Queenstown, South Island, New Zealand.
Contents
I hereby certify that the publisher's lists and other records disclose that the circulation of the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” has not been less than 20,000 copies each issue since July, 1930.
Deputy-Controller and Auditor-General.
Answers To Correspondents
J.C.—A good descriptive article. Unfortunately we are already printing one on same subject. Katiti.—Fine, your singer reaches our heart. F.S.—The mental specialist was a natural corollary. What could you expect? W.G.B.—Not keen on horrors; and this story, though well told, rakes over old evil for no purpose.
Note.—Owing to pressure of space, comment on a number of manuscripts is held over.
Popular Football Excursions.
The excursions run by the Railways Department for the recent Ranfurly Shield match in Christchurch, were very well patronised. Invercargill sent three trainloads which aggregated 1,500 passengers by the time the trains reached Christchurch. Westland sent four train-loads, with about 2,000 passengers. The low fares provided by the Railways helped to popularise these outings. On this point the Dunedin “Evening Star” states that one of the arguments arising on the excursion of footballers from Invercargill to Christchurch was as to the exact distance that the Railway Department was carrying for 25/-. The total distance passengers were carried for this sum was 738 miles, the rate being less than ½d. per mile.
“Mountains of ice, like sapphire, piled on high.“-Shelley.
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
Among the Mt. Cook group, Southern Alps. Skiers take their pleasure on the glorious run from the Ball Pass. The Tasman Chalet occupies the middle distance. “In my opinion,” writes Thomas Mitchell, Esq., Victoria, “the downhill ski route in the vicinity of the Ball Hut at Mt. Cook, is the finest I have seen in the world!”
The New Zealand
Railways
Magazine
Railways
Magazine
Registered for transmission by Post as a Newspaper
Published by the
New Zealand Government Railways Department
“”
For Better Service.Vol. 8 No. 6
Wellington,
New Zealand
October2, 1933
Industrial life responds to the stirrings of spring in much the same way as the emotional in man and the flowers and trees in Nature. It becomes more active, more hopeful, more enterprising—brighter in outlook, increasingly confident, and more friendly. The British spring this year saw a marked revival of trade, and the New Zealand spring upon which we have just entered brings with it better prices and more definite signs of general industrial improvement than have been experienced for many months.
Recent mails arriving in the Dominion indicate increased forward bookings of tourists for this country, a definite revival of travel from which the whole industrial life of New Zealand will benefit.
The springtime enterprise of the railways in thrusting through to get more traffic is an indication that this giant of the transport world refuses to “stay put.” When the times call for changed methods the railways respond, the measure of their adaptability being the index of their vigour and the test of their suitability to meet the needs of commerce.
All these spring-time activities are helping to bury the depression. They are making people “think o’ something different”; they are, in the words of Mulvaney, “creating a divarshun,” and bringing about a change in mental outlook that projects better times ahead.
Among the aids towards national revival will be the National Confidence Carnival Week to be held in Wellington from the 18th to the 25th November. It is a recognised principle in all human progress that a contemplation of past achievement gives the best assurance of what can be done in the future. So the Carnival, while telling dull care to vanish, will shew in the most graphic form what New Zealand's great century has accomplished, and provide a background for displaying the bright prospects of the golden years ahead.
General Manager'S Message'S
Indications Of Railway Recovery.
Following the improvement in the financial position of the New Zealand Railways recently announced, it is pleasing to find that the latest reports from Great Britain indicate a satisfactory increase in receipts during the last seven weeks (compared with the corresponding period last year) amounting to £605,000. The British group railways have had a hard time during the past four years, their total net receipts dropping from £40 million in 1929 to £24 million in 1932. The more recent recovery both there and in this country, may perhaps be an indication that trade generally is on the mend.
The net revenue of the New Zealand Railways fell by £240,000 between 1930 and 1931, but recovered to the extent of £162,000 between 1931 and 1933, and for the current financial year to date shews a further recovery amounting to £32,000.
The latest trade figures regarding New Zealand's primary products shew an upward tendency in prices, a result which should help to accelerate the revival in railway business that is so important a factor in national welfare.
Business And Pleasure.—Among the special train excursions of the winter season not any have been more successful than those associated with the national game of Rugby football. The matches for the Ranfurly Shield have created exceptional interest in the South Island, new records in the numbers carried being established for excursions from Southland and the West Coast. In the North Island, too, the Wellington-Auckland match at Auckland saw an unprecedented number carried between these cities for an event of the kind. For all these excursions exceptionally low rates have been charged, and this facility has undoubtedly been an important factor in developing a travel interest in the matches themselves.
The comparatively forward condition of the Department's rolling-stock programme has had an important bearing on the success of these excursions, for almost all the trains have been composed of the more modern type of cars which gave added comfort on the long journeys that were made. The railways have again demonstrated their value as a source of service to the community and the community response has enabled the railways to perform this useful function to the community with profit to itself.
The Stratford-Okahukura Line.—During the month the new northern outlet for Taranaki via the Stratford-Okahukara line has been taken over by the Department, and a timetable provided which is meeting with general public favour in the districts most affected. The new line has features of considerable importance from an operating aspect, including an alternative route between north and south in case of a temporary line blockage on the central portion of the Main Trunk between Okahukura and Marton. But its main importance lies in the opportunity for increased railway traffic which the line provides, and as it gives a definite benefit to the districts which it serves, a full measure of public support from these districts is essentially required in the interest of the country as a whole.
General Manager.
Leo Fanning
One visitor after another, year after year, tells New Zealanders that their country has marvellous scenery, beyond the power of pen to describe or brush to paint worthily. When will this “natural capital” pay big dividends?
Well, fellow-New Zealanders, you have a country known as “The Brighter Britain of the South,” The Wonderland of the Pacific,” “The Playground of the Pacific,” “The Sportsman's Paradise,” and “God's Own Country.” What are you doing to gain big dividends from that marvellous natural capital of scenic charm, health-giving waters, troutteeming rivers and lakes, and haunts of swordfish? When will the wide world send its tens of thousands every year to these isles of enchantment and refreshment? When will New Zealand have its proper place in the itineraries of people of the six continents? This will happen when New Zealand's people—especially those who are directly interested in the tourist industry-decide on action which the natural wealth deserves.
New Zealanders, how many of you know your own country thoroughly? As a reminder of your Islands’ claim to the notice of the world's tourists here is a brief survey of the principal spectacular features, from North to South:—
Interest begins at the very tip of the North Island—at Parenga, where the godwits and other migratory birds take wing for far Siberia.
The neck of this long peninsula, known as “The Winterless North,” has the broad, smooth Ninety-mile Beach on the west side, surely one of the world's best marine parades.
Southward, near Dargaville, is the Trounson Kauri Forest, dedicated to the State. Here are mighty kauri kings whose huge smooth columns, like the pillars of a temple, have held up their great evergreen canopies for many centuries.
The east coast includes the entrancing inlet of Whangaroa, remarkable for the cathedral-forms of its hills and wooded ferny coves; historic Bay of Islands, with its relics of old Maori wars, the early missions and the beginnings of British colonisation.
Even tourists from the United States admit that the Thermal Wonderland of the Rotorua-Wairakei-Taupo zone is more spectacular than their own Yellowstone Park, because the “sights” are more concentrated on the New Zealand stage. In strange contrast with the wild play of hissing water and bubbling mud are fern-fringed fairy pools, cool glades of forest, and lakes of blue and green. This region is as colourful in parts as the palette of a jazz artist.
Nature has cleverly medicated some of these hot waters, which are turned to good use for suffering humanity in the well-equipped Government Spa at Rotorua.
Whatever thrills any visitor may expect from the Glow-worm Grotto of Waitomo, the reality will always exceed anticipation. It is a subterranean fairy palace of marble, lit by myriads of glow-worms, whose lights suggest countless stars in a strange heaven, wonderfully reflected on the still surface of an underground river.
Other caves of this region have fascinating sculptures of glistening stalactites and stalagmites in various combinations and colours.
The huge spread of Tongariro National Park, at the centre of the North Island, takes in the volcanic trio of Mts. Tongariro, Ruapehu (9175ft.), and Ngauruhoe. Tongariro is a “sleeping partner” now; Ruapehu shows some heat at intervals in the lake on its ice-rimmed crater, and Ngauruhoe has an occasional harmless smoke. It is claimed for this park—with its majesty of mountain scenery, beautiful forests, little lakes, and the varied play of water in colourful streams and cascades—that it has nearly every type of New Zealand's inland scenery.
At the fringe of the park is the heart-shaped lake of Taupo, seventeen miles in width and twenty-five in length, the largest lake of New Zealand, in a splendid setting. Taupo and its tributaries offer the world's best rainbow trout to the angler.
This middle zone of the North Island includes star-pointed Lake Waikaremoana, to which whole booklets have been devoted. Its ferny dells and the murmuring play of its tributary streams make Irishmen think of Killarney. Here is an ideal place for a restful holiday, with the refreshing tonic of beauty.
In its course of 140 miles from the centre of the North Island to the sea, the Wanganui River gives some world-famed scenes. Here is a versifier's tribute:
Famous New Zealand Scenes-North Island
(Rly. Publicity photos.)
Above: Glimpse of Whangaroa Harbour. Below: Mt. Egmont from Pukekura, New Plymouth.
Famous New Zealand Scenes-South Island
(Rly. Publicity photos.)
Above: Lake Ada, Milford Track. Below: Mt. Cook and Mt. Tasman, from Lake Matheson.
Japanese visitors have gone specially to Taranaki to gaze in wonderment at the noble cone of Egmont, a rival of their own venerated Fujiyama. This peak, standing in princely solitude far away from other mountains, wears an evergreen mantle of native forest below its crystal crown, which is raised 8260ft. above the sea. This extinct volcano is a monument of peace on the place where the fire-demons had their battles long ages ago.
Marlborough and Nelson, in the South Island, are distinctly “Garden Provinces.” With its wide-spread apple orchards, Nelson sent nearly a million cases of fruit overseas in one season. Nelson has two jewel lakes, Rotoroa and Rotoiti, the health-giving hot springs of Maruia, and the Buller River, which winds through many miles of wild woodlands among high mountains.
The road from Nelson to the West Coast has charmed many tourists. “Every turn of the road opens up a vista of beauty as fresh now as it was long centuries ago,” runs one tribute.
Between Westport and Greymouth the way lies for miles through natural avenues of treeferns, nikau palms, and tall native trees. The mountains on one side and the sea on the other flank are in a beauty competition to hold the traveller's gaze.
Below Hokitika—the route to Franz Josef and Fox Glaciers—is the renowned scenic highway which has won the most glowing praise from many distinguished travellers. “This is the most beautiful drive that can be found anywhere,” remarked Lord Craigavon.
Franz Josef Glacier is always a splendid surprise to all tourists. They hope for much, and receive more than they expect. Just think of this huge course of ice, that carries its crystal freight within 700 feet of sea-level, and has its sparkling face framed in emerald of forest which has sub-tropical luxuriance.
Sister Fox, a few miles to the south, has similar charm.
Altogether, New Zealand's railways, which give easy access to the principal scenic, sporting and health resorts, can claim to be scenic, but of course some sections are more scenic than others. A particularly picturesque line from the West Coast traverses the Southern Alps, pierced by an electrified tunnel 5 1/4 miles in length (the longest of the British Empire), goes through colossal gorges, and crosses the forty-mile wide plain of Canterbury, notable for its very pleasant farming landscapes.
Has the world a better alpine playground than the Mt. Cook region offers in all seasons? Apparently not—according to the testimony of many famous travellers. The well-known alpinist, Marcel Kurz, gave this tribute: “I search my memory in vain for a mountain in the Swiss Alps that could replace Mt. Cook with advantage … We blase Europeans can find in these New Zealand mountains satisfaction that Europe's Alps deny us henceforth. Here the unknown, the novel, meet still at each step.”
Mt. Cook (12,350ft.) has a retinue of noble peaks and stupendous glaciers. Here, too, are vast snowfields for ski sport.
Who would not cross the world to see the southern lakes? Think of the blue serpentine of Wakatipu, thrown in a stretch of fifty-two miles, along the base of those beautiful sierras, which have been well named “The Remarkables,” and other mountain grandeur! Think of many-isled Manapouri, which reflects the proud beauty of the Cathedral Peaks! Think of three-armed Te Anau which reaches into forested Fiordland!
A road is being made from Te Anau to Milford Sound, but in the meanwhile this route continues to be known as “The World's Wonder Walk,” three days of bewitchment by Nature, who has set a rapturous wealth of properties on this stage. Here she uses the best of her arts and crafts to charm mankind. Here is the tremendous Clinton Canyon, where titanic glaciers did their gigantic carving in the Ice Age; here is the McKinnon Pass, which commands far-spread panoramas of alpine splendour; here is the flashing Sutherland Fall, an irridiscent drop of 1900ft.; here is the magic mirror of Lake Ada.
Milford Sound and other islets of the West Coast surpass Norway's fiords in scenic lute because their overpowering grandeur is allied with the vivid greenery of varied vegetation—ferns and mosses, shrubs and trees. Here is Nature's enormous sculpture of the Lion, a monstrous figure whose shaggy head is 3000 feet above the water—a colossus which makes a pigmy of Egypt's famous Sphinx. Here, too, is that noble spire, more than a mile high, well named the Mitre. Ramparts of granite have a sheer rise of 3000 to 5000 feet from the deep Sound. Waterfalls flash from the battlements.
This scrappy narrative of selected scenes does meagre justice to New Zealand. The parts chosen are as single jewels unstrung. In Nature's artistry they are linked by light and colour in unbroken sequence.
(By
Edith L. Kerr
It is sometimes said that New Zealand has no literature. This is so far from being the case that an attempt to review it in the space of one article is an ambitious, not to say a presumptuous, task. To begin with, many of our pioneers were men of culture and vision as well as of practical enterprise. Edward Gibbon Wakefield himself, with all his faults, had distinctly original ideas on colonisation, and his “Letter from Sydney” not only roused great discussion at the time, but has been deemed of sufficient interest to be reprinted recently in Messrs. J. M. Dent and Sons’ “Everyman's Library.” New Zealand, therefore, and especially Wellington, may be said to have had a distinctly literary genesis. Among the group of leaders that included Fitzgerald, Featherston, and the Bowens, were many with intellectual and literary leanings. The verses that some of them have left show, not unnaturally, a mingling of regret for the old and with boundless hope for that to which they had come, as in the characteristic lines of C. C. Bowen:
Prince of the early poets was Domett, the friend of Browning, who came to New Zealand in 1842. He was Commissioner of Crown Lands in Hawke's Bay; and Napier—the first Napier—was of his planning, and owes to him the poetical names of its streets. He became Premier of the colony in 1862. His “Ranolf and Amohia,” published in 1872, won instant recognition both here and at Home, but it is, alas! rather heavy reading for the taste of to-day. It embodies much of the old Maori mythological lore, and its best remembered passage is a description of the famous Pink and White Terraces.
Foremost among the cultured Englishmen who adopted New Zealand as their home was Sir George Grey, three times Governor and afterwards Premier. His “Polynesian Mythology,” published in 1855, was the first really scholarly and exhaustive account of Maori beliefs, and is still a standard work. His statesmanship, as well as his munificence, especially to the City of Auckland, left their mark for ever on New Zealand culture.
Turning aside now from the line of political leaders, and going back in time to the days before the establishment of British sovereignty, we have Maning's “Old New Zealand,” published in 1863. Pember Reeves says of the author: “Maning lived with a tribe on the beautiful shores of Hokianga, was an Irish adventurer possessed not only of uncommon courage and acuteness but of real literary talent, and a genial and charming humour. He lived to see savagery replaced by colonisation. Some of his reminiscences still form the best book the colony has been able to produce. Nowhere else has the comedy and childishness of savage life been so delightfully portrayed. Nowhere else do we get such an insight into that strange medley of contradictions and caprices, the Maori mind.” This book marked the beginning of a stream of reminiscences on both Maori and pakeha matters. Among serious historians may be mentioned Dr. Robert McNab, who was Minister for Education under Mr. Seddon, and who made invaluable researches into the early history of southern New Zealand and the outlying islands. Mr. T. Lindsay Buick is an authority both on New Zealand history and on New Zealand birds. The late Mr. Elsdon Best, Mr. James Cowan, and Mr. Johannes Andersen have continued the work of investigating and recording much valuable native lore, which otherwise would have been lost for ever. And Mr. Louis E. Ward, in “Early Wellington,” has brought together, in a readable form, many scattered narratives of our own beginnings.
Returning now to poetry, which we left with Domett, his successor in popular regard was Thomas Bracken. Bracken was an unequal poet, but his best work reached a high standard. “The March of Te Rauparaha” embodies much of the Maori war spirit. His “Not Understood” —a little sentimental perhaps to the modern mind—and his “New Zealand Hymn” are well known. William Pember Reeves, the real statesman behind Richard Seddon's early social legislation, was a man of many parts, and a poet among other things. In “Aotea-roa, the Long White Cloud,” he gives us both history and description of the colony, touched with the finger of poetry. As it happens, the writers so far mentioned have all been men. The women pioneers were too busy with many things to write much more than their long letters Home, but we have still with us the veteran women poets of more recent times. Miss Jessie Mackay, Miss Dora Wilcox, and Miss Mary E. Richmond, with a very fine poet of a younger generation, Miss Eileen Duggan. Miss Wilcox
Mr. Will Lawson has journeyed back and forth, and David McKee Wright migrated altogether. His work is unequal, but much of it represents very truly our back-blocks life. A considerable addition to our poetic achievement is Mr. Alan E. Mulgan's “Golden Wedding.” He writes the story of fifty years of pioneering endeavour in eighteenth century couplets which are equally adapted to humour or to quietly beautiful description. Early this year, Mr. C. R. Allen, son of Sir James Allen, published a volume of “Sonnets and Studies.” In verse and prose alike, this writer is subtle, musical, thoughtful and stimulating.
There are many who might be called present day minor poets, and individual mention might perhaps be invidious. Scattered in newspapers and magazines, their work is little regarded, and yet when collected in volumes, such as “Kowhai Gold,” “Best Poems of 1932” (“Art in N.Z.”), or the “Gift Book of N.Z. Verse” (“Radio Record”), its quality is surprising. Writing without much hope of reward, or even of recognition, they sing to please themselves, and set their standard high. While not developing any special local idiosyncrasies, they observe keenly and express their sentiments truly. They are content to experiment with measures, and to use rhyme as a servant and not as a master, without the self-sufficient iconoclasm of the advanced modern school. A little fountain is rising among us, not very conspicuous in force or volume, and yet of pure and clear quality. Indeed, it may be that future critics will recognise that the true tradition of English poetry was carried on at this period, not by the London cliques, but by writers of the overseas Dominions. Who can deny the authentic poetry of such lines as these, chosen almost at random from our New Zealand poets:
(Photo courtesy Mr. J. Lorimer, Railways, Omakau.)
Nature's exquisite artistry. Effects of frozen fog on the vegetation in Central Otago.
(Perpetrated and Illustrated by
Ken Alexander
Considered without consideration, life is mostly business and pleasure, but the terms are titularly topsy and tortuously turvy, for to some psychologies business is pleasure, and to others pleasure is business. When business is pleasure the game is worth the candle, provided the pleasure-sneaker resists the temptation to kindle the candle fore and aft simultaneously; for when business is pleasure ‘tis oft’ indulged beyond measure, resulting in biznomania, and a reduction of the “alter ego” to an altered ego—a torpid tick in the chronometer of commerce, a cheque-chaser, and a moron of Mammon. Business as a means to a spend is gilt without guilt, altruism without egotism, and concentration without aberration; but in business as in boozeness, nothing exceeds like excess.
Business is a game of give-and-take or a quest for the “quid pro quo,” but too often the “quid” gives the k.o. to the “pro quo” thereby causing a rift in the loot and reducing the lilt of life to a broken malady; for the most flagrant form of monomania is money-mania, and it is better to work to live than live to work. When business is pleasure the pleasure of business should be diluted with the business of pleasure lest the day dawn when the clash of cash no longer registers as a beatific broadcast, and the buzz of the gold-bug begets static in the attic. For “the years that the locusts have eaten” are nought to the yearns that the gold-bugs have beaten, and the past is a pasture which, if not watered by the rains of relaxation, becomes as arid as an Arab's antecedents. With the advent of age the optics are opened to the years that are closed, and the enfeebled faculties grope in vain for the jettisoned gems of jocundity ‘midst the mudheaps of Mammon.
What profitith a man if he gain the whole hog and loseth his digestion? This is a back-bite at big business, for the flesh-pots mean as little to the dyspeptic dough-getter as cat's meat to a pussy-willow or gum-boots to a “goanna.” There have been awful examples of successful victims of money-myosis surrounded by all the outward and visible signs or inward and invisible sins subsisting on the fare of a shipwrecked sailor because the stomach had failed to follow the ambit of the ambition, or stand up to the pull of the purse-strings. Thus does hope interred make life listless, for life without hope is as hopless as a brewery flea.
But “big business” has been slammed by Slump, which proves the proverb that “out of evil cometh the goods”; and dibs-omania hasbeen dissipated by Depression, which proves again that a gain is only a loss with its face lifted, and that there is amity in calamity. Even a Slump has a silver lining, but it needs a shining with the polish of perception. The disadvantages of slumps are so adjectively evident that to mention them would be tantamount to enlarging on an elephant or getting a close-up of an oyster, but let us put on a bold front and face facts; although a bold front oft’ creates suspicion, frontier fighting is better than backknocks. So here goes for a fling at the famous aesthetic sport known as tossing the discuss:
“Life without hope is hopless.”
Cricket.
Talking of cricket brings us to the business of pleasure; that is to say, if “pleasure” can be sought to signify sport, for the essence of sport is sportiveness. But time was when sport was a pastime rather than a “crime passionelle,” and it was possible to brandish a bat without committing battery, and to bowl a ball without a bawl. Then, the game was mightier than the gate, there was less “am” in ambition and more ambulants than ambulance. The will-to-win was not the main motif in the poetry of motion. Tennis could be committed without having to train like a tin-hare or a stream-lined road-racer and dress like the Queen of the May gone ga-ga. Sport was emotion in slow motion, or pleasure at leisure; but now most sports are perpetrated with passionate pandemonium, and pleasure is leisure with hiccoughs. Cricket is often a game of chance, golf is frequently pot-hunting by swat-stunting, boxing is more concerned with cash-boxes than bash-boxers, wrestling embraces everything from back-biting to frontier fighting, and horse-racing is merely a species of cash-as-cash-can or “mokes” for “makes.” Pleasure has been bitten by “big business.” It has lost that schoolgirl complexion and is more bashing than bashful.
But no doubt this craze is a phase, and will pass like the Roman Umpire, bustles, antimacassars, hansom cabs, and rich uncles; and even if sport is no longer pastime it serves to uncork the pent-up passions of the populace and promote pacification by perspiration. Again we call on the choristers:
“A bold front oft’ creates suspicion.”
After all it is better to drive a bad bargain with Existence than never to have had a look in at the old curiosity shop.
The most curious curiosity in the emporium of existence is the fad of fashion. Fashion in fustian is a fusion of cut and custom, or a reflection of the times on the torso. Periods plus persons produce sartorial sensibility harmonising with the mood of the moment. The extent of each era's error can be measured with the tape of the tailor, for clothing has ever been an index to outlook and, conversely to conversion, a gain in garments has always reflected a loss in liberty. It is strange but true that a bare skin betokens freedom from fretting, and thus the barer the body, the less the body bears of the cares which are contemporary with collars and tied to ties. For the tie of Progress is a noose round the neck of freedom, and the collar dogs the dollar and dolor, and hounds happiness to the bow-wows. The edge of the ocean provides an illustration of the victory of bareness over bearishness when sun and sand provide proof of the proverb that “clothes hide a multitude of sins.” For even near-nudity is a destroyer of distinction and it is impossible to wear an air of importance with only the air to wear. It is the irony of fat that often lesser men look the greater the lesser they wear and the greater grate the greater when reduced to skin and bone. It is possible that Caesar, realising the limitations of greatness, hoisted his standard on the beach when he went in off the deep end, so that the citizenry might be seized of the fact that he was Caesar, although he may have looked more like Brutus.
If clothes make the man, trousers make the mug; for of all the miasmas of the moribund mind these twin shin-shafts called trousers are the prize leg-pullers. Trousers are as unnatural to normal man as plug-hats to penguins. Nobody with a sense of humour ever wore them. The Greeks and the Romans scorned them as a badge of barbarity. The Scot never pushed foot through them until he learnt the value of pockets, and he discards them now when the occasion calls for pleasure rather than business.
Driving A Poor Bargain.
The enlightened savage values his legacy of leg-easy too deeply to exchange loin cloth for long-cloth. If civilisation has risen in leaps and bounds its fall will be in “strides,” for while the luck's in we can progress in pants, but for flight you can't beat freedom of action. To sum up in song:
couldshake a leg,
An-Appreciation
From the Manager, H. L. Tapley and Company Ltd., Dunedin, to the District Traffic Manager, Dunedin: —
Now that the wool season is over we feel it is our duty to write and thank the officers of your Department for the excellent service rendered us throughout the season. In this period we shipped at Port Chalmers a very large quantity of wool and apples, also meat, cheese and butter, and we can assure you that the assistance rendered by your Department has been very much appreciated. We also desire to mention the Port Chalmers staff, who, under difficult congestive conditions, enabled us to give prompt despatch to our vessels, the wharf staff being specially helpful.
ByArthur L. Stead
The Market Place, Berne, Switzerland.
Fast Railway Travel In Britain.
Holiday passenger traffic handled by the Home railways during the past few months attained tremendous volume. Marked accelerations of long-distance passenger trains have been the order of the day on each of the four group systems; cheap fares have given added attraction to rail travel; while novelty has been introduced by the operation of regular railway-owned aeroplane services linking the industrial centres with popular beach resorts, week-end trips on an “all included” cheap tariff by luxurious railway-owned steamers and a wonderfully wide choice of long and short distance runs by railway owned Pullman motor-charabancs.
The speeding-up of British passenger trains is especially striking. Commencing with the summer holiday time-tables operative from July last, each of the four consolidated railways made big cuts in the journey-times of the leading expresses linking London and the principal cities with the various coast resorts. This bold move has gone far to meet the keen competition of the road carrier and the privately-owned motor car.
Improvements in passenger train running, introduced on the Great Western line, are typical of the season's effort of all the Home systems. That famous train —the “Cornish Riviera Limited”—operating daily between Paddington Station, London, and Penzance, Cornwall, now accomplishes the 225 3/4 miles non-stop run between London and Plymouth in 3 hours 37 minutes, a saving of ten minutes on the old timing. The “Torbay Express,” between London and the beautiful Devonshire resort of Torquay, covers the 199 3/4 mile journey daily in exactly 210 minutes. Even the far-famed “Cheltenham Flyer” has been accelerated by five minutes. This is the train that travels from Swindon to Paddington, a distance of 77 1/4 miles, in just 65 minutes. Examination of the Great Western timetables show that every day some 1,257 miles are covered by twelve main-line trains at start-to-stop speeds of from 60 to 71 miles an hour. In two years, through consistent speeding-up of its passenger trains, the Great Western has effected an aggregate saving in train journey times of 13,637 minutes daily.
Selling summer rail transport to the holiday-maker is an innovation in Britain, styled “Land Cruising.” The London and North Eastern was the pioneer of this attraction, and the first “Land Cruise” was launched on June 17 last. A special train, consisting entirely of luxury cars, equipped for both day and night travel, set out during that month on a week's tour of 2,000 miles, through the choicest portions of scenic Britain. Passengers on this pioneer cruise were limited to sixty. Each was allotted a numbered and reserved seat in the restaurant car, and an
King's Cross Station, London, formed the jumping-off point, and the cruise embraced visits to Edinburgh, Aberdeen, Lossiemouth—birthplace of Ramsay Mac-Donald—beautiful Loch Lomond, the Scott Country, the English Lake District, the picturesque Yorkshire coast, and ancient cities like York, Ely, Lincoln and Cambridge; £20 was the inclusive charge for this wonderful “Land Cruise,” this covering everything from boarding the train at King's Cross to stepping off again in London on the return. Motor and steamship trips, gala dances, the services of experienced guides, motor coach outings, and all meals and sleeping accommodation on the train, were thrown in for the one inclusive charge. Land Cruising” through Britain is one of the most popular railway innovations that have ever been devised.
Through the installation of new power signalling at King's Cross Station, London, the L. & N.E. Railway are effecting considerable economies and securing more efficient and speedier turn-over of trains. The new equipment includes a central signal-box, replacing the two former manually-operated boxes, and having an all-electric power interlocking frame with 232 levers; 60 long-range colour light signals; and 90 short-range shunting lights.
In addition to handling an enormous main-line traffic and important suburban business, King's Cross is an essential link with the south for the movement of freight. About fifty freight trains from various parts of the L. and N.E. line pass through the station daily for points on the Southern system, via the Metropolitan Railway. Opened in 1852, King's Cross cost £123,000 to build, and the first timetable showed thirteen inward and thirteen outward trains daily. To-day, about 300 inward and 300 outward passenger trains use the terminus daily. Included among
The luxurious sleeping cars utilised on the L. and N.E.R. “Land Cruise” trains.
New signalling and similar equipment naturally costs money, but the Home railways realise that it is sometimes necessary to spend in order to save. Labour-saving plant and equipment introduced in Britain will show valuable economies in the years that lie ahead, and the case of the L. and N.E. line may be quoted in this connection.
Through the amalgamation of signalboxes and the introduction of power signalling, the L. and N.E. Company, at an expenditure of £472,000, is realising an annual saving of £97,500. In the remodelling of locomotive depots, some £800,000 has been spent by the line in four years, but savings of £84,000 have already accrued as a result. On mechanical accounting an expenditure of £42,000 has recently been sanctioned: this will produce a saving of £15,000 a year. By concentrating two or more roadside stations
Adapting themselves to changed conditions, the European railways continue to introduce considerable numbers of light rail-cars in place of heavy steam train units. On the French State Railways and the Paris-Lyons-Mediterranean system Diesel-engined rail-cars of a novel type are being employed, having the driver's compartment in the centre of the vehicle, with the upper portion of the cab projecting above the roof of the car. The idea is to afford the driver perfect visibility in all directions, and to simplify the transmission and centralise the controls. The new French cars seat 44 passengers. Over all length is 42 feet, width 8ft. 10 1/4in., and wheelbase 23ft. Tare weight is 14 tons, and maximum loaded speed 56 m.p.h. Another type of rail-car, petrol-driven, with observation top, has been introduced on the State Railways, this being a Michelin product, with pneumatic tyres.
Fast electric passenger locomotive on the Arlberg Railway, Austria.
On the Italian State Railways a new type of rail-car has been acquired from the Fiat Company. This is petrol-driven, seats 48 passengers, and weighs 11 tons empty. The car is 43ft. in length, the body being largely composed of aluminium. This is in line with the present policy throughout Europe of reducing the weight of train units to a minimum. That rail-cars have come to stay there cannot be the slightest doubt. In their absence, operation of many branch routes would be a hopelessly impracticable proposition from the financial viewpoint.
Exceptionally heavy tourist business has in recent months been handled by the Swiss Federal Railways. To meet the needs of the tourist the Berne authorities have put into service many new types of passenger carriage, including special observation vehicles to enable passengers to view the striking Alpine panoramas.
Some 3,500 passenger vehicles are owned by the Swiss Government lines, providing 200,000 seats. The rollingstock is classified alphabetically, first, second and third-class stock being denoted by the letters A, B and C respectively. The letter F denotes luggage vans, while letters J to P apply to goods wagons.
By
Will Lawson
All this happened long ago, when Bluey McGuire, driver of the Clyde Express, was a tender-hearted man. In those days Bluey could not run over a cow on the unfenced track out there without being upset for a week, though other drivers used to hunt the mobs of horses along the tracks, and get them if they could.
Imagine, then, the feelings of Bluey, one day, when, as he walked the length of the train at Roaring Meg looking for a leaky brake valve, he heard a baby crying in a second-class carriage. It was a small old car, and on that summer day it was suffocatingly hot, as it can be in Central Otago. With the train standing still, there was not a breath of air moving, and the burning heat of the treeless tablelands seemed to crowd into the train.
Bluey paused at the window and smiled at the baby's mother, a young woman who was bound for Cromwell, which at that time was beyond the railhead.
“Pretty hot for a nipper to-day,” Bluey said. “Is it sick?”
The mother looked ill herself. Her eyes were set in dark rings, and she seemed weary of the heat and nursing the baby.
“No,” she answered with a wan smile, trying to match Bluey's grin; “but she wants some milk. They had only condensed milk at Ranfurly, and I expect it will be the same at Omakau. I expect we'll have to wait till we get to Clyde.”
“Milk?” Bluey shoved his cap back and scratched his head. “Now I don't suppose you'd find a cow for fifty miles,” he said, “but I'll think it out, and if it's possible I'll get some milk for that baby.”
As they pulled out, Bluey had a frown on his brow. He was thinking, and he didn't stop until the train pulled up at the next station. Then he sent Joe Smith, his fireman, back to ask the woman a question.
“He says, ‘Will goat's milk do?“’ Joe asked.
“Please tell him ‘yes,’ but he must not trouble himself. The baby is better now the train is going.'
“She says goat's milk will do,” Joe told Bluey when he got back to the engine, which was under way, and gave him a bit of a chase. Bluey had forgotten about him, being so concerned about getting milk for the baby. Joe added that the
“Sick as a cow,” Bluey agreed, working his feelings up, and snatching the throttle wide open while he glared at the steam gauge, which was falling like a barometer before a storm. However, Joe took care the storm did not burst, or the steam gauge either. Joe knew his job.
“There's goats enough in the wilderness to supply whiskers for the world,” Bluey said. “But where are they? The question is whether we should hurry to Clyde or stop and catch a goat, if we see one. There's generally a mob at Omakau. There's fifteen minutes’ stop there; time to milk a nanny if we catch one.”
Secretly Joe thought Bluey was a bit mad, when he got bees in his bonnet about doing kindnesses to people, but he liked Bluey. Moreover, there was usually some fun connected with his Quixotic acts, and also Bluey could put in a good word for him with the locomotive boss, and help him to get an engine pretty soon.
Joe gave his whole-hearted help in scanning the plains, in search of goats. For fourteen miles they scanned, but it was not till they were within a mile of Omakau that the hair of a goat came in sight. Then Joe saw a small mob feeding on some rocks and hot air between the metals.
“One of them would do,” Bluey assented to Joe's report, and he pulled the cord of the Yankee whistle on the old “Q” and sent a roaring call ahead.
The goats ceased masticating the alluvial sand and lifted their heads at the sound. Bluey wanted to start them on the run towards Omakau, where he could select a milker while the passengers refreshed themselves on Dunedin beer or tinned milk.
When they saw the train bearing down upon them, the goats scampered away along the track. Soon they were galloping straight for the distant station.
“No goat could keep that pace up to the station,” said tender-hearted Bluey, “on a hot day like this. We'll try and get among them, and you jump down, Joe, and catch a nanny.”
The “Q” was doing her best to eat up the distance, which no goat has ever tried yet, and by degrees she overhauled the mob, which was scattering gravel in its terror of the racing monster behind.
“Blow the whistle,” Joe said, “and I'll jump off when they scatter, and catch a nanny. We'll take it to Omakau and milk it.”
Bluey agreed. The whistle roared again, the goats scattered, and the engine was among them, but running more slowly, so as not to hurt them. The goats were out of breath and glad to turn aside.
Suddenly Joe jumped, and landed almost on top of a white nanny. He grabbed her by the horns, and together the man and goat rolled in the dust. Bluey was stopping the train. It was smart work. Between them they hoisted the goat to the footplate before anyone had time to look out and see why the train was stopping. But they soon found it was one thing to catch a goat and another to hold her, much less milk her.
On the footplate, and up and down the slope of coal on the tender, the white nanny put up a big fight for freedom, and the idea of milking her was lost sight of for the time being in the efforts of the men to keep her on the engine, which was rocking along without any attention, though Bluey had his eyes alert for the signals.
“Won't she stay still?” Bluey swore. “Dash that baby! What did I promise anyone goat's milk for?”
“Give me the bucket,” Joe laughed, as he got a stranglehold on the goat with one hand and waved the other yearningly for the bucket. Bluey handed him the one they used to sluice water on the coal and wash their hands in. This Joe planted in a suitable place, and tried to milk the goat with the hand that was not engaged in holding the animal.
By this time they were clattering over the switches into Omakau. But the goat hated Joe, and with one super-goatish effort, got free, though Joe still had a
“Spare the crows, if I'll ever go goat-taming with you again!” Joe yelled to Bluey, while still doing his best to subdue the goat. Then the train came to a standstill, and the stationmaster climbed up to see what was sending Joe mad.
“We got a goat,” Bluey explained. “There's a baby back in the train wants some milk.”
“Well of all the ratty fellows,” the S.M. started to say. But the goat got away, and charging down the coal, leaped wildly to the platform, knocking the S.M's. hat off as it went, and almost upsetting the man himself. The S.M. saw the goat better on dry land, and his voice, rose to a howl.
“That's one of my best Angoras,” he shouted, “and look what you've made her look like, a blooming piebald.”
“Well, the kid wanted milk,” Bluey pleaded, with unconscious play of words; “and where would you get it here but from a goat?”
“And you wouldn't remember, being a ratty fool,” the stationmaster said, in withering tones, “that Patsy Bourke at the Lion keeps a cow specially to give customers milk with their morning whiskies.”
Bluey turned an accusing eye on Joe. “There was a cow in Central that you never thought of. You'd better hop along now and get some milk from Patsy. Say I sent you, and hurry!”
Joe returned with a small jug of milk which Patsy had given with ill grace when he learned it was to be used in an unadulterated state. Bluey took it from Joe and went along to the carriage where the baby was.
“The idea of milking her was lost sight of for the time being.”
His heart beat with elation. He had done what he said he would do, and it was fresh cow's milk, to boot. But he got a setback. Mother and child were asleep. A grim-looking woman in the same carriage held up an admonishing finger, and said:
“S-s-sh! Don't wake them, they'll sleep all the way to Clyde, I hope. What's that? Milk? Right, I'll take it for them.”
After the crestfallen Bluey had gone she pulled out a flask, and it would have done Patsy Bourke's heart good if he had seen her dilute the milk from his special whisky cow.
The subject of this month's character sketch of a distinguished New Zealander is a gallant and skilful seaman, who has won fame in Antarctic adventure and war honours in the Royal Navy. Frank Arthur Worsley, D.S.O., Commander R.N.R., is one of those whose career verifies Dr. MacMillan Brown's belief, expressed recently in the Cambridge History of the British Empire, that New Zealand will, as old England has done, breed an enterprising Oceanic race. His life is an exemplar of the irresistible call that “the bright eyes of danger” hold for some strong souls, who like Worsley and his late comrade Shackleton, find in the perils of circumpolar exploration the supreme zest of existence.
Frank Arthur Worsley, D.S.O., Commander R.N.R.
The beautiful sailing clippers of the New Zealand Shipping Company's fleet were the practical training school in which scores of colonial lads learned their calling in the era when canvas still had a strong hold on the world's ocean commerce, forty to fifty years ago. Many a boy from Auckland, Wellington, Canterbury and Otago was soundly drilled in seamanship and navigation under the well-skilled old masters of sail in such ships as the Waitangi, the Piako, the Waimate, Wairoa, Turakina, Waikato, Waipa, and their sisters of the round-the-Horn trade, in the days when the tall spars and painted ports of the big square-riggers were a familiar sight in every New Zealand port. We saw the ships come in deepladen with London and Liverpool general merchandise; they bore the signs of long and stormy voyaging. We saw them tow out and set sail to the deep-sea music of chanties, crammed to the hatches with wool and all manner of New Zealand and South Sea Islands produce.
In one of those handsome iron ships, the Wairoa, learning his life business with schoolboy enthusiasm, active as a circus gymnast up aloft, was an Akaroaborn boy, Frank Worsley. The apprenticeship he served in that ship, and in the Piako, gave him a grounding in sailorly handiness and the lore of the sea-life and a resourcefulness in emergency such as no young seafarer can possibly acquire in these greatly changed times. The loss is great; the school of sail-training, now no more, cannot be replaced by mere machinery, despite all modern inventions.
That was Frank Worsley's college of sea-wisdom and physique-toughening toil. A few years later we find him as a smart young officer in the New Zealand Government steamer service. When I first knew him, in 1899, he was second mate in the Tutanekai, under Captain C. F. Post; later he was chief officer in the Hinemoa. I was shipmates with him, as passenger, on two voyages, one to Samoa, the other a search in the Tasman Sea for the disabled and drifting steamer Perthshire. Captain Post thought a great deal of his alert young second mate, who was a careful and exact navigator. But young dogs will have their day, and it was a wild apprenticeship in the old N.Z.S. Co. Worsley was given to pranks, and the most daring of all was his annexation of his Imperial German Majesty's flag from the Consulate flagstaff on Apia beach, that cruise of 1899. I hope Commander Worsley, R.N.R., will tell the story some day in the book that he should write on his South Sea memories. The centre of that German flag occupies a place of honour on the wall of a New Zealand museum to-day. It is popularly supposed to have been captured valiantly by the New Zealand
Another memory is of two years later, the coastwise trial cruise of the Government three-masted schooner Countess of Ranfurly. This handsome little vessel, Worsley's first command, was built for the South Sea Islands trade, linking up New Zealand's tropical dependencies. She was an ideal craft for the work, square-rigged on the foremast, and fitted with auxiliary motor-engine and screw. Worsley's delight in his white schooner knew no bounds, and he showed the Island folk and his passengers what he could do under canvas. Now he had full play for the sail-handling lore of his “brassbounder” days. He cruised all over the New Zealand sector of the South Pacific, as far north as that coral-atoll outpost of ours, Penrhyn Island. Robert Louis Stevenson wrote of one of his sailor characters in “The Wrecker” that he could put his schooner through a Scotch reel. I can quite believe that Worsley could lead his pretty Countess just as neat a dance.
In a few years the Government schooner was sold out of the service and Captain Worsley had perforce to look round for a new job. He was a thoroughly well-qualified master mariner and was not likely to be long without a post, and he decided to seek his luck outside the Dominion. Physically, too, he was fit for anything; hardtrained, compact and muscular of build, all steel and india-rubber, as one of his comrades described him. He went to England, and for some years he was in perhaps the most trying sea-service in the world, the North Atlantic, the region of hard weather, fog and icebergs.
In his book “Endurance”—an inspiring story which shows that a sailor can often write as well as he can navigate a ship—Worsley describes his first meeting with Sir Ernest Shackleton, an interview which proved the most momentous in his career. In London, one night in 1914—it was before the Great War—he dreamed that Burlington Street was full of ice blocks and that he was navigating a ship along it. “Sailors are superstitious, and when I woke up next morning I hurried like mad into my togs and down Burlington Street I went. I dare say that it was only a coincidence, but as I walked along, reflecting that my dream had certainly been meaningless, and uncomfortable, and that it had cost me time that I could have used to better purpose, a sign on a doorpost caught my eye. It bore the words ‘Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition,’ and no sooner did I see it than I turned into the building, with the conviction that it had some special significance for me. Shackleton was there. He and I spent only a few minutes together, but the moment that I set eyes on him I knew that he was a man with whom I should be proud to work. He quickly divined what I wanted, and presently said to me: ‘You're engaged. Join your ship until I wire for you.’ (I was then second officer in the Canadian trade, and had been in command of small vessels.) ‘I'll let you know all details as soon as possible. Good morning.’ He wrung my hand in his hard grasp, and that was all. Not a superfluous word had been spoken on either side, but we knew by instinct that we were to be friends from that hour, and as a matter of fact we were together until Shackleton died.”
That was the beginning of the great partnership with adventure. For more than seven years Worsley and Shackleton were with each other, in joy and sorrow, living great moments, laughing, suffering, grieving together, enduring with other good comrades almost incredible dangers and privations, and triumphing over the heaviest hammerblows of Fate, until at last, in the little Quest, the leader's gallant heart gave up the strain, and Worsley and his mates laid him to rest amidst the snow of desolate South Georgia Island.
Captain Worsley's appointment in the Shackleton Expedition of 1914–15 was as sailing-master and navigator of the Antarctic exploring ship Endurance. This fine vessel was specially built for ice work, a barquentine-rigged steamer, a well-equipped handy-sized craft, manned by a crew of twenty-eight all told. The plan was to penetrate into the Antarctic as far as possible, and then for a land party under Shackleton to cross the South Pole and join the Aurora, the expedition's other ship, commanded by Captain Stenhouse, on the Ross Island side, due south of New Zealand.
The Endurance sailed, and Worsley was in his element once more, handling her under sail and appreciating to the full the usefulness of her square rig forward.
Then came the long months in the ice, and the tragic end in July, 1915, when the poor little Endurance was literally squeezed to death in the Antarctic floes. Shackleton described that crushing calamity in his book “South.” Worsley, in his story, tells how poignantly the going of the ship affected himself and his chief. It was so terribly human, the quivering and groaning of the vessel when two massive floes jamed her in a death-grip, ever increasing the pressure. The sides of the vessel buckled in and out like a concertina. “It gave me the horrible impression that the ship was gasping for breath.”
“It was a heartbreaking sight to see the brave little ship, that had been our home for so long, broken up by the remorseless onward sweep of a thousand miles of pack-ice. To see her crushed, and know that we could do nothing whatever to help her, was as bad as watching a chum go out.”
And there the shipless crew stood, the twentyeight of them, awaiting the leader's commands. It was a supreme test of command and planning, forethought and endurance. The story of the ice journey has been told, so too has that most wonderful sea epic been narrated by Shackleton, the 800 miles voyage through Antarctic seas in a small
Endurance— from Elephant Island to South Georgia.
Captain Worsley was the navigator of that boat, named the James Caird, only 22ft. 6in. long, with a beam of six feet, partly decked over by the carpenter. With Shackleton and Worsley were four men, the best of the sailors. It was the hardest voyage the gallant six had ever undertaken, for it was the Antarctic winter, and the ocean the little craft had to cross under sail was one of the worst seas in the world. But they came through safely; in sixteen days they reached South Georgia, and after more truly fearful adventures, the whole party marooned on the ice was taken off by a rescue vessel from South America.
Every soul was saved. It was a marvellous achievement. Every day had its new peril, almost every hour; but consummate skill in that smallboat voyage and courage and cheerful endurance of every kind of danger and discomfort—they were in a welter of screaming winds; they were halffrozen and wet all the time; they had to chop the ice off the boat to keep from sinking; they were short of water. But they won through.
Back in England, Captain Worsley went into the Great War with the zest that he had given to his adventurous feats in icy seas. In 1917 he was appointed to the command of His Majesty's ship PQ61, fitting out as a mystery ship at Belfast. His friend Stenhouse, late of the Aurora, joined as first lieutenant. This armed vessel, fitted with a small ram bow of steel, was disguised to resemble a little coasting steamer, to deceive the German submarines. They had “one glorious day.” A submarine attacked an oil-tanker, and Worsley got it before it could submerge. The crew of the German were about to shell the oiler, when Worsley charged straight at them to ram, opening fire with a 12-pounder at the same time. Worsley describes it in a thrilling passage in his latelypublished book. The submarine, of 1,000 tons, was travelling at eight knots; the Mystery Ship, of only 600 tons, was bearing down on her beam at 24 knots. The British vessel must have looked like the Angel of Death to those Germans. He gave the order “Prepare to ram,” and the crew flattened themselves on the deck. A terrific shock, the unearthly rasp of tearing steel; the submarine sank rapidly, and there was a tremendous explosion. The sole survivor of the submarine's crew was the captain.
For that exploit Worsley received the decoration of D.S.O., and Stenhouse was awarded the D.S.C. and the command of a Q ship. Shackleton was as pleased as Worsley at the news. He wired: “Well done, Skipper, tally ho!”
Worsley and Stenhouse, on leave, understood that the bagging of an enemy submarine brought an Admiralty reward of £1000. They hied them up to London to spend some of that fortune in advance. “We had a really royal time and returned minus a hundred pounds apiece,” Worsley narrated. “Some little time later we received the Admiralty award. My share was £68, and Stenhouse's £48. We therefore found bagging submarines an expensive amusement.”
For some time thereafter Worsley specialised in dropping depth charges to combat submarines, for which he earned the nickname in the navy of “Depth Charge Bill.” Later he commanded the Q ship Pangloss, operating in the Mediterranean. Then, by way of a change, he went up to North Russia with Shackleton—it was like old times in the snow and ice—and at Archangel and on the Dvina River he enjoyed a variety of exciting adventures. An amazing kind of raid on the Pinega River brought him a bar to the D.S.O.
The
Endurance.
The war was over, and Stenhouse and he embarked in commercial shipping, with any amount of excitement but no profit. As if the ice and snow still called him, Worsley must go up in command of a small schooner to Iceland. He had trouble with his crew, and had to keep his revolver handy.
After all manner of troubles, cheerfully surmounted, Worsley brought his crazy little schooner into Kirkwall. He wired to Shackleton, who was then about to fit out a new Antarctic expedition:
“Tally-ho! Just arrived. Sails blown away. Ship frapped, and mast held up with cable.”
Shackleton replied immediately: “Well done, Skipper! Join me as soon as possible.”
So presently Worsley—now with the rank of Commander in the Royal Naval Reserve—was off to the icy South again with his staunch friend Shackleton. The little topsail-schooner rigged lowpowered steamer, the Quest, obtained for this new expedition to the Antarctica, was not nearly so suitable a vessel as the lost Endurance. One trouble
Worsley brought the little ship back to England. In his book he has little about his own work in the Quest but much about his beloved chief, that “proud and dauntless spirit,” whose name is among the immortals.
It was not long before our New Zealander was again battling with snow and ice and gales, this time in the Far North. There is another epic of seamanship in his masterly handling of the small brigantine The Island under sail among the ice in high latitudes. One of his shipmates said of him that he seemed not a bit put out when the ship's auxiliary power was disabled and she was left wholly dependent on her canvas. If ever there was a man who could be described as a “Sailor of the Sail” it is Frank Worsley. And now, after a lifetime of hard-weather seagoing, when most men of his age are expectant of easy retirement, certainly when a man of his national services and achievements should be enjoying a comfortable pension, he is still ready for a job of adventure. For Worsley is one of those whose hearts are eternally young.
The departure from Elephant Island on the epic 800 miles voyage in a small boat to South Georgia.
In a reference to the new carriages which have replaced the older type of passenger carriage on the New Plymouth-Wellington Express, the Eltham Argus in a recent issue states:—
“Passengers from Eltham to Wellington by the express train speak in high praise of the comfort of the new railway carriages. They are brightly upholstered, the backs of the seats are fixed at a convenient angle, and there are comfortable foot-rests. The carriages have quite a ‘home away from home’ atmosphere, and make travelling a pleasure. In them one can smoke, read, or enjoy a friendly chat with fellow passengers. To those who have no taste for these amenities the alternative is offered of a comfortable sleep. Talking of railways, how few of the public recognise how punctually our New Zealand Railways run to their time-table? Considering that the greater part of the traffic is carried over a single line the accuracy of their running is really wonderful. There must be good brains at the head of the traffic department, and faithful, intelligent service on the part of the whole staff in general.”
(By .)
Mac
(Snap, courtesy Chas. Lindegran, Railways, Waiotira.)
On Duty!—An interesting animal study from the North Auckland District.
Now, if you told Bill that the railways carried millions of passengers every year without accident, Bill would merely grunt. How or why, wouldn't interest him. Yet a little safety arrangement in his local railway yard made a great impression on him. This is how it came about.
I was spending the week-end with Bill in the quiet little country town where he lives, and in the course of a Sunday afternoon stroll, just atthe level crossing beside the station, we met Charlie.
Charlie is one of the two men who make up the railway staff of the town, fulfilling every duty, from stationmaster to lamp-lighter. The station is not important—just one of those places which expresses acknowledge with a bored sort of whistle, and at which other trains merely pause. There are only four signals, two “up” and two “down,” operated from levers set in the station platform, whilst all points are worked by those white throw-over gadgets one sees alongside the lines in all railway yards.
One set of points, switching from the main line to a siding, was just inside the cattle stops of the crossing. Noting these points, Bill suddenly said: “You'll have a pretty mess here one night, Charlie. You'll have everything set for a train to tear right through, and while your back is turned some of the local lads will shift those points. It'll be a miracle if she takes the siding.”
“You can't have it both ways,” replied Charlie, “either the points will be closed or the signal will stop her.”
“But anyone is liable to get caught,” Bill argued. “I know you're careful and all that, but you must admit that some time you might be caught napping.”
I was about to air my scanty knowledge of the subject when Charlie winked at me. Turning to Bill, he said: “Maybe. Anyway we'll see how it would work.”
Under Charlie's instructions Bill set the points for the siding, and we walked to the signal levers on the station platform. “Pull the two left-hand levers, and set the line for a train to tear through,” Charlie further instructed. Bill did his best, but he couldn't shift either lever. Back to the points we went, and there Bill was enlightened. A key which could only be removed from the points when they are set for the main line was still in the lock, and as this key unlocks the lever working the signals the lever could not be pulled. In addition to this, the wire to the nearest signal was connected to a small slide, which in turn was connected to the points. With the points set for the siding it was impossible to set the signal at clear. Likewise, if the points were set for the main line with the signal at clear, it was impossible to shift the points whilst the signal remained down, as the key was in the signal lever and not in the points lock. It was all very simply arranged, but it was always assured that points and signal worked in conjunction.
Apparently Bill had been under the impression that the signalman had a free hand with points and signals, and that the safety of the trains depended on his checking everything before a train was due. Certainly, if he had ever heard of interlocking signals he had never thought that they were to be found in his “onehorse” town.
At the evening meal, Bill held forth on railway safety. He didn't mention the number of passengers carried without fatality, perhaps he doesn't know it, but he certainly impressed with his enthusiasm for the little safety device which precludes the signalman “having it both ways.”
The Trial Of Samuel John Thorne.
The telephone bell rang out in the bedroom of Detective-Sergeant James Cummings as he lay fast asleep in bed. It was just before 1 a.m. on the 25th August, 1920. At once he woke up and sprang to answer the insistent call. “Sergeant Cowan speaking: Is that Detective-Sergeant Cummings?” “Yes, Cowan, what on earth are you ringing me at this hour for?” “There's been a murder down at Pukekawa. I tried to get in touch with the Superintendent, but can't raise him.” Then followed a few details of the murder, and Sergeant Cowan rang off. Detective-Sergeant Cummings then rang up District Superintendent Wright. Within half an hour the Detective-Sergeant and Detective McHugh were speeding along country lanes towards Pukekawa. The roads were bad, full of ruts and holes which had been caused by the heavy winter rain.
By 7 a.m. the motor car stopped at the farm of Mr. Sydney Seymour Eyre, at Pukekawa. The place was already under police supervision.
The story then told was that Mr. Eyre and his wife, who lived with their family in a small cottage, had retired to bed soon after 9 p.m. Mrs. Eyre had been roused by the warning barks of a dog, which she silenced by crying out to it. Then, as she was settling down to sleep again, there was a deafening explosion in the room, and she sprang to her feet. Immediately after the explosion, she heard heavy and hurried footsteps moving away. Then she lit a match and saw, to her horror, the body of her husband, dead, with the top of his head blown off. With the cry of “Dad! Dad!” she fled from the room; the children were already awake. Shutting the door, behind which was the body of their murdered father, the poor woman sent her two sons for help to her neighbour Mr. Goode. Mr. Goode, unable to ring the police at Pukekohe, ran with the boys to the Post Office, and then managed to reach the police at Pukekohe by telephone. The police sent on the message which brought Detective-Sergeant Cummings and his assistant to the tragic scene.
Dawn was just breaking clear as Detective-Sergeant Cummings reached the Eyre's homestead.
Mr. Eyre was a farmer of many years’ experience. From a bare and uncultivated tract of land he had, with the help of his wife, after years of careful farming, produced a highly cultivated and valuable farm. It lay in the hamlet of Pukekawa, about fifty-four miles from Auckland. At that time Pukekawa was a typical tiny township consisting of a Post Office, a store, and a few buildings. About eighteen miles further on lies the farming district of Glen Murray, where James Murray owned a farm, for whom had worked since 11th July, the prisoner, Thorne.
Being overwrought with the terrible experience, Mrs. Eyre was unable to make a connected statement to the Detective-Sergeant on his arrival. Upon entering the bedroom, the Detective-Sergeant saw that the deceased was lying on a single bed, under the window, the head of
One of the sounds which Mrs. Eyre had noted after the tragedy was the sound of a horse cantering over the bridge at the back of the farm. After Detective-Sergeant Cummings had made a careful scrutiny of the bedroom he had a few words with Mrs. Eyre, and then, with some other members of the police force, walked to the bridge, about 150 yards from the house. Near to the bridge he saw a post. About this post he noticed signs of recent horse hoof marks. Down on his knees the detective went and carefully examined the hoof marks. He noticed some singular characteristics, and he measured them carefully. Then he noticed that the hoof marks which he had seen went to and from the bridge. They were made by the same hoofs. Near the bridge, where the ground was softer, it was noticed that four horses had passed by, but on following the freshest of the marks it was found they led them towards Tuakau, which was the direction in which lay Glen Murray.
The Detective-Sergeant then detailed Sergeant Cowan, a man much experienced in horses, to follow up the tracks of the freshest marks. He
Down on his knees the detective went and carefully examined the hoof marks.”
Following the tracks, too, it was noticeable that the horse had the habit of overstepping considerably. In order that the best of the hoof-marks should be preserved the detectives covered them with wooden boxes. The boxes were subsequently removed, and the shoes taken by the detectives were compared with the impression.
On looking into the bedroom from the outside it was impossible to see the body of the deceased as it lay on the bed. By standing, however, in a gap made between some planks lying horizontal and forming part of the outside wall, the body could be seen easily enough.
At this juncture statements were taken from all the Eyre family except from Mrs. Eyre, who was too distressed at the time to give a complete narrative. However, she did so later. There were neighbours, too, from whom statements were taken, and some openly said they strongly suspected that the murderer was Thorne.
Thorne was well known to the Eyre's, for he had worked for some years on the Eyre farm. In the year 1917, Eyre, who suffered from diabetes, went to Canada on a health recruiting voyage. There he enlisted, and served with the Canadian Army in the Great War. In order to run the farm while he was away, Mrs. Eyre engaged help. She engaged several hands before she employed Thorne. Thorne came in October, 1918, and stayed on until July, 1920. He remained on the farm for about a year after Eyre returned from the War, leaving about five weeks before the murder.
Following these statements, and after observing the facts of the crime, the detective force were able to limit the murder to a person who (1) must have known the place intimately and the habits of the family; (2) was a man probably with a motive; (3) a man who possessed and could use a shot-gun; (4) a man who possessed a rare type of ammunition; and (5) someone who sought perhaps to be able to rely on Mrs. Eyre's silence.
Now, with the suspicions of the neighbours and the facts known of Thorne, he was brought within some at least of the requirements.
There was, therefore, a reason to believe that when Detective-Sergeant Cummings, and Sergeants Cowan and Thompson set out for Glen Murray they were likely to meet the murderer. They left accordingly for Glen Murray, arriving at 8.45 p.m., quietly walked into Thorne's hut, and the Detective-Sergeant woke him up. Thorne sat up, and seeing
What stupid answers! And he was dealing with one of the foremost detectives in the Force, who could not have failed to have come to the conclusion that the murderer was before him. If that were so, the rest of their enquiries would be for the purpose of transforming the suspicion into proof.
Just before the party left the whare Cummings told Thorne he had heard that he and Mrs. Eyre had been intimate. Again, Thorne made a curious reply. He said: “Who told you?” The detective answered by asking another question: “Where were you last night?” Again came a curious reply: “Oh, well, I am going to say I was not out.” The detective pursued the matter by saying: “The position is this: what we want to know is, were you in or not?” Thorne asked: “Did anyone see me out?” The detective said he had been told that he had been out. After a few more words, Thorne said Mr. Granville had left shortly after 5 p.m., and that no one else had been to see him. The others then walked over to Granville's cottage, and Cummings took a statement from Thorne. In it he detailed his movements on the Monday night. The detective told him he had not set out his movements on the Tuesday night, the night of the murder. Again came the curious expression: “Oh, well, I am going to say I was not out.”
The party stayed overnight at that farming outpost, and next morning, they inspected the horses. Mr. Granville told Thorne to bring up all the horses. The detectives then began the examination of the horses’ hoofs. First, they examined a horse called “Dick.” Then they examined “Major,” a few others, and finally “Mickey.” The shoes of this horse were taken off and measured. The measurements corresponded exactly with those of the impressions already observed, the shoes having the unusual characteristics seen in the impressions. The detective turned to Thorne, and remarked, significantly: “These shoes correspond with the prints in the road leading past Eyre's place and over the bridge.” Thorne turned pale, and did not answer. Then Thorne's saddle was placed on “Mickey's” back. The saddle was a complete fit, the girth needing no adjustment. The saddle was then placed over the cover, which was on the animal. The cover had been slipped up to provide for the fitting of the saddle. There was a saddle mark on the cover, which mark fitted Thorne's saddle. When his attention was drawn to this he said nothing, and walked away.
Shortly after, the party left Glen Murray. Thorne accompanied them, arranging to call on Detective Cummings on the following Friday. Meantime “Mickey's” shoes were compared with the impressions on the ground at the Eyre's. They agreed precisely. The next day “Mickey” was tried out, and was found to overstep, as was indicated by the impressions on the road.
Thorne did not keep his appointment, but he was seen the following week, on the 2nd September. The detectives knew their man, and did not make a premature arrest. They anticipated he would make a certain visit to someone whom he knew well. He did so, and the result of his conversation with that man was the subject of conversation between Detective Cummings and Thorne on the 4th September. The detective said: “It has come to my knowledge that you have stated to two men in Tuakau that if you were arrested for the murder of Mr. Eyre you would pull someone else into it. Will you tell me who that person is?” Thorne replied: “No, I won't tell you who that is.” Later, he agreed that he did not mean Mrs. Eyre or any member of her family, and he agreed that the murder must have been done by someone with a knowledge of the house and family.
At the Police Station, he was confronted with Mrs. Eyre, and at his request he had a talk with her alone. He told her that he did not suggest that she or her boys had had anything to do with the murder. He then asked why Mrs. Eyre thought he had done the deed. She replied: “Circumstances.” “What circumstances?” he queried. She said: “The person who did it must have known the position of the bed and the run of the place.” He said: “As sure as I am here I never did it.” Mrs. Eyre said: “If you are innocent, I am sorry for you.” The rest of the conversation was not very material, but he understood that Mrs. Eyre had revealed the fact that she had been intimate with Thorne, and that Thorne had revealed a savage hatred of Eyre when she welcomed her husband back again from the War, and began to repel Thorne. As Thorne truthfully put it to her: “Your statement has put me in a tight corner, and I will have a hard job to get out of it.”
On the 11th September Detective-Sergeant Cummings arrested Thorne, and charged him with having murdered Eyre. “Right oh,” was Thorne's only reply to this grave charge.
There were two trials, the second one being rendered necessary because the first jury disagreed.
The decisive trial began before the Hon. Mr. Justice F. R. Chapman and a common jury. The trial lasted from the 29th November to 3rd December, 1920. The Crown was represented by Mr. J. C. Martin and Mr. R. P. Hunt, Thorne being represented by Mr. R. A. Singer, Mr. O. E. Stout, and Mr. W. J. Gatenby. Mr. F. D. McLiver had a watching brief for Mrs. Eyre.
The trial was full of sensation and interest. The pathetic, almost noble figure of Mrs. Eyre must have made a strong impression on the jury. Her confession of her relations with the prisoner, his insane jealousy of her husband, and his threat that if she did not continue to submit to his will he would reveal her moral lapse to her husband, must have done irreparable damage to any chance Thorne had of eluding justice. On account of his blackguardly threats she confessed she developed for the prisoner an absolute abhorrence.
She admitted, too, that shortly before Thorne finally left Eyre's farm he had said to her (of her husband), “Wouldn't you be happier if he were dead?”
Young Phil Eyre, a boy of sixteen years of age, gave his evidence in what appears to have been a manly and constrained manner. He bore out much of what his mother had said. Then a police sergeant told how he had found some shot pellets in the deceased's room. The cartridge wads were found and produced by the witness. The make of the cartridge was No. 7 Peter's ballistite, and some of this rather uncommon kind of ammunition had been found in the possession of the prisoner. One detective told how he had searched over a radius of twenty miles from Eyre's farm for persons possessing this particular kind of ammunition, and found only one person, other than Thorne, to possess it, and he was shown to have had nothing to do with the murder. One of the police witnesses also examined every horse within a large area, and said there was no shoe but “Mickey's” to fit the impressions left at Eyre's farm.
Another matter to which importance was attached at the trial was the fact that the dog that barked as the murderer approached, was Thorne's dog, and it was suggested that it ceased barking as soon as it recognised that the visitor was his old master. When Thorne had left Eyre's farm he had taken this dog away with him, but it had returned on its own account. It was there on the night of the murder.
The excitement of the inquiry was most intense, and the metropolitan papers had the district well covered by their enterprising reporters. One of the reporters was a not unimportant witness. He met Thorne at the Tuakau Hotel, when Thorne made the statement of dragging someone else into the matter if he were charged. This reporter swore to being present when the following conversation took place between Thorne and one Taylor. After having two drinks with Thorne, the latter said: “What do you think is going to happen, Bill?” Taylor replied: “I'm damned if I know, Sam, but I think that the police are bound to get someone over it.” Whereat Thorne exclaimed “If they get me I'll drag someone else into it There is someone nearer the rope's end that they think they are.” Taylor admonished his friend thus: “I wouldn't say that if I were you, Sam. You know if you are innocent or guilty But you want to be very careful what you say. This was surely a remarkable statement for Thorne to make if he were entirely innocent.
When the evidence for the Crown was completed, Mr. Singer announced that he did not propose to call evidence. In his most eloquent address in presentation of Thorne's defence, he relied on his analysis of the evidence, and the submissions that he made. His speech displayed consummate skill. He warned the jury of the dangers and weaknesses of circumstantial evidence. Suspicion and probability, he pointed out, were not enough. Even if “Mickey” wer at the farm on the night of the crime, someone other than Thorne may yet have done the deed. He used these words: “No man dare say it is impossible that someone other than the accused committed this crime. Upon that matter I challenge you, and say that not one of you dare on your oath and conscience say, even assuming what I have assumed for the purpose of these remarks, that you are going to consign that man to his doom, knowing that no one else but he could have committed this crime.” He told them that the onus of proof rested on the Crown. He challenged the proof that the evidence proved that a No. 7 Peter's cartridge had been used. He contrasted hoof prints with fingerprints, and shewed wherein the former were utterly unreliable. How could it be said those hoof prints were made on the night of the murder?
Towards the end of this address, in commenting on Thorne's threat to bring someone else into the crime, Mr. Singer suggested that Mrs. Eyre may have been meant, and that she indeed may have committed the crime. Counsel traversed the whole of the evidence as effectively as it could have been done. For nearly three hours he strove to convince the jury that the case had not been established.
Mr. Justice Chapman then reviewed the evidence in a summing up that must have told heavily against the accused. His review of the facts, though fair, must indeed have been deadly, the proof that had been adduced being so formidable. This crime, he said, was not the work of a stranger to the Eyre menage, and he reminded
The jury considered their verdict for nearly four hours, and when they returned they announced that they found Thorne guilty of the crime of murder with which he stood charged.
When sentencing Thorne to death, the Judge told him he had been defended with exceptional ability. He added that in his judgment the prisoner's guilt was absolutely demonstrated. His Honour particularly congratulated Detective-Sergeant Cummings not only for the marked ability of his work, but also for the scrupulous fairness towards the prisoner. With his final words he said he was perfectly satisfied that Mrs. Eyre had told the truth in the witness box.
(Photo, Auckland “Star.“)
The first one-day excursion from Whangarei to Auckland was inaugurated by the Railways Department on 19th August, approximately 500 people taking advantage of the concession fare offered by the Department for the occasion. The illustration shews the crowd disembarking from the train at Auckland station.
Thus ended a sensational murder trial, and that justice was done when Thorne paid for his crime on the scaffold is indisputable. That the crime was so completely proved was in no small measure due to the fact that the detective force was hot on the trail before much of the essential evidence could be obliterated.
It was a great trial, well handled on all sides.
From the Hon. Secretary, Thistle Association Football Club, Christchurch, to the District Traffic Manager, Christchurch:-
The Management Committee of the Thistle Football Club wish to express their appreciation and thanks to your Department for the excellent arrangements made for their team travelling to Greymouth by goods train, on Friday evening, 28th July. A steam-heated carriage placed next to the engine made the travelling very comfortable, and was greatly appreciated by the players. Upon the return of the team on the following Sunday morning, a number of our members (including several ladies) were at Christchurch Station to meet the train. They arrived at the station a considerable time before the train was due, and thus had a long time to wait on a midwinter's morning. However, the Shunter in charge kindly put the shunters’ room at their disposal, where they could wait in comfort. His kind thought was much appreciated.
(Most harbours scattered over the seven seas have a last haven for ships which have passed from the sphere of usefulness. This haven, in the parlance of the sea is called Rotten Row. Although the following lines refer to the old ships in Wellington Harbour they are more or less applicable to most harbours of the world.)
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(Written for the “N.Z. Railways Magazine” byJ. C. )
Fifty years ago, when the first reconnaissance survey was made of the present route of the Main Trunk Railway through the heart of the North Island of New Zealand, that great territory, the King Country, was entirely under Maori rule. The mana of the Maori King, Tawhiao, and his chiefs extended from the then head of the Auckland line at Te Awamutu southward to the Upper Wanganui and the Ruapehu plateau. Pakeha intrusion was forbidden, and some of the tribes threatened to shoot all white trespassers. It was under those difficult conditions that the exploration of the Central route was carried through as described in this narrative.
Mr. John H. Rochfort, pioneer explorer and surveyor.
The Old Frontier of Waikato, the border defined by the Puniu and Waipa Rivers, the green farms, the homesteads, the townships, the blockhouses and redoubts on one side and the fern and flax wastes and wooded hills of the King Country on the other, was a place where one saw many an adventurous pioneer in the days of one's boyhood. Two of the figures of the real romance, heroic figures in youthful eyes, who came into Kihikihi settlement from the Maori country every now and again (in 1884–5 they had their headquarters in that township) were Charles Wilson Hursthouse and John Rochfort, Government surveyors engaged in the exploration and laying-out of the long-talked of railway line through the Rohepotae. Physically, they fitted the work, those well-seasoned men of the long trail where they blazed the way for the rail-builders who were to come after. Hursthouse, whom I came to know very well in after years, was the perfect frontiersman—tall, lean, hard and muscular, whiskered, a shrewdly humorous glint in his keen eyes, his gait a long easy stride. In his early forties then, he had already had more than twenty years of military and surveying experience; a good shot, but as he always declared, a man of peace. Cool, diplomatic, of consummate experience in Maori ways, and possessing a thorough knowledge of the Maori tongue, he was the first man to whom the Government authorities turned when they required an intermediary in disputes with the still suspicious and inimical tribes of the King Country and Taranaki. Yet, even Hursthouse—the “Wirihana” of the Maoris—for all his patience, tact and influence with them came to grief on one awkward occasion in that momentous year 1883, a day's ride south of our frontier river. That incident (to be related presently) occurred a few months before he and Rochfort became associated in their survey work in the northern part of the King Country.
John Rochfort, who was considerably Hursthouse's senior, was an even more experienced bushman and pathfinder. Unlike the long-limbed “Wirihana,” he was, in my recollection of him, a man of middle stature. He impressed one as very strong and wiry of physique; his shoulders were somewhat bowed with many years of swagcarrying. He had been an explorer in the South Island long before his King Country days; he had carried his heavy pikau on long and arduous journeys through the savage and all but foodless wilderness of Westland. Many a narrow escape from death by drowning in the torrents of the Coast were his; he was wise in all the practical lore of forest and river. He always carried a heavier load than any man in his party; a 50lb.
pikau, he used to say, was only just enough to steady a man in fording a river.
This was the hard-trained forelooper whom the Public Works authorities at Wellington chose to make the first engineering reconnaissance of the Main Trunk line route between Marton and Te Awamutu, through the all but unknown country still under the conservative rule of the Maori King, or rather of his council of advisers, consisting of the rangatiras who will figure a good deal in this narrative, whom I may describe as “The Big Three,” the Chiefs Wahanui, Taonui and Rewi Maniapoto. Rochfort did not possess Hursthouse's knowledge of the Maori, but he was patient and of dogged courage. He would never accept defeat; and on this great survey he was no sooner baffled in one direction than he was ready to attack the problem from another angle, and in the end he won through and successfully pioneered the route.
While Rochfort was preparing to begin his search for a route from the southern end of the long gap between the railheads, Wilson Hursthouse set out from the frontier for a journey to the Mokau, by way of Te Kuiti (then better known as Tokangamutu), making a reconnaissance of the country in view of the projected railway or road from the Waikato to Taranaki. He was accompanied by an assistant surveyor, Mr. Newsham, and escorted by a party of Ngati-Maniapoto men under several of their chiefs, by arrangement with the Native Minister, Mr. Bryce, who had been promised by Wahanui and the other high chiefs that the surveyors would be permitted to carry out their routescouting missions.
However, the Government officers had reckoned without a certain Bad Man of the frontier, a kind of Mad Mullah of the King Country, the prophet Mahuki, otherwise known as Manu-kura (“Red Bird”). Mahuki hated the Pakeha tribe, and he determined to stop this survey and all surveys, and all forms of Pakeha intrusion. The kai-ruri, the surveyor, was the wedge which presently would split asunder the land of the Maori.
So Mahuki and his band of “Angels,” swooping down on the Government party on the hill track above the flat where the present town of Te Kuiti stands, engaged in a furious fight with stirrup-irons—both parties were mounted—and sticks and fists with the surveyors and their escort. The Government escort, outnumbered, were overpowered—fortunately Mahuki had forbidden his men to carry firearms, otherwise murder would have been done—and the two white men, with a Maori assistant, were taken down to Te Kumi, Mahuki's headquarters village on the bank of the Manga-okewa stream, a short distance from Te Kuiti. The present railway passes close to the site of this village of the Hauhau prophet.
There, fastened up with bullock chains to the central post of the house, their hands bound, bruised, starved and thirsty, plagued by mosquitos which they could not brush away, the surveyors suffered a cruel imprisonment for two days and nights, until they were rescued by Ngati-Maniapoto men and by Te Kooti, the old rebel who had recently made peace with the Government, and who wished to demonstrate his friendship in recognition of the amnesty for war-time offences.
In their imprisonment they expected to be killed by the Hauhaus, who were yelling around the whare and chanting their wild hymns. Hursthouse had finally worked his hands free and picked up a length of chain to defend himself. Hardy campaigner though he was, he “fairly broke down and wept,” as he said himself, when rescue came.
Ngati-Maniapoto escorted Hursthouse and Newsham to the frontier township of Alexandra (now Pirongia), on the Waipa; and there, a few days later, the mad prophet Mahuki and more than a score of his hard-riding Angels were laid by the heels when they rode in threatening to loot and burn the place. The Armed Constabulary and the Te Awamutu troop of Waikato Cavalry were waiting for them, and presently the Hauhaus of Te Kumi were on their way in the Pakeha train from Te Awamutu to Mt. Eden gaol.
As for Hursthouse, he was soon back on the survey work, with particular reference to the likely connection with Stratford along approximately the present route traversed by the railway from the Ohura Valley, a vast forest wilderness that still lay wild and lone nine years later when a party of us tramped and camped through it, with Hursthouse himself at the head, spying out the goodness or otherwise of the land for railroad and settlement.
Turn now to the difficult and oftentimes perilous task which John Rochfort found ahead of him, and which he completed after many months of severe travel and survey examination and Maori anti-Pakeha demonstrations and threats and, on occasion, of ball cartridge fired over his head.
Mr. Rochfort, in his report to the Engineer-in-Charge, North Island, after describing the route he explored, narrated his adventures with the Maoris through whose tribal lands he travelled with his party. He commenced work at Marton, at the southern end of the route, on June 26, 1883, and after about a fortnight's exploration, during which it rained almost incessantly, arrived at Ngaurukehu. At Turanga rere, on the plateau at the base of Mt. Ruapehu, he met the first Maoris, and although they wanted to detain him until a general meeting
The explorer was told that if he went on he would be shot. He soon found out that Adamson's presence in the party (as guide and chainman) only added fuel to the fire, so he discharged him.
Finding that Kepa was the head of affairs, he decided to go down to the Wanganui district and interview him. This he did, travelling by way of Hales’ Track, and being delayed somewhat by snow, for it was the middle of winter. He found Kepa at Upokongaro. The Wanganui fighting chief at once said: “I will support you, and held you with five hundred men if necessary, for I consider a railway will be for the good of my people.”
Reassured by these friendly words from Kepa, Rochfort returned to the interior, carrying letters from the chief to Pita te Rahui and to some of the principal chiefs of the Manganui-a-te-ao Country, men who were thoroughgoing Hauhaus and opposed to the Pakeha and all his works. After a long discussion at Rangataua, Pita and the others at last allowed the surveyor to go on, and eventually joined him as workers, cutting the line through their district. In the end they became very anxious for the line to proceed.
Passing through the site of the present station at Ohakune, he went on along a bush track to Ruakaka, the principal settlement on the Manganui-a-te-ao, which he and his party were able to reach on horseback. He was detained there, and his theodolite and other surveying gear were seized. He was told that he must stay until Kepa was communicated with, and presently the party were marched by the Hauhaus to Papatupu, some two miles above the confluence of the river with the Wanganui.
At that bush village of the anti-Pake ha faction, a Hauhau tribe called Patu-tokotoko, there were about eighty Maoris assembled. He was kept there, virtually a prisoner, for the next two or three days. He gave in his report the names of the principal men of the Hauhaus—Taumata, Te Kuru Kaanga, Te Peehi, Winiata te Kakai, Manurewa, Turehu, Raukawa, Te Aurere,
Mr. C. W. Hursthouse.
One of the King Country railway route pioneer surveyors. Mr. Hursthouse (died 1911) had a very adventurous life as Government surveyor, and became Chief Engineer of Roads and Bridges. This photo, was taken in 1883.
Taumata urged keeping the party prisoners, but Te Peehi and others were more moderate, and said if Rochfort could bring letters of approval from Tawhiao, the Maori King, or from the great Wahanui, the principal chief of the King Country, he would not be obstructed further.
Then the meeting appointed seven chiefs to paddle the surveyor down the Wanganui River to see Kepa and discuss the trouble. His instruments remained in the possession of an old
kaingas on the way, the party reached Upokongaro. Rochfort noted that the riverside villages carried a large population, and that the Maoris about Hiruharama (Jerusalem) owned many sheep, cattle and horses. At that large settlement there was a Catholic Mission; Sister Maria Joseph (afterwards so well known in Wellington as Mother Mary Joseph Aubert) was there engaged in the mission work, besides other members of the Church.
After an inconclusive meeting between his captors and Kepa, Rochfort decided to return to Wellington to seek the advice of the Native Minister. Kepa had a conference with the Minister, promising assistance, and the result was that Rochfort returned to Wanganui and went up the river to Ranana, Kepa's headquarters, where a large meeting was held. Several of the up-river chiefs were there, and agreed to the continuance of the survey, but it was considered necessary to send a strong force of Kepa's men with Rochfort.
Accordingly, when he started on the voyage up the river, on September 26, the expedition consisted of six canoe crews, totalling thirtyone people (including six women). Paddling and poling up the strong river, the expedition, which was armed, reached Papatupu, where some eighty Maoris were assembled awaiting them. The Hauhaus gave Rochfort and his escort a very unfriendly reception. The angry korero lasted for several days, and at last ended with the Hauhaus leaving the meeting-house in a body and going up the Manganui-a-te-ao to another village, Te Papa.
(Photo. M. A. Brennan.)
The Makohine viaduct, one of the great engineering works on the North Island Main Trunk Line.
Next day Rochfort and his party followed them up, and when within about two miles of the village a messenger, Ruakawa, was sent to report that the Government men were coming. The Hauhaus regarded this man as a seceder and a spy, so they decided to shoot him. Some time elapsed before a man could be found to carry out the shooting. At last one volunteered, and seizing a gun went towards the door of the council-house, but before he could reach the spot where Raukawa was sitting several of his fellow-tribesmen stopped him, and the messenger was reprieved. Raukawa was allowed to return to the surveyor's party next morning. He said that he had found the Hauhaus busy making cartridges, but that after a night's talk they agreed to meet Rochfort and his friends.
Accordingly the Government party went on to Te Papa. As they approached they saw that a white flag was flying on a pole in the village. The travellers were met by a war-party of twenty-five men, who fired two volleys of ball cartridge over their heads. The guncrash and whistling of the bullets overhead were the ominous prelude to more very angry talk. The Hauhaus were determined to keep the white man out of their territory. Two or three days of futile discussions; the Hauhaus forced Rochfort to return the way he had come, practically at the muzzles of their double-barrel guns. At last he decided that there was nothing for it but to return to Wanganui. The expedition therefore manned the canoes again and paddled downriver to Wanganui town.
(By
Isobel M. Peacocke
The illustration of the St. Gothard's train in the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” recalled to me my journey through the famous Pass in the dead of winter, a memorable experience.
We had been travelling across France all might in one of the unbearably stuffy and overheated French trains which, owing to speed, gauge, or construction of the carriages, rocked and rolled like a ship at sea. The small wagon lit in which we were confined for our sins was rather like our own corridor carriages or “birdcages,” but it was so heavily upholstered and curtained, its windows appearing hermetically sealed and its doors locked, that we felt rather like the inmates of a luxurious prison until we were released in the early hours of morning at Bale, on the Frontier, where Swiss officials demanded our passports.
In the cold grey light of a winter dawn, after a hastily snatched breakfast, we shiveringly began our journey into Switzerland, the Winter Playground of the World. Toes and fingers ached as if being slowly crushed in a vice, but all discomfort was soon forgotten in the beauty of our surroundings.
The pretty little Swiss villages were like villages in a picture, quaint chalets with sloping red roofs and pointed gables, churches with tapering spires, farms and orchards of leafless trees, every branch and twig thickly coated with sparkling hoar frost and looking like the fantastic branching shapes of snow-white coral. Here and there old-fashioned toll gates barred the road and bullock wagons with their muffled and mittened drivers, probably on the way to early market, were waiting to be passed through. In spite of the intense cold we all stood on the observation platform eagerly surveying this snow-white world, for the sun was not yet visible, hidden somewhere behind that austere line of heaven-kissing Alps. The road was rising now and soon our train would enter the great St. Gothard Pass. St. Gothard has been described as the central mountain mass of the Middle Alps, 9,865 ft. high, and is the core of the whole Alpine system, forming the watershed for the Rhine and Rhone and other lesser rivers. There is a magnificent driving road through the Pass from Lucerne to Maggiore, 6,936 ft. high, but the railway line, with its 9 1/4 mile tunnel. runs on the lower slopes. The Pass was opened in 1882 and the magnitude of the great engineering feat can only be gauged by those who have travelled through it, feeling as we did at times like a fly on a window-pane forever crawling upward.
As our train rushed onward through the villages a silvery-blue mist began to blot out the scenery and we feared that we should see nothing of the wonders of the Pass. When we reached Lucerne, that loveliest of lakes with her encompassing groves of trees and villa-strewn slopes could be seen but dimly, like a deep blue bowl where the eddying milky mists curled and fumed in thin smoky wreaths.
Then as we entered the Pass, a miracle happened. The mists rolled up and floated away revealing a sky of deep, soft, cloudless blue and against it stood out a magnificent line of snow-peaks glittering in brilliant sunshine. Steeper grew the way, higher and higher, the train mounting spirally, so that at one time a church or bridge seeming on our left would suddenly appear on the right and there would be excited arguments as to whether it were the same object or another, similar in appearance. Remembering similar eccentricities on the part of our own Spiral at Raurimu I felt superior in knowledge, but here as we stared down at-those immense heights there were no sombre masses of bush and groves of giant ferns or red rock cuttings, but stark precipices of granite-grey stone towering abruptly from long narrow clefts of spotless snow, walling in tiny scattered villages. On an isolated crag here and there would appear a church, its slender up-lifted spire thread-like against its background of dazzling snow, and churches, chalets, tiny cottages and pent-house public buildings were all alike frosted with white, like figures on a wedding cake.
Bells were pealing with an almost unearthly sweetness up there on those rarefied heights, goat-bells, church-bells, school-bells, their mellow chime mingling with the rush of waterfalls which leaped down the rocks and ran foaming through the valleys under high arched bridges of stone. They in their impetuous rush were full of life and motion, sound and fury, but here and there were curious round ponds fast locked in glassy-green solid ice.
Dark green pine-forests, almost black in that light silvery-bright atmosphere, clothed the upper slopes above the villages, and through every break in the mountain wall one caught glistening glimpses of the icy-capped Alpine peaks like sailing icebergs on a blue sea, deep turquoise mountain lakes and flashing streams, all bathed in the frosty sunlight of a perfect winter day.
(ByF. M. R. )
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
A moonlight scene, Oriental Bay, Wellington, New Zealand.
Come, listen all you travelling folk, who would visit us down under. Listen, and we will tell you a tale of the Daylight Land, Ao-tea-roa, “The Long Bright Land.” Come, stay awhile with us, play awhile with us. Follow the trail of the shining rail, and we will show you our wonders.
“Look, can you not glimpse the crimson flame of the rata among the green glory of the bush, as the train rides by? Yes, that is the tui's ravishing note.”
A merry fellow is the tui, black and handsome and full of sin, as he chatters and chortles to himself up in the tree tops. A clever mimic, he loves to imitate the other birds. He will mock you, too, if you don't watch out. New Zealand provides the finest fireless cookers in the world, gratis. In the middle of the North Island, still following the trail of the shining rail, among the steam holes and boiling pools of Rotorua, you may see the brown man, or rather his women folk cooking their daily food. For in these Fortunate Isles even Nature's chimneys smoke. An amusing fellow the Maori, and a great orator. You will admire his young wahine (wife) raven-locked, liquid-eyed, soft of voice, and sturdy as a young kauri.
The Maoris are a hospitable race, and if you are not too fastidious, pakeha (white man), you will accept the brown man's invitation to foregather with his tribe in the big Whare-puni, or meeting house. This is the great “korero” or talking house where the tribe talk over the war exploits of their forbears. Here they tell their age-old tales, and sing their plaintive chants. Although the whare-puni is lit with a small door and window only, as it is very large, the visitor soon gets used to the pleasant twilight within. The walls are cleverly decorated with grotesque carved figures with lolling tongues. These are warriors of the tribes’ ancestral heroes. Cunningly wrought panels of rapu and dyed flax line the walls between the carvings. Happy sloe-eyed “tamariki” (children) roll on the floor in play, and te-kuri, the mongrel Maori dog, gazes at his master with adoring eyes.
Here a young brave will tell you, oh stranger from over the seas, wonderful tales. Strange myths and legends, stories of fierce taniwhas or water gods. Tales of stream goblins, of evil spirits, of forest fairies; these have been handed down by word of mouth from generation to generation. The Maori will tell you in his own poetic way—“Listen Stranger”—
Here, too, you will learn of his skill, with rod and fly, how he stole the art of making fishing-nets from the fairies. For Ao-tea-roa is the anglers’ paradise, but the tale of the great northern fighting fish, the mako shark and the kingfish, is a story by itself. Of his ancient war canoe races the Maori will speak. Great red monsters, a hundred feet long, carrying two hundred men. The double row of paddles struck the water together, and as they rowed, this was the paddle song they sang:
But you may not linger too long with these fascinating people, there are other wonders. Close to this thermal region rise the icy peaks of National Park. Through the heart of the North Island the Main Trunk Railway will carry you to this enchanted mountain country. The Park is New Zealand's greatest playground, left almost to Nature's wild mood, except for the Chateau Tongariro, where you may abide in comfort. Here you can enjoy the delights of
The South, or Middle Island, is a land of lake and beech forest. The solemn glory of the Southern Alps with their glaciers, raging torrents, leaping cataracts, their pyramids of rock and ice, are awe-inspiring sights. The cloudpiercer, Mr. Cook, 12,349ft. high, is the monarch of the Alps. The Milford Sound district, with its fiords and lakes, is beyond compare, and the most beautiful in the world. Yet the half has not been told, oh wanderer—visit this land, which is like unto a Royal Princess by the many names given her by those who love her.
So, haere-mai (welcome) from over the water. Come… Stay with us. Play with us, in the “Long Bright Land.” The “Land of the Long Daylight.” Beloved Ao-tea-roa, and best of all names—that bestowed upon her by New Zealand's greatest statesman, the late Richard John Seddon, of the land he so loved, we invite you to “God's Own Country!”
(Photo, G. S. Desgrand, Brisbane)
The Dart River, Paradise, Lake Wakatipu, South Island, New Zealand.
An Appreciation
Writing to Mr. G. H. Mackley, General Manager of Railways, Mr. Henry Ashworth, Wellington, expresses appreciation of the up-to-date carriages supplied by the Department on a recent Wellington-Napier excursion train, and of the arrangements made for the comfort and convenience of passengers on the journey. Mr. Ashworth writes as follows: —
I beg to compliment your Department upon the excellent arrangements and comfort provided for your second-class passengers in connection with the recent excursion to Napier. The carriage I occupied during the trip, was quite up-to-date, and a new type to myself, being gloriously lighted. Though seventy-six years of age I read a novel, of very small print, quite through, during the journey.
I reiterate, I found in that compartment 100 per cent. of seating comfort, heat, light, attention, and luggage accommodation.
Will Rogers, noted film comedian, and leading American humorist, writing in the “Peoria-Journal Transcrip” (U. S. A.), says, inter alia: “I was with Wirth Bros', circus, and we played everything from Wyapuckerou in New Zealand, to Killgooly, or something like that away out in the West of Australia.” The rolling syllables of Waipukurau have long caused the name to be a subject of humour among visiting stage comedians touring the Dominion, but this is probably the first time on record that an American writer has jested about it. But perhaps Rogers really couldn't spell the name? —C. H. F.
* * *
One of the most interesting caves I have come across is at Nugget Point, roughly half way between Dunedin and Bluff. About four hundred feet below the lighthouse, the cliff slopes off to a horizontal ridge, in which is a little crater about forty feet deep. From the bottom, a cave runs along parallel to the seafront. Next, a side cave opens on to the sea, and farther on there is another huge opening at sea level. Since both these side caves are wide, they catch the air when a sou'-wester is blowing so that, being compressed by the wind behind, it passes through the caves and rushes up the funnel. Any sand which falls from the side is whisked into the air. This is the only explanation I can give of the formation of the funnel. After the caves had been formed, and had reached the layer of sandstone above, huge waves, by dashing into the entrance compressed the air inside, and this air was forced through a crack in the standstone. The crack would eventually widen into a funnel. —G. S. McAuslan.
* * *
Timi, from the Hawke's Bay back-blocks held the floor.
“Mere an’ me visit te friends in Wairarapa,” he said; “an’ we ride in a train for my first time. Py Chove, I puff out te proud puku when a porter man take our suit hamper at Napier station and say: ‘You want this checked?’
“No need to check it,” chip in Mere, with a grand grin. ‘It can go fast as you wish.’
“Te ferra wink an‘ say: ‘We fix it, missus;’ an’ after asking where we going for, he take te hamper off to sit in te guard's carriage.
“Py korry, I notice everyone in our fine carriage dressed up very toff, an’ Mere jaw me very fierce for wearing te dusty 1914 suit, when a new one going rusty in te hamper case. ‘A train not dusty with grime juice like a service car,’ she say, pefore starting to open our kai cases.
“Soon after we start, a ticket man come, an‘ after he nip ours he gaze at me an’ say: ‘You change at Woodvirra’ (Woodville).
“T'at give me a great shock, an’ soon as he go Mere say: ‘You never wait for Woodvirra. You change record quick at Waipukurau’; so, soon as we reach t'at city I hurry off to te guard carriage an’ ask for our suit hamper.
“‘But it is checked to Carterton,’ te guard say: so I point out what I peen warned about changing te suit, an’ t'at guard very near ruin his neck organs with mirth quakers.
“‘He mean for you to change trains,’ he say, when he can speak.
“I never want to change,’ I say. ‘This nice one suit te missus an’ me from Port Cape to te Puff.
“Te guard stage more mirth, an’ t'en point out that our nice train turning up another track at Woodvirra, an’ if we won't hop out, Wairarapa never see us t'at day.
“Py Chose, understanding come over me t'en, an‘ I grip te guard's fist an’ say: ‘Sometime Coates crown you stationmaster chief with honours,’ an’ off I hurry to give Mere te news.
“She rock te carriage with joy quivers.
“‘This more fun t'an a mischievous hike,’ she say, an’ chew into a fresh fish cake to shoo off te hysterics.”—“O. W. Waireki.”
* * *
Mention of Captain O'Brien's description of Mount Egmont as set out in the May issue of the New Zealand Railways Magazine, reminded me of a very uncommon view I obtained of the cone from Golden Bay. Some miles away from Takaka, along the direction of Separation Point, I sat down for lunch on the roadside. The day was a glorious one, and the clear blue sea and golden sands below me were wonders enough. But far away on the horizon lay a long low bank of white clouds, and rising above it, clear, distinct and unmistakable, shone the white top of Mount Egmont. Of course I was thrilled. I had not been in the South Island very long and, between Nelson and the Sand Spit at Cape Farewell, I believe this sentinel cone is the only portion of the North Island visible; and this is seen only on very rare occasions. What O'Brien wrote of the cone was made clear to me that day: the immensity and perfection of the mountain is never so realistically presented as when we view it across many miles of ocean and view it standing alone and absolute, as it were, in space. —“Pumice.”
By)
Tohunga
The philosophy, history and poetic expressions of the Maori are illustrated in this further selection of whakatauki or proverbial sayings, gathered from the rich storehouse of native wit and wisdom.
The season's greeting:
Ka tangi te pipi-wharauroa, ko te karere o Mahuru. (The shining cuckoo cries, the messenger of Spring.)
He wha tawhara ki uta, He kiko tamure ki tai. (The broad fruit of the tawhara, or kiekie, is found on land, and the snapper in the sea. Meaning there is food for man everywhere.)
Ka maunu te puru o Taumarere. (The plug of the fountain of Taumarere has been pulled out—hence this flood of people. Taumarere is a place near Kawakawa, Bay of Islands. The expression is used for a large assemblage of the Ngapuhi tribes. It will no doubt be heard from the Ngapuhi orators at the large gathering at Waitangi next January.)
Ka puru te puna i Taumarere, ka tuwhera te puna i Hokianga. (If you stop up the fountain at Taumarere, the water will flow more strongly from the springs at Hokianga. Meaning, though you destroy the people of Taumarere, you will surely draw upon yourselves the vengeance of those of Hokianga.)
Ko Rotorua matangi rau. (A hundred strong winds blow about Rotorua.) Also: Ko Rotorua te puna whakatoto o te riri. (Rotorua is the fount of strife and blood. Used in reference to the many wars which originated in the Rotorua district.)
Matariki hunga nui. (Matariki, the god personified by Matariki, the constellation of the Pleiades, has many people to work for him. All the tribes made offerings of their first-fruits of the kumara crop to Matariki.)
Ma wai e rou ake te whetu o te rangi, ka taka kei raro. (Who can draw down with a rake the stars of heaven, that they may fall to the earth? Meaning, can you lead away a powerful chief as captive?)
Some absurd statements concerning the origin and meaning of Maori words and place-names often find their way into the newspapers. A correspondent of a Wellington paper not long since declared that “it was not generally known” that the word “pakeha,” used to denote a white person was not a true Maori word but was developed by the natives in the early days from a swear-word much used by the early whalers. Those unfortunate early whalers are blamed for so many things! They cannot, however, be held accountable for “pakeha.” This is certainly an ancient and genuine Maori word, of Polynesian origin, meaning a foreigner, a stranger, not necessarily white, but probably derived from or associated with “pakehakeha,” which is an expression to denote fair-skinned legendary beings. “Patupaiarehe,” or fairies, are sometimes termed “pakehakeha” with reference to their colour. “Kiritea” is another term for a white or fair skin, but “pakeha” is the Maori word most used, and it is ridiculous to ascribe to it a whaler's term-of-endearment origin.
The Maoris of that wild and beautiful forest land the Urewera Country, still live very much to themselves, though the population of the mountain villages has dwindled considerably, because of the attractions of dairying and maize-growing out on the plains at Ruatoki. The principal kaingas are Mataatua, the ancient
Not much has been heard of Ruatapu for some time, but lately I received a note from Maungapohatu which described some of the ways of the prophet and his disciples. Rua appears to be an influence for good among his people. For one thing, he inculcates habits of industry, like his prototype, Te Kooti, who though forty years dead, is still revered by these people and thousands of others along the Bay of Plenty coast.
“Rua,” says my correspondent, “has been up here at Maungapohatu, but these high places are too cold for him now in winter, and he is out now on his farm lands at Matahi and Otane, down in the Waimana Valley. He was here with his wives; there are only four now (instead of the mystic number seven of former years), and two of these wahines he left here when he returned to his Matahi quarters. He is working to get his Otane farm well developed; houses are being built, he milks eight or ten cows, and spends a good deal of time supervising things. Rua usually has a crowd of young people in his household, and when they are all here more work is done than during the rest of the year. Everyone has a job, and that job must be done.”
My correspondent describes the remarkable ascendancy of the prophet of the Rocky Mountains over the minds of his people: “The Maoris seem really to love their chief, but there is a good deal of fear mingled with it. The children tell me that Rua made the world, the trees and everything; that he is God, and able to heal all manner of diseases. To ‘tell Rua’ seems to be one of the most effective threats they have. The people have been seen filing past the prophet with bows, clasped hands, and obeisance to their Ariki, but this is stopped as soon as any of the pakehas here are seen approaching. Several times we have inadvertently stopped most elaborate ceremonies by appearing when we were not expected.
“Rua suffers badly at times from gout and rheumatism, and he lies in bed on his verandah or lawn, surrounded by some of his devout disciples. This last time he was in here hours were spent every night learning karakia (prayers), the Ringatu religious chants, and haka songs. Often when we visited the village we found men in odd corners with huge volumes busily writing, or droning karakia. All the people lived close around Rua then, and their own homes were shut up.
“The prophet certainly has an orderly way of managing things; he supervises his people closely. He buys all the clothes (out at the township) for his household, and now and again we saw him distributing the new articles. When he is here the people are kept clean. He insists on them bathing in the river every night. When he is away they are not so particular.”
Music Helps Not The Tooth-Ache.”
With equal truth it may be said that a fullsized orchestra cannot cure a cold. Be sure you get the right remedy, Baxter's Lung Preserver. “Baxter's” is unequalled for throat and chest ailments, so quickly does it soothe and relieve, while its tonic properties help increase resistance to further attacks.
Children prefer “Baxter's” to anything else. Chemists and stores, 1/6, 2/6 and 4/6. 3
By
Helen
The March Towards Summer.
As Spring advances, we note the prevalence of green, red, deep shades of blue, beige to brown, yellows (especially primrose and mustard). Pastel shades, grey, black and white in combination, and white alone are all important. Aeroplane grey is a grey with almost a beige tint. So, as regards colour, all ages and all complexions are catered for.
Fabrics are patterned with stripes, checks (the larger and more broken the better), plaids or floral designs. Small flower patterns seem more popular than they have been for several seasons. Cotton fabrics are fascinating. I saw a charming frock in white organdie, ruffled over the shoulders, bound at the natural waistline with a twist of black and white, and flaring from the knees in a fluted skirt. In sharp contrast was the severity of a suit in coarse linen with loose threequarter length coat.
Muslin is another revival which will lend charm to the summer season. In white or colours, plain or spotted, soft or starched, it will compose many a dainty gown. Yes, we shall have to start talking about “gowns” again; there is a dignity about even the “young-girl” frocks, with their air of dainty demureness.
King Cotton will rule the social world for the ensuing months. His heralds were last season's ginghams; organdie, muslin, linen are in his train, and the new anticrease cottons will make his reign secure. Bundle an “anti-crease” frock into your week-end bag, shake it out at your destination, and slip it on without the worry of enquiring for iron and ironing blanket.
And the multitude of textures and patterns provide something suitable for every occasion, from boating to bridge or from tennis to talkies.
Although curves are once more on fashion's list, don't give up your dieting; and remain an exercise fan, for the slim silhouette is still the feminine aim. In any case, how much better we feel, how much clearer is our skin and brighter our eyes, when we pay proper attention to food and physique.
Sleeves are very important. Short sleeves are puffed or frilled; long sleeves puff or mould the arm as long as they do both in the same garment. The feminine portion of the “older generation” is having great fun with “I remembers.” “Oh! Look at those sleeves! I had a coat like that. I remember, we were going for a picnic at Maori Bank. Starching coming in again! You young people don't realise the trouble it will be. Yes, I'll admit it looks very charming.”
“Frills! My dear, I remember a blouse I had. It took hours to iron.” I wonder if, some day soon, we'll look back on the “boyish” figure, flat back and front, and laugh?
Besides short coats to wear with summer frocks, we must have capes, large or small. A business-like tennis frock, perhaps
Trimmings are legion, and frocks are certainly “fussy.” Of special note are frills and ruffles. Skirts and sleeves bear ruffles, large or small. Organdie neck ruffles may be bought by the yard, and remind me, somehow, of the feather boa.
If you make your own summer frocks, choose styles featuring bows. Bows are everywhere. Have a frock with a sash effect. To wear with your linen or lightweight suit choose a gay, made-up bow scarf, which doesn't become limp and shabby by dint of tying and untying, but cleverly clips on with the aid of pressclaps. Capes may be incorporated with frocks as well as being detachable. By the way, capes permit a wardrobe to seem larger than it is if your colour scheme allows them to be interchangeable. Cross-over berthas are smart and dainty.
King Cotton rules also in the ballroom as he is doing in America and Europe. Our early winter ginghams and dimities forecasted that, didn't they?
Spring coats are well-fitting, with special attention to the sleeve development, or they are of the “swagger” type. The three-quarter length coat of the sporty variety will be one of our most useful summer garments. A few days ago I saw a very smart new coat in brown and beige check, cut with a loose back and raglan sleeves. The coat was, of course, three-quarter length. With it was worn a little, round brown cap.
Hand-bags will no longer form a note of contrast, but will match frocks. White hand-bags will be very smart. Hats must have brims in order to suit the frock styles.
Cultivate Your Friends.
To the busy woman, the woman with household tasks and the care of young children, I would say “Cultivate your friends.” Give up to them time you ill can spare. Even increase, from time to time, your tasks of baking and cleaning in order that you may entertain them comfortably. It is worth it. A busy woman has no time for acquaintances, but she should, for her own sake, develop incipient friendships with congenial people. Any expenditure of time and trouble in doing this is amply repaid in terms of relaxation, laughter, development of interests, brightening of mental outlook. Friendly chat, an hour or two of “play,” can make all the difference in our attitude towards what had seemed a depressing array of household tasks. A happier method of tackling the small problems of existence presages a happier approach towards the greater problems which life presents.
And now this question of acquaintances! How often do we meet women who are passively antagonistic and yet “keep up the acquaintance,” dragging through the dreary round of teas and bridge—for social intercourse is dreary when personalities are not in sympathy. How often Mrs. Smith says to Mr. S., “I must really ask Mr. and Mrs. Brown along for a game of bridge. You remember we were at their place that night you wanted to go to the lecture on the Douglas Credit System. I know you don't like Mrs. Brown, but we must have them.” So they have them and everything goes with a sparkle—on the surface—and a few weeks later Mrs. Brown mentions to Mr. Brown that they will have to fit the Smiths in somehow next week “though Mr. Smith does annoy you, doesn't he, darling?” Is it worth it? After all, we can't expect to be entirely in sympathy with everyone we meet, so why try to perpetuate a chance encounter and introduction which we know perfectly well will lead to no real friendliness on either side? Let such casual acquaintances lapse, and cultivate our friends.
* * *
It'S Spring-Cleaning Time.
At this season of the year the housewife's thoughts turn to the problems of springcleaning and the refurbishing of the home.
Nowadays there are so many moderately priced and charming furnishing fabrics on the market that it is possible to create fresh and pleasing changes at a small cost. There is an unlimited variety in the materials for interior furnishing, and the most fascinating colours and colour schemes. As most of the fabrics are fadeless, the housewife has a wide choice of colours and designs to make her home attractive on a moderate outlay.
Amongst the fabrics shown are exquisite curtain nets, cretonnes, chintzes, shadow tissues, linens, repps, art silk, brocades, damasks, etc. Chintzes are coming into favour again. The
When deciding on redecorating a room it is desirable to bring it up-to-date, but care must be taken not to make any of your furniture that is not being renovated look shabby.
Chintz is coming into favour again. The designs and colourings are delightful. With an array of small floral designs, large bunches of roses or lilies, and bouquets of flowers with ribbon bows (the colour of which can be reproduced in bindings and finishings), the cottage garden, the new geometrical designs, there is something to harmonise with any wallpaper, floor covering or furniture, so that there is no excuse for dull, dowdy rooms.
Chintz is practical and decorative and can be put to a variety of uses. Loose covers, curtains, cushion covers, bedspreads, and all kinds of fascinating and useful articles may, with a little thought and ingenuity, be made.
The bachelor girl's flat can be transformed into a place of beauty by the use of chintz for cushions, covering chairs, disguising boxes for ottomans and seats, curtains for wardrobes or dressing-tables. Oldfashioned bedsteads may be modernised by the judicious use of chintz. Make loose covers to match the curtains and bedspread and slip them over the ends of the bed.
When buying coloured fabrics for furnishing, it is necessary to get patterns and be sure of the tones and shades before having the material cut. If renewing your china get it to match your breakfast or dining-room furnishings. You can also buy the new coloured pottery bowls and vases to match or tone with your colur scheme.
* * *
Household Hints.
To Launder Net Curtains.
Before washing, soak them for an hour in hot soap water. They must be squeezed, not wrung, out.
After starching, shake them thoroughly and carefully to remove any starch from the holes.
A good way to dry them is to hang them while wet. Pass a rod through the hem at the bottom and pull gently downwards and outwards from time to time until they are dry.
* * *
Measles.
As measles are prevalent just now, it is well for mothers to have a working knowledge of the symptoms and treatment of the malady.
Measles are most infectious during the early stages, and are disseminated directly through the secretions of the throat, nose, etc. The incubation period is from ten to fourteen days. The patient must be isolated for not less than a fortnight after the rash appears. A longer period will be necessary if he is not quite convalescent.
Course and Symptoms. —Measles begin with a catarrhal stage. A child has what appears to be a catarrhal cold in which there is running from the eyes and nose, coughing, sneezing and hoarseness, and often some swelling of the mucus membrane of the mouth. Quite early small red spots with a bluish white centre may be discovered on the mucus membrane on the inside of the cheek. They are very small and not always seen. Preliminary rashes often appear during this stage. On the fourth day the eruptive stage usually begins.
The face has a swollen, bloated appearance, and the catarrh continues. The temperature rises and the patient becomes acutely ill. The rash begins (usually behind the ears). The face is first involved, and then the trunk and limbs The rash is dusky red, raised and blotchy. After a day or two the rash begins to fade, the temperature falls, gradually becoming normal. There is usually some branny desquamation of the skin.
Complications. —The most serious complication is broncho-pneumonia. Inflammation of the eyes may lead to serious complications and even to loss of sight, and there may be inflammation of the middle ear with purulent discharge and later on mastoid disease or meningitis. Enlargement of the glands of the neck is not uncommon. Laryngitis may also occur.
When there are any of the above complications, it is necessary to secure medical advice without delay.
Treatment. —When it is known that measles are prevalent, it is well to isolate the patient as soon as the catarrhal cold appears. If it is a cold only it will probably clear up in a day or two.
Put the patient to bed in a warm wellventilated room and out of draughts. It is most essential to keep the patient warm and also as quiet as possible. Cleanse the mouth before and after feeding, with a mouth wash of a mild disinfectant, such as salt and water, or Condy's Fluid diluted to a pale pink clour. Cleanse the eyes of all discharge, with weak boracic lotion. Use pledgets of cotton wool for the purpose, and do not put the used ones back into the lotion but into a paper bag so that they may be burnt immediately. Shade the eyes from strong light. Good eye-shades may be made from a piece of brown paper cut nine inches long and seven inches wide and doubled. Tie pieces of tape at the top ends and tie round the head. Bathe the skin daily with a little disinfectant in the water and anoint with oil to prevent itching. Disinfect carefully any articles used in the sick room, and keep cups, tumblers, spoons, etc., separate. Do not use handkerchiefs—use pieces of old soft rag which can be burnt.
Diet. —Give plenty of fluids—water, barley water, fruit drinks, black currant tea, milk, etc. Only easily digested and nutritious foods must be given, such as custards, gruel, smooth milk puddings, broths, etc. Watch the bowels and give aperients when necessary.
Persons nursing measles or other infectious patients should wear overalls kept specially for the purpose, and worn only in the sick room.Scrub the hands thoroughly with a nail brush and an antiseptic soap (such as carbolic soap) before and after doing treatments and after leaving the room.
To aviod infection, keep in the fresh air and sunshine as much as possible. Avoid close contact with sufferers. Gargle with a weak solution of Condy's Fluid. Drink plenty of water. Eat nourishing food, and have suitable exercise to keep the body fit and build up resistance to withstand the invasion of germs.
(By “
Shibli Bagarag
Candidly I am rather proud of this penname of mine. To use an overworked word, it appears to “intrigue” people. I have already related how one of our country readers thought it was a new brand of tooth paste. A few days ago a friend declared positively that Shibli Bagarag was Irish for “What's Yours?” To keep the ball rolling, as it were, “Beck Grange” has composed a poem about it. Here it is:—
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I was told the other day that Thomas Bracken, author of the world-famous poem “Not Understood,” was the first canvasser of the “N.Z. Tablet.” He “worked” the stores, hotels and tents of the diggings with payable results.
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It happened several years ago, but it's worth while re-telling here. A bankrupt Maori was being examined by his creditors, when, during a lull in the proceedings, a reporter whispered into his ear that if he had any money he must turn it on for the crowd. Hori promptly dredged up half-a-crown from his pocket, and, satisfied that it was bankruptcy court etiquette, proudly tossed the coin over to-the Official Assignee, saying: “Py korry, we now ko ofter to te ‘Crown and Anchor’ and trink te health of te crettitors.”
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Full of appreciation of the hospitality and helpful interest of writers and artists in Sydney, Mr. Cecil Steere, a promising young New Zealand short story writer, returned to this country recently. He told me that all the writers he met extended to him the glad hand of welcome and crammed into his month's holiday more good cheer and practical advice than he could have gained elsewhere in a year. His enthusiasm took me back a score of years, when I made my first visit to Sydney, and the same fine spirit of friendly help was shown to me by Australian journalists. The generous spirit still lives, and may it burn ever brighter.
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One of the most interesting items in my collection of first numbers of New Zealand periodicals is “N.Z. Punch,” dated April 7th, 1888. This little weekly was modelled on the lines of London “Punch,” even to the cover design, which was an adaptation of Dicky Doyle's famous cover plate, except that Punch is seen facing his readers instead of appearing de profil; Toby is on the left of the picture, and his place on the right is occupied by a lady with helmet, palette and brush, representative of New Zealand. The make-up is very similar to the London “Punch” of the period. The political artist, “Mac,” moulded his style closely on that of Sir John Tenniel. In my copy, the cartoonist
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The N.S.W. Bookstall Co., Sydney, have published an interesting monthly entitled “Book News.” It deals with all the current book publishing developments on the other side of the Tasman.
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I was interested in an article I read in a London Literary Journal recently on “Tim Pippin's Adventures in Giant Land.” Were I a millionaire I would present a copy of “Tim Pippin” to every boy and girl in New Zealand, for I think it is the finest book ever written about the realms of giants and witches. But the sad part about the business is that I am not a millionaire, and even were I one I could not, apparently, secure a copy of the wonderful book. The copy of my boyhood days is gone— I believe it was thumbed to oblivion, just as effectively as a body is cremated, by a succession of youthful readers. The London writer has made a similar complaint, and adds that he has searched for years to secure another copy, but without success. He described the volume as about quarto size, in red cloth, and with a picture of a witch rising from the waters of a noisome pool, stamped on the cover. I'm prepared to wager that he is wrong about the cover picture, for the illustration stamped indelibly on my mind is that of Tim Pippin mounted on his charger, with trusty blade and all complete, hurdling over the recumbent figure of a giant. The witch picture appears in the inside. However, I would not seek to quarrel with a writer, favoured, like myself, in his boyhood, with literary nourishment of the Tim Pippin brand. “Tim Pippin” was written by “Roland Quiz,” and was wonderfully illustrated by John Proctor, an artist who, it seems to me, was born for the express purpose of illustrating the marvellous world of fairydom that emanated from the superimaginative mind of “Roland Quiz.”
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Editorial Eavesdroppings.
The reminiscences and stories of Marcus Marks are to be published by the Endeavour Press, Sydney, before Christmas, retailing at 5/-.
Tom Glover, the popular New Zealand artist, now of Sydney “Sun,” is drawing a weekly coloured comic for that paper in addition to his daily cartoon.
Another New Zealand artist, Jack Gilmour, has been appointed cartoonist for the British Union of Fascists’ papers.
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Reviews
“Politickle.” A Book of Caricatures, by Alan Reeve. This black and white artist shows considerable improvement in technique over a similar book he published last year. His ideas are at times clever. The Nelle Scanlan presentation has in it a faint touch of Max Burbohm. His different treatments are interesting, suggesting that Alan Reeve may yet find individuality. The work is uneven. I could hardly believe that the crude drawing on page 23 was drawn by the artist who shows such freedom of line on page 37. The book is well printed by the Roycroft Press. Price 1/6.
“The Story of Turi and his Canoe” is the title of a pamphlet published recently by the Patea and Waverley Press. It is an interesting historical document, based on excerpts from the Rev. T. G. Hammond's book, “The Story of Aotea.” Turi, of course, was the great navigator who voyaged from Hawaiki to New Zealand. He made Patea his home, hence the striking memorial erected in his honour in that rare little town by the river.
Value Of Insignis Pine.
In an article dealing with milling Insignis Pine, Mr. L. E. Balgent, of Nelson, who has probably milled more Insignis Pine than anyone else in New Zealand states: “It is obviously very advisable to plant Insignis trees and plenty of them, in accessible localities, because they will provide the fortunate owner with one of the safest and most profitable investments. There need be no fear of excess of supply: the uses and the possible uses are so numerous that this is almost an impossibility.” Plantations throughout New Zealand are rapidly disappearing as the result of milling operations, and it is obvious that the plantations established by N.Z. Perpetual Forests Ltd., have an increasing potential value.
(ByE. .)
Vivian Hall
Small Lenders—And Piratical Borrowers—Revived Coalmining.
Many causes have been alleged of the world depression. After all, is our principal cause simply the old folly of borrowing (or lending) too much? Sir Arthur Samuel says bluntly, “Yes.” He states that “unjustifiable debts incurred by uncreditworthy borrowers are the principal case of the partial collapse of the world's economic structure.” In a simpler form of society an excess of borrowing used to be checked in good time by the lender, who put the brake on. Nowadays lenders are legion, and, being competitive, and often ignorant, don't seem to know how to put on the brake. If they did, would it be necessary for Sir Arthur Samuel to declare it a duty of the Government “to check indiscriminate public lending and protect investors’ savings”? Sir George Paish points out that the savings of small people now form a huge proportion of lendable capital. These small people are not usurers to be repressed, but persons to be protected in their capital and in the moderate return it brings them. Capital losses on loans are now colossal.
Since international stabilisation of currencies was postponed, pending the result of individual attempts at stabilisation by different countries, economic attention has centred on the American experiment, as being the greatest for many reasons, including: (1) The immense size of the untariffed home market; (2) the lesser degree of dependence on exports; and (3) the novel methods of control of wages and hours and (in some cases) of production and price. That experiment is altogether incomplete. It is the greatest of its kind the world has seen. While the United States depends less on exports than does Great Britain, her agriculturists must necessarily feel the tariff tactics of the gold countries. France and Italy are both reported as raising their tariffs against countries with depreciated currencies. Sterling as well as the dollar is concerned in this.
The naval holiday promises to come to an end even more emphatically than the tariff truce, but it seems that another effort may be made to save the disarmament cause on sea and land. A British proposal to President Roosevelt to postpone his naval programme is reported by the “Daily Mail.” American pleas that the programme is needed in order to give employment have not prevented the rival culmination of a bigger navy movement in Japan, where dictatorship and a huge Budget deficit are talked of. America's own Budget deficit will take some beating. A Federal surplus of 183 million dollars in 1930 became, in 1933, an accumulated deficit of 5,547 million dollars. President Roosevelt's new naval programme totals 47 millions sterling.
By means of an investment of several millions sterling at Billingham-on-Tees, Imperial Chemical Industries will produce, oil-from-coal at a rate calculated to keep a good-sized coalmine busy. It is estimated that petrol will be produced at a cost of about 7d. a gallon. Imported petrol has been brought to the mouth of the Thames at a cost of as low as 3 ½d. a gallon (that it, cost without duty), so the British Government guarantees to maintain for a period of years a duty of at least 4d. a gallon net against the import. It is not certain that imported petrol will continue to be as cheap as 3 ½d., or that petrol-from-coal will continue to cost as much as 7d. Practical operation may reduce the 7d., and it may be that oil-from-coal will reach as low a cost basis as imported petrol. In that case, the new petrol will not live merely by the duty. It represents home industry (including revived coalmining) and home production of fuel vital to the Navy.
The Billingham-on-Tees undertaking is based on the process of hydrogenation. Another well-known coal-cracking process is low temperature carbonisation. Both are highly technical and are still developing. To the layman. a conspicuous point of differentiation is that the hydrogenation process of coal-cracking has for its main product the petrol referred to above; while the carbonisation process has for its main product a smokeless coke, with oil and petrol as secondary products. Experts have pointed out that if the smokeless coke of carbonisation could capture practically the whole household fuel consumption of Britain (for which it is well suited) then the secondary product oils might be produced in sufficient quantity to make Britain independent of petrol and oil imports. Instead of building on that “if,” Imperial Chemical Industries rely on the petrol process—that is, on hydrogenation. At the same time, the smokeless coke of carbonisation, if burned in grates, would mean a less polluted atmosphere.
All About Passes And Pirates.
Just think, Trainlanders! What a wonderful time you stand a chance of having during the Christmas holidays if you enter our Paragraph Competition. Could anything be easier?
There is no reason on earth why you should not be one of the lucky prize winners. You may or you may not be good at essay writing. In this competition it does not matter. We just want to know Why you want to go to a certain place. Perhaps you want to see your Granny in Timaru; or your best friend in New Plymouth; or go to lovely Lake Brunner to see the marvellous beauty there; or maybe you want to go and join in Auckland's gaiety and have a rollicking good time, chugging to and fro in ferries, listening to the plaintive melodies of the old musicians on board, as you look down upon the fleets of white-winged yachts dipping into the sparkling blue waters.
If you visit Auckland, you will, of course, want to visit Ye Olde Pirate Shippe, anchored at Milford Beach, which is the Aucklanders’ favourite holiday place. People come in thousands to picnic on the lawns, bordered with marigolds under the pine trees. Have you ever been there? It is great! Pohutakawa trees hang over the cliffs in crimson masses. Over the waves ride dinky little canoes with skull and crossbones painted on each prow. Ye Olde Pirate Shippe has many attractions, including a dance hall and refreshment room. Downstairs it has portholes for windows, and upstairs there is flapping canvas, and on the spotless deck there are deck chairs. In the fresh sea breezes flutter many coloured flags on Ye Shippe's tall masts. And that is not all! On this Olde Shippe is a real, live Pirate Captain. All his Pirates wear bright red Pirate pants, open shirts, gay red handkies tied round their heads, and on their faces welcome smiles. Their laughter is a tonic. There are lady Pirates, too! They are dressed something like gypsies, and look very sweet and pretty as they bring along afternoon tea for you.
Have the Pirates any pistols or daggers in their belts? Well, I have not seen any, but I would not be at all surprised at anything they have in their treasure trove, because Ye Olde Shippe is a truly remarkable place.
The Pirate Captain has a soft spot in his heart for all girls and boys. He brings donkeys on to the beach and gives the children rides. He has provided them with see-saws, special paddling pools, a model yacht club, and he takes movie pictures of the happy holiday-makers surfing through the creamy breakers. These movies he shows to them afterwards on the screen. Would you like to see yourself in a movie picture?
Next month we will visit “New Zealand's Thriller.” It is a long, long way from Auckland. Can you guess where?
On your calendar, count up how many days you have from now till November 8th. Then count up 125 words of this letter to see what a little you need to write for the Paragraph Competition.
Wishing you the best of luck!
Free Railway Tickets For Trainlanders.
Prizes For Our Christmas Competition.
First Prize Awards in both Senior and Junior Sections: —First-class Return Railway Ticket to anywhere in New Zealand during the Summer Holidays.
These prizes include a A Free Ticket For A Parent Or Guardian Accompanying Each Prize Winner.
The children of Railway employees already have this privilege of free tickets annually. Should any of the prize-winners come under this category, other attractive prizes will be given.
This Is All You Have To Do.
Write a paragraph, of not more than 125 words, on: “Why I Want to Visit if I win one of the First Prizes.” On the dotted line fill in the name of the place in New Zealand that you want to see most of all.
There will be 100 other prizes—beautiful photographs of the places entrants would like to visit!
This Is The World'S Easiest Competition, so enter right away.
Conditions.
Open to any girl or boy under eighteen years. Senior section, 18 years and over 12; Junior section, 12 years and under. No entry fee whatever.
Competitor's name, age and address to be written clearly on each entry. Entries to be written in ink, on one side of the paper only. Age and neatness will be taken into consideration. The decision of the Editor of the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” will be final.
Closes Wednesday, November 8th.
Paragraph Competition Results will appear in the December issue of the “New Zealand Railways Magazine.”
Address all entries: “Paragraph Competition,” c/o “Railways Magazine,” Wellington.
Tell your friends the news about our Paragraph Competition. They will be glad to know. If you are not too busy with examinations, perhaps your schoolteachers will let you all write your entries in school. Ask them nicely and see if they will
“A truthful page is childhood's lovely face.“-Shillaber.
Our Children's Gallery. —(1) Billy and Bobby Cowan, Thorndon, Wellington; (2) Joyce and Hugh Walmsley, Tauranga; (3) Jackie Bowden, Dunedin; (4) Geraldine Falconbridge, Glenhope; (5) Jean Allen, Glenhope; (6) Grace, Thelsia, Joyce and June Efford, Greymouth; (7) Dora, Lorna, Mollie. Reta, Robert, Willie and Frank Wallace, National Park; (8) children from the Whangarei Railway Settlement; (9) Mary, Maurice and Brian Pohlen, Wellington.