seeker and the sportsman. This is one of the services performed by the Magazine. Another, and one which will receive increasing attention, is the historic associations of men and events with Dominion development—the nation-building drama of a young country where real settlement did not commence till long after the Napoleonic wars, yet where a standard of culture, of comfort, of production and of citizenship has already been attained which many a country with centuries of opportunity and experience might well envy. With these and other aims to make New Zealand better known to New Zealanders and others, the New Zealand Railways Magazine will be increasingly concerned, while at the same time maintaining its service to the staff as a dependable reference work of railway information.
Bound Copies Of The Magazine.
The publication of this issue of the Magazine (March-April) completes the seventh volume. Readers are reminded that they may send forward their accumulated copies (May 1932 to March-April 1933 inclusive) for binding purposes. The volumes will be bound in cloth with gilt lettering at a cost of 5/- per volume. Those desirous of having their copies bound may hand them to the nearest Stationtnaster, who will transmit them free, with the sender's name endorsed on the parcel, to the Editor, “New Zealand Railways Magazine,” Wellington. When bound, the volumes will be returned to the forwarding Stationmaster, who will collect the binding charge. In order to ensure expedition in the process of binding, copies should reach the Editor not later than 30th June, 1933.
“And mountain, isle and woodland rest Within the mirror of its breast.”
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
Lake Ada, Milford Fiordland District, South Island, New Zealand.
By “Prospector.”)
How many New Zealanders are hoping fervently to-day that some new “big strikes” of gold will help the country to regain its old-time buoyancy? Will the history of golden days of yore repeat itself —the days when the rich finds in Otago, the West Coast of the South Island, the Thames and Hauraki in the North, brought millions of money into circulation and quickened the development of the whole country?
Better equipment for gold winning, with a corresponding reduction in cost of operation and the substantial increase in price have certainly stimulated this industry. The export figures for 1932 comprised 167,682oz. of new gold (valued at £925,552) and 49,817oz. of old gold (valued at £246,030), an aggregate of £1,171,582. For 1931 the export tally was: New gold, 139,975oz. (£577,617); old gold, 996oz. (£3,420), a total of £581,037. The export value in 1932 was the largest for many years.
The Dominion's best year was in 1866, with £2,800,000, when the fields of Otago and the West Coast were giving their best yields. That sum, too, would be represented by more than £5 millions in to-day's money.
From the year 1857 to the end of 1932 the value of gold exported from New Zealand amounted to about £96 millions, from the following districts:—
Cradling
The yields of Wellington and Canterbury are less than £1000 each for the whole of the period.
Although Otago, which held the supremacy in the early years, is still leading in the aggregate, it is being overhauled by Hauraki, for Waihi alone is now credited with about 45 per cent, of the Dominion output.
An indication of the revival of zeal for gold is shown in the big increase in the number of prospectors (apart from relief workers who have become gold-seekers). During December last the number of prospectors who individually sold gold was 1108, and they averaged £13/7/3 each for the month. In December, 1931, the number of men was
After remarking that some of the big finds in the early days were made by men who had had no previous experience in mining, Mr. A. H. Kimbell (Under-Secretary of Mines) mentioned the case of Messrs. Bell and Kilgour, who drew 156oz. of gold from a bank of the Kawarau River in three months (October, November and December last year). Through no fault of their own they lacked work. They knew nothing much about mining, but they decided to prospect for gold along the banks of the Kawarau, a river which has been under keen scrutiny during the past few years. They had a little help from the Unemployment Board and they had plenty of grit—the real fighting spirit of the old-ttme diggers. They used brain as well as brawn, and their perseverance in testing and tunnelling had a worthy reward.
Others of the “unemployed” have battled on with similar determination in the gold country, with the result that they have developed into employers.
Plenty of gold-winning scope remains for other prospectors and fossickers, who are assisted by the Unemployment Board and the Mines Department. The Board grants 30/- to a married man and 15/- to a single man provided they are registered and drawing relief pay. In all cases such workers are required to sign a guarantee that they will undertake to refund 10 per cent, of the value of the gold which they win until the amount of their subsidies is repaid to the Board. About 1600 men were working on that basis recently in various gold-bearing districts.
Suppose that a man, unavoidably displaced from his usual employment and now at a “loose end,” perusing this article, feels that he would like to win some of the gold which lurks in beds or banks of streams or on beaches or elsewhere. What is his best course of action?
The right answer to that question is: “Get in touch with the Mines Department.” It has representatives in the principal gold-mining areas, but in any case a letter to the head office in Wellington will open up a trail to a promising locality. The names of leaflets issued recently by the Department indicate the kind of help which it offers to gold-seekers. Here are the titles: “Aids to Prospecting,” “Fossicking and Prospecting for Gold,” “Notes on the Taking of Samples of Mineral Deposits (Procedure under the Mining Act. 1926) and notes for the guidance of miners, and the Valuation of Mining Prospects.” In plain, clean-cut English the Department's experts have set out the case for the “handy man” willing to persevere in the search. Drawings show how simple equipment is made, and the working of it is clearly explained. These publications are obtainable free, and other guidance is gladly given. The activities of “new chums” are supervised by practical miners, and in the principal districts the Department has mining engineers who devote the whole of their time to this gold-winning work.
To encourage prospecting on new ground the Department pays subsidies to parties of not fewer than two men at the rate of 30/- a week for a married man and 15/- for a single man. The total amounts payable are reducible by 10 per cent.
For sinking shafts, tunnelling or driving, the subsidies are on a footage basis, according to the nature of the ground and the labour involved.
Any person engaged in prospecting or pioneer mining may be granted a subsidy not exceeding 5/- for every £ 1 expended by such person on that work during the preceding twelve months. The maximum subsidy for one person in a year is £500.
Drills and other equipment are lent by the Department on a reasonable rental monthly.
Samples from genuine prospectors are assayed free of charge on condition that they are representative of the whole body of material from which they are taken.
“Experience has shown,” states the Mines Department, “that the gold-bearing areas are practically confined to the Jaraki district in the North Island and to the West Coast and Otago districts in the South Island, the latter districts include parts of Nelson and Marlborough provinces. Even in these districts gold is not to be found everywhere, and in the Hauraki district at least is only to be got in reefs and lodes.
“As most of the men now newly taking on search for it need to get a return quickly from their work, the areas mentioned in the South Island are thus the most suitable for their attention. The development of reefs is a slow process, and usually a lot of expense has to be incurred before any return can be looked for.
“In Western Otago, most of Westland. and parts of Nelson province nearly every creek and beach carries more or less gold, and there are many old high-level watercourses and high-level gravel-beds that contain it, from which it can be won by primitive means; hence the prospector of limited means or limited experience is advised to try these districts in preference to the North Island fields. The exact locality to be investigated must be determined by circumstances. If the men going out have some definite place to go to, well and good; if they do not know of a suitable place their best course is to write to the Inspector of Mines for the district, who will do his best to help them select one.”
“For the man not disposed to break new ground or go far from the beaten track, there is still abundance of room to do some good for himself,” states the leaflet on “Fossicking and Prospecting for Gold.” An average reader of that publication is fairly sure to feel the urge to look for “colour” some day in some of the streams indicated. Ponder on this passage:
Panning
“It is wonderful how large boulders in a stream will help in trapping gold. Right up the course of a gold-bearing stream, wherever these are seen, they should be removed. Sometimes a stout sapling lever will turn them over; at others a little explosive may be needed to effect the purpose, but most times the trouble is worth while going to. When a boulder has been shifted, all clay adhering to its lower sides should be carefully scraped off, or washed off. Then the hole from which the boulder has come, which may be several feet in depth, should be cleaned out, every particle of clay being saved and every crevice followed down, when it will be hard luck indeed if a pleasing return is not got.”
Of course the Mines Department does not restrict itself to the helping of the “small man.” Subsidies for prospecting deep levels for gold-quartz lodes down to a depth of not less than 1000ft., and for alluvial drift not less than 250ft., may be granted up to half the estimated cost of the work, but are not to exceed $10.000.
Proof of the increasing service rendered by the railways to the public of New Zealand is found in the latest returns available regarding the traffic position. These shew that for the 44 weeks of the current financial year to the 4th February there was an increase of 196 thousand passengers over the number carried by train in the corresponding term of the previous year, and at the same time the Department's road services shewed an increase of 384 thousand passengers. The increase in the total number of passengers carried by the Department has thus been over half a million, or a numerical increase of 3 per cent.—a very welcome change from the previous unvarying downward trend in passenger traffic since 1929.
Although the goods tonnage is still falling in sympathy with the general trade position, decreased costs have helped to stabilise the situation, so that the total net revenue for the 44 weeks to the 4th February was $584,038, an increase of $52,896 over the corresponding term last year. It must be pleasing to the public and railwaymen alike to see this very satisfactory result in the face of such adverse conditions.
The Department gives every encouragement to the staff in the development of station gardens, but naturally success at the smaller centres is necessarily dependent upon an inherent love of beauty and orderliness amongst members of the Department themselves. Some notable results have been achieved at certain stations through the keenness of the staff and this has been substantially helped by the interest of such associations as the Gardening Circle of the Otago Women's Club and the Canterbury Horticultural Society. These associations have promoted competitions between stations and given prizes over a number of years, and have seen their reward in some remarkable beaujpgying effects and a general improvement in the appearance of station precincts. Besides being good tor business there is certainly a character-building benefit to the individuals associated with these fine efforts to apply the beaujpgul in nature to station improvement. I am pleased to see this work being carried on and I feel sure that the results already achieved must be very grajpgying, both to the members of the staff at the various stations, and to those public organisations which have interested themselves in the work.
This issue of the Department's Magazine commences the eighth year of its publication. Ever since its establishment it has functioned systematically for the advantage of the railways—the Dominion's largest enterprise. Many new features are being introduced in the current year to increase the national character of the journal's contents, and it is hoped that the increased variety of articles and illustrations will prove pleasing to readers. The stronger support which advertisers are giving is proving distincdy helpful in financing the publication and should have favourable reactions for all concerned.
Acting-General Manager.
Will Lawson
Sometimes in barracks or steam shed, Jonah, the driver, would yarn, and this was one of his favourite tales, of early railway days, though the men had a suspicion that Big Charlie of the tale was Jonah himself.
A greater contrast between two men could not be imagined than that between Big Charlie and his fireman, Tommy Black. According to Jonah's tale Charlie was tall and powerfully built; while Tom was slight and wiry, with the temper of a tiger-cat when anyone roused him, but gentle as a lamb ordinarily. The only man who would not annoy him was Big Charlie. Perhaps it was this fact that made Charlie put up with Tommy's firing, for he was the most aggravating coal slinger that ever rode a footplate.
They were running between Redfern and Bowenfels, the mountain line winding through tall bush which was handy if the engines ever ran out of coal. With the heavy loads they had to take single-handed, this sometimes happened; but it was not a thing to talk about.
Tommy was a man of varying moods. Sometimes he would talk a great deal to Charlie, at other times he would stare out of the cab as though he were counting the trees, or at the fire, like a dreamy cat. Charlie would rouse him to his job, and they would go snorting along, till Tommy got the “dingbats” again. And Charlie, because he liked the lad, and found hint a good mate, kept him on his engine. But the trial of it was almost too much for him when Tommy started falling off the engine. The first time this happened Charlie didn't miss him at once, as his attention was focussed on the road ahead. As soon as he realised what had happened he stopped, and looked out anxiously. What he saw was Tommy tearing after the engine, dodging along the foot-track by the rails in a somewhat excited state. Having taken his shovel with him he was handicapped by having to carry it.
“How did that happen?” Charlie asked him, in cutting tones, as soon as he was on board again, and the old “A” was snorjtjng uphill.
“I dunno,” Tommy replied. “I was lookin’ at a;'possum—at least, I reckon it was a ‘possum—and next thing I was overboard.”
But Charlie believed there was more in it than that. At first he suspected Tommy had been nipping out of a bottle, but he soon proved that theory was wrong, for Tommy was always as sober as a judge. He made three trips without any trouble at all. Then, without warning, as they were coasting down the grade to Emu Plains one day, Tommy fell off again. Charlie saw him go this time. Tommy had been trimming his fire. He set the fire-door a trifle open, and turned to lean out and sniff the breeze. But he went to the open gangway, instead of the window, and just leaned out on nothing. How he wasn't killed Charlie never could understand. But, being lucky, he landed on a heap of loose earth that had been tipped there to fill in some holes in the track, and when Charlie pulled her up and looked out, there he was coming running after the train, like a new chum tram-guard chasing a car that he belongs to.
“It must be your eyesight,” Charlie told Tommy. “I saw you lean out on nothing. Can't you see properly?”
“I can see alright,” Tommy said; “but I was thinking.”
“Well, strike me pink, I'd think at home,” Charlie said. “Lucky for you this isn't a ‘passenger’ or there'd be explanations to make.”
“I'm sorry;” Tommy was very humble; “but I won't fall out again.”
“My oath, you won't,” Charlie swore, and Tommy thought he saw the “sack” ahead. If Charlie reported him that would be the finish. But Charlie didn't report him. He just tied him in.
After they were well away he brought out a length of rope and tied one end of it round Tommy's waist, and the other to the side-rail, giving Tommy enough rope to swing his shovel, but not enough to let him hit the ground if he fell off. Tommy laughed at first, then he nearly lost his temper with Charlie. Had anyone else done this he certainly would have gone mad with rage; but Charlie was so big and solemn, it was no use.
Late that day Tommy fell off again, but Charlie just left his levers and got hold of the rope and hauled him in, from where he was swinging against the tender.
Tommy was breathless.
“My hat!” he gasped. “I nearly went that time.”
“No, you're all right,” Charlie assured him. “You can't fall far, and I know where I've got you now.”
Tommy didn't fall off any more after that. He developed a new trait of dreaminess. He let his fire down on the hills.
This was more irritating to Charlie than falling overboard, and yet Tommy had no more intention of doing it than he had of missing the gangway rail when he leaned out.
He would fire away for a long time and then begin to stir the fire with the pricker. He would stir and stir and think and dream, till Charlie would yell:
“What the blazes are you doing?”
Then Tommy would wake up and get her going again.
There was one place in the mountains where he used to be dreamier than others. It Was just after they had passed a cottage where a red-headed girl would sometimes come to the gate and wave to them. Of course Charlie took the wave for himself, but the girl meant it for Tommy, because she was Tommy's girl.
They had met down at Penrith, when she was working in the refreshment room there. Later on her parents brought her home again, because they didn't like hei mixing with the rough railway boys. So, when they were not watching her, she used to wave to Tommy. That was as far as they got, and the agony of seeing her and never being able to speak to her was worrying Tommy. That was what made him dreamy. And whenever the engine passed with Tommy making her
Charlie was speechless with rage. He could only wave his arms at Tommy and splutter. So Tommy grabbed the axe from the tool box and tore into the bush to cut some wood to light the fire again, while Charlie got the spanner and took the back wheels off the engine, and sandpapered them, he was so wild.
He knew Tommy was awake and cutting wood, because he heard the axe going steadily for a long time.
But Charlie must have been dreaming then, for he suddenly realised that he hadn't heard the axe for quite a time. He waited a little, to see if Tommy would come back with the wood, but Tommy did not appear. Charlie got the rope and went after him. He meant to tie him up again, but this time to a treex where he could sleep for a week.
Through the brush tramped Charlie, murder growing in his heart, and rehearsing as he went all he would say to Tommy. It was a still, sunny day, soldier birds were chattering in the tall trees, diamond finches were whistling, currajongs were calling, and the sky was as blue as it could be. But all Charlie was thinking of was the old “A” standing on the track with her boiler getting colder and colder.
The guard and the brakesman were playing euchre in the van. They had got so used to Tommy's pranks they never bothered to walk along to the engine to see what was wrong.
Tommy was seated on a log, with his back towards Charlie, and the red-headed s head was on Tommy's shoulder.”
Charlie and the piece of rope were, making good progress through the scrub, and still Charlie heard no sound of Tommy, but, all at once, through the thinning trees he saw Tommy, and halted in his tracks, in amazement, for Tommy was seated on a log, with his back towards Charlie, and the red-headed grid's head
Tommy's shoulder. It was like a bolt from the blue, to a reliable railway man like Charlie, to see them and to think of the train standing on the single track, holding up the traffic for these woodland lovers. But he did not mince matters. He bellowed at Tommy, and the pretty tableau dissolved, the girl fading into the bush, while Tommy jumped towards the bundle of wood and the axe, and seizing them, he raced back to the engine. When Charlie got there, he found thick smoke coming out of the funnel, and Tommy said, desperately:
“She won't take long to boil up again.”
Charlie did not speak. He was too disgusted. But that was the last time Tommy fell off the engine, or went a-dreaming, until the day he became a hero.
Charlie gathered from remarks dropped by Tommy that the girl had left home to work in a railway restaurant again. Tommy and she must have fixed up something that day when they sat on the log, judging by the change in Tommy. He was eager and quick, and often had the old “A” blowing steam from her safety valve as she sobbed up the hills. And the day came when the two enginemen were told to fake over the western mail.
This was a fast train for those days. And they were proud men. Tommy was happy, as well as proud, for his girl had been transferred to the refreshment rooms at Mount Victoria, where the western mail stopped for ten minutes, running west. She could not leave the tables to speak to him, but she could wave to him as the train rushed in and when they were pulling out again. Every trip Tommy looked forward to this. He seemed to have forgotten how to fall off an engine or to let a fire out. But the trick of falling off was not forgotten by his sub-conscious mind. And one day it leaped to life.
The mail had got the signals all right, and was humming down through the station, for Charlie relied on his steam brake to pull the light train up pretty short. As they ran past the door of the refreshment room Tommy saw, to his horror, the red-headed girl struggling in the clutches of a rough-looking bushman. It was just a flashing glimpse that he had, and it upset him so much that he fell off the engine.
The girl, as usual, had been watching out for Tommy's train, when the bushman entered the refreshment room. He leered at her, and called her “dearie,” which might have gone down at any other time, but not when Tommy's train was due. She replied disdainfully, and moved to walk past him to the doorway to wave to Tommy, when he put his arms round her and tried to kiss her.
The colour of her hair did not belie her temper. She swung her arm back, and hit him with the flat of her hand a stinging blow, and at that moment Tommy flashed past, and he fell off the engine.
Several people saw him do it, including his girl, and they were horrified, expecting to see him cut to pieces by the wheels. The bushman didn't see it. He got his shock about ten seconds later. For Tommy had brought his engine-tumbling to so fine an art in the days when Charlie had the rope tied round his middle, that he landed on his feet, so full of bounce he could not keep still. In two jumps he was at the bushman—and that careless wooer had not the calming influence on Tommy's temper that Big Charlie had!
The room became a stadium, with little Tommy dusting the big bushman up and down; and at last he hit the big fellow so hard he just lay down on a nicely-set table and groaned. Then the red-haired girl fell into Tommy's arms, while the guard, who knew nothing about the row, shouted through the doorway:
“All aboard the Western Mail!”
Gullible'S Travels
Perpetrated And Illustrated By Ken Alexander.
Perpetrated And Illustrated By Ken Alexander
There is no doubt that travel often broadens the outlook at the expense of the income, but after all a roll on the ocean is better than a “roll” in the bank, and departures mean more than “returns” in the long run, or even the short trip; for wanderlust is as inherent to the homo as garlic is to the breath of suspicion. Man must wander or wilt; but every man has the option of travelling either in agitation or imagination. Some can afford to wander at will, while others are reduced to wandering in the mind. Wandering in the mind is a Cook's tour without the cookeries, but a combination of menu and imagination oft provides a mental meal. The advantage of travelling incog. (which is short-leg for “in cogitation”) is that one can be moved without movement, get inspiration without perspiration, and see without seething.
Many otherwise normal citizens pursue their awful occasions day by day, harbouring in their head-pieces an imaginary world calculated to cause the Geographical Society to doubt their own allegations about the Alleghanys and the number of sips in the Mississippi; for the sit-sighter has it on the sight-setter in that he can improvise his own geographs and sail the seas guided only by his temperature chart. He can alter the face of Nature at will, and practice plastic splur-gery on the scenery of the sphare. Should he opine that New York is too new, Old Madrid too old, Little Tichbury too little, Upper Lowbury too uppish, Lower Highbury too lowering, Siam, Yukatan, Rotterdam, Anagram and Astrachan too amorous, he may, by mental disorder in council, rearrange the panoramic “props” to suit the mood of the moment. He may even create new lands, such as Switzer-dam, Amsterwitz, New Zealephant, Muscatelaphone, or even Australastic—by stretching a point. He may insert icefloes in Florida, the Taj Mahal in Chicago (if America has not already bought it), rubber trees in Tyre, the kangaroo in Kalamazoo, Cleopatra's Needle in Stitchbury, and Uncle Tom's cabin on the shores of the Black Sea. He may place Mount Egmont on the Hen and Chickens, the Island of Dogs off the coast of Yap, the childblain in Chile, the hot dog in Houndsditch, the cold shoulder in Freising, the frozen asset in Otago, the elephant in Tuscany, the wild cat in Wall Street, and the wild oat in Mayfair. He can put the bridge of size in Sydney. Niagara Falls wherever it's dropped, mustard gas in the Sandwich Islands, pawns in the Solomons, nit-wits in the Scilly Isles, cuttle fish in Kut, and loans in London. He may sail down the Hoogly on a wapiti, or up the Indus on a cafateria.
“Stung by the deadly misquoter, also known as the confidence tick.”
If he dislikes the manner in which Chicago parts its heirs and wears its crepe-de-machine, he can slip it into Biffin Bay to cool its All-Caphoneyism and Big Billiousness. He can put Cape Cod on the Hook of Holland, and can make Venice as dry as a gondolier's nightmare, or the Sahara as wet as a camel's imagination. He can grow bismuth at Bisrah, put the yak in Yonkers, the dried herring in Salt Lake City, and the vulgar boat song in Billingsgate. He can wander at will through the impenetrable jingles of London's money belt without being stung by the deadly misquoter, otherwise known as the confidence tick. He can wade through India in rubbers, climb the steppes of Siberia on the fleet-footed ogpu; see Uruguay, Paraguay, Carraway, and such spots where the seed of revolution sprouts, without dying for some one else's country; “do” Scotland if it can be “done,” take a bight in the Bay of Biscuits, practice life-saving in the Dead Sea, and see the world before it sees him first. All of which obviates disappointment, for the globe-trotter who actually trots out real cash to see Ozzwozz-on-the-Wrinkle often finds it a little ante-climatical to discern that it differs little from Muddle-in-the-Mud, his home base, except for a trace of new odours and a brace of old pagodas.
Another method of travelling without travelling is to know your groceries. Every shop shouts from its shelves of foreign parts—of rice and romance, vanilla and villainy, dates and palms, nuts and Maya, treacle and treasure. Consider the necromancy of nomenclature! Chow-chow, Ipecacuanha, vermicelli, Scotch herrings, molasses, macaroni, Brussels sprouts, Brazil nuts, Turkish delight, Gorgonzola cheese, cochineal, vanilla, tapioca, tomato, polony, saveloy and sedlitz.
What an array of exotic exhalations, breathing of stringed yams strumming on the reef, of the paw paw calling to the mum mum in the hula hula highlands; of bull fights in the hacienda, of dog fights in the fiesta, and street fights in the contata; of the betel nut flitting between the bites, of a blow out on the Golden Horn, a wash out on the Grand Canal, and a throw out on Ellis Island; of Sir Harry Lauder the laird of Scotland Yard, of cherry blossoms on Fujiyama, and rum blossoms in Jamaica. Oh, for love, life, laughter and lassitude! For strange sights and stranger smells! And all this can be got in the halls of commerce. The soul is cosseted, courted and caught by the exotic terminology of trade.
What's in a name? Say, pard, to the bozo who knows his garlic, a name is the
“Rum blossoms in Jamaica.”
But after all it is better actually to see what you see, than only to think you see what you would like to see. Imagination certainly is a necessary precedent to peregrination. Man first visions the vistas of vagabondage and then, if his purse is strong enough to back his fancy, his feet follow his imagination and he sets out to disprove all the geographical preconceptions inoculated in his unwilling mind during the defenceless years of his youth. He may have a hazy conception of the population of Pernambuco, the number of isles in the Archoo Archipelago, and he may try to remember whether Popocatapetl is the capital of Esperanto or the name of the last Inca king. And then he goes a'sailing and finds that the geographical germinations in his mind are knocked cold by the acme of actuality.
But because the subconscious condiment is the spice of life he adapts it to the dish of fact, unless his stertorian strata are disturbed by uncontrollable sight-seizures; for the best method of sight-seeing is to let the sights seize you rather than that you seize the sights. Personally, if I wanted to see Paris (which I do, but can't), I would park my personal props under a tree in the Rue de Rowdy, Champs de Chumps, or some such irrelevant spot and let Paris show her curves whilst I absorbed “vin de vin” and “vin de vie” out of the same bottle. Everything comes to him who waits—if he waits long enough.
Thus, when you travel, don't look for the world, but let the world find you.
“Travel in comfort” is not idle propaganda of the protagonists of pleasure, but the true philosophy of peregrination; for, if a rolling stone gathers no moss, a hurtling meteor gathers no star dust. Thus we say with Gullible:
Britain Leads the World
Britain has always led the world in passenger train speeds. Trains like the “Flying Scotsman,” the “Royal Scot,” the “Cornish Riviera Limited.” and the “Atlantic Coast Express” have rightly attained universal fame for their speed, comfort and allround reliability. This season even more striking accelerations have been introduced in the Home railway time-tables, so that on almost every main line speeds of sixty miles an hour and upwards have become a daily commonplace.
Top of all the crack fast passenger services of the world's railways comes the wonderful daily performance of the Great Western “Cheltenham Flyer.” Not content with breaking all world's records, the Great Western authorities have now knocked off another two minutes in the journey time of this express between Swindon and Paddington Station, London. To-day the 77½ miles separating the great locomotive-building centre and the metropolis are covered in just 65 minutes—an average start to stop speed of 71.3 miles an hour!
Examination of the time-tables of the other three big group railways reveals an attractive list of fast long-distance passenger trains running at average throughout speeds of 55 miles an hour and upwards. On the London and North Eastern line six daily long-distance expresses are running at an average start-to-stop speed of 60 m.p.h. or over, one travelling for 105½ miles at an average speed of 63.3 m.p.h. The London, Midland and Scottish Company, which has its headquarters at the Euston Terminus, London, has accelerated no fewer than one thousand of its principal passenger trains, while on the Southern system a vast choice of fast services between London and the south and south-west coast towns is a feature of the current passenger train programme.
Not only are the Home railways speeding-up train running in all directions.
Latest type of first-class sleeping ear, L. and N.E. Railway.
They are also putting into traffic many new and improved types of passenger vehicles, some of which are quite unique in railway practice. A most interesting design of coach is represented in the new sleeping cars turned out for the Anglo-Scottish night services of the London and North Eastern Railway. These new first-class sleepers each have ten compartments and a shower bath section, together with the usual toilet and pantry accommodation. One passenger only is accommodated in each compartment, absolute privacy thus being assured. A most comfortable bed is provided, with tasteful blue blankets and bedspread to match, the walls of the compartment also being finished in blue. The bed-head and foot are of walnut, and the floor has a blue and fawn carpet covering. All metal fittings are chromium-plated, and each compartment is furnished with a long dressing mirror.
The London and North Eastern was the pioneer of the travelling shower-bath. On the new sleepers, the shower-bath section is 4ft. 6in. long and 6ft. 7¾in. wide. It is lined with blue rexine, while the shower cabinet itself is 2ft. lin. square. The complete sleeping-car measures 66ft. 6in. in length, being carried on two four-wheel bogies. All spaces in the body shell are packed with felt, and the fitting of sponge rubber under the carpets eliminates all travel noise successfully.
At King's Cross Station, London, the great jumping-off point for the north, all-electric colour-light signals have been installed by the L. and N.E. Railway, controlling, from one central tower, the whole of the traffic movements within the depot. The new installation includes a battery of 232 miniature levers to work 63 colour-lights, 81 shunting-signals to control engines and empty trains, 9 route indicators, 69 motors to move points, and 86 track circuits, the power used throughout being electricity. The whole of the lines and signals are reproduced upon a chart in the signal-box, and every engine and train movement is indicated by means of tiny spotlights.
Colour-light signalling is by degrees being introduced at many points on the Home railway system. In the case of the King's Cross installation, the new arrangements will enable considerable economy to be effected, for a single new signal-box takes the place of the two mechanically-worked cabins which, for the past forty-five years, have guided trains to and from their platforms. It is interesting to recall that the first British electric track-circuit was installed in the tunnels just outside King's Cross so long ago as 1894.
Unfair road competition continues to hit the European railways very hard. By degrees, however, many countries are introducing legislation to put road transport upon a proper footing, and in Britain there are being put into effect the recommendations of an expert unbiassed committee charged by the Government to investigate the whole problem of the relationships
In France the railways—both Government and private—have followed the British example and are themselves engaging in road transport for both passengers and freight. At present an ambitious scheme for rail-road co-ordination is under review, providing for the establishment throughout France of numerous specially-planned transport zones. Each zone will have as its centre an important railway station. From there railway-operated passenger omnibus and lorry lines will serve as feeders to the rail, and enable many small roadside stations to be closed down. Rail services on numerous branch lines will be suspended, road motors being installed in their stead.
Scienjpgically-designed goods wagons and improved handling equipment at terminals are going far to reduce the claims compensation bill of the Home railways. For some time very careful consideration has been devoted to the problem of reducing the enormous sums paid out annually in respect of compensation for goods and parcels lost, damaged and delayed in transit. Moneys so expended represent practically dead loss to the railways, and at the present juncture it is essential that all unnecessary waste of capital should be avoided.
Home railway employees now realise that money spent on claims payments could be far better utilised, and they are doing everything in their power to aid the managements in their campaign against the claim. It is recognised that most claims arise through employee negligence—careless checking, bad sheeting, rough handling, and so on. Quite 50 per cent, of the claims preferred against a railway could be avoided if one and all would exercise just a little more thought and a little more care. A claim-free railway would indeed be something of a miracle, but the tragic frittering away of valuable capital on claims compensation payments is one that every employee might well take to heart. “Cut out the claim” is a slogan to be borne in mind by one and all.
In the heart of the Swiss Alps. Fast passenger train on the St. Gothard electrified line.
Just thirty years ago the foundations were laid of one of the outstandingly successful Government-owned railway systems of the world—the Swiss Federal Railways. To-day some 2,000 miles of Government railways serve Switzerland from end to end, presenting an admirable example of a really efficient State railway undertaking conducted on essentially commercial lines, and with finances entirely separated from those of the State proper.
The total staff of the Swiss Federal Railways is 33,000. Three General Managers and three Sub-Managers form the
The Victoria Terminus, Great Indian Peninsular Railway, Bombay, India—one of the most beaujpgul railway stations in the world.
Russian railway working has been under a cloud for some years. By degrees, transportation in this important part of Europe is being put on a better footing, and new and improved equipment of various kinds is being acquired. Huge 2–10–2 and 2–10–4 steam locomotives have for some time hauled main-line freight trains in the Moscow area. Now these machines have been supplemented by even bigger engines having seven coupled axles, designed for coal haulage between Donetz and Moscow.
Wheel diameter of the new locomotives is 5ft. lin., cylinder diameter 29in. and stroke 32in., working pressure 227lb. per sq. in., heating surface 4,770 sq. ft., grate area 107 sq. ft., tractive effort 66,000lb., total weight 186 tons, and maximum speed 46½ miles per hour. Loads of 3,000 tons are hauled, composed of 25 and 30-ton wagons. For the bulk haulage of coal traffic, the new locomotives should prove most useful.
.)Tangiwai
His Excellency Lord Bledisloe loses no opportunity of expressing his keen admiration of New Zealand's varied forests, and of urging on the people the necessity for taking care of the unique flora of the country. In common with all other discerning visitors and sojourners with us, he laments the needless and foolish destruction of the native bush.
Of course, in our early days the forests were regarded as practically illimitable; the bush was to the settler a nuisance, to be got rid of as soon as possible. That feeling has given place to a more intelligent appreciation of the value of our bush.
Yet the old craze for hacking and burning has not yet passed. Native forest growth is being destroyed waste-fully and improvidently in many parts of this island, in the belief that grass will more profitably take its place. We have seen the folly of that practice in a great many districts, where land that was cleared by settlers has only too often reverted to second growth and formed a breeding place for noxious weeds. The time has long passed for the clearing of rough native forest land for settlement. It is an economic mistake, apart from any other consideration. Yet rugged hill country, where the forest is needed as a protection for river sources and water supply, is still being stripped of its woodland covering.
The present writer has frequently been asked to suggest a suitable Maori name for a child. The proud parents almost invariably reject the names suggested, if it is a girl child, and christen the unfortunate young howler Ngaire. It is no use telling them that that word so spelt is not Maori; that it should be spelt Ngaere, and that it simply means a swamp or bog. They positively won't believe it; the idea is fixed in their minds that it means beaujpgul hope from heaven, or darling ray of sunshine, or something like that. And of course they pronounce it “Ny-ree.”
Another name which for some inexplicable reason seems favoured by some
pakeha parents is Kiore. It appears to be reserved exclusively for girls. Here again, it is not much use trying to switch off the mother on to more fitting Maori words. No use to tell them it means a rat. They will have Kiore.
An English lord who had a wet and perilous experience far down and far out in New Zealand two or three years ago, is again on his way to seek the red deer of the Haast Pass country. On his first visit he lost his rifle in a snow river which flows into the roaring Haast, just across the Westland border from the Otago side, and at the same time he nearly lost his wife. Cold, wet, loss of supplies, fearfully rugged country, all conspired to baulk the plucky pair of their sport. But they are longing to be at it again. The great heads of antlers are still a sufficient lure for the real British sportsmen, it seems. These are the people New Zealanders should be glad to welcome and place in the way of getting all the good stalking they desire. They are the true adventure-seekers, and such trifling mishaps as a tumble into a raving river fresh from the glacial ice are simply morning tonics to them.
The guides who dispense information to visitors at some of our tourist resorts, more particularly those in the Rotorua country, must send some visitors away with a curious mass of data about the sights they see. The youthful, or not so youthful Maori, half-caste, or pakeha guide, does the best that is in her—it is usually her. None of them is ever at a loss. They know exactly how many million gallons flow from a certain spring in the twenty-four hours; no one at any rate is likely to go to the trouble of measuring it and contradicting them.
A good many years ago, I watched an earnest party of young women school teachers from Australia standing, with notebooks out, near the Wairoa geyser at Whakarewarewa, with a girl guide of the village. Up went the geyser, higher and higher, while the girls scattered with squeals of fright and delight.
“How high did it go?” they asked with one accord, when it was all over.
“Seven hundred feet,” said the guide firmly. And down went the seven hundred feet in half-a-dozen notebooks, no doubt to be embodied in due course in a school lesson or a college thesis on the marvels of New Zealand's geyserland. No use any mere Maorilander contradicting that estimate. It was down in the notebooks.
Random memories take me back to Kerikeri, that beaujpgul little nook of the North, with its historic buildings in the sleepy hollow at the head of a Bay of Islands tidal river. Once two of us took motor-car from an inland township to Kerikeri, going by way of Waimate the old mission station, and that clay road which was the very first road made for wheels in New Zealand, and which is still almost the very worst. Our car-driver was a stalwart young Czecho-Slovakian, or Jugo-Slavian, as they call them now— I am not sure which—but in those days we called them all Austrians or else Dalmatians.
While we explored Kerikeri he did some shopping in the venerable bluestone store, built a century ago by the Church Mission people. Where Bishop Selwyn once kept his library, they now buy kauri gum, huge pumpkins and other produce, fruit and maize, and all mariner of garden stock for shipment by the Russell launch. Our chauffeur came away with the largest ironbark pumpkin I had ever seen; one of the kind that would last a good-sized family a week, served up in one way and another.
On our way home, the driver asked us if we would mind waiting for him a few minutes while he delivered the pumpkin at a farm house which stood near the roadside, not another house in sight for miles. We consented, and off he trotted, hugging his monster pumpkin. We waited
I hope they're raising big pumpkins together now, as becomes the backbone of the country. And, whether or not, I am glad to have done my little bit towards that idyll of the backblocks, to the extent of twenty minutes wait on the old clay road to Waimate in the North.
The veteran Benjamin Biddle, who lives near Whakatane, is the very last, I think, of the real old bush scouts of the Maori War days. He is a New Zealander born, a backblocksman and colonial soldier from his boyhood days. His pluck is attested by his New Zealand Cross; he is the last survivor of the gallant little band who wore that reward of valour, the rarest military decoration in the Empire. He is bedridden now, ‘with disabled legs, but his voice, when last I saw and talked with him, was hearty and strong, and he could tell the tales of his fighting years in the bush.
Ben Biddle was once a marksman of note in the Armed Constabulary Field Force. He was a particularly good and quick shot with a revolver. This is a tale of his years of peace, when he and his Maori wife and family were living at Ruatoki, the large settlement of the Ure-wera tribe, up the Whakatane Valley. Some disagreement arose between Ben and the Urewera, and some of the Maoris decided to evict the white man from the village and put him across the border, the land-confiscation line. A friend warned Ben, “They're going to put you out tomorrow morning.”
Departure from Auckland of one of the summer excursion trains.
A party of Ruatoki young bloods marched in through Ben's gate next morning. He went out to meet them. “What do you want here?” he asked in his big bull-like voice. “We've come to put you across the line, Ben,” said the head of the deputation.
Ben pulled out his old revolver in a flash, and levelled it at the leader. “Haere atu!” he roared. “Clear out of this or I'll shoot!” And in a few seconds the front garden was clear of the evicting party. Ben was not a man to be bullied.
[Since the above was written the death of Mr. Biddle has been announced from Whakatane.—Ed.]
(From the W. W. Stewart collection.)
Written for The N.Z. Railways Magazine byJ. C .)
(”… Every mystery made plain, every unknown land explored, exalts the spirit of the whole human race—strengthens its courage and exalts its spirit permanently. The trail-breaker is an indispensable ally of the spiritual values which advance and sustain civilisation.“—Amundsen, the Polar Explorer.
McKinnon's Pass Milford Sound.
(Two names stand out above all others on the roll of South New Zealand explorers who have drawn the veil of mystery from the Dominion's most rugged and formidable region, the Fiordland National Park, home of the torrents and the crags, mighty waterfalls, profound canyons, and all but impenetrable forests. This summer has seen more travellers than for many years past gazing in wonder at the mile-high granite walls of Milford Sound, and tramping along the famous overland route between Lake Te Anau and the coast. With that strange, savagely beaujpgul land the names of Donald Sutherland and Quinton McKinnon are imperishably linked. Each was essentially a lone-handed explorer. Sometimes in their trail-blazing they had the company of others, but they did not require the backing of human society; the solitary life had no terrors for them, even in that land of tremendous, overpowering landscapes and vast difficulty of travel.
It is close on thirty years since I first met Donald Sutherland, in his home at the head of Milford Sound, on the spot where he had pitched his tent in 1876. He was a type that fitted that unconquerable dour country, his native Highlands on a far grander scale. A big, gruff, hard man, who had been sailor, soldier, bush-scout, gold-digger, for many years before he came to an anchor for good in the towering gloom of Milford Sound, to enjoy what he described as “the quiet life.” Most people would call it anything but enjoyment, set down there with dog and tent and gun and a few stores, in that terrific solitude. But Sutherland was no ordinary man.
Yarning there on the inner shore of the great fiord, with the Bowen Falls making
Donald Sutherland (Died at Milford Sound 1919.)
tawai logs in the snug living-room of his accommodation house, Donald Sutherland told us about his early adventurous years. A native of Wick, he went to sea when a lad, and served in the brigs and schooners around the British coast before he joined the clipper ship that brought him out to this part of the world. From 1863 to 1870 he was soldiering against the Maoris, with an interlude of gold-digging. He was a militia-man, a water transport man on the Waikato River in General Cameron's time, an Armed Constabulary man under Whitmore. The Waikato and Taranaki wars, the East Coast expeditions after Te Kooti, the Urewera and Taupo campaigns, he fought in them all. He was in more than forty engagements, pa-stormings and skirmishes in his time. He had wild tales to tell of bush warfare, and of headhunting in the pursuit of Titokowaru's Hauhaus. In his Milford home he had quite an armoury of guns, ranging from his old muzzle-loader to his warpath carbine and modern rifles.
In the early Seventies the well-seasoned sailor and carbineer was serving before the mast in a Government steamer under Captain Fairchild, and on one of the vessel's cruises around the coast he was several times in Milford Sound. He had a turn, too, at seal-hunting on the Southern coast. That was the period when whaling and sealing were the two chief industries of the far south. The celebrated old barque “Chance,” of which one reads in Frank Bullen's “Cruise of the Cachalot,” was waddling around Foveaux Strait with her Maori and half-caste crew under Captain Paddy Gilroy; and schooners and cutters and even open whaleboats went cruising into the West Coast Sounds after fur seals. Sutherland conceived the notion that Milford was a likely place for gold, and when he finally resolved to settle there he spent most of his time prospecting, with intervals of seal-hunting to provide the means for the purchase of the supplies the “Hinemoa” or the “Stella” brought him once every six months or so. His gun and his fishing lines kept him in what food he required besides his bags of oatmeal and flour, his tea and sugar. For two or three years he lived quite alone, before he was joined by a mate, John Mackay, with whom he afterwards prospected and explored well into the Eighties.
This gigantic, silent place seemed to him an excellent retreat in which to live his own life, undisturbed by others' chatter, unworried by orders, his own master, able to choose his own day's work or not to work at all, if the fit so took him. His dog was sufficient company; his treasure-hunting was an eternal fascination. There in his tent, and later in his slab whare he spent month after month in perfect solitariness, the only human being on the shores of all the fiord country.
Some strange, even romantic fancies this otherwise hard matter-of-fact Scot entertained. He believed there were diamonds in the Milford country; and he believed
taniwha. He had read the Arabian Nights, and he gave the name Sindbad Gully to a defile which runs up at the side of Mitre Peak, and which in some way reminded him of the valley of diamonds in the Oriental story. Two of us went up this wild gulch one day with Sutherland. It is a fearful gully, full of huge rocks confusedly piled, and holes and caverns half-hidden by the decaying vegetation of centuries; a place of twilight gloom, arched over by great twisted trees and drooping fern-plumes. A far wilder place, one imagined, than anything ever seen by Sindbad the Sailor. Sutherland stoutly maintained it was “likely country” for the jewel stone; but all his prospecting was in vain. There was more likelihood of gold, and he once had some men putting in a drive on a supposed auriferous reef a little to the northward of Milford Heads, but there again no luck.
Two places on the Fiordland map preserve Sutherland's name. One is the great waterfall in the upper part of the Arthur Valley, near the McKinnon's Pass track; the other is a fiord just south of Milford, between it and Bligh Sound.
It was on November 10, 1880, that Donald Sutherland first set eyes on the triple water-leap that bears his name. His were the first human eyes to see this marvel, unless we credit the wandering Ngati-mamoe, the lost tribe of the Sounds, with having wandered up that far from Lake Ada, where their stone-marked camping-places were found by Maoris who came seal-hunting to Milford from Foveaux Strait in the early Seventies. Sutherland was then accompanied by John Mackay; he was travelling ahead, slashing his way through the bush when on rounding a great mountain spur in that tangled garden of the gods he saw the upper part of a waterfall flashing between the trees, dropping from a cloudy alpine wall.
Quinton McKinnon and W. S. Mitchell. (McKinnon was drowned in Lake Te Anau in 1892.)
It was not until another expedition was made, some three years later, that the explorer managed to get near the foot of the cataract, and his early estimates of its height were very much astray. It is hard to judge heights in that country of vast dimensions; it was thought at first that it was 4000 or 5000 feet high. Not until 1888 was the exact height of the falls, 1904ft., fixed by a Government survey party sent round from Dunedin. And now comes in the story which links up that plucky explorer Quinton McKinnon with this overland route and Milford Sound.
For several years Quinton McKinnon, sometimes accompanied by his friend, W. S. Mitchell, had been engaged in exploring the western shores of Te Anau and various parts of the unmapped wilderness between that great lake and the West Coast. He was particularly anxious to discover a route from the head of Te Anau to Milford Sound, but always he was baffled by the impracticable nature of the country and hampered by bad
Meanwhile, Mr. C. W. Adams, Chief Surveyor of Otago, with a party of men had landed at Milford in order to inspect a track which Donald Sutherland had contracted with the Government to cut along the Arthur from the Sound-head, and to take measurements of the height of the falls. Accompanying the party was Mr. Thomas McKenzie (the late Sir Thomas), who was an enthusiastic and courageous amateur explorer in those days. He, too, was ambitious to discover a pass to connect Te Anau with the coast.
The rest of the story is told in a narrative which the late Mr. Adams (he was the father of the present Government Astronomer, Dr. C. E. Adams) wrote for me in the form of a letter, dated May 31, 1906. He described the work of the expedition in measuring the falls, and continued:
“I may state that there was a little friction between Tom McKenzie and myself. He wanted to monopolise Donald Sutherland altogether to help him in his exploration. Now, I had to inspect Sutherland's contract for cutting the track to the Falls, and only a limited time to do it in, so it was necessary that Sutherland should accompany me, as a good deal of his work was not up to the mark. McKenzie used to express his contempt for surveyors as explorers. He said they were all right with a theodolite and chain, but when it came to exploring, they were not in it. And he lost no opportunity of ridiculing my faith in McKinnon, as I said if there was a pass, I was sure McKinnon would find it. And what made Tom McKenzie more savage was the fact that if he had followed my advice he would have been the first over the pass. It was true that I advised him to try Joe's River (at the head of the Arthur) but it was found to head in the wrong direction. But one morning, one of the road men told me that he had seen ‘three explorers’ come over the pass, and he pointed up towards where McKinnon's Pass is. So I said: ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I was up this morning by daybreak and I looked up and saw three black swans coming over to this side from the other, and as birds generally fly over the lowest gaps in a range, I should not be surprised if that is where the pass is.’
“I told Tom McKenzie of this, and strongly urged him to explore up in the direction of Roaring Creek—only it had not been so christened at that time. He refused point-blank, as he said he had taken my advice once and gone up Joe's Creek, and he saw enough then to convince him there was no pass in that direction except what birds could fly over. But instead of trying where I advised, he explored the head waters of the creek that flows past the foot of the Sutherland Falls. I told him if he did find a pass in that direction it would not lead him into Te Anau, but rather into one of the West Coast Sounds. You may perhaps ask why I did not take a hand in the search for a pass, but I had my hands more than full of my own work. I had to make a sketch survey of the track and the valley of the Arthur and tops of all the country in sight, and measure the height of the Sutherland Falls as well, and get back to Milford Sound in time for the coal steamer which was to call in for us, by a certain day, and we just managed to get through in time.”
A few days after that (October, 1888) McKinnon came down the valley from the direction where the black swans had flown. He had penetrated the Clinton Valley, climbed the watershed between that gorge and the Arthur, and crossed the saddle that is now known as McKinnon's Pass. He was all alone. So he was the first man to find a way from Lake Te Anau to Milford Sound.
Experimental Shipment of Chilled Beef
An interested spectator of the loading operations, His Excellency the Governor-General, Lord Bledisloe.
Frozen mutton has a long and notable success in shipments from New Zealand to the Homeland, but the first shipment of chilled beef was only made on the 2nd February of this year.
The Railway Management made special arrangements for the supply of insulated vans and fast despatch from the Waingawa (Wairarapa) works of Messrs. T. Borthwick and Son to Wellington port, in order that this first shipment, consisting of 330 hindquarters and 270 forequarters of beef, might have the best chance, so far as loading and despatch were concerned, of arriving in good order in Great Britain.
Hitherto, owing to the great distance to be covered, and the length of time taken on the passage, it has not been regarded as practicable to carry chilled beef from New Zealand to Britain. Recently, however, an experimental shipment was taken from Sydney to London in the Port Fairy, on her last voyage. Although the meat was actually in the ship for forty-five days, it was successfully delivered in London and marketed in excellent condition, to the complete satisfaction of all concerned with the venture.
The success of the Australian shipment has induced Messrs. Thomas Borthwick and Sons Ltd. to undertake a similar venture with New Zealand chilled beef.
Every precaution was taken to ensure that only the very best quality beef was selected.
The Port Fairy (a C. and D. Line motor-ship) was also chosen for the New Zealand experiment.
There was a large gathering of representatives of shipping and meat export interests on board the vessel to watch the loading of the chilled beef. Shortly after the first slings of meat had been taken from the trucks, His Excellency the Governor-General arrived to watch operations. He was received on board by Mr. Warwick Gregory, manager of the C. and D. Line, and Captain F. Farmar, master of the Port Fairy. Lord Bledisloe expressed the keenest interest in the venture, about which he made the fullest enquiries. After taking a number of photographs, His Excellency went down into the ship's hold and watched the stowage of the meat in the cool chamber.
The novel conditions attaching to the handling of the beef necessarily made for slow loading at first, but the stevedores, who were keenly interested in the work, soon speeded up the operations. The hindquarters were hooked direct to the over-head steel bars and the smaller forequarters were hung on lengths of chain to complete the stowage below.
A successful outcome to this venture will provide the Dominion with another valuable outlet for a good national product.
Interesting Pictorial Library
Most of my reference to New Zealand is gleaned from your Magazine—and what a wealth of practical pictorial information! It is only through such graphic recording that the general public in the Americas may obtain through my library a true knowledge of the scenic beauty, the natural resources, the development of science and art of such a marvellous country as New Zealand.”
Thus writes Mr. Ferdinand Perret, Consultant of Fine Arts, and Director of Research, from his home address at 2225 West Washington Boulevard, Los Angeles, California, to the Editor of the “New Zealand Railways Magazine.” And it took ten cents to bring the letter.
Mr. Perrett has been running a Research Institution since 1922, the work of which includes the collection of information regarding physical and political geography. “In every detail,” he states. “I have endeavoured to collect and compile in compact form, authentic information and pictorial proof instead of multitudinous books of unrelated reference, such as one might find in large private or public libraries. In my compilations all repetition and duplication are eliminated. All data, pictorial or otherwise, serves to present authentic facts.”
This private institution for public service is open to any person accredited by a university or college, or by authorities of any museum or academy. It also aids patrons with information and advice in the prosecution of their studies.
The “New Zealand Railways Magazine,” in further presentation of this country's story, will doubtless help to provide that full information which Mr. Perret aims at, for, as he states, “There are many more things we would like to know about. The aborigines, the various tribes, their arts and crafts. I wonder, if my desire were made known in New Zealand if not the Chamber of Commerce, the Museums, the Municipalities, the Steam-ship Companies and Travel Bureaux would be inclined to send to the Ferdinand Perret Research Library at 2225 West Washington Boulevard, Los Angeles, California, U.S.A., illustrated catalogues or pamphlets for which they have no further use? And they shall be of continuous service to all mankind. I have the facilities to take care of everything that may come into the Library.”
Here, at last, is opportunity knocking at the door.
Country and Family Ties.
We had recently a most interesting letter from a country correspondent, asking for a copy of the Magazine, which was duly sent. In acknowledging it, the following revealing information was given:—
“I expect you'll hardly believe me when I say it is nearly nine years since I was on a train! And it's not because I've patronised the service cars instead. It's just that I have not been anywhere, except to our nearest township by cream lorry. As a child I used to have a lot to do with railways and railway people. We lived at Ormondville and Makotuku, on the Napier-Wellington line, and for years my father worked on railway bridges (at 6/- a day, I believe) and came home once a month. He used to live in one of those little huts they carry on the train (‘cabooses’ we called them then). Then he got a job plate-laying near home at 8/- a day. Many a time I've ‘run the length’ with him on a jigger early in the morning. I believe it's not allowed now—perhaps it wasn't then! Going over the big bridges was quite a thrill. One of my uncles was a guard, too. Then my father left the certainty of railway work for the uncertainty of farming in the King Country. We came up in 1906, before the Main Trunk was finished.
“I notice you address me as ‘Miss.’ As I have eight children, ranging from twenty-five to four years, I had better explain I am ‘Mrs.’”
ByC.A.L. Treadwell , O.B.E.
In the year 1880 the city of Dunedin had less than half its present number of inhabitants but relatively, on a population basis, held a higher position among the principal cities of New Zealand than it does to-day.
In that city there appeared to be no happier married couple than James Murray Dewar and his young wife. They had been married about eighteen months, and there was one small infant of the marriage. In the centre of a cluster of houses in Cumberland Street lay a tiny cottage, the happy home of the Dewars. There Dewar had begun and was enjoying his early married life. By occupation he was a butcher, and in March, 1880, was employed by a Mr. Howard, a master butcher.
About 3 o'clock in the morning of Sunday, the 14th March, 1880, James Robb, who lived opposite the Dewar cottage, was awakened by his father. Robb was a volunteer fire brigadesman, and his father had noticed fire coming from the tiny home of the Dewars. He rushed across the street, but found the door closed and could get no reply to his shouting and knocking. He opened the back door. Unable to withstand the dense smoke that assailed him, he dropped to his knees and crawled on his hands and knees to the bedroom. There his attention was attracted by some groans. He groped towards the sound, and soon dragged out to safety the body of a woman. It was Mrs. Dewar. Into the house Robb dashed again, and soon succeeded in putting out the flames. On the bed he found Dewar lying with a ghastly fatal wound in his head. Near the bed was an axe covered with the blood and hair of the victim. Robb returned to Mrs. Dewar, whom he found also suffering from head injuries. He called in Dr. Niven, who ordered the removal of Mrs. Dewar to hospital. That night the unfortunate woman died without recovering consciousness. In addition to these two victims, Robb found the body of the baby in its cot, though there were no external signs to shew the reason of its demise.
The horror and excitement that swept through Duuedin was unprecedented. Men and women were in deadly fear in case the murderer should pay them a visit.
The whole town seethed with excitement and rumours were rising every hour. They relaxed only when Robert Butler was charged with the crime. Prior to the murder Butler, who had been discharged from gaol, called on Inspector Mallard, of the local police force. By Mallard, he was advised where he could most likely get work. He refused to go harvesting, saying he was unfit for manual work.
While talking to Inspector Mallard, Butler spoke of some famous criminals, including Charles Peace and Scott. He assured the Inspector it would be an easy thing to hide all traces of a crime by means of fire. He also said to the Inspector: “Supposing now you were to wake up one morning and find some brutal murder committed, you would at once put it down to me; would you not?” The Inspector said “No, Butler, certainly not. The first thing I should do would be to look for suspicious facts and circumstances, and most undoubtedly,
It was not long after the discovery of this crime, however, that Butler was looked after, and his arrest was effected by two police constables at great risk of their own lives. A suspicious looking man had been going towards Waikouaiti, and it was not known who it was, but the constables in the nearest locality were warned to arrest on suspicion. If necessary, they would have arrested the man on the ground of being a rogue and vagabond.
The two constables, Townsend and Colborne, noticed the suspected man go into the bush. Constable Townsend followed him and asked where he had come from. The man said “Waikouaiti.” Colborne approached the man from a slightly different angle, and then the man whipped out a revolver and pointed it at one of the two and then at the other. He was rushed before he could fire the revolver, and the suspected man was later found to be Robert Butler alias Donnelly alias Medway alias Lee. Then the police set to work and built up a remarkable series of circumstances, relied on subsequently, to sheet home the foul crime to Butler.
“He was rushed before he could fire the revolver.”
He was subsequently charged with, and tried in the Supreme Court at Dunedin for the murder of Dewar. The trial was before Mr. Justice Williams and jury of twelve. Mr. B. C. Haggitt prosecuted for the Crown. In spite of pressure from the Judge to engage counsel Butler insisted on defending himself.
Ordinarily, to defend oneself is a grave handicap, for a layman cannot hope to extract, effectively, satisfactory answers from the Crown witnesses in cross-examination. In addition to this, expert judgment is so necessary to determine the best line of defence, and finally, the capacity to address the jury is essential. All the disabilities would be even graver in the case where the prisoner's life depended on the successful defence. The only advantage likely to accrue to a prisoner on his undertaking his own defence is that the Judge would be extremely careful to protect the prisoner from any unfairness in the trial.
Butler must have known this, for at the end of the opening speech of the prosecution he humbly asked the Judge's leave to ask him something. This is what he said: “You said just now that you were sorry I have not had counsel to defend me. Whilst the adage says ‘The man who is his own counsel has a fool for a client.’ I can only say there is another, which says that ‘Thrice armed is he who has his quarrel just.’ I have to ask your Honour's assistance and beg that you will not allow any irregularities to go against me.” To this the Judge said: “Certainly I shall take care that you have fair play. I do not think that the Crown will press unduly against you; but if there is anything that you would wish brought out—any points that you think are in your favour—I shall certainly see that it is done.”
The Crown's case was built up on a series of facts, which all strongly tended to show guilt on the part of Butler. It was proved that two days before the murder Butler changed his residence and went to stay at the Scotia Hotel, at the corner of Leith and Dundas Streets. On that day he was wearing a suit of clothes described at the trial as dark lavender with a small check on it. He had a blue top coat and a white muffler, and he wore a moustache. On that Thursday night, the 11th March, 1880, he slept there, and was in the hotel most of the next day. He went out on the Friday night, leaving his top coat and muffler and a parcel behind. He did not return that night, nor was he seen at all at the hotel on the Saturday.
About 6 a.m. on the morning of Sunday, 14th March, when a hotel servant, Sarah Gillespie, opened the hotel door, Butler entered. He was then wearing his lavender
Other inquiries resulted in the finding, in the town belt, of two tins of salmon of precisely the brand Butler had bought, as well as the lavender coloured suit of clothes. To the Saratoga Hotel the news had travelled of the murder. While Butler was supping he heard the murder discussed. The landlord noticed that Butler became at once restless, hastily finished his meal and left the hotel. He was not seen again till about 3.30 p.m. in the afternoon of the following day, when he was arrested in the manner already described.
An examination of the victims and of their home shewed that the murderer had struck five blows and that Dewar had been killed in his sleep. Mrs. Dewar had tried to get out of bed when she had been struck down. The axe used was Dewar's own axe, which had been taken from the coal cellar. Robbery may have been the original motive of the murderer, for some drawers had been disturbed. Naturally there were spots of blood in the bedroom, and they all radiated from the corner of the room where the head of the bed was. There were curious nail traces from the intruder's boots. The only point that could be got from these marks was that prior to the murder Butler had on his boots, a pair of what was then known as “clumpsoles,” that is, extra soles clamped to the original soles of the boots. After the murder these soles had been removed and were never traced.
When Butler was arrested he was wearing, not the lavender suit, but one quite different. The lavender-coloured one was found, as already stated, and under chemical analysis certain minute spots were declared to be blood marks. Apparently in those days there were not the facilities of proving whether it was human blood. The discarding of the lavender-coloured suit was a point strongly relied on by the Crown, for it was a new suit and in perfectly good condition. Further searching near the spot where the coat was found revealed the trousers, cravat, and hat of the prisoner, which he was proved to have been wearing on 13th of March.
The shirt which the prisoner was wearing when he was arrested was examined microscopically, and tiny blood spots were found which to the naked eye were almost invisible. The Crown medical witnesses denied the explanation the prisoner offered with regard to the blood found on his shirt and suit of clothes. Butler said that he had scratched his hands. The medical witnesses were of the opinion, however, that the spots would have been smeared on, if that were the true explanation. These spots, they said, had been spurted on. This they inferred from their appearance.
One other act of the prisoner was used against him, and that was that he had shaved off his moustache on the day following the murder, in order, the Crown said, to facilitate flight. Butler seems to have an overwhelming conceit of himself, for he told Detective Bain, a few days before the crime, that if ever he broke loose again he would be “one of the most ferocious tigers that was ever let loose on a community.”
All the facts on which the prosecution relied were duly established beyond question. The cross-examination of the witnesses was very clever, and anything that could be got from them by inference in the prisoner's favour, Butler extracted. He was, of course, allowed a latitude which, had he been defended by counsel, would never have been tolerated. He rated the Inspector of Police for having got admissions from him without warning him, and the Judge disapproved strongly of the Inspector's having interrogated Butler as he had.
The Crown's case finished on a Friday afternoon, and Butler was asked if he would like an adjournment to the next day. He took advantage of the extra hours in which to prepare his speech. He called no witnesses, and did not give evidence himself. Next morning, Mr. Haggitt did not trouble to address the jury. Perhaps he thought the case was so strong that it was unnecessary. Butler then began one of the most remarkable addresses that, surely, has ever been delivered. He spoke for six hours, traversed the evidence in detail, and offered a plausible explanation for every point relied on against him. He began by reminding the jury that the evidence was purely circumstantial. He reminded them that the police had followed no clue but those directed to catch him, and he told them how the onus of proof was strongly on the Crown. Cleverly he referred to the fact that he had relied on his own poor ability to defend himself, and that at that late stage in the trial he admitted how foolish he had been. How easily, he pointed out to them, a clever counsel could have torn the evidence to shreds. It was a clever answer, designed to lead the jury to extend much clemency towards him.
After referring to the two adages he made use of at the beginning of the trial with regard
He implored them not to let their horror of the crime affect their calm judgment. He wanted to know how the landlord of the Saratoga Hotel could be sure that he had heard the conversation about the murder. He said that if he had been the guilty man he would have got rid of his shirt, too, because some of the spots of blood could be seen on a careful examination, and surely he would have been more than anxious to look carefully. He ridiculed the police theory. He said he left hurriedly because he knew he was suspected for a burglary the night before at the house of a Mr. Stamper. Apparently he admitted this act.
He ridiculed Gillespie's impression that he looked frightened on the ground that she had already heard of the murder an hour or two before, and suggested that she was perturbed and emotional. He remarked that another witness, who saw him soon after Gillespie had seen him, spoke of him as being quiet and that he did not appear frightened. To give one or two examples of his plausible reasoning, he referred to the incident of his going to a store for the four tins of salmon. The Crown claimed that he stepped back to look towards the little cottage of the Dewars. He said he knocked at the door, and getting no ready reply he stepped up the street looking for another shop. He denied that he left the Scotia Hotel after the murder with his top coat buttoned to the neck, and pointed out that there was no button at the neck of the coat. He also said that when he was arrested he referred to the burglary at Stamper's. This was denied by one police officer, but admitted by two others. He remarked that if he had committed the crime of murder he certainly would have prevented, by the use of his revolver his own arrest.
He shewed that the condition of the cottage was really indicative of the fact that the crime was perpetrated, not by a burglar, but by an enemy of Dewar. He shewed that it was a most unlikely place for a man in his position to have gone. He was a complete stranger to Dewar, and had only been in Dunedin three or four weeks. He concluded by recapitulating his answers to each of the theories of the prosecution, and told the jury that while his was a terrible position so was theirs. His last words to the jury were: “Finally, one word more, I stand in a terrible position; so do you. See that in your way of disposing of me you deliver yourselves of your responsibilities.”
The Judge, in his summing up, admonished the jury to harken only to what they had heard at the trial; warned them against so-called public opinion, but told them to convict if they felt constrained, on the evidence, to do so. He agreed there was no evidence to show that robbery was the motive. He reminded them that although the fact that the prisoner had been out all night shewed that he might have done the deed, so, too, many others might be under suspicion from the same cause. He told them to treat evidence such as Gillespie's with great caution. The Judge made an interesting comment on the police evidence in these words:
“Then we have the evidence of the arresting constables and of Inspector Mallard, and the prisoner in his address to the jury made a remark on the value of the evidence given by a policeman. Well you distinctly understand me, gentlemen, that I do not wish to apply it particularly to the present case. I may say that the remark the prisoner made is one that is found in all the legal text books, ‘That all men are guilty till they are proved to be innocent’ is naturally the creed of the police, but it is not a creed that finds sanction in a Court of Justice. In taking the evidence of the constables into consideration you must take that into consideration.”
The Judge then traversed all the evidence, and construed it by no means unfavourably to the prisoner. He considered the evidence of the blood stains of crucial importance. He said that unless the prisoner's explanation was unacceptable he thought the Crown case failed. His final words were: “If you think there is no other intelligible way of explaining the murder than that the prisoner committed it, then it would be a duty, altogether irrespective of consequences, to find him guilty. If, however, you think either that the evidence does not establish that, and, further, that the evidence does not sufficiently connect the prisoner with the murder or that there are other reasonable ways for accounting for the murder, then—however unsatisfactory it may be to leave a crime of such an atrocious nature undiscovered and unpunished—it will be your duty to acquit him.”
The jury retired and returned in three hours with a verdict of not guilty. So ended one of the most remarkable criminal trials ever held in New Zealand. The outstanding ability and cunning of the prisoner prevailed. Soon after he was convicted of arson of Stamper's residence and served a sentence of eighteen years hard labour. On his release in 1896 he went to South America and thence to Australia. But, in Queensland, in the year 1905, Nemesis overtook him, and under the alias of Wharton he was hanged for the murder of a Mr. Munday in that city.
In the light of our knowledge of Butler's character it may well be that he was the murderer of the Dewars. The jury, however, thought there was a doubt, and properly gave him the benefit of it, thereby upholding the traditions of British justice.
Sutherland Falls
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Tohunga
Whaia e koe te iti kahurangi;
Ki te tuoho koe, me mounga teitei.
(Seek you the little treasure of your heart;
If you bow your head, let it be to a lofty mountain.)
—Maori Proverbial Saying.
This aphorism or admonition of the Maori is contained in an ancient love-story of the East Coast. It is my favourite among the many fine poetical sayings of the native race. Some years ago an old friend who through a long life of association with the Maoris had imbibed much of their ways of thought sent me one of his treasured books, on the flyleaf of which he had written the Maori lines. It was not long before his death; Maori-like he was sending out his Kupu-poroporoaki, his farewell message.
In effect, the proverb embodies advice to aim high, to be undeterred by small obstacles. In the colloquial expression of a great American: Hitch your wagon to a star.
It has been the custom to assume that the islands of the Pacific were peopled from outside. That assumption is based on the old belief that the origin of all human-kind was in some part of Asia. But it is equally open to us to admit the possibility of man's independent origin and existence in the Pacific untold ages ago. Who can deny such a possibility?
Human life may have been evolved in what is now the Pacific, coeval with the origin and development of the human animal in other parts of the world. Island empires may have risen and perished. What traces there are, such as those stone statues and half-drowned cities of a vanished race, are probably of comparatively recent origin. The antiquity of man in this ocean is drowned in mystery in more senses than one. Alternate long periods of raise and subsidence must have wrought vast changes.
So the Maori may be a far more ancient race than even we at present believe him to be. We can only speculate and ponder. The Pacific will always remain the great puzzle of the world.
How beaujpgully a well-built whare of raupo thatch or nikau fronds fits in with the landscape! Whether decorated of front or not, it is the kind of architecture that blends eye-pleasingly with its surroundings. The weathered thatch, the red-painted barge-boards, the very shape and roof-pitch of it, make it a complement of the natural scene, whether hill or bushy valley or bank of lake or stream. How different the pakeha shack, shanty or cottage run up in such surroundings. Here let me quote from Alan Mulgan's book, “Home: A New Zealander's Adventure”:
“In New Zealand a country house rarely adds to the beauty of its land scape; generally it is a blot. That is the land of galvanised iron, which is probably the ugliest building material ever invented…. In England the house is part of the landscape beauty.”
Just as in England, the real Maori house—all too seldom seen these days—was evolved by centuries of life in this country. It adds to, not detracts, from the attraction of the landscape. The
pakeha shack is seen in too many native kaingas; evil (pakeha) communications corrupt good manners. But there is a distinct revival of the carving art and the ancient form and colour scheme. Nearly every village of importance now has one or more carved houses built in the old-fashioned style. The trail of the corrugated iron roof, unfortunately, is over it all. A shingled roof is a glad sight in these days of the cheap and ugly tin-top.
Europeans have often failed to appreciate the depth of the Maori's profound attachment to his ancestral lands. Pakeha farmers, pakeha city dwellers, are often such nomads, restlessly selling out or otherwise removing, that they do not understand the reluctance of the Maori to quit a place for which he has fought and which he has occupied for many generations.
There is an eloquent speech by an aged chieftainess—an old lady whom I knew, the late Heni te Rei, of Otaki—preserved in the official report of the Native Affairs Committee of the House of Representatives, when the Kapiti Island Reserve Bill was under consideration. Several leading men and women of the Ngati-Toa tribe protested against the proposed purchase of the island by the Government, and Heni was one of them. Addressing the Committee, she said:
“We claim that this land is the waiu or mother's milk, handed down by our ancestors from generation to generation; the expression ‘mother’s milk’ refers directly to the income derived from Kapiti Island in the form of rent moneys, and also to the birds which it produces and the fish which may be taken off the coast. When I discovered the Bill that had been proposed by the Government to deal with the island in this way, I have been weeping ever since; I cannot agree to the island passing over to the hands of the Government and from us, because it has been the valued possession handed down to us and that we hold in remembrance of our ancestors, and no matter how you propose to take it I will never under any consideration agree to it.
“I put it to the Government in this way: That I am absolutely without another acre of land in the world except what I hold in that island; and are they going to take that from me? I am the mother of many children and the grandmother of many grand children. That is all.”
Such was the rangatira woman's pathetic protest. Her lamentation was not altogether without avail. The greater part of Kapiti Island is now a State sanctuary for native birds, and no gun or snare molests the feathered proteges of the Government. But the north end of the island, about a thousand acres of it, is still Maori-owned land and likely to remain such.
One special value of our Maori and pioneer pakeha history is the colour of adventure and endeavour and poetry which it gives to many a place in these islands. There is hardly a spot—at any rate in the North Island—that has not some tale of the times of old attaching to it. We have only to look to the old countries of the world to gauge the interest of these place-stories. Historic and romantic associations are everything in Europe, and in such places as the Highlands of Scotland. America, too, has come to realise the importance of history and tradition as an accessory to scenery, and to make the most of every war tale, of every scrap of Indian legend. But no country could be richer in these materials than New Zealand. Much has been written, and yet much remains that has not yet appeared in books.
“A little garden square and wall'd.“—Tennyson.
Views of the station gardens at Rakaia (below) and Southbrook (above) which secured first place in the A and B grades, respectively, in the Station Gardens Competition held in Canterbury recently. Commenting on these competitions, the “Christchurch Star” says: “Every attempt to make railway stations attractive deserves encouragement. This is recognised by the Railway Department, which provides the timber for edging the plots and fertiliser. Various bodies and private individuals donate seeds and plants also, but the main factor is the enthusiasm of the men who do the work in their spare time as a hobby.”
Entirely Satisfactory Performance
“K” 900, the first of the new locomotives to be put into service.
There can be no question of the success of the new “K” locomotives recently introduced on the New Zealand Railways. Three of these locomotives are now in service and are doing everything that is asked of them. One of these locomotives, stationed at Auckland, works the most important goods trains of the North Island (these are the through goods trains which run between Auckland and Wellington) over the section between Auckland and Frankton, regularly. Another works goods and mixed trains on the Frankton-Te Kuiti run. The third is operating in the Middle District. These locomotives are hauling loads approximately 50 per cent. greater than the general purpose engines which formerly ran these trains. They are not only hauling this extra tonnage, but, due to the greater boiler capacity, are also capable of travelling with these loads at a more uniform speed, and this advantage has on occasion saved delays by enabling better time to be kept.
The reports from the Road Foreman and others directly handling the locomotives state that the performance of the new “K's” is very satisfactory, and this opinion is supported by both the Traffic Managers (who are responsible for the traffic operations) in the districts through which these locomotives work, and also by the Locomotive Engineer (responsible for the locomotive operation).
It is also to be noted that these additional advantages are all being gained by the new “K” class engines with a fuel consumption no greater per unit hauled than that of locomotives hauling a lighter load, and in this respect the “K's” compare more than favourably with older types of locomotives.
The Department is so satisfied with the performance of the new locomotives already in use that as soon as a sufficient number of them are available for express services they will be used on a number of the principal trains of the Dominion, thus cutting out many banking engines, with a corresponding reduction in operating costs.
The “K” was designed for all classes of work, and to operate at the highest permissible speed.
The Railway Workshops in the Hutt Valley are well ahead with constructing the remaining twenty-seven of the order for this powerful locomotive.
The cheap Saturday and Sunday fares along the Wellington-Palmerston North route have certainly taken the popular fancy this summer. In the four weeks ended the 7th January there were 25,000 passenger journeys made in this area on Saturdays and Sundays as against 13,000 in the corresponding period of last year, or an increase of 12,000 week-end train travellers on this route alone. The “mystery trains” run earlier in the year did much to familiarise the people of Wellington with the many and varied beach attractions along the western coast, while cheap fares and the warm, fine summer have helped to swing new traffic to these charming holiday resorts.
Among The Books.
(ByShibli Bagarag .)
Aliterary page usually has only a limited appeal. It deals with big names and big books; literary folk whom we have heard of often but have never met—never hope to meet. In this monthly feature I propose to write so that all may read and appreciate. Mostly I will deal with literary endeavour in our own land, of writers you have met, of those who have had their first stories accepted, of local newspapers, of reporters, of coming or present endeavours in local print, of local cartoonists and caricaturists. In short I hope to play my humble part once more, just as I did in the New Zealand edition of “Aussie,” in the world of literary enterprise in the Dominion. If occasionally my pen wanders to a big book, a big writer or a big artist in some other part of the world, then I hope it will add a welcome variety to my monthly survey.
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One department of our daily life happily untouched by the depression, except in one respect, is the activity of our literary life in New Zealand. Never has there been greater interest or greater life in our small world of letters. Old Man Depression (the gods be thanked he is an old man now) has been practically ignored by our writers. Although he has greatly lessened the buying power of local talent by the people who print, writers, poets and artists show an enthusiastic output as many editors, particularly of the several New Zealand Annuals, will tell you. For those who may say I am one of those pseudo cheergerm fellows—of the painfully annoying variety who pump up counterfeited optimism from the dry well of imagined hopefulness, I will just make a hurried survey of the four main centres to prove my faith in the literary present and future.
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In Auckland we have the members of the Penwomen's Club as busy as boom bees; we have a new Women's Weekly, a revivified “N.Z. Observer,” printing a host of interesting articles and stories from New Zealand writers, the “N.Z. Mirror” doing similarly good work, the two dailies each with local cartoonists on their staffs, where a few years ago they had none, and producing wonderfully bright Saturday Supplements containing a host of brilliantly written signed articles.
Coming to Wellington there is the recently inaugurated Society of Lady Writers and Artists, growing rapidly in membership and interest. Then the classic quarterly “Art in New Zealand” recently issued a straight out challenge to the depression by cutting its price in half with little or no reduction in size. In December last the “N.Z. Artists' Annual” produced its biggest and most imposing issue to date. “Tui's Annual” gave encouragement to hundreds of writers and artists with payments running into a few hundreds of pounds. An artistic monthly, “N.Z. Homes and Gardening,” is on the stocks, a bright and newsy pamphlet, “Spilt Ink,” makes a periodic appearance, and clever artists and writers such as Ken Alexander, Alan
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Christchurch is a newspaper record for Australia and New Zealand in that it can support four dailies. “The Sun” and the “Press,” particularly, feature excellent book columns. From there the grand old veteran poetess, Miss Jessie Mackay, still writes outstanding verse.
My enthusiasm receives a set back when I come to Dunedin. There, however, the Saturday editions of the two local newspapers run much that is well written and informative as to literary work at home and abroad. Local literary enterprise, however, has yet to come into its own in the dour town.
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The forthcoming monthly, “N.Z. Homes and Gardening,” referred to above, is to be produced by the Hereford Printing Co., of which Mr. Phil Hereford, himself a writer and poet of no mean ability, is Managing Director. Mr. Will Lawson recently joined the staff of the company.
Messrs. Whitcombe & Tombs recently produced their first number of “Whitcombe's Monthly Review of Literature.” The first issue contained an article by Miss Nelle M. Scanlan on “Modern Literature.” This pamphlet is well worth filing as a guide to current books. Although a trade organ there is no reason why it should not develop along the lines of “Now and Then” (Jonathan Cape).
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Many of you still remember Tom Glover whose clever caricatures and cartoons brightened the pages of “The Free Lance” and “N.Z. Truth” over a decade ago. Tom is now the most popular cartoonist in Sydney. He gives the metropolis its big daily laugh in the pages of “The Sun.” During the Lang regime he was the creator of Lang's bull Ebenezer, which for a while was almost as famous as Pat Sullivan's Felix the Cat. Incidentally, I notice that Sullivan recently died in America. From a half starved existence in Australia he suddenly leapt to fame and fortune in America with his cat creation. Reverting, however, to Tom Glover. Tom recently brought out a great collection of humorous cricket studies under the title of “Ow Zat.” He also illustrated, in a style very reminiscent of Tom Browne, a book by Dr. Hordern entitled “Googlies.”
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Talking the other day to Bob Prince, one of the oldest comps. in New Zealand (he is 67 and could pass for 47) he told me how the “N.Z. Times” landed a big political scoop some decades ago. Rivalry between the press gallery representatives was fierce in those days. Tremendous interest was being evinced in a forthcoming Budget and “The Times” made sure of getting in first with the news. One of the comps. was commissioned to blow into the Government Printing Works. He was equipped with a new pair of moleskin pants. He managed to get alongside the forme containing the set matter of the Budget. A “pull” or proof, had just been taken from it and the ink was still wet. The comp. felt faint at the sight of it and gently sat himself on the metal. An hour later two reporters were furiously at work in “The Times” office. One dictated from the seat of the comp's. pants and the other transcribed. It was the scoop of the century.
Bob Prince, by the way, was 47 years with “The Times.” When he was told that the paper was closing down he announced disgustedly “he was darned if he would have joined the old rag had he known the job was not going to be permanent!”
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Of great interest to New Zealand writers is the recent establishment in Australia of the Endeavour Press, under the sponsorship of the Sydney “Bulletin.” The principals include Mr. P. R. Stephensen the Australian Rhodes Scholar, Norman
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Jack Gilmour, formerly cartoonist of the “Free Lance,” was, at last advice, in London, doing a bit of song writing interlarded with cartooning.
Hector Bolitho hopes to return to New Zealand shortly to deliver a series of lectures.
Frank Bush, formerly chief artist with Goldberg's, has been appointed Service Manager to Gordon and Gotch, London.
Miss Iris Wilkinson (“Robin Hyde”) is the backbone of the Auckland “Observer.” Her keen nose for news gives that paper a weekly scoop.
Miss Betty Knell (“Fariel” of the Wellington “Post”) was married recently.
Ken Alexander's “High Lights of Life” is generally admitted to be the finest humorous effort yet published in New Zealand.
J. H. Saunders, formerly manager of the ill-fated Fine Arts (N.Z.) Ltd., is back in Australia.
Due to appear in London “Bookman” in a few months is an article on New Zealand poetry by Miss M. Z. Innes, of Auckland.
Miss Nelle Scanlan's “Pencarrow” has run into a fifth edition. Her new novel will be published shortly.
Notes of the Month
The Railway Commercial Manager's office at Wellington was recently responsible for some arrangements, in connection with the transport of machinery, which have gained the approbation of the “Waipa Post,” as the following extract indicates:—
“Frequently people are heard complaining about the want of attention and the laxity of service in Government controlled departments, but the criticism can hardly apply to the Railway Service. An example of good service this morning would be unrivalled in the best conducted commercial business, and is a typical case of railway efficiency. A Te Awamutu firm recently purchased machinery from a camp some miles back from Gisborne and was confronted with the problem of transport from such an isolated place. The whole matter was placed in the hands of the railways with most pleasing results. The machinery, in four packages and weighing over half a ton, was delivered to the railway forwarding officer who saw to its sea carriage from Gisborne to Auckland, and the transport from end to end was completed within four days. The business of transhipment and forwarding at the various points was arranged by railway officers and the purchaser had no worry whatsoever regarding these details. Even in the matter of payment the charges at Te Awamutu included all items of wharfage, sea freight, etc. And the total cost was under £3. It stands as yet another example of railway efficiency and service.”
Satisfactory service of this kind is at all times available to those who have the good judgment to entrust their transport problems to the New Zealand Railways.
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Julius Caesar certainly “started something” when he crossed from “Omnia Gallia” to stir up the Briton in his native lair. Since 55 B.C. the Briton has become the world's best settler and traveller, and he tends more and more to travel more than he settles. Thus catering for the travellers of English-speaking lands has become a major industry. So far as New Zealand is concerned we can safely say “Let ‘em all come,” for no place can equal this Dominion in general attractiveness. Good clean cities, “green grass carpet” country, fishing extraordinary, forests unrivalled in variety and sheer beauty, lakes, mountains, geysers, native life, hunting, ski-ing—the whole world's playground in a country no bigger than the land which sent the first adventurous Britons to try their luck across the seas upon farther shores.
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Our magazine this month, in its new cover and more national make-up and distribution, has been favourably welcomed as the proof sheets come off the press. Those most directly interested in the production feel confident that New Zealanders who love their country (and who, worth his salt, does not?) will find the Magazine increasingly necessary as a record and inspiration regarding the affairs of the Dominion.
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Locomotives are among the most interesting things made by the hand of man. The scientist and the mathematician work out the principles of steam applied to locomotion, and the practical designer, draftsman, engineer, fitter and mechanic have to do with the manufacture of the finished product; but what a world of romance for the non-scienjpgic, non-mechanical minded individual lies in the sight of these power monsters, puffing impatiently at stations, whistling fiercely for grade crossings, hauling hundreds of happy passengers or thousands of tons of
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Better business in business picnics by rail on the New Zealand Railways is reported from several districts. The new “Picnics by Rail” booklet produced for each district this year has been distinctly helpful to canvassers and organisers of these healthful, friendly community picnic outings.
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Pastoral products are reported to be getting a good run on the N.Z. Railways according to an analysis made by the N.Z. Herald. This paper states that in 1926–27 the railways carried 962,000 tons of pastoral products for £990,000. In
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Trotting races appear to be increasing in popularity. In Christchurch, of course, they have a very strong hold, but it is pleasing to see that Wellington is now moving up. The mid-January meeting at Hutt Park shewed 600 “up” in passengers by rail and railway road services compared with last year.
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Fifteen per cent, reduction in railway freights on live stock, wool, frozen meat for export, and some other primary products, is greeted gladly by New Zealand farmers, who regard this latest decision to use the national transport system to help them, as another proof of the general public utility of the Dominion railways.
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Keen-eyed for anything that might help him in his work, Mr. A. G. Lowndes, B.Sc., Sydney, Caird Scholar in Geography, was impressed, during a recent tour of the Dominion, by the New Zealand Government Railways posters displayed on the railway stations. As a result he has now obtained an interesting set of these as well as photographs from the New Zealand Railways Publicity Branch, and has commenced using them in public lectures at Sydney University and elsewhere in Australia. Mr. Lowndes is also arranging to have this New Zealand publicity matter displayed afterwards in the geographical laboratories of the biggest Australian high schools.
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The Dominion, of the 16th February, had a paragraph: “British Railways are the safest in the world. Only eight persons were killed in trains as the result of accidents in 1931.”
In view of the volume of passenger traffic on the British Railways this is a fine record, but a still more noteworthy fact in regard to railway safety is that the New Zealand Government Railways have carried 170 million passengers in the last seven years without one fatality.
“There is nothing can equal the tender hours When life is first in bloom.
Our Children's Gallery.—(1) Noeline and Lois Hailwood (Auckland); (2) from right, Frank, Pat, Cyril, Kevin, Jack and Paul Temm (Auckland); (3) Brian and Reynold Spierpoint (Auckland); (4) Mavis and Muriel Steels (Ngaio); (5) Joyce and Enid Baker (Auckland); (6) Dorothy Cox (Dunedin); (7) Ivan and Mervyn Slagg (Auckland); (8) Annie and Gwen Baleman (Tokanui, Southland); (9) Jack Osborne (Auckland); (10) Neil Hailwood (Auckland).
Dear Trainlanders,—
We all like jumping on the train whenever we can and rushing away to meet the joys and new experiences awaiting us on the travel tracks, don't we?
But, how would you like to live on the open road all the time, day and night, week in and week out?
In Picton, the other day, I met two children with their mother and father who really do live this story-book kind of life. At present they are travelling throughout New Zealand, and for nearly two years have been camping continuously in their motor caravan. A comfy caravan with luxuries such as a portable fireplace, sewing machine, and wireless.
Like many bush children, these two have correspondence school lessons. Of course they simply love geography. I think their dad's road guide must be their map, don't you? There is scarcely a place in New Zealand about which they do not know something or other.
How could they, or anyone else, forget where Picton is after dipping into the valley of trees, church spires, and twittering, sleepy birds at dusk, and then watching little ships slapping up and down on the wavelets in the harbour of red and golden sunset?
Blenheim would be easy to remember with the memory of cargo boats sailing swiftly and silently up the river a few feet from the back door, the masts towering overhead.
And Kaikoura! “That's where we gathered all those pretty coloured seaweeds.”
Can't you hear those two lucky children learning their geography? How much easier to remember places that way than just learning names on maps, trying to memorise parts they have not seen.
Maybe, you too, have been lucky, and had holiday geography? If so, write and tell the Trainlanders about it. If you haven't, well, just go on exploring your map awhile longer. Then, who knows? Perhaps Trainland's officials one day will issue more free railway passes to anywhere in New Zealand as they did last holidays. So chose where you would like to visit best of all and keep on hoping and planning.
Isn't it grand to be a Trainlander and share in the fun and delightful surprises we are always having?
Yours for more holiday geography and jolly times,
The riddle competition of New Zealand towns was ever so popular, and Trainland parcels have been posted to all the entrants.
Here are a few of the best entries:—
Q.: Of what town in New Zealand does a small fox terrier barking at a huge St. Bernard dog remind one? A.: Bluff.—D. H. Robertson, P.O. Box 35, Westport.
Q.: What did the old lady say when the train ran over her cow? A.: “Oh, my cow.” (Omakau is a station on the Otago Central Branch near Alexandra.)—Colin Irvine, 141 Nelson Street, Enwood, Invercargill.
Q.: What did the farmer say when he saw a ram in his garden? A. “Outram.” (A station near Mosgiel.)—Sylvia Irvine, 141, Nelson Street, Invercargill.
Q.: Where are all the small birds frightened to go? A.: Auckland. (Hawk-land.)—Ella Alberta Feil, 280 Pomona Road, Invercargill.
Q.: Where do cricketers spend most of their time? A.: Feilding.—Eunice Williams, 25 Herbert Street, Greymouth.
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The World's Largest Springs.
Yes, they are in New Zealand! And at Takaka, too! A winding manuka track leads to a staging overlooking them. Every day over 457,000,000 gallons of water well from these icy cold springs and flow down the river to the sea. It is lovely drinking from the crystal clear depths of these famous Pu Pu springs.
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Tame Eels.
Have you ever heard of the Takaka tame eels? A lady has them for pets, in the river flowing in front of her place. After years of patience she managed to tame them, and now they come to her when she flicks the water with her fingers. Within two minutes they come from up and down the river to a certain rock where she can stroke them. They look like big black serpents as they rise out of the water and beg for meat.
Can You Paint?
Dear me! It looks as though some of those creepy crawlies from the Cawthron Institute have become muddled up with our Easter eggs and chickens. Perhaps if you paint them they will look more appetising for the wee chicks' breakfast. Send in your attempts fo the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” so that Trainland's postman will call on you.
Easter Greeting
)By .
Ruru
Once upon a time New Zealanders wept like anything at being so far away from the rest of the world. In view of current events outside, it is cheering to remember that we have such a quantity of good salt ocean around us in every direction. We're
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It may be difficult for us to extract gold from each other these times, but there is always treasure in the good earth. More and more New Zealanders are turning to gold prospecting, and it is comforting to read of frequent runs of happy fortune. The Dominion's gold production is steadily mounting up. And the oldestablished Waihi is keeping up its end wonderfully. February's return, 5,635 ounces of fine gold and 29,801 ounces of fine silver, will help to maintain confidence in the application of scienjpgic treatment to the one-time refractory ores. There's more where that little lot came from.
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“King Solomon had a wash-up for the week, yielding 71 ozs” (Southern gold-mining report).—Old Sol appears to have needed that ablution. Good dirt!
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Conceivably there are worse fates than being wrecked on a tropic island where the palmtrees wave and the breakers croon to the lazy locked lagoon, and the brown girls are kind, and all that. The young Waterlilies, from New Zealand, whose ketch has been driven ashore at Nukufetau, away up in the Ellice Islands, may not be overwhelmed with grief at the casualty. Nukufetau is one of the pleasantest of South Sea atolls; Louis Becke, for one, surrendered to its hospitable charm long ago. Lucky lads. Now, if they had been wrecked on some wild Melanesian island to the west, it might have been the cannibal pot for theirs.
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Often it is the most familiar features of New Zealand life that most interest intelligent visitors from abroad. An American lady who was one of the tourists in the luxury liner Carinthia, thought it quite thrilling to meet a large mob of sheep when her party was motoring near Wanganui. It was new and wonderful to her. She and her companions didn't mind being delayed a trifle by one of New Zealand's staple debt-payers. But just listen to one of our own car-drivers under similar circumstances. As often as not he considers it quite an indignity to be compelled to slow down for a few minutes while the woollies ba-a their way past. As for cows—!
The Ruru, the morepork or New Zealand Owl.
Some of our New Zealanders are liable to grievous entanglement in the mazes of Maori place-names on their holiday tours round and about. But a new version of a name that ought to be well known struck me as a specimen of unconscious genius when I heard it lately, A Wellington man told me of his motor trip over the ranges from Napier to Taupo, and of the wet and dreary time he and his mates had when they got down to “what they call the Kangaroo Plains, I believe, where all the pumice is.” This pleasing alias for the Kaingaroa is specially recommended for convenient use by our visitors from across the Tasman Sea.
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Someone the other day told the old story of the village chairman who, in introducing an eminent musician, who was to lecture on Brahms, said he, and probably many of the audience, didn't know what “Brahms” were, but no doubt would know presently. In my memory is an incident which, I think, deserves to go on record as a companion story to the Brahms legend. This one is guaranteed non-fictional. It was at a church concert in Mt. Eden suburb, Auckland, in the years of one's youth. A sturdy flourmiller was the chairman, a John Bull of a man, portly and important. “The next item on the programme,” he announced, “is, I see, a musical number by Mozart. Will Mr. Mozart kindly step on to the platform?”
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“I came here a year ago, and I was so enchanted by the beauty of this island, by the charm of its climate, by the hospitality of its people, and by its resemblance to my native country—Scotland—that on the first opportunity I have traversed the 12,000 miles that separate us from Britain to revisit this beaujpgul country.” That is the kind of thing we like to hear. We can have no criticism whatever to offer. We do like to have compliments paid us, and they are all the more acceptable when we feel that they are true. Modestly I offer my thanks to the Earl of Wemyss, who gave utterance to those remarks in a speech at Taupo. His Excellency the Governor-General couldn't have put them more felicitously
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No sooner had Mr. Zane Grey departed from our shores for California the other day than a
But it would appear now that Mr. Grey has transferred his sea-chase worship to the mako shark, which he declares is the finest sporting fish on our coast. Mr. Mako is such a glorious “lepper,” and kicks up such a dust about a hook in his jaw, indeed he out-kicks the swordfish. Another asset we can mortgage?
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Those white butterflies, fluttering in the gardens and orchards, seem emblems of perfect beauty and innocence, but appearances are sadly deceptive. Insects, it is said, would destroy not only all vegetation but all human life if their spread were unchecked, and here man's best friends are the birds. There is a proposal to introduce bats from somewhere or other to prey on the white-winged curse. The wisdom of bringing in exotic creatures to exterminate others is always debatable; New Zealand's experience in that direction has been bought dearly. The most useful of all insect destroyers is perhaps our fantail; it is a marvellous snapper-up of flying pests. But the pretty little bird is all too seldom seen in our gardens; in common with the native grey warbler, the riroriro, it is disappearing before those slinking feasters on nestlings and eggs, the German owl and the cunning opossum.
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“I read in your papers,” said the intelligent foreigner last week, “that a country branch of the Acclimatisation Society has been informed that the children in the district are in the habit of tickling trout when they go in to bathe, and that the Society has resolved to warn the offenders. Will you be so kind as to explain why they tickle the trout, and why it is regarded as such a terrible offence?”
“Ruru” kindly explained that the most reprehensible aspect of this example of juvenile depravity is the fact that the young persons referred to enter the water in a practically nude condition, which so shocks the trout that they become perfectly helpless and therefore are at the mercy of the bathers. It is pleaded in extenuation that the trout may like being tickled, but this excuse is regarded as frivolous. The official objection to the practice is understood to be that the unfortunate fish are so exhausted by the hysterical fits following on the tickling operation that they simply lie on the bottom of the creek unable to rise to the legitimate angler's lure. And, of course, if this sort of thing is allowed to go on it will drive away the valuable overseas fisherman who lays the golden egg.
A pleasing idea which has more than once been suggested in New Zealand—in the north at any rate—is the lining of the public highways with flowering and otherwise ornamental trees and plants. At some of our railway stations the example was set many years ago. Every station, of course, does not lend itself to floral decorative lay-out, but there are country way places that delight the flower-loving train traveller. Some of the tree plantations adjacent to stations, too, are exceedingly pleasant sights to those who appreciate tree beauty. Rotorua's station-side reserve, with its well-grown English trees and its tall eucalyptus clumps and sundry indigenous specimens, is a cool and eye-refreshing foil to the close-by busy traffic. A place of birds also; I have heard the shining cuckoo there in summer, uttering his high whistling call from his perch in the flowering gums, a few yards from shunting engines.
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In the towns and villages, too, a great deal can be done to emulate the wisdom displayed in so many places abroad in the planting of beaujpgul trees. New Zealand has been chopping its trees down for well nigh a century, to go back no farther than the foundation of British settlement. It is fully time that we paid attention now to the retimbering of our country with our native trees, which are so much more valuable and beaujpgul than any of the exotics on which planting enterprise is centred at present. In town parks, the sombre pinus insignis has wearied the eye over-long. One would gladly see it replaced by our puriri, lacebark, karaka, pohutukawa, kowhai, and other quick-growing bush beauties.
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The recent great development of the Maori farming scheme initiated by our Native Department is a movement for the better which should win the heartening approval of every New Zealander. It is really the most beneficent thing ever done for our Maori fellow-countrymen during the last three generations. The native tribes, or most of them, were industrious growers of wheat on quite a large scale before the disastrous wars. Now, coincidently with the increase in population, there is a vigorous “back to the land” campaign which is putting new life into the Maori. All over the native districts there are new farms, comfortable houses, herds of dairy cattle, flocks of sheep, and all the appurtenances of modern agricultural and pastoral industry. Sir Apirana Ngata's regime as Native Minister will go down in Dominion history as the period of his people's re-birth materially and spiritually. The soul of the race is bound up in an independent, self-reliant, self-respecting life on the land.
Ver in the railway yards, on rails that spanned deep concrete pits, two engines were being walked up and down like racehorses after a race. From their funnels came the varying voices of steam. One, slanting upward, throttled its wheezing kettle song, like that which made young Watt's brain tease itself many, many years ago. The other funnel shouted in rich steam choked voice: “Hoh! Hoh! Sssh!” while a red, blossomy flare moved swayingly around the rear of the engine and breathed a flamy breath along its sides. The man holding it strode up into the cab, and after giving it a twirl or two, stood beside his companion and puffed hard at the hot colour he held. It gasped out. In the cold air his breath still streamed grey to the flare's dead head. After awhile it was swung into life again and with spasmy glow, splashed the ribs of the engine and the grey clothes and faces of the men. Their two faces looked up to the walls of the blue-grey iron cab as though reading a notice there or looking for a tool that they had carried high above in slung racks. The light anchored them for an immortal moment as two grey faces and steaming breaths bathed in dry radiance red.
Then, almost unexpectedly, as though of its own impatient volition, the engine trod the rails smoothly as it left the pit. Walked they as on ice, slidingly. The waiting engine now advanced with long white mediaeval lances and pennons of smoke shooting from it. One slanting. Two straight. Steam oozed from every iron pore as it strode forward to settle above its pit. The other swept out to meet it. Like Armadas they swung forward, belligerently, to meet one another, with hissings and pantings, with battle spittings. Boilers as round and clean as rifle barrels shone under the weak little electric lights on the high poles above, and bathed their roundness and clean curves in columns of steam. With almost human pride and sjpgfness they passed, their hissing and steaming and cauldron glow seeming to be intensified by merely doing so.
In the engine above the pit, a far away door clanged, and from underneath the cab, with a roaring clatter and a startled splutter, ran her life-blood, red hot coal. Streaming down into the pit with a mutable scorch, a changing fieriness, a brilliance of starting flame and fading flare.
A tall, earnest man with a thin black rake that pencilled its existence across the fire, dug and scraped to bring lurching out, more and more of the glowing mass on which the train had fed, and from which she had sucked the power of mile and hill eating and freight bearing. Now it fell down, heating her heels, her great sinews and spider spoked wheels, against which a man waved a warm vermillion flare. Past the wide wheels the light fluttered. Over the square iron connecting joints ran the old anxious, experienced hands of her acolyte. Flushing the flame into the deeper worries of her limbs, the unseen crannies. Still unsatisfied, he slowly descended into the pit, and we could see the deeper red of his flesh where the torch smote it. Above, the rake tore out coal food from the furnace's coils, while smoke and steam rose to the over-hanging face of the sky. The acolyte slowly uprose from his pit, and halting in front of the engine, opened its grey face. It lay sacriligiously open, as wide as a cheek torn by a stone. The raker leapt up with high held flare, on to the platform that surrounded the engine, and felt gropingly around for some weakness he suspected there. It seemed to evade him, for there was still a profound dissatisfaction in the back that carefully descended. He stood off, and with his stance mutely rebuked the train for her hidden weakness. The acolyte came too, and joined him; they both stood off, speechless, and considered. From the coal-filled pit came only dry hisses and gaping cries of dying fire, and the engine seemed to have undergone a fading, failing change. The flame and the fire that they had withdrawn from her left only a fitfully puffing shell and a dull, lighted cab. A steamy mask surrounded her. The cloud note of the battle and the passing had succumbed to the dispassionate wind.
The two pilots climbed into the cab. The shadow of the last, meeting the mask, wavered in it, went crookedly into it, and by it was elongated and grotesqued. Calmly the two touched things that were about and above them. Important, quiet, they moved and bent to vital veins of her. The lordliest Her they knew. In the waning light and steam of their charge's emotional outpourings they loomed as nurses of the public, seeming in their careful, intelligent look and the skilled survey of their searching hands, to be guarding it as a curious child that could not be expected to know of the bitter twisted pains carelessness reposed with. For them they moved at night with bright flares, for them they passed over hot and cold metal, a hand that knew the feel of a flaw, the gap of a break. Alike for the good and the bad, poets, musicians, financiers, strugglers, dreamers and lovers, they worked and thought. Pledged of their own conscience to assure that they should be moved safely to the places wherein they played out the frayings of comedies and tragedies.
Conducted bySheila G. Marshall .)
“I have heard the song of the blossoms, and the old chant of the sea, And seen strange lands.”
—Masefield.
People have gone from this City of the Hills, they have wandered over the earth and dwelt in many places—and they have come back again. They have seen the sun rise over the Giant Pyramids, they have choked in a good old London fog, they have been swept by the rushing throng of Broadway, they have watched natives chattering and swarming in many a squalid bazaar—but they have kept in their hearts the memory of a city built everywhere on the hills. The scent of gorse is hard to forget—it used to haunt Katherine Mansfield somewhere in France, it used to come gently to the trenches in Flanders—even to the arid burning cove of Anzac.
There is something very attractive about this wind-swept city, they will tell you—an illusive something which claims those whose childhood has been spent here. So they come back from the corners of the earth, and they are amazed.
There lies the harbour they have described so enthusiastically to Americans, so changeful, so vivid and so nobly flanked by hills, barren and bush-clad.
There stands Pencarrow, Guardian of the Heads; little rugged Ward Island; smoky industrial flats of Petone; Oriental Bay, looking like Geneva by the waters of a blue lake. All these things are familiar and dear to the wanderer. They are part of his youth.
And a boisterous nor'-wester is blowing still, flecking the harbour with gallant white horses; clouds rushing madly across the sky; everything swift and virile and exultant in its strength and movement.
Now he can feel the heart-beat of Wellington, centre and hub of the young Dominion.
He stands beneath the exquisite War Memorial, carved against an evening sky, symbol of youth and sacrifice. He sees many new and magnificent buildings rising bravely, eloquent of a great city of the future. He goes from the city into the many suburbs, clambering and clustering on the hills—everywhere he sees growth and change.
It is morning—great lorries are approaching the city, trains constantly arriving and departing, cranes loading and unloading at the wharves, people pre-occupied and intent pouring in from every direction. Life going on swiftly and inevitably.
Yet he has heard that in New Zealand, and in Wellington most of all, the dread word “depression” has eaten into the very souls of the people. “The price of butter and wool,” “taxation,” “unemployment,” “the Government,” these are the words on everyone's lips, he has been told. “You won't know Wellington when you get back—the people have forgotten how to laugh!”
He idly watched the throngs of business people emerging for lunch from the great new buildings, chattering merry typistes, whistling boys, two “bosses” having a friendly chat.
Over his coffee he rejoices because he has found Wellington again, and because he knows that her children are unchanged.
He smiles as he reads in an English magazine:—“The trouble about New Zealand is that it takes things seriously.”
Do you keep in your wardrobe a perfectly good coat and skirt—useless because fashion demands ankle-lengths now, and your skirt is just below the knees? You look at it often, sadly admiring the cut of the coat and thinking how well it fits you, but what to do with that ridiculous skirt is the question. And the answer is nothing! Hopeless to add about twelve inches to its inadequate length, it must be abandoned. This does not sound particularly helpful or economical.
But you can make a new costume easily. Look at the little sketch and visualise yourself in the autumn. There is the coat of your suit just as it was three years ago; but the skirt is new and fulfilling every demand of 1933, flared, close-fitting at the hips, nearly ankle length.
Buy some fine tweed check, or some of that very smart shepherd's plaid, to match your coat, and run up a six-piece skirt. Behold a new outfit for the office!
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“One can't be too natural nowadays”-thus reads an advertisement -in an English newspaper. We laugh at the thought conveyed in these words-that now if is fashionable, in fact “quite the thing” to be natural!
Society suddenly commands that women are to be natural, and they hasten to obey, with amazing and often distressing results. With tremendous relief they fling aside the innumerable arjpgices and wiles hitherto necessary for charm, and whole-heartedly they begin to be Natural. With their characteristic adaptability they believe that they can don the garment of care-free abandon as effortlessly as they can discard the armour of Arjpgice.
But, surprisingly, enough, they find it tremendously difficult. The Americans have an expression, “Be yourself.” Women tried to and couldn't.
It becomes a “cult” in the way things do, and it is followed with all the enthusiasm and dogged perseverance once devoted to slimming—and once again to “being intellectual.”
The very words in the advertisement-“one can't be too natural”-illustrates my point, that it becomes a craze like crossword puzzles, platinum blondes, and beach pyjamas.
And how arjpgicially natural they are! This sounds a paradox, but actually is the case. Anything that can enhance their “natural” attraction is avidly seized and wholeheartedly adopted. Of course all mannerisms are dropped as no longer “done,” and, behold, in their place appear countless others!
We begin to read about “Your Individuality” in magazines and papers, “Personality,” “Your Own Type,” “Character Counts,” “What is Your Style?” and. worse, we begin to see signs of women conscientiously and devotedly “expressing their individuality,” sometimes by lounging or shouting or wandering alone by the sad sea waves, or writing reams of poetry (very modern), wearing black, and eating indescribable vegetarian concoctions. All this to be natural—such tremendous effort and tireless energy to achieve originality and distinction from one's friends. In fact, the madder you can be the better. The wholly sane and well-balanced woman is described as “uninteresting.”
How ridiculous it is, and how useless! Most of these seekers after the elusive Blue Bird of Charm have forgotten what they really are, so how impossible to be themselves!
It is difficult to learn to laugh spontaneously, to talk only when you have something to say, to observe all things, to be enthusiastic and occupied and happy. In short—to “Be Yourself!”
It is a holiday morning—I lie drowsing, half awake, half asleep, revelling in the thought that, if I choose, I may lie snugly there until—well, for just as long as I please—for that day!
Suddenly, the morning peace is rudely shattered-the telephone bell from the hall clamours for immediate attention; I am startled froni my reveries, automatically spring out of bed, in the process kicking one of my bedroom slippers to the furthest corner of the room. I mutter a hurried epithet, hop across and recover the offending foot-gear, seize a dressing-gown, and wrestle furiously with it in a vain endeavour to thrust an arm through a sleeve that is found to be in-side-out.
All the while—decades, it seems to my frantic brain—the insistent bell is clanging its summons. I give an involuntary glance out of the window below the half-raised blind, and make a mental note that the weather appears ideally bright and fine—a gorgeous day!
I scurry with a breathless rush to the telephone, with trembling fingers lift the receiver, and shakily query “Hullo?”
In the distance I hear an echoing “Hullo!” from a voice, which, even amid the blur of faulty connection, is undeniably “male.” (“How absolutely topping! Someone is ringing me early like this on this incomparable summer's day, to suggest an ‘outing’!“)
“Hullo!” I reiterate brightly, all eager anticipation. (“What shall I wear? Yes; thank goodness, my most becoming summer frock is laundered and ready to be worn!“)
The line suddenly clears, and a man's strong, pleasant voice enquires: “Are you there?”
“Rather!” I breathe fervently into the mouthpiece—“at least, I mean ‘Yes.’”
Then, upon my horrified ear bursts the shattering query: “Is That The Railway Station”—V.C
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John Galsworthy, whose lamented death recently evoked widespread interest, had a warm spot in his heart for New Zealand, which “he toured from Auckland to the Bluff forty years ago. During an interview with Mr. Frank Milner, C.M.G., Rector of Waitaki High School, three years ago, at the novelist's home in Hampstead, Mr. Galsworthy displayed great interest in the Maoris, and in the different theories of their origin. The great author demonstrated that his busy life did not exclude the study of Mr. Percy Smith's theories of our brown brothers' advent to the southern lands, and of the mythology of the Polynesian and Maori races. Mr. Galsworthy ventured the opinion that New Zealand literature had in this mythology a rich field wherein to seek inspiration. Galsworthy went to sea to acquire nautical knowledge. After leaving the Bluff he sailed for Adelaide, where he embarked on the clipper “Torrens,” en route to the Cape, in 1893. Aboard was Joseph Conrad, second mate, who like Galsworthy, was destined to climb the literary ladder to fame. The vessel was one of the fastest afloat at the time. In 1898 she fouled an iceberg in the South Atlantic. Eight years later she was sold to an Italian company and broken up in 1910 at Genoa.-“Uramao.”
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North of Taihape is Hihitahi railway station. Seat, distance, and his physical make-up caused the bar across the station window to run directly through the horizontal strokes of the three H's and the one A in the word. So that the English tourist read, not HIHITAHI but IIIIIITAIII. He blinked, did his worst with the amazing Hebrew—a Scotsman would have done better—and gave it up. Differently situated, his companion pronounced it as Hy-hy-ta-hy. He turned round to me for confirmation. “That's nearly as bad,” he said, after I had responded. But look at the word next slow train you take and you'll understand the tourist's difficulty.
—Pumice.
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There were four of us discussing the advantages and disadvantages of travelling by train and by motor. Several arguments were put forth favouring both, though two of us maintained firmly that train travelling had it all over car travelling as far as long distances were concerned, being much mare comfortable and restful. “Moreover,” said my fellow in argument, “if a chap feels fed up he can always hop about the train and find some pretty girl to talk to! Perhaps get a wife that way!” Well, he ought to know. That's how he found, his wife.—C.H.F.
(By
E. Vivian Hall
Idol-Breaking—The Temple of Wall Street-Japan at the Great Wall—Germany's Gentle Democracy.
World events in March revolve round three main storm centres-financial crisis in America, political crisis in Europe, and war in Asia. America has its man of the moment, Roosevelt; Europe also has its man, Hitler; but Asia has thrown to the fore no dominant personality, unless he be known to the protagonists alone. While Roosevelt thunders against the money kings, and Hitler against Communism and the Treaty of Versailles, the Japanese let their guns do the thundering, and seize province after province. Nothing has yet occurred to demonstrate that the moral force of the League of Nations is effective against them. The League, of course, has not been fashioned as a physical weapon, and its physical ineffectiveness therefore comes as no sudden shock. Nor will many people be surprised at the collapse of Chinese forces beyond the Great Wall. All the same, the blow that international co-operation has received in Asia may encourage a German blow at international law in Europe—or at any rate at the Versailles Treaty, with incalculable results.
At time of writing it appears that the Treaty may have already been broken by German movements in the demilitarised zone, where the French look on with a degree of silence unusual in the French. But all the elements are present—not merely overt acts but the tense spirit behind them—for open conflict. Asia has taught Europe that it is possible to wage open war, and successful war, without declaring war. A Chinese boycott!—and the guns speak round Shanghai. Chinese banditry!—and the Japanese troops are quickly masters of Manchukuo and Jehol. Are violentists in Germany and Central Europe building up “incidents” which the French may utilise as the Japanese have done in Asia? Are the French “terrified” (the “News ‘Chronicle's” word) or grimly waiting for pretexts for a wax-by-instalments, yielding France at least the Rhine? Is Hitlerism strength, or merely truculence?
Formerly, to make war required a big national decision, culminating in a momentous Declaration. The solemn process tended to make people think, perhaps hesitate. But it is easier to drift into undeclared war, particularly where one Power is militarily weak. A series of actions and retaliations—each side all the time protesting its moral right, before a League of Nations that is physically impotent—provides a treacherous drifting process into deep water. Lack of order in China—whom even Sir John Simon terms “a difficult neighbour”—leads to action by Japan; and while China illustrates one kind of lack of order, Germany seems to be bent on illustrating another and more militant kind. Undeclared warfare that escapes the old restraints, and is unchecked by the new League methods, is an evident danger to civilisation. The temper of Europe, says the British Prime Minister, is “visibly degenerating.” Internationalism is not stronger, but weaker. The British embargo on arms export finds no seconder.
The breaking of idols is not confined to high politics, and to the domain of war. In the economic field idols and systems are both crashing down. Nowhere has this happened more dramatically than in the United States, hitherto almost the last stronghold of the old monetary standards. The last vestige of the Hoover hope that the gold standard, American banking, and the depression could all lie down together, as lions and lambs, was swept away by a public panic that culminated as the new Democratic President came to office, giving Mr. Roosevelt an impetuous start which his own impetuosity has fully matched. When in history has a new ruler scourged banking and bankers as Mr. Roosevelt flayed his when he made his inaugural address to his 130 million subjects? Through stubbornness and impotence he said the controllers of the exchange of humanity's goods have failed. “They have admitted their failure and have abdicated.”
Some rulers, riding into power on a wave of financial crisis, might have left it to commentators to draw a parallel with the Christ that drove the money-changers out of the temple. Not so Mr. Roosevelt. From his own mouth came the words that link the temples of New York and Old Jerusalem.
The money-changers have fled from their high seats in the temples of our civilisation, and we may now restore the temple to ancient truths.
Surely it is a bold prophet that holds out this promise. An even bolder prophet is he who undertakes to execute it. And what will be the actual result? So far, it seems, additional currency “without currency debasement” and a reopening
Under the shadow of Nazi force (partly police, partly unofficial), and with the Reichstag fire (charged to Communists) fresh in their minds, German electors, voting for the third time in twelve months, gave Hitler a stronger Reichstag position than ever before. This strained use of the Republican constitution may mean the strangling of the Republic. It may mean trouble with Poland at Dantzig, with France on the Rhine. Austria, Hungary and Italian Fascism may be involved, and the anxiety of London is manifest. Though Hitler's chequered evolution presents no parallel with the Democratic elevation of Roosevelt, yet these two are the great men of the moment in the Western world. While one has a mandate to close banks and open breweries, the other may assume a mandate to restore a throne, obliterate the Dantzig “corridor,” or otherwise recast the Versailles map. Yesterday Europe was concerned lest Roosevelt might be tardy in reducing old war debts. To-day the anxiety is that Hitlerism may create new ones.
Civilisation has intensified commercialism, and commercialism has in some ways blunted human nature. Yet in these latter years many commercial posts have become posts of danger and difficulty and even of death; therefore, places of heroism. Great industrial leaders, who formerly had under their hand a well-oiled machine that always went, have found their craft tossed and halted in the depression storm, and have grown old in a night. They have paid the price of failing to prevent something that was beyond their power. The cablegrams suggest such a vein of tragedy behind the death, at 62, of an Indiana (U.S.A.) boy who became an English Knight for railway services in war time, and who, later, as Sir Henry Thornton, took control of the Canadian National Railways. Along with the C.P.R., the C.N.R. struck the world storm, and Sir Henry Thornton, the brilliant success of one war, fell in this later one. He is not the only railway leader whose life has been claimed by the crisis. If once there were laurels for leaders, there is now cypress.