Contents
Cash Prize Competition.
The winner of the competition for the £5 cash prize offered by this Magazine upon the subject “The Greatest Feat in New Zealand,” is Mr. G. F. Dixon of 35 Rimu Road, Wellington. Mr. Dixon's paper will be published in the August issue of the magazine.
A number of the other essays entered for the competition are of such interest that we shall have pleasure in also reproducing them in subsequent issues of the Magazine.
Answers To Correspondents.
E.L.—Don't quite get some of the meaning, but the spirit's superb. Using. J.J.S.—Sorry, not suitable. A. S.—Joke has no point for us. E.M.G.—The tale is good, but too nearly true to publish—at our expense! Luckily the verses have everything in their favour. O.S.O.—Description good, but ideas congested. At the fourth reading got some glimmering of the metre—by chanting it. Too hard. E.J.—Your Cape is a good one. W.I.H.— The still room is fine, but the verse we decline. E.K.— First stanza excellent—then you drop into unrelated blank verse. Why? T.B.W.—A good song on a fine subject. A.B.—The spirit of the long trail is there, but the style is not sustained. G.M.—Sorry unable to use. Our object is to obtain distinctively New Zealand subjects. S.G.A.—Charming. W.G.T.—A good thought. M.L.G.—A piece of well-rhymed declamation. G.R.—Drawing and joke well done, although subject not new; but we must think of our passengers! G.E.T.—Although description good, afraid we have no room for it. S.W.L.—Not quite the kind of thing wanted. Try the other impressionistic stuff. J.J.S.—Another good one. C.J.A.—Hope to use early. L.M.B.—Would prefer something happier. M.G.—Lines are too general, might apply to almost anywhere. N.H.—Regret story not suitable. We do not propose to feature puzzles. A.G.L.C.—Pleased with both shots. P.P.—Sorry, not up to standard. J.W.B._____Distinctly interesting. I.M.P.—Glad to use. L.A.H.—Will try to use interesting verses. Other matter not quite suitable. L.R.—Thanks. A very helpful suggestion, clearly stated. W.H.B.—Regret space not available for this fine material. Konini—Good stories, but more than we can manage. Regret brief article not the kind we are at present looking for. E.M.G.—Your story is the goods—and not too fragile, at that! Will run later. Katiti—Not quite suitable for our purpose. Romer—Might lead to accidents. T.W.P.—Your tale rings true and has the real New Zealand touch. P.C.H.—A graphic picture, but last four lines sustain neither the sense nor the rhythm. In this country, too, most people are not well up in wolves. W.B.—Romance, with an unusual twist—accepted.
The New Zealand
Railways
Magazine
Railways
Magazine
Published by the
New Zealand Government Railways Department
“
For Better Service.”
Service Copy.Registered for transmission by Post as a Newspaper.
Vol. 8. No. 3.
Wellington,
New Zealand
July1, 1933
One of Kipling's most entertaining short tales is entitled “The Greatest Story in the World.” After keying the reader up to a high pitch of expectancy, this gem among literary efforts concludes with the statement that “the greatest story in the world would never be written.”
In conducting the recent contest on the question “What has been the greatest feat in New Zealand” this magazine did not anticipate any negative result such as the arch-story writer achieved, but rather hoped to bring out latent knowledge of those notable deeds and accomplishments which have lent high relief to the colourful picture of New Zealand history, actions and feats which are at once an inspiration and an education in right and timely application of the most admirable among human qualities. And we were not disappointed.
From every corner of New Zealand has come forward some champion claiming pre-eminence in greatness for this or that chosen feat, and not one entry could be called trivial. Rather did the writers exhibit a sound knowledge of their subject, with well-weighed reasons for their choice and, in most instances, a dramatic quality of presentation too often lacking when the stirring deeds of the past come to be recorded in the bold pages of history.
An examination of the very large number of entries indicates that the feats which attracted most attention fell under six headings. Of these, Railway feats gained 30 per cent., deeds of the pioneers 25 per cent., Exploration 10 per cent., war 10 per cent., and the Hawke's Bay Restoration 7 per cent. Other entries ranged from the lone flight of Menzies to the endurance of Auckland Island cast-aways, from old age pensions to the loan conversion, and from share-milking to the Plunket Society.
It is not surprising that the building of the railways in New Zealand, with such features as the Otira tunnel through the Southern Alps and the Raurimu Spiral should have claimed the attention and interest of those who could visualise the difficulties encountered and overcome by determination and skill. And it is pleasing to find those of the third and fourth generation paying handsome tribute to the grand work of the pioneer settlers and early explorers, with adequate tribute to the work of Hawke's Bay earthquake restoration.
The winning paper is one dealing with New Zealand's feat in despatching an expeditionary force of 100,000 men to the world war in defence of the Empire. By any scale that can be applied—the numbers engaged, the stake involved, the organisation required, the spirit behind the action, this New Zealand feat eclipses, in our opinion, all others in greatness, and it has this quality, that in its ultimate effect it called for the exhibition in one form or another of all the best traits in human character and included at some phase the features of every other great action.
(Told by
Leo Fanning .)
The Agricultural Department's Veterinary Laboratory at Wallaceville, near Wellington. The laboratory has been very busy lately in the campaign against swine fever.
This article gives glimpses of some of the very important scientific work done by the Department of Agriculture to enable farming industries to improve the quality and increase the quantity of production.
As science, at its best, is knowledge of Nature, the heading of this article may seem a little impertinent, at first sight, but it will be proved reasonable in the course of the narrative. By intensive and extensive study of Nature man can induce her to work for his advantage.
Of course, the Agricultural Department, in its various expert divisions, touches farming at all stages—from soil analysis to inspection and grading of the products. Laboratories and Plant Research Stations are ever busy for the guidance of the man on the land. When he receives advice about matters of pasture, crop or stock, he will readily accept it and act on it, if he is wise, because it is well supported by scientific research. This keen persistent specialisation in various branches of research is very beneficial to farmers, who are relieved from the risks of doubtful experimentation.
A typical gain for farming is seen in the treatment of wheat lands. During a period of eight years the Department carried on experiments in the use of phosphate, on a field scale, throughout the wheat country. It was definitely proved that the application of 1 cwt. of phosphate to the acre ensured an average increase of yield by five bushels, irrespective of the season or the type of soil.
The success of those field demonstrations naturally impressed farmers, so that, at present, about 90 per cent. of the wheat country has its application of yield-increasing phosphate, with the result that the total crop has a tendency to be 5 bushels higher to the acre than it was 10 years ago.
At current prices this development means that an expenditure of 4/- to the acre on phosphate brings an increase of yield to the value of 24/- —a gain of about £1. As New Zealand uses about 280,000 acres for wheat, the dividend from this one run of research can be 280,000.
Frequently the expression “cutting costs” is used about farming, but farmers have to be alert against the wrong kind of cutting. Indeed the way of salvation sometimes lies along the line of increased expenditure on things that return their cost and a good surplus. Striking examples are the investment of phosphate in wheat lands and the top-dressing of pastures with a certain phosphate at a certain time of the year—a process which is applicable, with substantial profit, to millions of acres in the Dominion. Neglect in this matter means loss to the farmer, individually, and to the whole community.
Lucerne, as a fodder crop, has received a big lift from the Department's research activities. It has been recognised for many years that lucerne is helped by the inoculation of the seed with a nitrogenous-bacterial culture, but it is only during the past three years that the development of this process for practical farming has been achieved. This culture has widened the area over which lucerne can be grown, and in all cases it improves the possibilities of success. Indeed, in many cases, it may mean all the difference between failure and success.
Confidence of farmers in this bacterial culture is shown by the fact that a thousand of them obtained sufficient of it last year to inoculate more than 70,000lb. of seed.
Other assistance available to farmers from the Plant Research Station at Palmerston North is in the correct selection of grasses and clovers for various types of land. The farmer
Agricultural Department's Scientific Activities.
Particulars of illustrations.—(top) Typical wheat variety trial. Wheat variety trials are carried out all over the chief wheat-growing districts by the Fields Division of the Department of Agriculture in collaboration with the Wheat Research Institute on farmers' properties. (Centre) Measuring production from various fertilizers applied to grassland. The determination of the methods best adapted to getting the maximum effect from lime and fertilizers, especially during periods of low production, is one of the primary objects of this work. Below (left) A striking but not uncommon effect of inoculating lucerne seed with culture supplied by the Plant Research Station of the Department of Agriculture. The foreground was sown with untreated seed and the background with seed treated with inoculating culture. Below (right) Seed-germination test. The Plant Research Station, at Palmerston North, has a seed-testing section. Samples are accurately tested for impurities and germinating quality of the specified seed. In the germination test the seeds are placed on moistened sterilised paper on trays and kept at a regulated temperature. “New Zealand Certified Seed” has a high reputation, which extends to Australia and other countries.
More and, more scientific research in agriculture is reducing the risks of farming. Research shows the winning numbers on the farming totalisator. In a sense research shows the farmer how to “beat the tote,” because his backings can be on certainties.
A good few years ago experts of the Agricultural Department were mystified by cases of a disease known as “bush sickness” among stock, reported mainly from parts of the “pumice belt” in the North Island. By the way, the term “bush sickness” tends to be misleading, as the trouble was not confined to bush country.
At first it was thought that the animals had absorbed poison from the pastures, but analysis disproved that theory. If animals stayed on the affected ground they gradually became “living skeletons” and died, but if they were shifted in time to another type of land they usually recovered.
Well, here was a tough problem for the Department—an area between two million and three million acres, where death kept court for cattle and sheep. If was a long, persistent, triumphant research for the Chemistry Division, under Mr. B. C. Aston. The trouble was traced to a deficiency of iron in the soil. It has been demonstrated that the health of animals and mankind requires about .004 per cent. of iron in the body—and this need was lacking in the pumice country.
The necessary iron for stock was usually supplied in a mixture of finely ground limonite (an oxide of iron) and salt, compressed into “licks,” left in troughs on the pastures. The mixture, in the powdered form, may also be sprinkled on hay or ensilage. Huge deposits of satisfactory limonite are in the Whangarei district and other localities.
A big response to lime. An experiment carried out on a farmer's property illustrating a marked effect from liming. The strips of prolific clover were limed; those with little growth received no lime.
The result of that research, work which is of enormous economic importance to a large tract of the North Island, has also proved beneficial in some regions in other countries, where deficiency in iron had caused a wasting disease in farm animals.
Before the cure for “bush-sickness” was evolved, the holders of affected land were in despair. They saw their animals wasting away, and ruin seemed to be staring at them. Of course, nobody would lend money on that kind of property which was rather an alarming sort of security. The farmers had many worries, but happily these did not include mortgages, which were not obtainable. Then came that magic touch of iron in the lick which brought health to the stock and happiness to the farmers. Some of the men on that pumice belt are comparatively care-free to-day, because they are not burdened with debt. In a way they were saved by their old misfortune (which frightened money-lenders, and was itself banished by iron).
In one of the Chemistry Division's laboratories may be seen many jars of digested thyroid glands of sheep, ready for analysis, which will indicate any deficiency of iodine in pastures. Lack of iodine causes goitre (a swelling of the thyroid gland) in sheep as well as in mankind. Some thousands of these glands, collected by the Live Stock Division, have come in for analysis. Whenever a deficiency of iodine is detected, the necessary amount is supplied in the salt “lick” for stock on the pasture.
Important progress has been made in this iodine survey, which is extending through the Wairarapa district, and will go up to Gisborne. It also takes in the southern part of the South Island.
Notes of the Month
In the course of a comprehensive statement regarding the working of the New Zealand Railways for the year ended 31st March last, Mr. H. H. Sterling, the Board Chairman, presented the following interesting view of the year's figures in relation to the Dominion's Budget.
“The Budget estimate of revenue,” said Mr. Sterling, “was £5,983,00 and the actual revenue was £6,034,403—an increase of £51,403. The Budget estimate of expenditure was £5,240,717, and the actual expenditure was £5,183, 859—a decrease of £56,858. These figures showed remarkably close estimating. The Budget estimate of net revenue was £742,283, and the actual net revenue was £850,544, so that the result achieved was £108,261 better than that budgeted for.”
* * *
A railwayman who, in his period of single blessedness, had practised personal economy to such effect that he had accumulated quite a reasonable competence, once told me that whenever he was tempted to spend on a non-essential, he put himself through the following catechism:—
“Would you like it?” “Yes!” “Can you do without it?” “Yes!” “Then you shan't have it!”
Upon a somewhat similar principle was the reply of Mr. H. H. Sterling. Chairman of the New Zealand Government Railways Board, to some comment by a passenger that the railway engines do not look as spick and span as they did in former years. “I am afraid that as far as general appearance is concerned, the passenger is correct, but he can rest assured that all the moving parts of the engines are as clean as ever they have been,” Mr. Sterling said. “We must look after these to ensure perfect running, but when it comes to non-essentials, financial considerations must rule, and the fact is that we have not got as much money as we would like to spend on cleaning. Very substantial savings have been made as a result of the curtailment of cleaning.”
* * *
At Waiotira Junction on the North Auckland railway the lines branch northeasterly for Whangarei and northwesterly towards Dargaville. The express from Auckland which serves Northland runs through to Whangarei, and beyond to Opua (for Russell). On the 17th June, for the first time, a carriage for Dargaville passengers was attached to the northern express from Auckland. This was the first occasion on which it has been possible to travel on the Dargaville line without the necessity of changing trains, and the innovation was a trial to find if public support warrants its continuance. The carriage was shunted at Waiotira to the branch train, and from Kirikopuni to Tangowahine it was run over the line at present controlled by the Public Works Department.
* * *
By putting on a mixed train to leave Ohakune at 10.0 a.m. every week-day for Frankton, the Department now enables passengers from the King Country to connect at Frankton with the fast passenger express which arrives in Auckland at 11.0 p.m. The time-table has not previously provided for passengers from south of Te Kuiti to make this through connection. The new service is particularly convenient for Taumarunui people, who can leave home after luncheon and reach Auckland the same night. Doubtless, too, visitors at the Chateau Tongariro will make good use of this new convenient through service to the north.
“Talk about Speed,” Long Charlie said, leaning back comfortably before the fire in the big room of the barracks at Dubbo; “those old ‘Blowflies’ they used to run on the plains just about hold the record. Between Nyngan and Bourke, on the 150-mile stretch of level going they used to tear along. Seven-foot single drivers, they had, and inside cylinders, and not much else beside. But with the light trains of those days, once they were started they could travel.
“Ned Oliver was driving one of them for a long time. That was in the days when the ‘Blowflies’ worked nearer home, even on the mountains at times, though how they did any climbing with their big wheels, beats me. Still they worked about Bathurst and Orange and Dubbo, before they were pushed out west to rip and snort on the plains. Now they're gone. There were only three of them—Nos. 14, 15 and 16. I wish I had a picture of one of them to show you. They'd make you laugh, alongside the C36's and NN's and K's we run now. But Ned Oliver got a lot of fun out of life when he was driving on the ‘Blowflies.’
“Towards the end of Ned's railway career, there was a new Commissioner appointed named Oliver—same name as Ned and a very thorough man. We used to call Ned ‘The Commissioner’ after that, and one day he ‘worked the oracle’ on the same lay.
“One of the ‘Blowflies’ had been sent down to Sydney for overhaul and when she was ready, Ned was sent to bring her home to Bathrust. Ned had come in from Nyngan, and in Sydney he met some pals, drivers and other boys, that he used to know. And they had a night out. Next day, Ned was to bring the ‘Blowfly’ home. And he discovered that a mate of his, Mat Stope, would be working the day ‘passenger’ to Bathrust. They arranged to meet there.
” ‘Don't let them side-track you,’ Mat said to Ned. ‘Keep moving and I'll look out for you at Bathrust.’
“Ned bet him he would be more than a couple of hours behind Mat in pulling into Bathrust. Although he was to have a strange fireman, he was game to bet, he said.
“Next morning he found that he was to run train No. 85, a block behind
“He smartened everybody up about the station …”
” ‘Push No. 85 through. Oliver on board.’
“That did the trick, though the station-masters when they turned out to pay their respects to the Commissioner, got a shock to see only a little ‘Blowfly’ engine snorting through. Perhaps they thought she was a pilot for the Commissioner's train. Anyhow, Ned Oliver got through in fine style. He kept the seven-foot drivers turning, and being all newly painted and polished up, the ‘Blowfly’ looked her best. If she had only been big in proportion to her wheels, she would have looked all right. But Ned knew there would be trouble at Mount Victoria, where he would have to stop to pass an up train.
“Mount Victoria had always been a swagger station with pot-plants and stag-horns on the posts. The stationmaster there was a bit surprised to get the wire about No. 85, because he thought the Commissioner was at Newcastle. The fly-by-night habits of Commissioners, however, were well known to him. He smartened everybody up about the station, watered the ferns and had a nice grill put on in the refreshment-room, in case Mr. Oliver might step off his saloon car for a few minutes.
“The ‘Blowfly’ blew her best blast outside the distance signal, just for swank. All the signals had been pulled off in good time. Ned swooped down on the station, and pulled up with a flourish outside the refreshment-rooms where the smell of the grill made his mouth water.
“The stationmaster was on the platform. His eyes were sticking out with surprise at seeing only an engine—and a ‘Blowfly’ at that.
” ‘Where's the Commissioner; where's Mr. Oliver?’ he demanded.
” ‘I'm Mr. Oliver,’ answered Ned.
” ‘You're what? Yes; I remember now, your name is Oliver. Do you mean to tell me you've had the cheek to wire through to keep a clear track for you and that?’ He pointed contemptuously at the ‘Blowfly.’
” ‘Well, I only asked for a good run,’ Ned said humbly. It's not my fault if you mistook me for the Commissioner.'
” ‘Your fault,’ stormed the S.M. ‘Look here, I'll report you to the Commissioner for using his name, I will.’
“Well, Ned let him talk. And when he had run down a bit, Ned said—
” ‘I admit I've had you. But why not pass it on? Let some of the others fall in, too.’ Ned had a persuasive tongue.
In the end he had the S.M. laughing at the whole scheme.
” ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I'll see you through.’ And he went into the office. After a while he came out again with the staff which he gave to Ned, saying—
” ‘I've sent the word on to Eskbank. It's your funeral now.’
“So Ned and the old ‘Blowfly’ worked and wangled and laughed their way past surprised and disappointed railway officers, down the Zig Zag and away to Eskbank.
“As they ran into Eskbank Ned's fireman said—
” ‘There's a train in Eskbank. What'll she be?”
“Ned didn't know. There was no train scheduled to be there. But they had the road; so he sailed on. A passenger train, bound west stood in the siding. The main track was clear. Ned whistled, and opened his throttle. And the ‘Blowfly’ whooped past that train like the Flying Scotsman. And as they passed it Ned nearly fell off the engine when he saw Mat Stope on the footplate of the other train. It was the ‘passenger’ that had left Sydney before them.
“So, after all, ‘Mr. Oliver’ was in Bathurst before the passenger. When Mat, cursing and red-faced, met Ned he let off steam about being held up at Eskbank, for a ‘Jam-tin with penny wheels.’
” ‘Well, who held you up?’ Ned asked. ‘I swear I never did. All I asked for was a fair go.’
” ‘Why! Mount Victoria sent through a special wire,’ Mat retorted. ‘That said: ‘Give 85 precedence over passenger. Mr. Oliver on board.’ I tried to tell them it was you; but they said I had gone mad. ‘Mr. Oliver on board.’ That got them. you should have watched them sprucing up the place and themselves, and seen their faces, Ned, when they saw what came through.'
“Mat was getting over his temper.
“‘Well, I was on board all right,’ Ned said, ‘and here we are.’”
Freckles, a hot-headed mail driver, looked up from his newspaper when Long Charlie had finished talking.
“You don't expect us to believe,” he said. “that Ned Oliver got precedence of the ‘passenger’ on the say-so of the S.M. at Mount Vic.”
“I only know what Ned told me,” retorted Charlie.
“Well, I'll tell you something, then,” Freckles said. Mr. Oliver was on No. 85 all the time.”
They all laughed at that.
“Where was he then?” Long Charlie jeered. “In the tender I suppose, or squatting on the pilot.”
“No,” said Freckles, in scathing tones, “he was firing. I was cleaning in the Eveleigh steam shed the morning he took the job. Oliver was on 85 all the time, and that's why your smart Alec of a Ned got away with his bluff. But it was Mr. Oliver who was having the joke all the time.”
(W. W. Stewart Collection.)
Cleaners at work in the Locomotive Sheds at Auckland.
Mr. E. Casey Appointed.
Mr. E. Casey, whose appointment as Assistant General Manager of the New Zealand Railways, was announced last month, has been Chief Engineer of Railways since September, 1931.
Mr. Casey joined the engineering staff of the Railways as a Cadet in 1902, and subsequently served in Wanganui, Auckland, Greymouth and Ohakune Districts. In 1912, he took over the duties of Assistant Engineer, Auckland District, and in 1916 took charge of the grade easement works between Penrose and Mercer. In 1921 he was transferred to the Christchurch District, and was engaged in remodelling the station yards on the Midland line prior to the opening of the Otira Tunnel. When it was decided to proceed with the new station yard at Auckland, and the Auckland-Westfield new railway, Mr. Casey was specially selected to take charge of this work. In March, 1925, he was appointed Inspecting Engineer, with headquarters at Wellington, and was afterwards promoted to Divisional Superintendent in charge of the Traffic, Locomotive, and Maintenance Branches of the North Island, with headquarters at Auckland. In May, 1931, he became Assistant Chief Engineer of Railways at Wellington, and in September of the same year took over the duties of Chief Engineer.
Mr. Casey is held in high esteem by the commercial community, and his present appointment has been well received both in business and railway circles.
(S. P. Andrews, photo.)
Mr. E. Casey.
From a Satisfied Client.
In a letter to the District Traffic Manager, Dunedin, Mr. E. Wood, of the Otago Importers' and Shippers' Association, writes as follows:—
I feel I cannot let the opportunity pass without expressing my sincere and grateful thanks for all the assistance afforded me in arranging for the transport of the luggage of my friends (the Misses E. B. and Z. A. Farrow) to Auckland for transhipment to the Vancouver steamer by which they were passengers to Canada and the Homeland.
But particularly do I wish to thank those of your Officers who so kindly assisted in extricating my friends from what would have been a very awkward situation, owing to the fact that evidently in the excitement of saying good-bye at Dunedin they left their two small but important suitcases on the platform.
On their behalf as well as my own, I would specially desire to thank Mr. Dobson, guard on the Express, Mr. Craig, of the Luggage Department, and Mr. Pope, Stationmaster at Dunedin, in arranging to have them promptly forwarded to Wellington for delivery at Thorndon. I can assure you that I shall not readily forget the courtesy and efficiency shown by all concerned, and further that it will be a pleasure to let it be known, and so I trust give the N.Z.R. a good “boost” as from a satisfied client.
Perpetrated and Illustrated by
Ken Alexander .Do clothes make the man or does the man make the clothes make the man. The answer is in the derogative; for men, if left to their own devices and bereft of their L.S.D.-vices, would satisfy their moods in mercery with a bare skin in summer and a bear skin in winter. The masculine mind, unsullied by the influence of connubial coercion, yearns not for rhetorical rainment, vested vestments, conducive coatings, palliative paintings or gilded gadgets of sartorial seduction. The male is a simple soul with a one way track on his mental map who believes that nothing can nullify the architectural anachronisms perpetrated by Nature in his personal pill-box, without his approval or authority. But the tailor is a titillator of the temporal ticking; a miracle-man who, by the machinations of mode and measure, can straighten out bow legs, convert a bay front to a flat facade, make four-by-two shoulders resemble the top hamper of a square-rigged bone setter, make the fat fitting and the bony bonny, and generally get a scissors hold on the sartorial sassafras.
A tailor who knows his body-work from chalk to “cheese-cutter” and from buckram to basting is a “fitting” answer to the maiden's prayer. He is agent for Eros and holds venue for Venus. By shooting with suiting and sniping with snipping he can put perfidy on the spot and rekindle the flickering flame of fondness in a wife wearied by corkscrew pants and the hideous habiliments of her permanent paymaster, which represent “body-line bawling” in its loudest form. With a cut to leg or a fancy “over” he can bowl out beauty and convert acrimony to matrimony. He can get age bested with worsted, youth worsted with basted and renovate the body-work of the human one-seater so that it well might doubt the authenticity of its own rudimentary trigonometry. Thus the tailor tells his tale with shear and cheer and remodels the ancient to conform with the modern. Of course the lily needs no gilding nor the orchid orchestration, but we less exotic and more ox-etic specimens of haughty-culture require the attentions of the tailor to round off the corners and square the circles.
But there are tailors and tailors. There are good, bad and indifferent tailors. The indifferent tailors are merely indifferent and the bad ones convert robbery to robbery and are cut by cutters and taped off by the trade.
Habiliments on the hoof constitute personal propaganda, and it pays to advertise, whether you prefer an outlay on cloth or a “lay-out” on paper. In certain circumstances dowdiness is better than dandy-ness, but in uncertain circumstances, such as yours and mine, the measure of success is the tape measure and the best snips are “par” snips from the “Tailor and Cutter.” Millionaires may ravage the canons of cut and culture without “going a million,” but millionaires depend more on the bank than the “bunk.” Professors, pugilists, evangelists and contortionists may also flout the flambuoyancy
“The right suit in the right place.”
With clothes as with cards, the right suit in the wrong place oft' creates confusion of allusion. Jockeys in plus-fours are minus-twos. A “hard hitter” reduces Bill the basher into a soft-soaper. Brogues are conducive to foot-and-mouth disease in Irishmen and loose fitting pockets scandalise Scotsmen; which seems to prove that clothes are the “alter ego” which alter ego. Thus Desmond the diver, who during the week feels half-seas under and is subject to that sinking feeling and submergence of personality in his submarine suiting, regains the surface on Sunday by wearing a bare face and breathing his air straight. Footmen dress like horsemen when they foot it. Land agents spend Sunday dressed like deep sea sailors, and drapers get a kick out of undraping and seeing the sea dressed as frugally as a Scotch salad.
Whether you dress the part or part the dress the ego is influenced by the mode of the moment, and history, which is as much histrionic as cyclonic, might easily have changed its spots with its spats and its points with its pants. Well might you ask if Napoleon could have gone nap in “bun” and “boweyhangs.” Could the Iron Duke have heaved his hardware and made such a success of the ironmongery business on the fields of France, dressed like a shop-walker instead of a shock-worker? Caesar in sack-cloth might have been sacked rather than “socked.” Samuel Pepys would have sacrificed “pep” if his body-basting had been ecclesiastical instead of enthusiastical. Hannibal in hand-me-downs, Samson in slippers, Drake in “duck,” Wolsey in woolies, Blake in a blazer, Alexander in an alpaca, King Henry the Eighth in a divorce suit, and Joan of Arc in a jumper, would have reacted to rig, and history would have had its face sifted by the plastic serge-ons and its tale clipped by the tailors. For many a man has been spitted by spats, deranged by dungarees, submerged in silk, smothered in smock, K.O'd. by clothing and clubbed by “clobber.”
The right suit in the right place is the glossary to glory, and if the man makes the uniform the uniform makes the man. The butcher bereft of his stripes is no more a butcher than a zebra. Sailors don't care, but jerk off their jerseys and they don't know Davy Jones from Sam Brown. Soldiers are as putty without putties and lack tone without tunics. Tram conductors are non-conductors and lack punch without their tram-linings. Snatch away an engine-driver's hat and oil can and his loco-motives become so mixed that he doesn't know an Ab. from a gee-gee. And choir boys who, in their human moments jubilate in jazz, on Sunday restrain their surplus air under
“Could Napoleon have gone nap in ‘bun’ and ‘boweyhangs?’”
A postman without his envelope to stamp him as the spirit of Johnny Walker would be a dead letter, or a postscript that had missed the post. If found in such a state he would be returned unclaimed. Presumably postmen perambulate off duty, but unless they are in training for the all-red route or a dash for the pole—or at least the post—we suspect that they stay in bed where it doesn't matter whether they wear “zipps” on their bed socks to maintain their zip, or rub milk on their calves to keep them from becoming prematurely cowed. Some say that they wear hiking suits instead of pyjamas, lest they forget to remember and miss the post. But of all the uniformed fauna the postman is the most attractive. The postman's knock “knocks” us. The posty calls for poesy:
Slump-Made Suits
Clothes may be mere loose covers for renovating the physical furniture, but even an old sofa under a new cover gets a little touch of spring in its works. There are sermons in stones, but there are also tales in tailors.
L. and N.E. Express leaving Sheffield for London (Marylebone).
British Railway Improvements.
Slowly improving trade conditions seem to give promise of more prosperous times ahead for the British railways. During the past year or two marked economies have been effected by all the four group systems, but care has been taken throughout to see that the thousand and one items of equipment that go to make up the transportation machine were maintained in first-class condition. Notwithstanding financial difficulties, essential new works and improvements have been undertaken to meet changing public demands and altered transport conditions. At no time in their century-old history have the railways been better equipped for public service.
In the years that have followed the grouping of the British railways, conspicuous improvements have been effected in locomotive development. Heavier trains, run at higher speeds, have everywhere called for more powerful and faster locomotives. New traffic routes, opened out as a result of grouping, have often taxed locomotives to their utmost limit. How well the railways have met changing conditions is illustrated by those wonderful products of the locomotive-designer's art—the “Royal Scot” engines of the London, Midland & Scottish line; the London & North Eastern's Doncaster-built “Pacifics”; the “King” Class machines of the Great Western; and the Southern Railway's magnificent “Lord Nelson” locomotives.
In Britain, rolling-stock of new design is continually being introduced. Almost every time a fresh batch of passenger carriages is built, new and improved standards of travel comfort are set up. Goods wagons, too, are subjected to constant betterment. There are probably no more suitably designed wagons the world over than the 24,000 twenty-tons capacity coal trucks belonging to the British lines.
In the realm of train signalling, in electrification—in every single branch of railway activity—there is apparent the determination of the four group railways to maintain their equipment at concert pitch. When the trade boom does arrive, depend upon it, the British railways will not be found wanting.
Popularising passenger travel is an objective that must never be lost sight of in these days of keen competition. By many, the modern traveller may be regarded as a somewhat pampered individual; the fact remains, however, that luxurious travel has come to stay, and it is only by providing really comfortable and speedy transport that the railway can hope to hold its own.
Like the New Zealand Railways, the Home lines have recently introduced
Pfaffenberg Viaduct on the Tauern Branch, Austrian State Railways.
Although the majority of the main-line carriages operated in Britain are not of all-steel construction, the railway managements are fully alive to the advantages of the all-metal passenger coach. Greater strength, longer life, lessened maintenance costs, and reduced fire risks, are among these advantages. On the L.M. & S. line, about three per cent. of the total carriage stock is of the all-steel class; on the three other group lines the proportion is somewhat less. A prime reason for Britain's lack of enthusiasm for the all-metal carriage lies in the fact that conditions favour a design of carriage having side doors to each compartment, instead of being constructed on the saloon principle. Steel construction does not lend itself quite so well to the provision of side doors.
Across the Channel, the Belgian railways have recently introduced as many as one thousand all-steel passenger coaches. One type has a length of 72ft. 2in., with bow ends, and two double doors at each end. Seats are fixed face to face on either side of a central gangway. Another design—for the long-distance services—has four end doors and a side corridor. Yet another type—for local use—is 59ft. lin. long, with lateral doors and seats placed face to face along a central gangway.
The Belgian Railways are Government-owned, and rank among the most efficient in Europe. Like railway systems the world over, the Belgian lines have suffered greatly from the competition of the road carrier. To meet changed conditions, many economy schemes have been put into operation. To save in wages, the retiring age of employees has been reduced. Passenger and freight train services have been cut, and savings effected through the closing of many roadside stations and the less important locomotive and carriage and wagon works.
Interior of L. and N.E. Railway Buffer-car in the Leeds-Newcastle service.
On many Belgian branch-lines, goods trains now run only on alternate days. Fast rail motor trains have taken the place of heavy steam trains on secondary routes. Freight rates have in many instances been cut by as much as twenty-five per cent. As in Britain, the Belgian railways are co-operating with many of the principal road carriers in the operation of combined rail and road services, while in some instances, where unprofitable branch line services have been discontinued, concessions have been granted to road motor companies to handle the business of the area.
While the influence of Belgium on world railway operation may not have been so great as that of some other European lands, credit for one exceedingly useful development taken up by the British lines may rightly be claimed by our Belgian friends. This is the police dog patrol system, as employed extensively to-day on many British railway-owned dock premises. In the protection of railway property in England, canine guards play a big part, and it was from Ghent, Belgium, that police dogs first were imported.
In the beginning, it was the alarming increase of pilfering and the frequency of fire outbreaks caused by trespassers on railway property which led to Britain's acquisition of police dogs from Belgium. In the protection of the railway watchman in his responsible duties, and in detecting the presence of suspicious characters on railway property, the canine patrols have proved of incalculable value. The dogs employed are of the Airedale breed, and work only by night, regarding anyone other than a properly uniformed watchman as an enemy. Sufficiently strong to floor and pin down any intruder, the mere fact that the dogs are known to be in daily employment has resulted in a striking diminution in the number of suspects frequenting railway premises.
One hundred and eleven years ago there was put into service on the Hetton Railway, in Northern England, the historic “Hetton” locomotive constructed by George Stephenson and Nicholas Wood. This famous engine has been given a place of honour in the unique railway museum established at York.
Built in 1822, the “Hetton” was rebuilt in 1857 and again in 1882, when link motion was fitted. The engine was actually in harness until 1913, and under its own steam it proudly led the Railway Centenary procession of old and modern locomotives at Darlington, on July 2nd, 1925. The “Hetton” now stands on show—a rare monument to the genius of Stephenson and his colleagues, and a rare inspiration for the railwaymen of to-day.
The “Hetton” engine (built 1822) in the York Railway Museum.
Isabel M. Peacocke .)
The following article was awarded the £5 cash prize in the Magazine's recent competition upon “New Zealand's Best Scenic Feature.”
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
The Great Wairakei Geyser.
New Zealand has charms enough and beauty-spots without number, but for sheer diablerie of attraction and weird entertainment I should give the palm to Wairakei's Wonder Valley. A veritable Devil's Playground is this sinister mile or so of sulphurous rock, belching steam and boiling fountains. Vicious miniature geysers seethe and bubble furiously in shallow geysers seethe and bubble furiously in shallow rock-pockets, and the whole valley is an inferno of heat and activity, sizzling, simmering, rumbling like Hell's Kitchen.
The show piece is the great Wairakei Geyser which plays regularly, first forming a boiling whirl-pool until, in a whitened frenzy of rising water, she springs out of her cauldron in a glittering column of hissing spray and filmy clouds of steam, leaping, roaring, ringed with rainbows, like a mad Maenad tossing her white tresses.
There are many marvels, some beautiful, others terrible; the Champagne Pool, forever agitated with bursting bubbles and bells of foam, convulsively shuddering and heaving, and every now and then tormented by some invisible urge into a snowy explosion; the Devil's Ink Pot, a viscid black pool; cheerful little 1924 briskly bubbling, born during the Taupo earthquake of that year; a ring of simmering mud lakelets, white, cream, grey-blue, known as the Beauty Shop; the Eagle's Nest, a geyser cone built up of fallen sticks and twigs encrusted with sparkling white sinter, whose perfect tiny crater erupts in a glistening little geyser every few minutes. The Dragon's Mouth is a frightful rocky gap like the jagged jaws of some fabulous monster, out of whose crimson throat issue sulphurous jets of steam and strange muffled rumblings.
Deep down in the Pool of the Dancing Stone, a boiling cauldron forever in restless motion, a great solid looking boulder is seen to rise and sink like a bouncing ball, once, twice, thrice—until the seething pool with a rush and a roar flings itself into the air in flashing explosions of spray and steam. Lovely are the three Fairy Pools, turquoise, pale blue and milky white, and the Boiling Waterfall pouring down a terraced slope in steaming cascades, encrusting the rocks with gold and coral-coloured deposits. Wairoa Valley, or the Rainbow Mile, is like a monster artist's palette splashed with many-coloured steaming pools, sea-green, salmon-pink or claret colour, while a golden water-fall pours itself over a terrace of siliceous rock.
An isolated marvel is the Fumarole or Karapiti Blowhole, where forever and forever a tall snowy column of vapour pours forth, its spectral shape wavering like a smoke-plume in the wind. Sir James Hector declares this great steam-vent to be the safety-valve for the North Island. This infernal steam-blast is an awe-inspiring sight billowing out of a nine-inch opening in the earth and mushrooming out in a snow-white cloud, while far below imprisoned waters boil and fret in impotent frenzy. Its sultry breath is like the snoring of the sea-wind in the crags and crannies of a wave-fretted cliff, and it beats upon the face like the blast of the sirocco, dry and withering, fierce and terrible.
)A. Leigh Hunt , F.R.G.S.
I Felt proud when I first owned a bare hundred yards of a stream. I had always cherished the longing to possess a title to running water. I recall how when I first looked upon my stream I regretted that it was not of greater volume, but I was comforted by the information supplied by nearby old settlers, who assured me that it never failed to flow. After all, thought I, such constancy was far preferable to the impetuous waterway that alternated between flood and inactivity. Moreover, my stream was both restful to watch and to listen to, whereas a rushing torrent though interesting to the eye for a time would not calm and might even add to the restlessness which I wished to leave behind me in the city. So it was that my little stream contented me, and I at once determined that we should be fast friends—I decided this without, of course, even thinking that the stream itself could influence my plans.
I pondered over the lines of my poetical namesake, who wrote:
I would plant stately trees in the environs of my waterway. Time and industry would clear away the cruel gorse and brambles that now littered the banks and prevented the face of my rill from reflecting back the rays of sunlight.
But in the carrying out of my ideas I must respect the ancient rights of the inhabitants of my stream. Beneath those stones and under those overhanging banks dwelt in unbroken quietude many of God's creatures whose place in the great plan of creation might be as important as my own—for who can tell? In any case I would be a friendly overlord to both the rivulet and its colony.
How many years had passed since this miniature waterway had first begun its individual course? What scenes had been enacted upon its banks by the onetime warlike natives who inhabited these parts in vast numbers? What strange and now extinct animals had quaffed its pure waters? What majestic forest growths had thrived upon its moisture? These and other secrets my stream revealed not.
Its tortuous course I would not change, for it was both picturesque and symmetrical, but I would hinder its progress by the construction of three dams, thus forming as many ponds and cascades. So it was that my little stream and I came into closer relationship.
During the progress of these works I added respect to the affection I had for the brook. In order to “well and truly” lay the foundations to my dams it was desirable to hold back for a time the tiny flow. With the presumption that was mine I piled up sandbags as an obstruction. For a time—a comparatively short time—the waters were held back, but long before my groundwork was completed my stream rebelled and positively refused to be thus bottled up. “Away with your impediments or I shall overwhelm you,” it seemed to say. “I have never ceased to flow for ages past, and have no intention now of tolerating interference. You may use my waters—bridge them—aye, even take of them, but you shall not stay them.”
I was astonished at the steadfast determination of “my” stream, and I felt much humbled thereby; but I loved and respected it all the more, for I had learned that man may pierce and even level the mountains—might undulate the plain, and plough the mighty seas, but he might not unduly hold up the veriest flow of running waters, thus proving the truth of Tennyson's words:
“Men may come, and men may go, but I go on for ever.”
I do not now claim that I own that stream; I am merely privileged intimately to associate with it for a very brief portion of its life—finding solace from its presence—learning lessons from its never-failing constancy—and a due humility from its mastery.
Sir,—
cowsI can't abide, sir,
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(Written for The N.Z. Railways Magazine byJames Cowan .)
“Old New Zealand,” by Judge Maning, is a classic in the Dominion's literature. Maning was the first writer to give the world a vivid sketch of life in New Zealand in the period immediately before the establishment of British sovereignty, from the point of view of a pioneer trader and settler. In this article the personality and career of the famous “Pakeha-Maori” are discussed, and some facts and documents hitherto unpublished are given. It is exactly one hundred years ago this month since Maning landed in New Zealand.
F. E. Maning when a young man. (From a drawing by Mr. John Webster, at Hokianga, in the early Forties.)
There are two books which describe intimately the conditions of life in North New Zealand in the transition period when the old Maori rule of No Man's Land was still untouched by pakeha law. The writers saw the country in its unspoiled beauty, and lived with the Maoris when the patriarchal mana of the chiefs was still little impaired by the levelling influences of the European invasion. The tribes still welcomed the pakeha, they were eager to get a few white traders to live with them; they were not yet alarmed by the incoming of crowded immigrant ships. One of those writers was Frederick Edward Maning, the Irishman whose “Old New Zealand” is a familiar work, quoted so much that its best passages became somewhat tedious by frequent repetition. The other was Sir John Logan Campbell, whose “Poenamo” is not well known but deserves reprinting for its perfect pictures of pakeha-Maori life on the shores of the Hauraki in 1840. Both writers saw the adventurous era of settlement, the glorious freedom of a day when commercialism and many laws had not yet interfered with the primitive, honest simplicity of the Maori and his pakeha friends. Maning and Campbell were great friends in their days of vigorous young manhood; their friendship continued through life, and Campbell's last duty to his old comrade was the writing of that eloquent epitaph on the “Pakeha-Maori's” tomb in Auckland.
It is fitting that their books should be coupled as the two authentic narratives of a long-vanished life. Of the two, Maning was by far the better acquainted with the Maori people, for he lived among them many years of his life, and he married a Hokianga Maori woman. Campbell's “Poenamo,” however, charms one with its unaffected and sympathetic description of the early trading-station ways, the Maori at home, the pleasures, tribulations and humours of the white man's endeavour to fit himself into the ways of this wonderful new land. What Sir George Grey did for the olden Maori, whose only library was his mind and his mental store of tradition and song, in “Polynesian Mythology,” Maning and Campbell, in their separate ways, did for the race when the ancient regime was about to give way, gradually but surely, to the new.
It was a small brig, the Mary and Elizabeth, from Hobart Town, that first brought Frederick Edward Maning to the land of the Maori. The
Judge Maning (1811–1883). This portrait shows Maning at the age of 68. He died in England and was buried in the Symonds St. Cemetery, Auckland.
It was necessary to become more than a mere squatter on the harbourside or the riverhead, so in 1839 Maning became the owner, by trade-purchase, of a block of some 200 acres of land at Onoke, on the south side of Hokianga Harbour, between the present township of Rawene and the Heads. His was a different bargain from some of the early-days land deals in which the white man got much the best of it. Maning paid fairly and squarely for his little baronial estate; the sellers received very good value.
In Auckland some years ago I was lent, among documents left by Maning in the hands of certain old friends, the original deed of the Onoke land purchase, a document not previously published. This deed has historical value; and it is testimony to the fairness of the bargain that the Land Claims Commission which sat in 1840 to consider native land purchases before the Treaty of Waitangi, fully confirmed Maning in his purchase. The deed reads as follows:—
“September 3rd, 1839.
“This is to let all men know that we the undersigned New Zealand Chiefs have sold to Frederick Edward Maning his heirs and assigns for ever a Tract of land part of which is known by the name of Onoke, and situated on the River Hokianga and on the eastward by the river of Wirinake [Whirinaki] as far as the creek called Ohaukura, the inland boundary being formed by a straight line running from the mouth of that creek to the center between two hills one of which is called Te Porotutu and the other Rahirahi and from thence continuing its direction till it comes to the river Hokianga.
“And we the undersigned Chiefs being the true and only owners of the above described land do hereby acknowledge to have received full payment for the same from Frederick Edward Maning without any reservation whatever of any part of the land contained in the above whatever of any part of the land contained in the above mentioned boundaries down to low water mark or of any of its productions whether vegetable or mineral.
“We do also bind ourselves to give peaceable possession of the above mentioned land to Frederick Edward Maning his heirs or assigns and to defend Frederick Edward Maning his heirs and assigns in the same.”
The chiefs who signed the deed—mostly with an X—included Kaitoke, Keha, Kaipu, Tuteauru, Mohau, Nuku, Te Tahua, Tapuru, Kiripapa, Huru, Tahae-tini, Puaro, Motu, Hiku, and Te Haringa. Three did not make a cross but inscribed a part of their scroll tattoo-marks; these were Kaitoke, Kiripapa, and Tahae-tini (“Many Thefts!”).
This is Maning's list of trade items, with their values, given to the chiefs in exchange for the land:
The spelling, “fouling pieces,” was perhaps an unconsciously accurate description. But all things considered, the young trader did not price his goods extravagantly at all. The prices set down would have been considered excessively cheap by many Maori Coast merchants of those days.
Another document shown me is worth quoting because it indicates the extent to which firearms were used by the Maoris in the old bush days and the means by which it reached them. It reads as follows:—
“Native Secretary's Office.
Auckland, December 31, 1860.
“F. E. Maning, Esq., Auckland, Sir.—I have the honour to inform you that His Excellency the Governor has been pleased to authorise the delivery by you to the natives for whom it was ordered by you from England the
The letter is signed by Donald Maclean (afterwards Sir Donald), the Native Secretary. Maclean and Maning were old friends. It is to be noted here that Maning had always before him the possibility of the Northern Maoris being called upon to assist the Government against the King Party tribes in Waikato and elsewhere, and that at the date of this letter the Taranaki war was proceeding. Ostensibly the Hokianga and other northern chiefs were being supplied with ammunition for pigeon shooting, but Maning—as will be seen from a letter to be published later—privately appreciated the likelihood of making other “pigeons” the targets for Te Rarawa and Ngapuhi tupara (double-barrelled guns).
It must be remembered also that Maning was something of a fire-eater himself. He had carried his double-barrel gun in the battlefields of North Auckland himself, in Heke's war of 1845, alongside his friends John Webster and Tamati Waka Nene. John Webster, in his Reminiscences, has told the story of Maning's retort to Colonel Despard's arrogant question: “What do you civilians know of the matter?” when the three comrades went to him to protest against the attempt to carry the Ohaeawai stockade by storm. Maning indignantly said: “We may not know much, sir, but there is one apparently that knows less, and that is yourself!” When Despard threatened to arrest them, Tamati Waka made a contemptuous comment which still further infuriated the stubborn Colonel. All protests were in vain, and that afternoon Despard's insane order cost forty lives and a great many wounded.
From John Webster, that fine old man of Opononi, Hokianga, hero of many a close-call adventure in Australia and the South Sea Islands as well as New Zealand, I heard many stories of Maning, too long to be recounted in this brief survey of the pakeha-Maori's career. Webster's life is a book in itself—more about him later. He and Maning were associated in trade and timber ventures at various times, as well as in the glorious life of free-lance campaigning on the fields of Omapere and Ohaeawai. Webster told me that he gave Maning much of the information which “Pakeha-Maori” used in his story of “The War in the North” (which is bound in with “Old New Zealand”), and that he wrote some notes for him on the subject.
John Webster, of Opononi, Hokianga. (Maning's comrade in many adventures, and author of the “Last Cruise of the Wanderer.”
That story of Heke's war, by the way, as given by Maning, purports to be the translation of a narrative from the lips of an old Ngapuhi chief, and it has been accepted literally as such by some writers who quoted passages from it. But it is really a composite story, partly from Maning's own experience, partly from what his Maori kinsmen and friends told him, and partly from John Webster.
In the mid-sixties Maning was appointed a Judge of the Native Land Court, a position for which his consummate knowledge of Maori land tenures and customs well qualified him. One of the most important Native Land Court cases which came before
Railwayman: “Wonderful smoke this National Tobacco. I believe it is the healthiest tobacco on the market.”
Man behind the Counter: “Yes, I smoke it myself. Apart from the fact that the tobacco is one hundred per cent. in quality, it is produced by a company that is one hundred per cent. New Zealand. I believe that company pays hundreds of thousands to the Government in freight and taxes and employs over a thousand workers. Why, dash it all, the more we smoke the better for the country; and the loyal way the company sticks to the Railways in fares and freight, helps to keep the railwaymen in their jobs.”
“No human flesh and blood, however hardened, could endure much longer the excitement, privations, danger and unrest which the equally balanced forces and ferocious courage of the contending parties had now [1830] protracted to several years' duration on that small spot of the earth's surface and between two petty divisions of the human race. War had attained its most terrible and forbidding aspect; neither age nor sex was spared; agriculture was neglected; the highest duty of man was to slay and devour his neighbour. Whilst the combatants fought in front, the ovens were heating in the rear. The vigorous warrior one moment fighting hopefully in the foremost rank, exulting in his strength, laying enemy after enemy low, thinking only of his war-boasts when the victory should be won; stunned by a sudden blow, instantly dragged away, hastily quartered alive, next moment in the glowing oven; his place is vacant in the ranks; his very body can scarcely be said to exist. While his flesh is roasting the battle rages on, and at night his remains furnish forth a banquet for the victors, and there is much boasting, and great glory.”
The Dunedin Railway Cadet Football Team, 1900.
Back row: Left to right—Messrs. H. Millar, J. L. Jacobson, W. Sinclair, J. Stewart, L. H. Campbell, L. Aikin, E. Scanlon, E. Wright, J. Davie-Parson, J. Short, G. Livingston, and R. M. Isaac. Front row—H. L. Gibson, T. Bateman, H. W. Franklin, C. L. Hope, E. J. Paton, W. P. Miller, R. A. P. Francis, and A. Urquart.
Casual writers and speakers on New Zealand frequently refer to Judge Maning as the writer who had the most profound knowledge of the Maori and who best described Maori habits and thoughts. The truth about Maning is that—apart from his intimate knowledge of land tenures and history and related subjects—he was a dealer in superficialities. He described very graphically the surface of old-time Maori life, the obvious things, the excitements and humours and tragedies. Maning had this much in common with his one-time antagonists, the Missionaries, that he regarded the Maori system of religion and mythology as mere superstition and mumbo-jumbo, and he made his contempt for that sort of thing so plain that he was never admitted to the innermost confidences of the learned men of the race. In his later period he somewhat modified his attitude, but he had missed unrivalled opportunities. “Te Manene” could have given so much more; as it is, we are thankful for “Old New Zealand,” superficial though it be.
In one or two brief legends and in a poem, “The Spirit Land,” Maning showed that he had the gift of poetic insight and expression in some degree, and could have developed it had he chosen. In one poem he pictures a seer standing on a hill on the Far North way to Te Reinga, “his eyes fixed on the spirit path that leads to the spirit land.”
By
“Traveller.”
(Photo, J. Milne Allan, Wanganui.)
The cascades above Begg's Pool.
The world famous fishing river Tongariro (Upper Waikato) has its first fish-obstacle at the waterfall leading into Begg's pool. Above this pool the river for many miles is in gorge country. As one travels upwards, it opens out, after the manner of rivers, into a fan of tributaries. Some of these tributaries have their sources in the Kaimanawa mountain range, and some have their sources in the Ruapehu-Ngauruhoe-Tongariro group of mountains. The last-mentioned tributaries necessarily cross the Waiouru-Rangipo-Tokaanu road, because that central route crosses the high plateua (over 3,000 feet high) between the Ruapehu group and the Kaimanawas.
As the above facts clearly enough imply, the river from Begg's pool to its mouth (delta) in Lake Taupo is accessible and fairly well known; also, the Ruapehu-Tongariro group of tributaries are known where they intersect the Rangipo road; and both this group and the river below Begg's have been stocked with rainbow trout fry; but the main river above Begg's, and those Kaimanawa tributaries that do not cross any road, are little known because access is very difficult. It is considered impossible that the trout of the lower river can leap the waterfall at Begg's and colonise the upper reaches. It is not known whether the fry liberated in the tributaries on the Rangipo road have survived and worked down to the waterfall, colonising the river system from the source downwards. But two residents of Turangi (where the southern highway junctions with the Taupo highway at the Tongariro bridge) are quite positive that they saw a rainbow trout of six or seven pounds in a pool of the Tongariro about two miles above the Begg's pool waterfall last August. It is probable that, being keen observers, they were not mistaken, and that a rainbow of about that weight was pursuing its usual calling in the main river above the waterfall at the time stated. But whether the river system between the waterfall and the road has been successfully stocked up to fishing standard is another question. And whether it is policy to so stock it is also another question.
Apart from trout considerations, the river is a thing of beauty, and of awe, in itself. The gorges and creek-courses above the waterfall have, in course of ages, carved out a superb piece of New Zealand. These gorges, with many perpendicular walls ranging in height up to 150 feet, are places of scenic grandeur and haunting charm. They create mind-pictures, and the observer will often think of them when far away. Mostly they are clad with native vegetation, even where vertical. Occasional landslips leave brown scars which emphasise the beauty of the almost continuous green walls. The gorge floors are sand and rock, mostly rock. In the pools, beneath the glassy surface, the country rock has been carved into shelves and ledges, under which the blue-green water scours in deep eddies. Be careful, for one step brings you from shallow to deep. The native forest, richest on the Kaimanawa side, is predominantly beech. The word waterfall does not nearly describe the hundred yards of river above Begg's Pool. The last fall, visible from that pool, is no doubt the biggest or highest; but above it the water is confined to an even more remarkable rock-channel, in some places not nine feet wide, through which pours the mighty force of the river. In the series of cascades, there are at least two that could be called falls, up which only a super-fish could pass. Square-cut, flume-like passages, cut in rock, connect falls and cascades, and even in its lowest summer volume the river rages through these, white and turbulent, like a giant confined. About twenty feet above summer-level is a log of an average diameter
Wonderful as these cascades and falls at Begg's Pool are, they are eclipsed in grandeur and mystery by a chasm in the heart of the bush a few miles higher up-river. On the upstream side of this chasm, you at first hardly observe its existence. Looking downstream towards it, you see a wall of rock, as hard as that above Begg's. The wall, of great and uniform height, and bush-crowned, seems to be complete—a bold barrier thrown horizontally across the course of the river, whose wide-spread waters roll up against it, foam, and stop. But just at one place some vein of softness in the hard rock has been worked on to provide a cleft through which the whole of the waters of the Upper Waikato pass in a width narrowing at places to less than ten feet, and in which the depth is evidently much greater than at Begg's, for the issue-point is a deep pool several chains downstream, and here there is no fall and no brawl
(Photo. J. Milne Allan. Wanganui.)
The Tongariro river boils down through rocky walls.
Higher up are many miles of no man's land where the river may offer equal wonders, for it runs far distant from the road, and no one goes there, since this portion has no fish reputations. Yet the manuka terraces and flats between road and gorge carry deer, pigs and hares for the sportsman, also, it is said, kiwi and rare birds for the naturalist. Unlike the broken beech country, these flats are easy to travel, but in places the underground water-courses in the pumice have holed through to the surface, and a fall of ten to twenty feet may punish the careless tramper.
Tongarior fishing is famous, but the Upper Waikato, above Begg's, will yet be famed equally for its gorges, chasms, and untameable wildness.
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Where was John Ellis? This was the question, the answer to which was sought in the little community of Wellington in the month of March, 1850. In those early days of the settlement of Wellington, shipping was very different from what it is to-day, and in accordance with the usual custom, when the barque “General Palmer,” of 573 tons, arrived in port and discharged her cargo the crew were paid off. In order to prevent pillage on board, as the ship lay in the harbour waiting cargo, one of the most reliable of the crew was employed, as custodian, to sleep on board. He was required to keep the ship clean and, between the hours of ten and eleven in the morning, to hoist a flag to denote to the ship's agent ashore that all was well aboard.
Messrs. Bethune and Hunter, the agents for the ship had selected John Ellis as custodian. He was a quiet, reliable seaman, generally respected, sober and industrious. Both ashore and on board he seems to have been liked by all who came in contact with him. Quite suddenly, however, Ellis disappeared.
William Good, who had been living on the barque with Ellis, provided an explanation as to his whereabouts. He had gone off, so he said, on the 17th March with a Maori girl for a spree. This explanation evoked surprise in the minds of those who knew Ellis, for he was not the kind of man whom one would have expected to behave in such a manner, especially as his job required his constant presence on the ship.
The agents for the ship were not satisfied, and communicated with the police. Acting on certain facts that they were able to piece together, the police set out in search of three men who had been on board the ship just before the disappearance of Ellis. One of these three men had been sleeping on board for about a month. These men were the accused.
On the 29th March, Police Constable Oxenham started in pursuit of these men, and on the 7th April, after having travelled north over the Rimutakas he arrested Jones at Tuingara, a farm settlement, about seventy miles north of Castlepoint. Having secured him he went on for another twelve miles and caught Good at the farm of a Mr. Tiffin, and four days later some Natives, who had heard of the chase, captured M'Ausland and brought him to Constable Oxenham. The march back took eleven days and on 23rd April the three men were under lock and key at Mount Cook gaol in Wellington. When the prisoners were searched, a knife was found on Jones, but in some inexplicable way the effects of the three prisoners were not separated by the constable until they got to Wellington, when a bloodstained towel, a cap, a waistcoat, a black silk handkerchief and a shirt were taken. These appear to have been taken from Good's bundle. The gaoler who took charge of the men at the gaol made a search on his own account and found some money sewn into Good's trousers, and some other sewing paraphernalia.
The evidence was then collected together and on Monday, 3rd June, 1850, the three men stood
His Honour, Mr. Justice Chapman, presided, while the Attorney-General, Mr. W. Swainson and Mr. R. Hart prosecuted. Good was represented by Mr. King, but the other prisoners had no counsel to appear for them. A common jury was empanelled. The Attorney-General opened the case by reminding the jury that in order to do justice they must banish from their minds as well as they could any preconceptions of the case and not to allow themselves to be affected by the excitement that the murder had naturally created in the community.
This exhortation was necessary, for the whole township could talk of little else since the discovery of Ellis's body, which bore the indications that the unfortunate man had been foully murdered.
How the body was found was told by a witness, Edward Roe, who was a warehouseman employed by Bethune & Hunter, the ship's agents. He said that he had, no doubt under
“They removed these, and there … found the body of a man.”
Dr. Monteith was then called, and he told the jury that the first wound he examined was one that had severed the carotid arteries. There was a contused wound under the right side of the jaw, and two extensive fractures over the right eye and the centre of the forehead. These two wounds seemed to have been done with a hammer. Ellis had been shot through the cheek also, which wound would have been fatal, but probably not for some time. Apparently Ellis had been shot on the deck of the barque, for there was a bullet mark in the bulwark, and then as perhaps he struggled, the murderer had closed with him and completed the crime in the manner described.
The evidence then proceeded and was levelled with more deadly effect against Good than against the others. Mr. Tiffin told how Good had called on him seeking work and had given his name as Frederick William Anderson. The inference, of course, was that he was fleeing and took a false name to cover his flight. Some articles of clothing were produced by Tiffin. These he had got from Good, and they were subsequently shewn to be Ellis's. Ann Guthrie then swore that a pair of boots she produced, proved to have been Ellis's, were exchanged by Jones with her for another pair. These boots a bootmaker named Collins, proved had been sold to Ellis the day before he was actually killed. After all the property found on these men, or which they had disposed of, had been proved to have been Ellis's, the Attorney-General went on to prove that these men were in company with Ellis just before the murder.
Basil Brown, for instance, who was a boardinghouse keeper, said that on the 16th March, Ellis, M'Ausland and Good were together about 6 p.m. or 7 p.m. and he said he saw Jones and M'Ausland together the day after the tragedy. He then said that M'Ausland called on the Sunday where he dined and then he said to Brown “I owe you some money.” He then pulled some money out of his pocket and said he would pay all he owed. He said “Brown, are you afraid I won't pay you?” “No,” said Brown. Then said M'Ausland: “I'll pay you in a lump.” He then added: “You'll hear of something before long; they tell me I must not tell you, but you'll hear of something before long.” He would say nothing further. He then
Another witness said he saw Good and Ellis go off in a boat and he watched them go aboard the “General Palmer.” That night Ellis lost his life. The witness said that there was a third man with them, but he was unable to identify him as one of the accused men. However, the barman of Firth's Hotel said he saw Good and M'Ausland with Ellis on that Saturday, and on the following Monday M'Ausland, he said, was in the bar spending money with a freedom which in him was unusual. A small boy of eleven years of age, named Samuel Collins, said that on the Saturday he saw all three prisoners with Ellis on the beach.
Then came Mary Ann Jackson who said that Good and Ellis were at her house on the Saturday, and Ellis invited her, along with others, to make up a party and visit the ship on the morrow. She accepted the invitation and the next day when she went aboard Good told her that Ellis had gone ashore. Another woman of the party said that Good told her that Ellis had gone ashore for a spree with a Maori girl. This witness was the washerwoman whom Ellis had employed to do his washing, and she was able to recognise some of the clothing found on the prisoners as the property of the murdered man.
The next witness called was an important one. He was Solomon Hook, a seaman, who had lived with Ellis on the “General Palmer” for a month. He described Ellis as a most methodical man and of a saving disposition. He last saw Ellis between 7 p.m. and 8 p.m. on the night of Saturday, the 16th March, and he told Ellis that he would go aboard on the morrow. He did so about breakfast time and there Good told him that Ellis had gone ashore in a strange boat. Hook noticed that the deck was just washed down and Good told him that he and Ellis had washed the deck down before Ellis went ashore. Hook went to the party in the afternoon, and knowing Ellis as he did could not understand why he was absent. He noticed the casks and loose doors in the pantry and asked Good why the pantry was being turned into a bosun's locker. He was not made suspicious, however, by Good's manner. He said that he had noticed a roll of notes in Ellis's possession during his lifetime.
The Sunday afternoon party was described by the next witness. He said that men and women except Good were all more or less drunk and were making an awful row. There was evidence, too, that Ellis just before the 16th March received from the ship's agent the sum of £10 6s. 2d.
John Thompson, probably the most important witness, certainly the one who took longest in the witness box, came next and he told how he had been invited on board on the Monday following the murder, though he did not of course know of the crime and stayed a night or two on board. He was told that Ellis was on the spree. On the Tuesday evening he heard Good speaking to the other two prisoners on board in a low voice and then he spoke to the witness. He asked him if he could keep a secret. Good then said that the ship “The Sisters” had come into port from Hobart town and that they had his “descriptions” on board and that in consequence he would have to clear out as he was a bolter from Hobart prison. He then said that Ellis was depending on him to stay on board to raise the flag every morning between ten and eleven to denote to the ship's agents that all was well on board. He asked Thompson to take his place and hoist the flag each morning till Ellis returned and then Ellis would pay him for his time and trouble. The three prisoners then made preparations to depart and made Thompson presents of boots and clothing that caused him to inquire if it was all right, or whether they had been robbing the ship. The three prisoners hastened to reassure Thompson. The men then made off and Thompson stayed on board till the following Tuesday when the police took him in charge, where he remained for a little time till he cleared himself of complicity in the tragedy. Thompson was cross-examined as to a statement he had previously made to the police. He admitted that he had at first said that Ellis had left him in charge and that he had gone into the country. But he explained that he had done so to protect Ellis from the wrath of the agents. It seemed clear that Thompson had nothing to do with the murder.
Kenneth Bethune, the ship's agent, said that he had gone on board the “General Palmer” on the 6th March looking for Ellis and that the next day he saw his dead body. He said that Ellis had been left to look after the ship on account of his steady behaviour and general good conduct. After a few witnesses called to identify clothing or to speak of the movements of the prisoners round about the date of the murder, the evidence of the Crown closed. M'Ausland was the only one of the accused who called any witnesses. He recalled Constable Oxenham on a few unimportant features which told slightly in his favour.
The Attorney-General then addressed the jury, and while leaving the matter open so far as the other two were concerned, pressed for a conviction against Good. He pointed out that the whole weight of the evidence told against the accused. He had been living with the deceased. He was on board on the Sunday under suspicious circumstances. When asked if he had anything to say when he was first charged with the murder, Good had replied
Mr. King then addressed the jury on behalf of Good. He contended that the murder was probably the work of the other two accused. In the light of the evidence that seemed a dangerous course to take. The defence no doubt was difficult, but that kind of argument in the face of the evidence would, one would think, be calculated more likely to inflame the jury against Good than otherwise. The other two prisoners addressed long rambling remarks on their own behalf. The Judge took the same view of the evidence as the Attorney-General and clearly suggested a conviction of Good and an acquittal of the other two. The Judge traversed the whole of the evidence for the benefit of the jury and while scrupulously fair to the prisoners the very discussion of the evidence necessarily told heavily against Good.
The jury were out only thirty-five minutes and brought in a verdict of Not Guilty against M'Ausland and Jones, but they convicted Good. Good displayed not the slightest emotion when the sentence of death was passed upon him.
In those days, more brutal and less enlightened than the present, sentences of death were carried out publicly, and on Monday
Suburban Services on the N.Z.R.
(W. W. Stewart Collection.)
Auckland-Swanson train between Newmarket and Mt. Eden.
Tohunga.)
On this page in previous issues of the Magazine, I gave a number of proverbial sayings illustrative of the philosophy, the wit and the poetic feeling of the Maori. Here are some more examples of the expressive whakatauki or aphorisms which entered so much into the speech of the native race. Orators delighted in interspersing their addresses with the proverbs of old, and many of these sayings are heard at gatherings of the people and are used in letters, and have even passed over the telegraph wires. The first two whakatauki embody challenge and defiance:
“Ana ta te uaua paraoa” (“Here behold the strength of a sperm whale”, in other words, “I am powerful; be careful how you try to injure me; attack me at your peril.”)
“Taku ringaringa te ngaua e te kuri” (“My hand shall not be bitten by a dog.” Compare with the doughty Scots expression of similar import: “Wha daur meddle wi' me?”)
Some sayings expressive of admiration and praise:
“Me he aroaro tamahine” (“Like the presence of a young girl”—pleasing, comely).
“Mehemea ko Kopu” (“She is beautiful as the morning star”).
“Me he pipi-taiari” (“As white as the glistening shells”).
“Me he putatara” (“Like a trumpet,” said of a strong voiced eloquent speaker).
“Me te rangi ka paruhi” (“Like a lovely tranquil sky”), said of anything beautiful, delicate, softly fading, gentle.
A pathetic saying by aged persons, soon to pass to the Spirit Land: “Moku ano enei ra, mo te ra ka hekeheke; he rakau ka hinga ki te mano wai.” (“Leave to me these last days; I am like the setting sun, like a tree soon to fall and be lost in the many waters.')
Sound and patriotic advice to the owners of the soil:
“Te toto o te tangata, he kai; te oranga o te tangata, he whenua.” (“The blood of man's body is formed from his food; it is land which grows that food to sustain him.” That is to say, “Do not part with your land; do not yield the fertile soil which is the source of your life.”)
The beauty of thought, the depth of philosophy embodied in the poetry and the speeches of the Maori are nowhere more eloquent than in the chants and addresses of lamentation for the dead. These elegiac compositions, like the Highland coronach, are sometimes very ancient poems adapted to the occasion. Modern laments preserve the old beliefs and classic language of the race.
As an example of the fine poetic feeling of the old generation of the Maori expressed in the mihi aroha or addresses of sorrow and affection in the presence of Death, I give the following letter expressing the grief of the leading chiefs of the Waikato tribe at the death of the Premier, Mr. Seddon, in 1906; it was a message to Sir James Carroll (Native Minister) signed by Mahuta, Patara te Tuhi, Henare Kaihau and other rangatiras at Waahi, Waikato:—
” … We farewell him who has been taken away by the great Creator to the pillow which cannot fall, to that bed which cannot be raised. Alas, alas! Our grief and pain overwhelm us. Depart, O the mooring-post of the canoes of the two races. Depart, O mighty totara tree of the forest, felled by the axe of Death—Death the irresistible, Death the swallower
“A man imagines he will live on for ever in the world, but he dies. The land thinks it rules itself, but when an earthquake shatters it that is its form of Death. In like manner the waters think that they have dominion, but when they dry up that is their Death. Rocks rejoice in their hardness and consider they cannot be broken up, but when they are shattered their Death is accomplished. Death in its many forms rules everything and cannot be averted…. But the results of your parent's work, the great treasure left by him, the result of his life's labours in this world will not be lost. They shall ever be remembered by generation after generation. Heaven and earth shall pass away, but good works shall never pass away; they live for ever.”
“Te kotuku rerenga tahi,” the white heron that flies singly, is a classic Maori description of the habit of that beautiful rare bird of the swamps and the lagoons. The expression is often applied to the visit of a distinguished visitor, and in that poetic speech usage the saying is interpreted as “the heron of one flight,” otherwise the rare bird seen only once; the visit of a lifetime. Sometimes a kotuku is reported as having been seen, even to-day, when the marshes that provide it with its food are being lessened by drainage and settlement. Invariably only one is seen; it is the solitary bird of the wastes. A lovely spirit-like bird, it still lingers in the land from which the ancient peace of the wilds has departed.
There is a poetic and proverbial saying in praise of the white heron: “He kotuku kai-whakaata.” The meaning is that the heron leisurely examines its food before it eats; it is a bird of dainty habit, by contrast with the duck, which is described as “He parera apu paru”—“A duck that gobbles up the mud.” These sayings are aptly applied to mankind. A person at a feast who courteously waits until the others come before he eats his food is likened to the chieftainlike kotuku. A greedy person, on the other hand, is like the mud-gobbling duck.
One of our South Island lakes has a name which preserves a memory of the time when the white heron was numerous on its shores. This is Lake Brunner, on the West Coast railway line. Its Maori name, as the old people of Arahura village once told me, is Kotuku-whakaoka, which means the heron which darts its sharp bill to stab its prey, otherwise Spear-darting Heron. This expression exactly describes the ways of the white wading bird.
The Maori had a genius for coining apt descriptive names of places. Here is one that I do not think anyone else has recorded. The sharp, steep summit of Maunga-kakaramea, the Mountain of Coloured Earth, or Rainbow Mountain, towering over the entrance to the Waiotapu Valley, in Geyserland, was called by the old Maoris of the district Tihi-o-Ruru, meaning Citadel of the Owl, otherwise Morepork's Perch. To the native fancy that sentinel peak of the enchanted valley was an excellent look-out place for bird as well as man of old. Unknowing of this, but striking unconsciously exactly the Maori point of view, a writer (“Traveller”) in the May issue of this magazine described the steamy mountain's top as an eagle's nest, with old Hielan'man McAlpine, of the Forest Service, its keen-eyed occupant. An excellent name, Tihi-o-Ruru.
)Dorothea Collett .
One of the finest cures for that bored, grumbly feeling we all have, I think, at some time or other, is a jolly good walk over the hills and far away, if only for one day, but better still for a week or more; for a tramping holiday is surely the best holiday of all to help us forget dull care and the worries of everyday life.
Our little country, New Zealand, offers some wonderful places for our selection, but perhaps the best of them all is Milford Track (rightly known as “The World's Wonder Walk”), tucked away in Southland, miles and miles from all the noise and bustle of the towns, a pathway which will lead us through a fairyland of forest and fern, great snowfed rivers, mirrored lakes and lofty mountain peaks, until at last, after a glorious trek, Milford Sound lies before us in all its beauty.
And now, girls, you will be delighted to hear, I'm sure, how really inexpensive your outfit will be for that pilgrimage through fairyland. Be well advised, girls! Wear “strides!” If you have not already a pair, beg, borrow or steal some, as they are by far the best kit for hiking. Also, get a couple of pair of someone's golf stockings, wear a comfortable, strong pair of shoes, and you are practically set.
Perhaps you have not worn “strides” before. If not, you will feel as we did when we had to make our first appearance at breakfast one morning—just a trifle shy—but hearty appetites and the need of satisfying them, soon settled our qualms, and from then on for the rest of the trip, we wore them as to the manner born, feeling quite sorry when our return to conventional civilisation demanded the wearing of skirts again.
The writer snapped on the Milford Track.
The ruc-sac, which should fit snugly to your shoulders, is a most important factor, for in it you must carry enough clothes to last you for the whole trip. You have to think shrewdly about what to take and what not to take; especially the latter, if you are new chums, as we were when we walked the Track. A change of underclothing, night attire, a few toilet necessaries, and a pair of soft slippers for the evenings are all you will need, as your shoulders will probably not stand up to the strain of a much greater load.
While on the subject of ruc-sacs, we pass on to you a golden rule we made on our trip, and that was “Always pack your own swag.” We found 'twas better so—for having a nice Christian glow over me one morning, I offered, and was allowed, to pack my chum's ruc-sac for her. You can imagine her predicament, and also my chagrin, when after a wonderful but tiring day, we prepared for our bunks, only to find that I had omitted to pack her pyjamas, and so that night and the following six nights she had to go without; but she managed all right, for woman finds a way.
It takes three days to reach the coast, but what great days they are, a happy, jolly crowd tramping along in God's good sunshine—sometimes through groves of lovely beech trees by the side of a river, scarce able to hear our own footsteps, so soft the carpet of fallen leaves on which we walk—sometimes scaling a rocky mountain pass, higher and higher until we reach the top of the world, it seems, so splendid is the panorama spread before us. And then again sometimes just sitting idly in a little boat which takes us across a lake, so still, so beautiful, and reflecting the colour, and even the tiniest detail of all its flanking charm so perfectly that we feel content indeed, and at peace with the universe.
At the end of a long day in the good old out-of-doors what a welcome sight the hut can be when it first comes into view, for here, besides a much needed rest, we will have a wonderful meal, made—to your pleasant surprise—mostly from tinned foods. And a right royal meal it is, too.
Afterwards chairs are pulled round a cheerful blaze—a fire built of huge logs from the forest just outside—and then it's a case of “Have you heard this one?” or, better still, a jolly sing-song. However, before very long, smothered yawns here and there indicate bed, and we don't take over long tumbling into our bunks, which are mighty snug and cosy. A great silence closes in on us now, broken only by the strange call of a more-pork, or a weka, and sometimes, too, the thunder of an avalanche crashing down far away on the mountain side; but we are very tired, and sleep comes to us easily—sleep fortified by a generous supply of blankets.
“While the Billy Boils.”—A halt for refreshments at Lake Ada, on the world-famed Milford Track.
It was the next morning, I think, and a very frosty one, too, that a member of our party who hailed from much warmer climes, was rather pleased with himself as he had practically an empty pack, because he had put on his change of underclothing as well as what he already was wearing. However, we couldn't help laughing at him when, after an hour's walk, he disappeared behind some big boulders in order to discard his extra clothes. The sun had chased away the morning mists and was shining brilliantly and strongly on that doubly-clad man on an uphill path.
Many are the laughs and funny experiences we had on that great trip. However, it came to an end—as all good things do. Now it is your turn. All you who love a good tramp—you to whom the Track is as yet but a name—should promise yourself that one day, before so very long, you will pack your swag and away to enjoy the thrill of “The World's Wonder Walk.”
At A Railway Inquiry Office.
“Yes, my boy, this is the inquiry office.”
“Well, if two trains left Birmingham and London simultaneously, one travelling at 60.5 m.p.h. and the other at 44.5 m.p.h., how far would each have travelled when they pass each other, the distance from London to Birmingham being two hundred miles?”—From “Punch.”
Katiti
“If you sell a vacuum cleaner to Pipi Wirihana you get the job; if not, you don't.”
The supervisor's rat-rap-like jaws closed with a snap. He had apparently said his last word on the subject and Reece Wills walked disconsolately out of his office.
“He reckons I'm too young for the job, dear,” he said later to his sweetheart. “Says that if I can sell a machine to old Pipi, it will make it clear that I can supervise a district and show other salesmen how to deal with snags; but how can I do that? No one has ever sold Pipi anything, within my memory. No, I'm not going to make a fool of myself by trying, and our wedding will just have to wait until I get a rise.”
“A Maori miser is certainly an unusual proposition,” replied the girl, Dell Harris, “but I would not despair without giving it a pop. Try and interest his wife: if she really takes a liking to the machine she will give him a terrible time until he agrees to buy it. You see, darling, brown or white, we women are much the same, and I know if I had a miser for a husband, I would make his life a burden to him.”
“Oh well, I'll give it a go, but don't blame me if I am made the laughing stock of the town. I'll tackle her first when he is not around.”
This was the reason that Reece might have been observed sneaking round the house of Pipi Wirihana at eight-thirty one evening, with a large box in his hand. Some years before, Pipi had married a girl much younger than himself, and his miserly habits not having hardened then, she was able to persuade him to build a little bungalow in place of the old whare, and to furnish it more or less in pakeha fashion. Mrs. Pipi was particularly proud of her carpets, which were of fair quality.
“Good evening, Mrs. Wirihana.” Reece put on his nicest smile, and being a good-looking youth, with a nice set of teeth, it was worth looking at. The lady was quite young enough to respond in kind and thus matters were on a good footing at once.
“I called to demonstrate to you our latest model vacuum cleaner.” Anticipating her objections he hurried on. “No, no, I am not asking you to buy, but I merely want to show you how it works, in case you ever wish to buy one. May I come in?”
Permission being granted, he stepped in and a fair quantity of semi-damp earth dropped off his shoes on to the cherished carpet. As Mrs. Pipi stooped to remove it, Reece interposed: “No, allow me to
“Yes, but we no have te heater,” said the lady sorrowfully. This had ranked as one of her first failures with her husband, and the heat generated over the argument had been sufficient to make the heater unnecessary.
“Never mind that just now. I'll show you how it works with this machine. See? Just push the plug in there, slip on the brush attachment and turn the switch.” Reece was really a good salesman in spite of his years, and he had the prospective victim interested at once.
“Py korry!” she exclaimed as she saw the dirt literally leap up the nozzle of the cleaner, “this te very good broom; how much it cost?”
But Mr. Wills was not prepared to give her such a shock as this, before he had shown her a little more of its capabilities. “Never mind the price, Mrs. Wirihana,” he replied, “I am not asking you to buy. I'm just showing you. Now,” he went on, “where is your best carpet?”
“This is a good one in te big room,” she answered, leading the way to what would correspond to our sitting room. The carpet square was not badly kept, considering the circumstances, but successive years had dimmed the colours with dust so that in places it was hard to see the pattern.
“Well, we will get to work and see if we cannot improve this,” said the salesman. “There! does that seem to be any lighter?” He had run the machine several times over one small corner and the result was that the treated part appeared a blaze of colour and design compared with the rest.
“Py korry!” said the lady, who was a woman of one exclamation, “you do some more. This save me te Christmas cleaning.”
Having managed to start the fish biting, Reece proceeded to hook it. He cleaned exactly half of the square thoroughly, and then went on to clean half the walls, chairs, and floors. He demonstrated better than he had ever done before and all the time the woman chattered excitedly alongside him.
The fish being now fairly hooked, he began to play it.
“Well, Mrs. Wirihana, I think you have a fair idea of the capabilities of the machine now, and if you should ever think of buying one, just give me a call. Here is my card.” He began packing the machine, to the almost speechless indignation of Mrs. Pipi.
“Here, I want to buy te blooming thing now,” she remonstrated. “How much you charge for him?”
“Well of course, they seem rather expensive at first, but you will find that they pay for themselves after a while. Wear and tear on carpets, new brooms and mops saved and no time wasted, besides being more healthy and probably saving money on doctor's bills. Why, you would find that in two or three years' time you would be money in pocket.”
“What the cost? I buy te broom te other day for one and sixpence.” Mrs. Wirihana was turning over in her mind the idea of paying double for this wonderful new “broom.”
“Well the price for cash is £20,” he said. This was the first attempt to land his fish and he thought it had slipped off the hook. Her mouth opened and closed—just like a fish—then, as he turned to complete packing, the hook settled further in. She was caught, although she put up a few more struggles.
“Maybee I could get te five-pound note,” she suggested tentatively. “Five pound is te lot of money for te broom.”
“I'm sorry, madam, but the price is twenty pounds. The machines do not belong to me, or I might make a cut in the price to you. As it is, the company demands twenty pounds for every one I sell.”
“I see if te old man give me to money,” she agreed with a hopeless look. “He not like to spend te hoot.”
“If your husband is somewhat careful with his money,” said Reece, “you should
“This fellow, he want to sell me te good broom,” she explained, with a wave of her hand which included both cleaner and vendor. “Your see where he clean te carpet? Make it look like new and save you te hoot.” The lady's saleswomanship was not on a par with that of Reece, but in the face of the scowling Maori, he could not seem to start.
“Py kootness,” exclaimed the husband on observing the clean part of the carpet, “I think you te very dirty woman to let my good carpets get in this dirty way.”
“Twenty pounds?” he shouted, on hearing the price.
“No, Mr. Wirihana, your wife has done all that could be done with an ordinary broom, but this is something special. Just let me show you,” and switching on the power, Reece ran the cleaner up and down the dirty portion of the carpet.
Wirihana was delighted with the result and for a moment Reece thought he would buy, but “Twenty Pounds?” he shouted on hearing the price. “Py kootness, I think you te robber,” and Wirihana went off to bed without any further argument.
“You see? He te hard fellow with te hoot. He got plenty too, but I not can get it. I show you.” Turning, Mrs. Pipi indignantly led the way to the kitchen and flopping on her stomach, peeped through an opening in the floor between the hearth and the boarding. “You look,” she said, making way for Reece.
Taking her place, he glanced through the crack in turn and was surprised to find that old Pipi had made what was practically a concrete money-box under the floor. A narrow iron tube running up to the floor itself, appeared to be the only opening. In the light of his torch, the salesman could glimpse notes and even gold lying there in fair quantities.
“How does he get it out?” he enquired.
“He not get it out. He say that once it in, it stay in if he have to pull te floor boards up to get at it. I think he try to make it safe from me,” sighed the wahine sorrowfully.
“Um; so you think you have no chance of getting the money from him?” asked the salesman with equal sorrow. “What you must remember is that the machine will pay for itself very quickly.”
“You leave te machine-broom here to-night. Maybe in te morning I get him drunk and he tear up te board-floor to get te hoot for more Waipiro.”
It did not seem a likely chance, but Reece, having begun a job, hated to leave it unfinished, so he agreed.
Before leaving he showed her the use of the various instruments—the mop for the floor, the brush for the walls, the long thin pipe for corners in the ceiling, and the rubber pad for windows. He also gave her the form to sign agreeing to purchase the machine, knowing well that it would not hold in a court of law, but just as an additional lever with her or her husband. It was 1.30 a.m. when he left, and she was so sleepy that she did not know what she signed.
Next morning he called, not very hopefully, at the Wirihana residence. “Good morning, Mrs. Wirihana; did you manage to talk your husband into buying the vacuum cleaner?” he asked.
“Shush! not so loud,” cautioned the lady. “Yes, I buy te broom cleaner. Here
“Ah! that got him, did it? I thought it might. Touch a miser in his pocket and you will find he is almost human,” mused Mr. Wills. “Thanks very much, Mrs. Wirihana; here is your receipt. Now you will be able to make a real clean-up for Christmas, and should anything go wrong, just ring or call at the firm's office. You have the card? Yes, all right, and thank you very much madam; good morning.”
“Py korry! Mr. Wills, I think I have to thank you,” replied the wahine as he left, and Reece thought how nice it was to leave a satisfied client.
True to his word, the superintendent obtained for Reece the coverted position of Supervisor of the Waikato division, and a few weeks later he and Dell left for their new home.
Great was his suprise a little later to meet Mrs. Wirihana in Te Awamutu, where the lady came up and said, “Py korry! Mr. Wills, you te very fellow I want to see. I want to buy te two more cleaner-brooms.”
“You want two more vacuum cleaners?” asked Reece, hardly able to believe his fortune. “Why, have you sold the other one?”
“No, I leave him with Wirihana; this my new husband,” she replied, dragging forward a good-looking smirking young Maori, apparently several years younger than herself. “I want to leave Wirihana a long time ago, but we not got te hoot; now te cleaner-broom fix that.”
“What has the machine to do with you getting money?” asked the puzzled man.
“You say, ‘Now, you make te real clean-up for Christmas,’ and I get te hoot te same way as te broom pay for hisself,” she answered. “I put te long tube down to te Wirihana money-box and it lift te hoot up. It very bad that it take te long time to lift te gold ones and I have to leave a lot of them.”
“You mean that with the vacuum cleaner you drew up your husband's money to pay for the machine and then stole the rest to run away with?” he asked with some show of indignation.
“Yes, that right,” smiled the lady, apparently unconscious of there being anything wrong in it. “Blooming money no good lying there.”
“And now you want to buy two more machines?”
“Yes, one for te lady next door; she have te lot of tamariki (children).”
Reece made out the necessary sales-forms, reflecting that, whatever the moral outlook of the Maoris concerned might be, in any case a wife is incapable, legally, of stealing from her husband.
When the Stratford-Main Trunk Line eventually opens for passenger traffic, who will give a thought perchance to “the men who built the line.” Think of the almost insuperable difficulties that have been overcome from the first trial survey to its final consummation by the skilled organisation and direction of the Engineer-in-Charge of the great work, together with the staff of workers that carried out the labour in all its variations and vicissitudes of a job of this magnitude. As the whistle shrieks and the train rushes into a tunnel, which it will, quite a number of times, windows will be slammed down, but who will think or know of the amount of physical labour entailed in the construction of a tunnel while it is being slowly but surely pierced?
Again the huge filling or embankment as the train emerges will hardly be noticed, now covered with growth and neatly fenced each side, where men worked in shifts day and night—cold, pitiless winter nights, too—to “work” the trucks of spoil down to the right grade as they came continually from the tunnel; first by horse and then by electric locomotive as the work progressed and power could be used. And what of the high cuttings? as the train rounds a curve, cuttings impossible to see the tops of unless one stands out on the platform! Where are the men that blasted through these solid cliffs of papa rock?
Often, in the winter, these cuttings were filled feet deep with liquid (clay slips), tram lines and trucks being buried out of sight, and the clearing of this mass can well be imagined in continuous wet weather. To describe all the difficulties, the tremendous quantities of timber required and used from the surrounding bush for tunnelling and laying tracks all along the line, temporary bridges, etc., the miles of roads that had to be made over hill and gully for pack horse transport in the first place, and the life in the far back bush camps would take pages of more or less interesting detail.—Will G. Tolley.
Tons Of Marbles.
We'Re off, Trainlanders! Off to visit some beautiful marble halls. To visit them is much more enjoyable than merely dreaming about them, don't you think? Which reminds us of the wistful gypsy maiden in that favourite opera, “The Bohemian Girl.” She was always dreaming of dwelling in marble halls.
A marble road at the top of the South Island takes us to Maoriland's halls of gleaming white crystal, which are set high up on the hills overlooking Golden Bay.
These marble quarries are so big that they have provided material for hundreds of buildings throughout New Zealand, including the imposing Parliament Buildings in Wellington.
Big machines cut out blocks of all shapes and sizes from the walls in these marble halls and many of the blocks are veined with the loveliest rainbow colours.
What piles of marbles for your marble bags you could make here, and what beauties! But the majority of marbles are made of glass or clay. Aggies, as you know, are made from Onyx, a kind of agate which comes from Brazil, Germany and India.
You would not need pennies to buy marbles if you were Frank Mitchell, a little American boy whose father owns the factory where “aggies” are made. Frank sees how they are made whenever he goes along to fill his pockets with them.
Four-ton blocks of Onyx are sliced into slabs, seven-eights of an inch thick. These slabs are cut into cubes. The cubes, in trays of two hundred, are then carried to a rolling grinder where they are ground and polished into marbles.
Sounds interesting, doesn't it? Supposing we all set about building a factory in these New Zealand marble halls and start making real marbles—marbles made from marble? Wouldn't it be fun?
If we did we would need a forbidding notice outside “No Visitors With Pockets Allowed”; otherwise, all our precious marbles would soon disappear and we would have none left to sell!
Let's keep the good old game going and then there will be a roaring trade awaiting us.
Meanwhile, Good Winnings, Trainlanders!
How Fast Are We Travelling?
Here is an easy way to tell. Borrow a watch with a second-hand and time how long it takes to go between each little mile post by the side of the railway track. Divide the number of seconds it takes into 3,600 seconds (which equals one hour). For instance, if the train takes 90 seconds to go between each one-mile post it will be travelling 40 miles per hour.
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More Excellent Riddles.
Q.: At which station does the cook spoil the bacon? A.: Burnham.
Q.: Where do the paddocks jump? A.: At Springfield.—Joan O'Brien, 383 Barrington St., Spreydon, Christchurch.
Q.: Why do firemen wear strong boots? A.: To prevent Sockburn.—Violet Wells, 378 Barrington Street, Spreydon, Christchurch.
Q.: What town on the New Zealand Railways is heavy at one end and light at the other?
A.: Feathers-ton.—Lydia Dassler, Te Rau-a-moa, via Te Awamutu.
Q.: What station is like a piece of worn out footwear? A.: Dun-sandle.—Ted Breach.
Q.: Where do birds fly to for a good home?
A.: Birdling's flat.—Noeline Breach, Cadman Road, Dannevirke.
Q.: Who was a great poet? A.: Milton.—Oliver Smart, Raglan Street, Wyndham.
Q.: What is the jolliest place in New Zealand? A.: HO-HO.
Q.: Which is the smallest valley in the world? A.: Inch Valley.—Miss D. Tonkin, C/o Post Office, Heriot, Otago.
Q.: Where did “Cora Lynn” “Hyde” the “Blackball?” A.: In “Greymouth.”—Ivan Mitchell, 46 Hills Road, Shirley, Christchurch.
Q.: What place is almost free of the sheep tick pest? A.: Utiku. Because there is only a tick between to 2 ewes—U-tik-u.—Utiku is a station six miles from Taihape.—Poppy Montgomery, 144 Mataroa Road, Taihape.
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My Ambition.
My greatest wish is to be an engine-driver so that I can shunt some more carriages of helpers into Trainland.
Although you get a little dirty while in the engine it is quite nice. On hot days you may easily get cool by looking out of the window and when cold you may warm yourself by the fire, so there is no excuse for not being an enginedriver.—Alex Kirk, 60 Coronation Road, Papatoetoe, Auckland.
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My brother and two other boys have a canoe each, made of flat iron with a rounded bottom, just like a Maori canoe, and it is great fun canoeing up and down the Otamite River which flows just behind our place. I have received one pen-friend from the North Island, and I find it such fun writing to her. I would like a lot more.—Agnes Ross, Mandeville, Southland.
“How beautiful is youth, how bright it gleams
With its illusions, aspirations, dreams!”—Longfellow.
Our Children's Gallery.—(1) John and Elliot Sirett; (2) Stuart and Douglas McDonald; (3) Billy and Edna Hansen; (4) Betty and Joan Sunnet; (5) Ena, Ruby, Della and Mona Luxon; (6) Ngaire and Basil Marsh; (7) Mavis and Bobby Wood; (8) Reginald Small; (9) Neoline and Eric Thomas; (10) Marie and Charlie McManus; (11) Leila Pilcher; (12) victor, Allan, Isobel, Norman and Eunice Baxter; (13) Eunice Birt—all of Napier.
By)
Tangiwai .That was the chorus of an old-time diggers' song, when hundreds of gold-fossickers crossed Cook Strait and went tramping up through the bush to the rich alluvial field, and hundreds more came from the West Coast diggings when the first hectic years of big yields had passed. Seventy years ago the Wakamarina drew many of the down-on-their-luck citizens of Wellington. A few of those “golden locations” would solve our unemployed problems.
Still, though the wonderful days of tons of gold have passed, the Wakamarina (Wakamarino) is not by any means played out yet; and in many auriferous areas in the south the periodical clean-up yields a tidy parcel of gold. Okarito, where the big dredge is combing the heavy beach sand, far down the West Coast, heads them all. The exact whence of that coast sand deposit has not yet been fixed by our mining geologists. Old diggers say that after a strong westerly gale when the sand is piled up afresh on the long beaches, the gold is washed up, and the largest returns were then obtained. But the original source of the gold is believed to be high up inland, at the sources of the short, swift rivers, and there always was a firm faith in the digging fraternity that the greatest finds of all would be made some day right up in the Southern Alps.
Talking of the great digging days, a stray memory brings up the story of an old-time clipper ship, as told by a sailor and gold-hunter of the roaring Sixties. When the rush to the Otago alluvial fields began, thousands of diggers flocked across the Tasman Sea from the Bendigo and Ballarat fields, and sailing ships and steamers came in through Otago Heads crowded with men. One of the ships was a famous Blackball liner, a three-skysail-yarder, a flyer of the seas. In thick weather at the Heads she struck a rock, but got off apparently undamaged; landed her passengers, and sailed again for Australia, and in due course reached London with a cargo of wool. She did not leak any more than usual—all those wooden clippers leaked a bit—but she steered badly all the voyage to England; would not always answer her helm.
At London the ship was examined in dock. A large lump of rock was found firmly wedged in her bow, below the water-line, and part of the rock protruded; it was this that had caused the erratic steering. It was this rock also that had saved the ship. When she struck the reef at Otago Heads, the section of New Zealand that she broke off was so tightly wedged in her bow-timbers that the old ship decided to take it along with her round the world. Had it dropped out in mid-ocean there might not have been any tale to tell.
Lately I narrated in this section of the Magazine a story of the mingled shrewdness and courage of the Rev. Samuel Williams, second son of that splendid figure in early New Zealand history, the pioneer missionary, Henry Williams. Sam Williams (afterwards Archdeacon), was the hero of another story, the scene of which was Omahu, about nine miles inland from Napier. There was a large palisaded village there in those days, the middle Sixties. Williams was asked by the Governor, Sir George Grey, to combat the Hauhau rebel propaganda on the East Coast. After visiting Poverty Bay on his mission, he landed at Napier from the
“Oh. Hapuku,” asked the missionary, “what are you doing here, and what is going on?”
The chief replied: “They have been be-witched and have become mad. I am awaiting my death.”
Mr. Williams went inside, followed by Te Hapuku. At the far end of the crowded house a Hauhau prophet was holding forth and uttering all kinds of gibberish incantations; he professed to speak all the languages of the world.
“Stop!” said Mr. Williams. “You are talking foolishness to this ignorant crowd. Let us two talk in the Hebrew tongue, for that is the language of the gods.”
“I do not know the Hebrew tongue,” said the prophet.
“What? You profess to be a prophet of the gods and do not know the sacred language? Who are you? You must be of this earth, and very low down in it, too!”
And with inimitable skill of language he thoroughly frightened the Hauhau orator. The apostle of rebellion crouched down among his sympathisers at the end of the house; he cut a hole in the raupo wall and slipped out into the darkness and off.
By this time Te Hapuku had come up to Mr. Williams, the blanket off his head and down over his shoulders, and he was rejoicing at the changed situation.
Later, when the Hauhau war party from Te Haroto, on the Napier-Taupo track, came down to the plains in order to attack Napier, it was Mr. Williams who gave timely information about the raiders' intentions, and Sir Donald Maclean acted so promptly, in conjunction with Colonel Whitmore, that the rebels' strength was completely smashed and Napier town was saved from invasion. This was the battle of Omarunui, in 1866. A memorial to the fight stands on the farm of Mr. W. Kinross White.
From a tattered old copy of the Wellington “Independent,” one of our earliest newspapers, I take two advertisements which are in their way a reflection of the social manners and business customs of the infant town. The advertising columns of those long-ago times are really worth reading just as much as the news, for they give intimate glimpses of the days of our beginnings and enable us to reconstruct pictures of the past. One of the business notices appears to indicate prudent economy in the use of water on the human frame, at any rate in the winter:
Baths.
J. Masters begs leave to inform the Inhabitants of Wellington, that he intends to have on hand a quantity of Bathing Tubs for Sale, or to let for the season, on very moderate terms.
Lambton Quay, Sept. 28, 1847.
The open season for an all-over wash perhaps coincided with our present run of trout-fishing months.
You got your fruit and frilleries in the same store in the good old days:
Oranges! Fine Oranges!!
On Sale, Ex Frolic,
1,400
Dozen Oranges,
A very superior assortment of Ladies' Shawls, Turnovers, Ginghams, &c.
Also a well selected assortment of Hosiery, consisting of articles best adapted for the Spring and Summer.
A choice selection of Ribbons.
George Waters,
Dixon Street.
Wellington, October 1, 1847.
However, one has seen in these modern days camp-ovens, jew's-harps, saddles, and chemises in the one big room in a backblocks store, in the King Country and up the East Coast. The convenient old Johnny-all-sorts warehouse still serves our needs here and there.
By
Helen
Now is the season of rough winds and furs; of cool sunshine and tweeds; of beating rain and umbrellas; but, in the clothes sense, most of all is it the season of frosty nights and stars, of the reawakening of halls and cabarets from their summer somnolence to the croon and beat of jazz, to the whirl of the social kaleidoscope. Colours gloat and bend and sway, and feet slither in rhythm. Now let your clothes sense come into play; flirt with silks, satins, velvets; dip your fingers in foamy greens, warm yellows and reds, royal purple and the chill of black; revel in the feel of the new season and then—choose your fabric, choose your shade and discover your figure in the new silhouette.
For bridge, or for more formal occasions, there is a wealth of fabrics from which to choose. Satins, dull or glowing, still hold their own. Georgette and lace, especially in combination, are softly beautiful. Angel skin (by the way, you can buy angel-skin ribbon, lovely and quite expensive) and crinkle crepes of all descriptions are new. For the “bud” what more charming than a frock of organdie, plain or embroidered, in primrose yellow or apple-green, moulded on princess lines, with great shoulder puffs emphasising the delicacy of the slim young neck—and no jewellery! But don't forget the silk lace mittens to tone.
Among the new materials, velvets hold pride of place. They range from a sombre deep-piled richness to a warm silky suppleness. They are here to suit all types, from the older and state-lier to the fairer and fluffier. But they are specially kind to the former.
The New Silhouette is made for velvet—the shade and sheen of the pile enhances the beauty of the long classic line, moulded to the figure. The return of the princess style and the slightly higher waist line is important. The wheel of fashion has turned, and we see the silhouette of the early nineties in a modified form.
Another revival is the feather boa, which graced so many occasions when our mothers were young. But the old boa is glorified almost beyond description. Imagine a shell-pink gown of angel-skin, of that simplicity of line achieved only by perfect cut, with a feather ruff of a deeper pink thrown carelessly across the shoulders. Feathers, too, puff round the armholes on some gowns. On others, width of shoulder is achieved by large puffs, by rows of little frills, or even by cascading loops of ribbon. Capes and capelets in self or contrasting material still add interest to the shoulder line. If you wish to be definitely 1933, have one shoulder-strap of flowers. Fresh flowers are glorious—but no, their little evening is soon done; and artificial flowers, if carefully chosen, are quite charming. Choose flowers to contrast, rather than to tone. Don't forget the neckline, higher in front and definitely low at the back. If you are inclined to shoulder-blades, however, don't attempt to be ultra-smart as regards the back.
From neck to hem, the front of a gown should be quite plain. In some of the newest models the fitted waist-line is accentuated by a belt from the sides fastening in a large bow at the back. Unusual contrasts such as green and mauve, or cerise and violet, are found in these sashes. I saw an elaborate gown with this type of tie finish, shading from mauve to purple. The cut was extremely intricate, and the line was classic. A shaded feather collar, resembling an Elizabethan ruff, added the final touch.
The short coat has evidently come to stay, but in such variety that in some cases the relationship is extremely remote. The hip-length wrap in fur or in contrasting material is smart. Shorter coats, in velvet or silk, ring the changes
Accessories are interesting. Gloves have suddenly become an important detail. A few of us have already tried mittens—dainty, lacy affairs in shades to match our frocks—and now, if we are investing in a velvet gown, we must of course choose velvet gloves to accompany it.
Shoes usually match the gown, and are long and slim. The short, rounded toe that made fours look like threes has retired into the background, for the present at least.
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Don't be dull. During the last few years of depression we've had hurled at us from fashion pages, home notes, and women's journals, the advice, “Be economical. Be smart. Study the ensemble. If your purse is shallow, plan your clothes carefully, choosing your colour scheme.” So we have our two-piece, three-piece and four-piece suits, each part so obviously related to every other part, with the skirt material echoed in the pocket flaps of the coat, or the coat lining draping the neckline of the frock—pieces snipped off her and there and slapped on there and here. I say again, don't let's be dull, and patchy.
Cheerfulness is so much a matter of environment, and—with a woman—clothes are certainly 50 per cent. of the surroundings. Psychologists have studied the effect of colour on mental outlook; the warm colours, from the yellow of diluted sunlight to a deep rich crimson, vary as much as the emotions; the cool shades equally well echo moods or form contrasts to them. Women are said to be creatures of moods (and by this is not meant moodiness). Therefore, we require more colour than one to express us. Also, in most cases, our colour expressions may show violent contrasts. We do not meet many who go through life faintly expressing pale saxe or spend the years bringing their friends and relatives to the shrieking point by blatantly asserting a tangerine personality. No; we are, luckily for ourselves, more complex; our natures are woven from contrasting strands.
Here and now, we will decide not to spend a depressing winter in green, while Mabel languishes in blue, perhaps with a touch of red on hat or scarf, and Sybil flaunts her tawnies on a brown base. If we feel happy in May and down-cast in September, a lot of the blame can be cast at the present-day clothes regime. Let's be original and express ourselves properly, deciding that we are not one-colour women for months on end.
Knitwear is smart, bright and cosy. The dark girl can have an orange cardigan, a deep blue pullover, a scarlet jumper, and a black skirt as a base for the three, for less than the price of one ready-made frock or ensemble. In this way we can choose a wardrobe to suit our moods—or to correct them, which is quite as important.
I'm beginning to resent the word “ensemble,” which has ruled the world of fashion too long. Accessories, of course, must match, but our outfits need not be ensembles; when we ring the changes, let it be from one colour to another, not merely the addition of a coat to match, or the taking off of a cape, also to match. There are so many reasonably priced, artistically woven and beautifully coloured materials from which to concoct little extras in the way of tunics, jackets, peasant blouses—fine wools for street and office wear, silks for coy afternoons by your own or your friends' fireside. Recently I saw a charming tunic in maize yellow with a panel seaming which was reflected on the black skirt where it terminated in inverted pleats. The neckline had extensions which crossed and buttoned to the tunic in a smart bow effect. Now, everybody, set to work to investigate the colour possibilities.
* * *
Weaving is one of the oldest crafts, and has been practised since the very earliest times. The power loom soon drove the weavers first to despair and then into the factories, and hand-weaving became practically a lost art in industrial countries. Now, strange to say, the old art has been revived in the most modern cities as a useful pastime in the home. It has, quite
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Safeguard The Children's Health.
The Danger of Colds.
Children must be safeguarded against colds, especially during the winter and early spring. The common cold is anything but a trifling ailment and must not be neglected. An immense amount of ill-health in later life can be traced directly to neglected colds in childhood. The delicate lining membrane of the nose becomes inflamed and infected by germs, and once this condition occurs, other colds and complications are likely to follow. Ear troubles frequently result owing to the spread of infection from the nose passages to the middle ear. Enlarged tonsils and adenoids are also encouraged.
If a child has a heavy cold and the weather is changeable, he is better in bed in a warm airy room and out of draughts, and if in reasonably good health he should soon recover. The nose must be kept clear as possible. Handkerchiefs should not be used, but pieces of soft rag which can be burnt, as the discharges are highly infectious. A child with a cold should not be encouraged to blow his nose too hard, as by so doing, discharge may be forced into cavities at the side of the nose. An aperient must be given—castor oil or some other usual medicine. Give light nourishing diet and plenty of drinks—water, barley-water, fruit drinks, milk, etc.
If there is a tickling or irritating cough, black-currant tea (made with jam or jelly and boiling water) is a homely and old-fashioned remedy, also glycerine, lemon juice and honey are very effective. For a slightly sore throat, gargling with a mild antiseptic, such as salt and water, has a soothing effect for the child who is old enough to gargle and can be trusted not to swallow the gargle.
A chest cold or cough, if there is a temperature, really calls for medical advice, as there is a risk of bronchitis. An inhalation of Friar's Balsam (one teaspoonful to a pint of boiling water) gives relief. To give the inhalation, place a paper bag with a small hole cut in a corner, over the receptacle that holds the inhalant. The steam then goes directly up the nose and into the lungs, thus preventing the pores of the skin being opened to admit a chill.
For a severe sore throat, it is advisable to isolate the child, as it is often an early sign of one of the infectious diseases. If there are whitish spots or patches on the throat, the doctor should be sent for immediately.
Human Parcels By Rail.
Alastair Campbell (aged 7) and his brother William (aged 3), whose photographs appear below, became, in a manner, passenger parcels, consigned to their grandmother at Waihi. To each of the children was attached a label bearing his name and the address of the grandparent.
The original link of the boys with Waihi was their father, who went from that town some years ago to Rarotonga, where he married a native. The death of both parents caused a call to go from New Zealand to the orphans, and so began a voyage of wonderment on the “Makura” to Wellington. Here they were met by a friend, who handed them to the guard on the Main Trunk Express. Of course the guard transferred them to the kindly care of the attendant on the ladies' carriage, where the young wayfarers found warmth and other comfort. Away they went on their first train ride, in full confidence that the Railway Department would deliver them safely to their grandmother.
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
Alastair and William Campbell.
Famous British Express Train In America.
(Photos, courtesy S. Fahey, N.Z.R., Feathersto)
Great Britain's contribution to the Transport Section of the Century of Progress World's Fair now open in Chicago, U.S.A. “The Royal Scot,” crack train of the London, Midland & Scottish Railway, on its triumphal tour through the Eastern States of America.
(By
E. Vivian Hall
Pound and Dollar—Where is the Balancing Point?—American Home Troubles.
This month the outstanding question has been how to restore the measuring value of money. Money used to be a yardstick; it is now a bit of elastic. This change has cut at the root of all valuing. In fact, no one knows what values are. In New Zealand, at the annual meeting of the North Island Valuers' Association, the chairman said it would be “most difficult for anyone to say what land is worth today.” All over the world the same thing is being said about land, commodities, and services. Money has been so unstable that it is most difficult to state values in terms of money. A yardstick that stretches is not much good, and the London conference has been discussing how to take the stretch out of it—how to stabilise money.
Hitherto each nation has managed its own currency. But it is postulated by the reformers that the present crisis means international action; that national action by itself is impotent. They hardly hope to create an international currency under international management, but they hope that the nations conferring in London will agree to co-operate so that, by international action, money values, and the terms of exchange, will be stabilised. It is not intended to get down to absolute fixity, and to jettison all the elasticity. “The Times” modestly speaks of “an attempt to confine the instability of the dollar and the pound within certain elastic limits.” But at that moment “The Times” finds that President Roosevelt is loth even to thus far commit himself. Not stability, but a mere modified instability, is the first mark set up, and the first arrow flies wide. Perhaps the marksmanship will improve a little later. Perhaps it will even qualify on a target more ambitious. Otherwise …!!!
During the last year during which the dollar stood on gold, the pound sterling behaved in a way not unsatisfactory to Britain, helped by an exchange stabilisation fund of many millions. Since the dollar was taken off gold, pound and dollar, brought down to a lower fighting weight, have moved backwards and forwards across the stage watching each other. Those who fear a contest in competitive depreciation of currencies have been hoping for a mutual agreement on the relative values of pound and dollar, as a kick-off for the London Conference. But President Roosevelt has to think of the internal dollar as well as the external dollar. He has two internal factors that the British Government has not yet had to deal with—(1) a big banking crisis, and (2) a whole bundle of emergency powers put into his executive hand by Congress, such powers as, except in wartime, British Parliaments have not been inclined to vote. The very plenitude of his permissive remedies is embarrassing.
In its earlier legislation Congress gave the President power to reduce the gold content of the dollar by 50 per cent., and to inject into banking three bullion dollars of reserves (with enormous multiple expansion of credit). Either of these powers, if fully enforced, would cause an inflation which, in banking opinion, would lead to a complete flight from the dollar. But these powers, and others, are permissive. Congress trusts the President's discretion. In real truth, Congress threw all kinds of weapons to the President because Congress did not know what to do. Does the President himself know what to do? And if he does not know exactly how the dollar will behave within the United States, is he able to frame an international policy? To that question, some people reply: “Yes, but he will proceed by tariff reduction, rather than by monetary action.” But already the American delegation in London is reported to be split on a Washington suggestion for a mere 10 per cent. duty reduction.
Even as the London World Conference sits. Congress completes further legislation which, according to the cablegrams, gives the President, through a board, powers to fix wages, hours, production, and prices in five major industries. Here, then, is a President possessing complete authority to fix the value of money, credit, prices, work—a great experimenter in a little world of his own, a world of some 130 million people. Not having properly begun in his own world, can he make close commitments in monetary and tariff matters with the outer world? That seems to be the main problem at the moment before the London Conference. As things are liable to change from hour to hour, it is to be hoped something more definite will shape itself as the sands in the hour glass run down. But to under-estimate the difficulties would be of no avail. There can be no quick cure.
(By
Shibli Bagarag .)New Zealand'S finest advertisement is David Low. He is one of the most publicised figures in England, and it is always mentioned that he is a New Zealander. He is spoken of as the greatest living cartoonist, earns a Prime Minister's salary, and is a social lion of London. I may be creating a small sensation therefore when I say there is the possibility of the Dominion producing another Low. Mark the word “possibility.” In his early days at black and white work, who would have been bold enough to suggest that young David, who used to draw for the Christchurch “Spectator,” was going to be world famous? He had yet to find himself, to build up his marvellous technique, to develop a style of his own. It has been said that had not Alf. Vincent become an imitator of Phil May he may have been a great artist. There are other temptations in the way of the young artist, but, granting he has the genius and follows not false gods, fame is waiting for him. That is why I am being guarded in suggesting that Russell Clark, a young Dunedin black and white artist, may become another David Low. I first saw his work in an exhibition Sketcher, published a few weeks ago. Immediately I was keenly interested. Obviously Clark had soaked himself in Low, had absorbed some of the characteristics of George Prain, another most promising New Zealand artist, but at the back of it all was a glimpse of the budding genius of Russell Clark. I will watch the progress of Russell Clark with confidence that he will justify my expectations.
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In the same Sketcher, and in the Capping Carnival Sketcher the work of Gordon McIntyre also stands out strongly. McIntyre is an old hand at the game and can get a likeness better than most artists in New Zealand.
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Recently we had a reprint of Norman Lindsay's children's classic, “The Magic Pudding.” It was the first time I had read this little known book, but it set me ardently seeking for the first edition, which was published at one guinea and has since mounted in value to five times that figure. I was the happiest man in Wellington, therefore, when I had a mint copy knocked down to me at a Wellington book sale recently for eleven shillings.
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Like our old friend Johnny Walker, Dent's, the famous British publishers, are “still going strong” in their “Everyman's Library.” As a lad it was my first great ambition to have and follow up the complete Everyman's Library, and I still have that ambition, more especially so when I come across such a bookish book as “Erewhon and Erewhon Re-visited,” which is No. 881 in this classic library. This is the first time that our most famous New Zealand writer has had his two greatest works between one set of covers. The introduction in the new volume is by Desmond MacCarthy.
Handing on the torch of my enthusiasm to the young “Shiblis,” what more effective fuel to keep it alight than “A Poetry Book for Boys and Girls,” No. 894 of the Everyman's series. The editor of this volume, Guy Pocock, has made an admirable selection.
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I cannot leave Dent's yet awhile, until I refer to their double volumes, which, like wireless, super cocktails and talkies, are a natural outcome of our advanced civilisation. Fancy getting Boswell's “Life of Johnson” in one compact volume—almost pocket size. What more inspiring bulge for the hip pocket than this book, with its 1280 pages. Charles Lamb would have gone into ecstasy over it. Repeating myself, it is a “bookish book.”
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The encouragement of new writers and the further development of New Zealand literature are the ideas behind the Commercial Writers' Institute, headquarters in Dunedin. Its founder and Director of Studies, Leonard J. Cronin, a
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Had a little argument the other day as to which was the first newspaper published in New Zealand. History, I think, definitely establishes the fact that it was the “New Zealand Gazette,” the second number of which was printed and published on the Petone Beach, on April 18th, 1840. The first number was published in London on August 31st, 1839. The editor was Samuel Revans. Of the 350 copies issued, I understand that only five are in existence.
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The vigorous controversy that raged in “The Dominion” for a week or more recently on the price of beer, brought back to my mind that famous phrase of David McKee Wright's: “Beer makes us feel as we ought to feel without it.”
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G. B. Lancaster, whose latest novel is reviewed elsewhere in this issue, is returning to New Zealand in September.
Stuart Peterson, one of our best black and white men, is now on the permanent staff of the “Free Lance,” and is wandering over many pages per issue in his usual effective style.
The correct pronunciation of Samuel Pepys is “Peppies,” not “Peeps.”
James Cowan has completed the MSS of a collection of South Sea Stories that will probably be published by Endeavour Press, Sydney.
Syd. Miller, the well known black and white artist of “Smith's,” has left that paper, and is now free lancing.
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“Pageant,” by G. B. Lancaster (Endeavour Press, Sydney and Wellington.—Before I read the book I was agreeably surprised that a comparatively new Australian Publishing House could produce a book that challenges comparison with the best English publishing houses. The jacket is arresting, the format must please the real booklover. The edition is better than the English edition and can stand up to the excellence of the Canadian edition. As for the story, just read it, and exult in the fact that this country has given such a brilliant novelist to the world. Price, 6/6.
“The Devil Rides High” (“Cassell's) ties you down from Chapter I. to the end. There is no let up in the all absorbing interest of this story of love and aerial adventure in the Arctic. Jealousy is the theme. Clarence Winchester, the author, is editor of “The Argosy” and “Cassells Magazine.”
“Gold-dust and Ashes” (Angus and Robertson, Sydney), is one of the most enthralling stories we have had of the New Guinea Gold-fields. The author, Ion Idriess, gives us a powerful story of this dangerous and most romantic country and the heroic struggles of lion-hearted prospectors in their search for gold. What a glorious change for the novel reader in this true to life story. A great six shillings worth.
“New Zealand's Best Scenic Feature.”
In addition to the £5 cash prize awarded to Miss Isobel M. Peacocke for the winning essay in the above competition, ten other prizes, each to consist of one year's free subscription to the “New Zealand Railways Magazine,” have been awarded to the following competitors in terms of the competition announcement in our March-April issue:—
B. Lord, 58 Conway Street, Spreydon, Christchurch; Ellen J. Murray, Shield Hill, Dunedin; J. D. Hay, Lands and Survey Dept., Box 15, Invercargill; Mrs. M. Williams, P.O. Box 22, Otane, Hawke's Bay; C. H. V. Steere, 25 Blackwell Street, Marton; Mackellar Giles, 43 Trent Street, Oamaru; Joy Ridgen, “Brooklyn” Greendale, Canterbury; Carol Blyth, Greenlane, Auckland; W. Vance, 66 Wai-iti Road, Timaru; Thomas Roche, 105 Abberley Road, St. Albans, Christchurch.
Export Markets for Wood Products.
According to Mr. R. St. Barbe Baker, a forestry expert of wide experience, America has cut seven-eights of her forests; while one-half of the remaining area was in reserves. Thus U.S.A. is working on its last sixteenth, and must look for further supplies from outside sources. America will be looking to New Zealand as a source of supply later on.
There will be large export markets for the products of the forests established by N.Z. Perpetual Forests Ltd.*
Visitors to New Zealand often express their difficulty in pronouncing Maori place names, but the native-born New Zealander, with less excuse, exhibits his ignorance in almost every Maori word he pronounces. The lack of the training of our school teachers in Maori pronunciation is a contributory cause to this ignorance, while the difficulty is enhanced by the fact that nowadays, especially in the South Island, there are practically no opportunities for hearing the language spoken. Printed rules are all very well, but they lead to many misunderstandings, and are pitfalls for the unwary. It is frequently stated, for instance, that there is no accent in a Maori word. This is completely wrong. The error is no doubt due to the enunciation of the principle that every Maori vowel must be given its full value. The difficulty to the English tongue is that when a sylable is stressed in English the vowel is lengthened, whereas in Maori this is not done. The general rule in Maori is that the first syllable is accented, e.g., ra'ngatira, chief; ta'ngata, man. When, however, the causal prefix whaka- is used, the prefix is unaccented and the accent remains on the first syllable of the root word, e.g., whakata'ne. When in Maori a word is formed by doubling the last two syllables of a tri-syllabic word, the first syllable is invariably long, and there is a secondary accent on the second and fourth syllables, e.g., āwhi'owhi'o.
Another aid to correct Maori pronunciation is to remember the fact that every Maori syllable is open, i.e., ends with a vowel. A knowledge of this simple fact would prevent the mispronunciations of such place names as that of the South Island mining town of Kaitangata, which is invariably pronounced as Kai-tang-ata. The correct pronunciation is easily seen when the word is correctly divided into syllables, Kai-tanga-ta. It is necessary to add that there is no short sound of a in Maori like the a in the English sang; a is always pronounced as in păpā, the long ā is simply a prolongation of the short ă. The consonantal ng is not guttural and hard, but has the soft nasal sound of the ng in singing.
A frequent source of confusion is found also in the apparent diphthongs ai, ae, au, ou, ei. Strictly speaking, these are not diphthongs at all, and each letter in each pair should be given its full sound, the sound of the first letter gliding into the second without a distinct break in the flow of sound. The orthography of Maori words is defective in one particular, in that the sign for a lengthened vowel is a doubled letter, e.g., ā is written as aa, ē as ee, ō as oo. A
oo in the Scottish coo, meaning cow. The correct pronounciation is Te Koti, with the vowel sound of the English vowel in coat, from which it was probably derived.—“Rotia.”
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Hori was the owner of an ancient and very delapidated motor truck, and was engaged on a contract for the delivery of the milk from a number of the dairy farms in the district to the local cheese factory. One morning as I was travelling behind him in my car, I noticed a really alarming wobble in one of the rear wheels of the vehicle. I spurted in order to warn him of the impending disaster, and perceived, on approaching, a large notice-board nailed to the tail-door and bearing the words: “This wheel quite safe. He won't come off.”
Later on I ventured to question him about it. “Te axle bent,” he announced, “an' no time an' no money to fix him. Yesterday mornin' one fella he pull up an' tell me te wheel wobble. I t'ank him. Then another stop me, an' I t'ank him too. After that I get a bit mad, an' in teend I half hour late with te milk. Then I think about te notice. Jolly good idea, too.”—A.S.
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Never trust a woman. Least of all, a romantic one. She will subsequently reveal, through laughter and tears, the passionate speeches of hot-blooded romance. At all events, she recounted this one: He who courted her was born to the tang of the wide open spaces and not to the tongue of Romeo; he was skilled in wool and mooings, and not in words and wooings. Dogs were his favourite flower, so to speak. (Sounds a bit Alexanderish, that does.) They walked in silence the long, painful walk of the tongue-tied man and the Eve-eyed woman, and in silence they sat them down on a backblocks stump. The stage was set for Romance. Vistas, trees, breeze, and the soft fall of evening. He struggled for words, wriggled for words, sweated for words, words that would not come. She waited coyly. Only her heart beats broke the pregnant stillness. Would he never speak? At last they came. Glorious words. Nervously he touched her listless hand. His eyes appealed. His lips parted…. “Er—er—er—–‘Oggets Is Up.“—Pumice.
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The par about Hihitahi in the “Railways Magazine” (1/4/33) reminds me of an old aunt of mine who had just as much difficulty with the word as the English travellers mentioned. We were living up that way then, but familiarity never gave the dear old lady any greater facility with the pronunciation, and to the end of her days she used to call it “Hittititti.”—“Rikko.'