Mt. Cook from “The Hermitage,” South Island, New Zealand.
Contents
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25/3/35.
L. Wallace, photo)
A scene in the Eglinton Valley, South Island, New Zealand. “Where torrents sweep cold from white ranges To coasts of the fern-tree and vine.” —William Pember Reeves.
Railways
Magazine
Magazine
Registered at the G.P.O.
Wellington,New Zealandfor transmission by post as a Newspaper“”
For Better Service.Published by the
New Zealand Government Railways Department
Vol. X. No. 10.
Wellington, New Zealand
January1, 1936
Each first of January the earth girds up its loins for its annual race around the sun, and as that is 92 1/2 million miles away and the earth must “keep its distance” on a well-defined elliptical course, there has to be some fast travelling to complete the circuit in the year allowed.
What makes the going still stiffer is that the sun himself sets out on a stately tour of 150 million miles every year, and the earth and other courtiers of the solar system have to trail along in attendance.
So, what with rolling round itself at a thousand miles an hour or so, keeping up with the sun in his inter-stellar travels, and also making a complete circuit of that same sun before the stroke of midnight on the next 31st December, this old globe of ours certainly has its work cut out to keep to schedule.
But what's a couple of million miles a day to the earth—when it's used to it? What happens on the earth during these travels is more to the point; for the years are the mile-posts of human progress that carry the story of mankind to date.
Education has been the greatest source of material advancement. It has had its ups and downs, but the upward movement has prevailed, until now the course is set for steady progression along well-tested lines.
The days when people drifted into the teaching game more by accident than by aptitude have gone by. No runaway sailor now gets a job through a friendly school committeeman; and a taste for chalk as an article of diet no longer gives prestige for pupil teachership in a State school.
Instead, the younger generation have the benefit of skilled tuition from their earliest years. Truby Kinged and Plunketed babies graduate, as their years go by, through model kindergarten, primary, intermediate, and secondary schools, to the highest branches of knowledge in technical and professional occupations, and they are guided all the way by scholarly, trained and graded teachers.
The profession of Education follows an idealism which ensures a wide and free spread of new knowledge as it becomes available. Revision is constantly carried on to relate new facts to former beliefs and theories.
Educationists have “seen their most cherished traditions knocked higher than Gilderoy's Kite”—and have been glad of it!
There is no “hush-hush” policy in the modern advancement of learning. It stands for a systematic, instead of a haphazard, approach to any problem. It rules out blind-alley methods, and its principal achievements are attained in the clear sunlight of knowledge above the clouds of guesswork.
The applied results of education are seen in all business affairs, and the Railways, in particular, have been apt pupils in learning the modern lessons of transport.
Four main mile-posts stand out to mark the principles of operation on the route of modern progress:
The first: The conviction that nothing happens by chance. This overrules a foolish dependence on the blind goddess “luck.”
The second: That to accomplish anything of value there must first be a clear understanding of the objective. This saves time and avoids waste of thought and material.
The third: That individual good is best served by those things which are for the public good—a valuable corrective against anti-social practices.
The fourth: That “the game's the thing”—bringing the spirit of sportsmanship into all the relations and activities of life.
General Manager's Message
A Bright New Year.
From the point of view of the Dominion's national transport organisation, the year 1936 opens with distinctly bright prospects.
The Railway equipment is particularly well placed to meet the demands that the business of the new year is expected to make, and the Department has never been in a better position than now to provide cheap, punctual, fast and reliable transport.
Further, 1936 may be expected to see still greater development of those facilities which add to the attractiveness of our service.
We shall have rail-cars operating on important routes for the first time in the history of the Dominion.
The new terminal facilities at the Capital City will be well advanced and the obvious advantages of the improvements will be patent to all.
Improved wagons to deal with such traffic as fruit, butter, cheese and chilled beef, will be running in more plentiful supply than previously. Traffic conveyed in open wagons will be more adequately protected by the new and lighter type of tarpaulin just being introduced. The Department's own road services will be better developed, as well as the co-ordination of road and rail as between the Department and private interests.
The past year has seen a clearer understanding, especially amongst local bodies, of the Department's problem and its relation to the national interests; this understanding may be expected to develop still further during 1936. There will also be a further development of railway effort in combined publicity with the districts concerned in drawing attention to the attractions of the various resorts of the Dominion.
The new year may, in general, be expected to show a steady advance in the utility of the Railways as a national and economic service.
General Manager.
Camera Studies of two famous Colleges, Christchurch, New Zealand. (
Rly. Publicity photos.)
The illustrations show: (1) Christ's College Boatsheds. (2) Christ's College Quadrangle. (3) Christ's College Memorial Hall. (4) Entrance to Provincial Council Chambers. (5), (8), (7), (8), Peeps at the Quadrangle, Canterbury College. (See article on p. 12.)
ByO. N. .) (
Gillespie
Railway Publicity photos.)
Provincial Council Chambers, Christchurch, South Island, New Zealand. (Avon River in the foreground.)
The task of defining the word “English” has puzzled world writers for centuries. However subtly-minded they may he, however acute as observers, however highly trained as critics, they are baffled to find the proper verbal symbols to explain the essential qualities of the race that governs, in such a cheerfully haphazard fashion, a quarter of the earth's surface and a quarter of its people. The ceaseless permeation of English ideas makes for them a further problem. One well-known Continental writer says this: “The majority of Frenchmen and Germans have doubtless never been conscious how completely they have adopted the ideals of English civilisation, having made them so completely their own that they have forgotten their origin… To-day social life is English, as in the eighteenth century it was French.”
Millions of words have been wasted to find some explanation for this resistless march and the query remains unanswered. The one truth that remains is that English culture, in its strictest and narrowest nationalistic sense, has a spiritual and practical power that makes it the greatest living and effective force in the world. I dare to suggest that this is due to its intrinsic rightness; so in this article I want to show how this heritage of our British forbears has been cherished and brought to full fruition in our New Zealand, the country farthest away from its land of birth.
This puzzling person, this mystic being, the “Englishman,” is created, in the main, in his school and university, both of which exist in the Dominion. For the occasion, I am choosing to write about the two Canterbury institutions because they are nearest in outward appearance to their English predecessors, and for no other reason. There are many great schools in New Zealand that rival Christ's College; and Otago University with its unique history deserves an article to itself. The two North Island University colleges have their virtues and are worthy younger brethren to Canterbury College. Still, as our illustrations show, there is an atmosphere
The Double Arches, Canterbury University College, Christchurch.
Entrance to Christ's College, Christchurch.
Bene Tradita, Bene Servanda, is not merely a Latin phrase about maintaining a good tradition.
The buildings of Christ's College today are of striking beauty. The Chapel is an aesthetic jewel, built in 1867 and quaintly described in the first edition of the School List, “from the designs of Mr. Robert Speechly, the then resident Architect of the Cathedral, and is an admirably proportioned stone building 64 feet in length by 20 feet in width.”
Fifty years ago, transepts and a sanctuary were added and to-day it is worth a pilgrimage, for anyone who appreciates perfection. We had better walk round the “Quad” and take the buildings in their order. On the left as we enter the gateway with its enormous tree sentinels on either hand, is the Memorial Hall (interior shown in our pictures), and next are the Cloisters and the New Classrooms which were, by the way, built sixtyfive years ago. Then there is the Chapel, and sitting next is “Cotterill's,” whose corner abuts on “The Big School,” the oldest stone building in Christchurch with walls two feet thick and a wonderful steeply pitched roof. The rest of the square contains the handsome Hare Memorial Library, School House and “Jacobs.” Through the alley is a nest of handsome new classrooms, the gymnasium, and “lab.” before the playing fields are reached. Parts of it might be a thousand years old, and in some inexplicable fashion, the whole rambling village of edifices blends into one harmonious whole.
It is the work of men who dreamed dreams; English dreams. From the very first arrival of the first body of colonists, the idea of establishing a college on the lines of the Homeland was warmly taken up, and in the fourth number of the Canterbury Papers (May, 1850), there appears the detailed scheme “for the establishment of a College in or near the capital city of the settlement of Canterbury, New Zealand, and to be called the Christchurch College.” This was transmuted to deed; and so the “Big School” and the Chapel rose “for the promotion of sound piety and useful learning more especially within the said province of Canterbury.” The story of the selection of the site is fascinating. It was first in Lyttelton and there was a difficulty in finding where to place it in Christchurch. Bishop Selwyn had to be outmanoeuvred. He was the First Warden and was opposed to having it near a town, but the founders said “Our Englishcolleges are so, Winchester, Harrow, Rugby, Eton.” And so the present
The “Cloisters,” Christ's College, Christchurch.
Do not forget, either, that Christ's College has kept pace with the march of progress. It has modern open - air class - rooms, up to date laboratories, and all the equipment of an advanced English public school. Its sports organisation is on English lines, and, in our illustrations, do not miss the river and boating facilities.
Its scholars have earned distinction as well as its athletes. Its roll of Old Boys contains names that are known the world over, and in the Dominion its formative influence has been one of wide incidence and abiding strength. Its Pantheon of masters and governors is worthy of reverence, and I can only say that it includes great names of both England and the Dominion.
The first plan for Christ's College was that it should minister to the needs of two classes, schoolboys and adolescents. They thought, those pioneer bold spirits, that this would be the educational centre of the Southern Hemisphere and that pupils would be attracted from India and Australia. But, as the province rapidly grew in wealth and importance, the need for a University College proper became
Interior of the Memorial Hall, Canterbury College.
Otago was also flourishing and there, with Scottish resolution, the Provincial Government, without more ado, set up a teaching institution, The Otago University. This changed the nature of the problem, and there grew a dislike for the idea of confining university training to one city. The Canterbury Union supported the broader view, led by the able Henry John Tancred. There was a deal of marching and counter marching but the birth of the central Parliament and the abolition of the provinces, eventually brought about the form of the University of New Zealand which now exists. It is simply an examining body to which are affiliated the four colleges.
While all this was going on in New Zealand, the revolution in the conduct of Oxford and Cambridge was taking place. They had become moribund, stifled by religious tests and innumerable restrictions, and teaching was almost at a standstill. In the curiously effectual way of Englishmen, reforms proceeded at a rapid rate and at Cambridge, Girton College and Newnham Hall women were actually admitted. Among the “giants in those days” of Canterbury were many Cambridge men, notably Bowen, Rolleston, and Joshua Williams, and Canterbury College owes much to their advanced ideas.
In 1877, the present College main building was opened, and one of the marvels of the ceremony was the electric light illumination of Worcester Street by Professor Bickerton. From that great day, its growth has been the steady and wholesome development of a living organism. It has always been old-countryish in its air of dignity, its insistence on gown and mortar-board, but it preserved a spirit distilled from the daring of the men of the new land. It had the first
Christ's College Boat-sheds, and the picturesque Avon River.
It is sometimes ascribed to luck, but it must be set down to the sterling wisdom and selective judgment of those early great men of ours, that Canterbury College started its life with a trinity of teachers who were complementary in their qualities, and for whose equal the world might have been combed without avail.
Professor Bickerton, the unruly, lavishly hospitable, universal genius, was the first. His fireworks, his partial impact theory, his “free love” discussions, his never-failing fund of spirits “filling the atmosphere with a kind of intellectual champagne.” his endearing oddities of behaviour, stay in memory and make him one of the great figures of all time in the history of the College. Professor MacMillan Brown was the youngest of the trio, but the second to arrive. He became a world figure in literature and sociology but his enduring monument will be the fire of love of literature which he kindled in his lifetime of teaching. He was an Oxford man, winner of the coveted Snell Exhibition, and he arrived in the little colony with honours thick uopn him. He was a teacher of original genius. It is said that in two years his elementary Greek classes could translate from sight any classic author. He was a dominating and tremendous personality, but his Sunday morning break-
James Cowan
Of the numerous Maori-speaking New Zealanders who have studied at first hand the customs and traditions and beliefs of the native race, the most thorough and scientific in method, and the most industrious and copious in recording collected facts, was the late Mr. Elsdon Best. He was a truly great man, a man of strong individuality and natural gifts, who had seen much of frontier life in his day and who was peculiarly fitted by temperament and talent for this research duty which so completely occupied the greater part of his career. His first close study was the life of the Urewera tribes, who retained in their mountain and forest land primitive customs and thought long after most other tribes had adopted pakeha ways and faiths. The thoroughness of his investigations during his life in the Urewera, or Tuhoe Land, resulted in the publication of many volumes that remain as a splendid memorial to an ancient warrior race. Later, his field of research was enlarged, and he wrote Museum Bulletins and Polynesian Society contributions that cover practically every phase of Maori life and culture. Elsdon Best's greatly-varied and useful life closed in Wellington, in his native province, in 1931, at the age of seventy-five.
Eisdon Best. (Born 1856; died, 1831.)
Tall, lean, short-bearded, with the long, easy stride of the out-of-doors man, the figure of Elsdon Best was a familiar one in Wellington City in the later years of his life. It was easy, even for a stranger, to pick him out as a man bred in the open lands, accustomed to gaze out over wide expanses of country, and to cover the ground with the gait of an old campaigner. Many a swag the square muscular shoulders had carried in their day, many a league of mountain trail had developed that Maori lope. The early settler's life, years of work with axe and saw in the bush, thousands of miles of travel by horse and foot, had all in their ways gone to shape that spare, capable frame, and to give “Te Peehi” that distinguishing air of independence and self-reliance. He was a well-tried veteran of the adventurous life in many fields before he entered upon the absorbing study of his Maori fellow-New Zealanders that filled his hard-working days and nights until the end. For such men as Elsdon Best the days and nights are never long enough to get all the work in hand completed. There is always the task ahead that is the most absorbing pursuit in life, a task of pleasure that is never finished. The publication of one monograph after another, and its quick appreciation by the scientific world, was Best's chief reward. Like most original workers of his kind, his material reward was very small in proportion to the value of his painstaking research and the volume of his output.
Elsdon Best was a product of the pioneering age of New Zealand. The bush filled valley of Porirua and the small rough town of Wellington were his earliest memories. There was no college education then for the colonial boy, unless his parents could afford to send him to England. The primary school gave him the beginnings of education; the wide world of adventure and contact with all kinds of men was his university. His youth on the edge of civilisation, swinging an axe in the Porirua forest, clearing bush and dealing with horses, bullocks, and the men of the frontier, up on the East Coast and elsewhere, developed him physically and strengthened his self-reliant character.
At the end of the 'Seventies he turned to the martial excitement of life in Taranaki, where for a long time the tension between the Government and the Ngati-Ruanui and allied tribes bordered on war. His friend, W. E. Gudgeon, then captain in the Armed Constabulary, was in command of the military post at Manaia—in fact, it was Gudgeon and his men who built that redoubt, a compact little fort wellpreserved to this day. Elsdon Best enlisted in a company of the Constabulary, part pakeha, part Maori, under Gudgeon, and served as a frontier soldier for many months. Drill and marching, trench - digging, redoubtbuilding and road-making in the disputed territory between the Waingongoro on the south and Stony River on the north; and a period as one of the A.C. garrison of Pukearuhe Redoubt, the North Taranaki outpost, under Captain (afterwards Colonel) Messenger.
Then, when conditions eased down, and the Constabulary forces were reduced, the craving for adventure called in another direction. The stalwart young colonial worked his passage to San Francisco, and followed the eternal lure, something waiting just across the range. He roved about the Western States of America, from the forests of California and the slopes of the Rockies down to the Sierra Nevada and the plains of the Rio Grande.
There was adventure enough now, in the lumber camps, on the gold trail,
“They had a rope with them,” he explained, “and this Britisher thought it prudent, under the circumstances, to leave the shanty by the back-door and take to the creek.”
His company obviously not being desired along the Rio Negro, Best travelled unobtrusively as far north as he could get, and he saw a good deal of the Sierras and the big trees.
That was in the early and mid-'Eighties, when life was still wide-open and free in the Western States where the population in these days is chiefly engaged in helping to make cinema pictures and running “dude ranches” for Eastern tenderfeet.
Elsdon Best returned to his native land, and the quiet life, and worked at a variety of callings.
He was, I think, storeman in a Wellington business place, when the formaion of the Polynesian Society, in the early 'Nineties, heightened his already considerable interest in the Maori language and Maori history and folklore. He was a foundation member. One of his early friends in Wellington was Mr. S. Percy Smith, Surveyor-General, the chief founder of the Society. His friendship and advice fixed the course of Best's life thenceforward.
It was early in 1896 that Mr. Smith induced Elsdon Best to make the Urewera Maoris his special study. The Government was engaged in surveying the Urewera tribal lands and beginning the main highway that now links up Rotorua with Lake Waikaremoana and the East Coast. There was difficulty in persuading the Maoris that they would not suffer by the making of this road. Shrewdly and prophetically they foresaw that it would destroy their prized isolation and gradually change the life of the people. The first part of the survey and road-making was carried on under the protection of an armed covering party of the Permanent Force from Auckland and Wellington— a precaution that was not really necessary, after Sir James Carroll had seen the chiefs at Ruatahuna and convinced them that there was no hidden “catch” in the survey. Percy Smith arranged that Best should be given employment in the Lands Department, and he was sent to Te Whaiti as timekeeper on the road works that were to be carried out by the parties of bushmen and navvies. This gave him his great opportunity. For several years he lived at Te Whaiti, at Ngaputahi, and at Ohiramoko, near Ruatahuna, steadily gathering traditions and noting down all manner of curious lore of the mountain tribes.
When the road-making parties were withdrawn, before the works reached Ruatahuna, Best remained, fascinated by the prospects of studying a people so far untouched by scientific-minded enquirers.
It was in January of 1898 that I first met Elsdon Best, spare, sparsewhiskered, hard-faring student of the Maori and lover of the bush life. It was at Ngaputahi, a half-cleared valley a few miles beyond Te Whaiti. His camp was a half-slab, half-canvas whare by the roadside. Burnt logs strewed the clearing; there was a small enclosure with a potato garden surrounding the whare. There the white ruanuku—as he came to be called by the Urewera—lived all alone, visited every now and again by some of the old people of the Ngati-Whare tribe, I was on my way through the country on horseback from Rotorua and the Rangitaiki, bound for Ruatahuna, to see something of the Urewera there; from Mataatua I walked over the ranges to Waikaremoana. After a talk with “Te Peehi,” I went on, and at Ohiramoko, a most secluded little hamlet a couple of miles from Mataatua, I met his great friends, old Paitini te Whatu and his wife, Makurata. Paitini it was who guided me through the bush trails—where often the only way was the river-bed—to the Lake, the first of many such rough journeys through the Urewera ranges. Ohiramoko was Best's headquarters during the years he spent in the Ruatahuna district. Later on he lived at Haukapua above Ruatoki, where the Whakatane River emerges from the mountain gorges.
“Te Whai-a-te-Moto,” the carved meeting-house at Mataatua, Ruatahuna, built by the Urewera tribes for Te Kooti in 1890. It is over 80 feet in length, and is the largest building of its kind in New Zealand. It was for some years
tapu against white people.
Paitini and his wife, Makurata, both veterans of the war-path, were among the wise old folk of the mountain tribes whose seemingly endless store of history, tradition, legend, and forest lore and all manner of native knowledge filled many of their white friend's notebooks.
Another learned man, the old chief Tutaka-Ngahau, the principal man of Maunga-pohatu, gave him an immense variety of information concerning native belief, customs and traditions which presently found publication in the Journal of the Polynesian Society and in books. From all the learned men of the Urewera, Ngati-Whare, and other tribes of the wild country, “Te Peehi” drew, by long and painstaking enquiry, the data which he put on record for both pakeha and Maori. In later years he came to investigate the history and wisdom of the East Coast tribes in particular, and so the lore which he placed on record deals chiefly with that sector of the island, from the Bay of Plenty and the East Cape to the Wairarapa and Wellington.
The special value of the life work of “Te Peehi” lies in its particularity and exactness. In his writings he did not strive after effect; his purpose was to
He was a man of system and method. One notable service he did for the cause of knowledge was to record many hundreds of words which were not in the Maori Dictionary; these have been included in the latest edition of the Maori Dictionary edited by Bishop Herbert W. Williams.
In putting together all his volumes of notes Best was actuated chiefly by the desire to rescue all he could of the olden wisdom and faiths and folk-ways while his life lasted. He was a student of primitive man for the pure love of the work. Naturally, as the old men who were his mentors passed to the Reinga, he came to be regarded by the Urewera and their kin as the repository of their sacred lore; he was the white ruanuku of the Tuhoe folk.
His history of the Urewera tribe is a work of unsurpassed merit in the field of records dealing with a particular district; the only local history which nearly approaches it is S. Percy Smith's History of Taranaki and the West Coast. The present and coming generations of the Urewera clans should treasure this great history; it is their family Bible and their Domesday Book. There is a truly wonderful range of tribal chronicles here transmitted from generation to generation by word of mouth, and rescued by “Te Peehi” from the last of the sages of the bush, rescued only just in time.
There is a sympathy, a poetic touch, in much of Best's writings about his beloved bush region that give them a peculiar charm. His first book about those parts, a pamphlet issued by the Department of Lands and Survey in Mr. Percy Smith's time, narrating a pioneer excursion to Lake Waikaremoana, with a Maori party, is a little classic in descriptive guide books.
A little mannerism of “Te Peehi” which readers of his books will note is his frequent use of Spanish terms, a reminder of his adventurous young days in the South and West of the United States, from the Rio Grande to Colorado; that was in the ‘Eighties. He was fond of writing of the village marae or square and assemblyplace as the “plaza.” He would as often as not style his horse his “cayuse.” Another Spanish - American trait was his habit of wearing the poncho as a cape in his bush travelling in wet weather. The old poncho, with the hole for the head, slipped over his shoulders, a bit of a blanket or a shawl round his waist in place of trousers, and often barefooted, thus the tough bushman-student took the rugged and wet forest trail in his pioneer years in the last retreat of the Maori as he was.
In Mr. Best's “Maori Eschatology,” a description of death customs, and the native ways of burial and the beliefs concerning death, there is a vivid and touching account of the home-bringing to Maungapohatu of a little girl called Marewa who died at Te Whaiti while he was camped there in 1896. She was borne by a party of men over the ranges to the Tama-kai-moana village at the foot of the Rocky Mountain; she was a rangatira child of that clan of Tuhoe. The parents asked “Te Peehi” to accompany them. On the third day of the march the mourning party ascended the high bleak range of Te Whakaumu in a storm òf snow and sleet:-
“Through a break in the driving storm we see the great rock bluff of Maunga-pohatu far above and ahead of us. The moùrnful sound of the lament for the dead sounds through the drifting snows. The mother of the dead child is crouched upon a rock nearby and gazing across the forest ranges to the storm-lashed mountain. She is greeting the sacred mountain of the fierce Tama - kai - moana clan, the enchanted mountain of many a wild legend, that, as Maori myth has it, gave birth to the dark-skinned people who dwell beneath it, and gathers them to her stony bosom in death. For she is the mana of the clan—she is the Mother of the Children of the Mist.”
“The mother is in the whare potae (the figurative house of mourning). She is mourning for her child and greeting the landmarks of her home. It is a combination of mother-love and the love of primitive man for his tribal lands. Now the summit of the mountain is suddenly covered with a white pall of mist. An old man said, ‘The mountain is greeting for her child.’ The parents of the child are a little apart; they have chanted a lament for their child and greeted their mountain home. Then, as the mountain-brow becomes obscured by the mists, the whole of the people give voice together in an ancient dirge of their race. The bitter sleet and snow, fierce-driven by the winds, pelt the mourners unmercifully. Through the drifting scud we see the great cliffs far ahead, wherein are the caves of the dead, where lie the bones of many generations of the children of Potiki. And then, the storm fiends lashing us, we go down into the darkling valley bèlow.”
The whitebeard Ngahoro, of NgatiMahanga, thus addressed Best at Te Whaiti: “Son! Great is your knowledge of the sacred invocations of our ancestors; with you are the spells and magic of the men of old. My thought grows—that you will yet be able to slay men by your great knowledge of karakia, not pakehas, maybe, but certainly Maoris.”
Digging with the ko. A photograph taken at Ohiramoko, Ruatahuna, to show former Maori methods of cultivation. The man in the foreground is the old warrior Paitini, one of Eisdon Best's friends and sources of information.
In one of his newspaper articles (it was the now defunct weekly the “Canterbury Times,” in which much of his Tuhoe Land lore was published) “Te Peehi” discoursed on the marvellous complexity of the makutu or witchcraft rites and traditions and charms. This was his lightsome method of sketching the methods of the tohunga makutu:
“Should I desire to bewitch you so as to cause your death, I can (if endowed with the necessary powers) take the hau of your voice as you are talking, and so destroy you—that is if you are not quick enough to perform the mata puru,, and by tying the regulation number of bands of flax round your limbs and body, and invoking your atua, so render my magic powers harmless. Before that, however, I should probably have repeated the deadly incantation known to fame as the mapuna, and even if you diverted that by means of the kaiure, I could still bring you down by luring your wairua into the man destroying Rua iti, and slaying it with the Kopani harua, and even if you got tired and went home to lunch, the maiakai would fetch you; or ran away, then my punga would take the swiftness from your feet, or I could take your manea from your footsteps and thereby send you down to Sheol. Of course you might recite Tu-matapongia and so render yourself invisible, but that would not save you from my nene and umu hiki, even though you braced up and performed the tokotea, which is doubtful. By this time you would, no doubt, be assailed by Tumata-rehurehu, which is a pahunu and therefore not a thing to be trifled with; or the miti aitua would descend upon you—which is Hades—so what are you going to do about it anyhow?”
There are Best's characteristic touches in another article, written when he was in camp at Te Whaiti, in the early part of his official sojourn there on the road works:
“One might run on for countless pages describing the customs and traditions of the Maori of old and his thoughts, wise and otherwise, of to-day. The old-time Maori is out of place in the era of the pakeha, and soon shall he be a memory of the past. His descendants will know but little of his doings and history, and that only which has been placed on record by the invading white man. Only the earthworks of his forts, where he fought the battles of his people, shall remain.
“The sullen waters of Whirinaki hurry onwards as of old through the grim Canon of Toi; the great forest of Tane still holds the lands of the ancient Marangaranga and of Potiki; the peaks of Otairi, Tawhiuau and Tuwhatawata are yet guarding the realm of Hine-ruarangi and her famous sire. Toi the Wood Eater. But no sign comes from them anent the history of the past. They have seen the rise and fall of many tribes; the coming and the going of races; the old, old struggle between Ruaimoko and the Fish of Maui; the birth, life and death of primitive man. Changeless as of yore are they, and hold their secret well.
“Across the moonlit valley the hill Umurakau looms black against the mother range, the palisades of the fighting sons of Pukeko, hewn laboriously out with some axes of a neolithic people, are white in the silver light; but below the ancient stronghold and lining the river bank, are the white tents of the Aitangaa-Tiki, and the unholy strains of the souldestroying concertina are making night hideous in the Vale of Toi. A few short decades back we might have heard the mournful chant of the watchman as he kept vigil in the pa above, the merriment of the whare tapere, or the resounding chorus of the war dance. But the old order ever changeth, and the ubiquitous Pakeha has come to stay.
“As old Tikitu of Ngati-Awa left me yesterday, he said—‘Friend! I see before me the day when the Maori shall be no more. That time is very near now; yet a little while and there shall be no more Maoris to trouble you. And it is because we, the Maori people of New Zealand, have lost the mana of our ancestors that we are disappearing so fast. There is no hope for us now, for that mana has gone from us for ever, and we shall pass away like the mao.'”
The Maori is not likely to become literally an “iwi ngaro,” a vanished tribe like the moa. But that mournful prophecy of the ancient man of NgatiAwa is already nearing its fulfilment. The primitive Maori is no more, and the last of the learned elders, the men and women who cling to the old ways, will soon be gathered to their Mother Earth again. The new generation, educated like the pakeha, its very language bastardized and debased by the inevitable hybrids, will have lost the mana tapu and the mana tangata of its fathers. It will have little interest in the traditions of the past. But some day it will fully appreciate the glamour and the wonder of the vanished heroic age, preserved in the notes so carefully and so copiously assembled from the lips of the bushmen and warriors, priests and poets, of the ancient race.
Best's intensive study of the Urewera and allied tribes was not extended to other sections of the Maori people, at any rate not with such a degree of thoroughness. But there were other competent enquirers dealing with many tribes, in particular Hare Hongi, who is the chief repository of traditional knowledge and priestly lore of his people, the Ngapuhi and related tribes; he was schooled by tohungas of the old religion. He is, too, the best living authority on the Maori language. Best did not study the lore of the Waikato, or the King Country tribes; and Taranaki he left to his friends, Percy Smith and W. H. Skinner. He did not know the South Island, which has its traditions and ancient wisdom of its own. He had so absorbed the special knowledge of the Urewera that he was apt to apply their sayings and beliefs to the Maori generally. Students of his books must allow for that peculiarity and remember that most of his great accumulation of mythology and ritual and spiritual concepts came chiefly from two or three districts—the Urewera, the East Coast (the Takitumu tribes) from the East Cape to the Wairarapa, and the West Coast as far up as Wanganui. But those tribal districts he searched thoroughly for the esoteric wisdom of the race.
Two veterans of the cue met in an Auckland billiard saloon the other evening, and while waiting for a table got, talking tobacco, as old smokers will. Said one: “Don't know how it is, Bob, but I don't seem to get the pleasure out of my pipe I used to. Losing my taste for it.” “Reckon you're ‘brand-tired,’” said Bob, “you want a change of baccy, old man. Myself, I've been smoking same old brand for 20 years, and wouldn't change. Why should I? I can't get anything better, or so good. But there are brands, I know, that ‘go off’ a lot. Mine—Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead)—doesn't.” “Toasted, isn't it?” asked his cobber. “That's right! One of the five genuine toasted brands—Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cavendish, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold. And next to no nicotine in any of ‘em! The toasting does it, my boy! Now you try Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), and I wager a new hat you'll soon relish your pipe again!” And so he did!
Tangiwai
There were capable women in the old backblocks days, when life was more or less in the rough and when the wives and daughters perforce had to fend for themselves a good deal. They can do it now, for that matter, but colonial life is becoming so ironed out and standardised that there is not so much necessity for self-reliance as there was in our younger days. I have been reading a capital book of New Zealand reminiscences issued by A.H. and A. W. Reed (Dunedin and Wellington). The writer is the last of the sisters of those plucky brother-soldiers, Major W. G. Mair and Captain Gilbert Mair, whose life stories have been given in the “New Zealand Railways Magazine.” Mrs. Howard Jackson, of Dunedin née Lavinia Laura Mair, is eighty-three, the last survivor of the children of Gilbert Mair, who arrived at the Bay of Islands from Peterhead, Scotland, in 1821. Her story of North Auckland days especially is an epic of colonisation, with many passages of charm in its description of country life sixty and seventy years ago.
Those pioneer daughters could shoot, for one thing. Their brothers had schooled them well with shotgun and rifle. So, like many other settlers' wives and daughters, they often kept the home pot replenished with bush food. “In the good old days, when the wood pigeon was so numerous,” she writes, “a sister and I would go out shooting them. With our brothers, we would make an early start on horseback, reaching the feeding ground about sunrise. The birds sleep in the middle of the day. One day as we were having our lunch there was a movement in the trees overhead and some ripe berries fell. My sister fired into the foliage and down came a pair of fine blue wattled crows. Then, towards sunset, the pigeons began their evening meal, and we would have great sport with our four guns, muzzleloaders at that. With a heavily laden packhorse we would reach home soon after dark.”
Again, a story of survey camp life where Feilding is now:-
“On one occasion we took with us a young Englishman to shoot wild pigeon. I had a beautiful Frankfort rifle, and my bag was twenty-one birds. My fellow sportsmen were not so lucky, as they got only a half-dozen between them. There must have been something amiss with their guns!”
But the pot once supplied, the Mair girls were mèrciful to the bush birds. They kept many of them as pets at various times, and I have read no more interesting little tales of the birds and their habits than those contained in the annals of this old New Zealand family.
“Far away and long ago,” far down the coast of South Westland, in a settler's house on the bank of a swift Alpine river, I saw a piano, a strange item of furniture in those parts. I fancy it was then the only instrument of the kind south of Okarito, a hundred miles to the north. Nowadays that bush backblocks strip between Alps and the surf of the Tasman Sea is more in touch with the outside world. But when I was last there, riding through the rough country of forest and torrent to the Haast Pass and Lake Wanaka, South Westland was the most isolated region imaginable. That piano, “how come?” The owner, a bachelor cattle - farmer, couldn't play it, neither could anyone else within many miles. It stood there in the largest room in the house, and it was used as a rack for the owner's saddles. The story we heard well on towards midnight, before a big fire, in the next-door farmhouse, half-a-day's ride away.
The lone-handed settler, a few years before our look-in at his large bush clearing and his more than half-wild cattle, had imported that piano for a bride, who had yet to be imported. He yearned for a wife to brighten his solitary life, and as all the bush lasses within a hundred miles were already bespoken, there was nothing for it but to send abroad for one. A matrimonial advertisement for the Hokitika paper was composed after consultation with the neighbour, on whose advice four little words were added to it: “No Milking. Piano Kept.” By the same packhorse mail to the north went an order to Hokitika for a piano, price no object. It must be a high-class piano fit for a lady to play. Then the bachelor waited for the steamer, three months hence; piano must of course be in hand before the wife.
The bait for a bride arrived in due course; the little steamer brought it, and the population up and down the coast for forty miles assembled at the rugged beach for “Steamer Day,” assisted to get it ashore from the surf boat. It was sledged up to the house, unpacked with tremendous excitement, and christened with a bottle of whisky when it was set in its place of honour in the big room and decorated with a tinful of rata blossom.
Then the proud owner of the piano set about the more delicate business of procuring the bride who was to play the piano. Six months further correspondence with Hokitika at last brought an offer. The lady who was willing to share the lot of the far-south young pioneer would arrive by the next trip of the steamer.
Alas for human hopes and matrimonial intentions! It was a half-dead spinster who staggered on deck after a horrible storm-tossed passage down the coast. She gave one long look at the desolate shore, the beach and surf, the background of gloomy forest, the fog-draped mountains, the weeping skies. One look, then she staggered back to the cabin, weeping like the Westland sky, and she begged the captain to lock her in until he was off again. Never, never would she set foot in that awful place.
Back to the North she went; and back to his lone lot went the sad settler. No more of that for him, he vowed; no more matrimonial invitations.
Christopher was sad. The world was a dull place, full of aunts who wanted to kiss little boys, of mothers and fathers who arranged to be away for the time when the swimming pool in the Ruawai River was really warm, and his one decent relation, Mollie-ofthe-Wise-Eyes had, for some reason, changed into a person with a cold, hard voice. Christopher was seated on the edge of the creek, and the experiment of joining the back half of a grasshopper to the front of a praying mantis, was a complete failure. What the insects thought about it is not on record; but the unconscious cruelty of small boys, has, after all, its counterpart in larger affairs; and grasshoppers cannot write letters to the papers complaining about the habits of modern children and their ignorance of entomology.
Christopher dozed a little and a riroriro flickered down and perched on his bare toe. It was a tiny jewel of New Zealand birth, a feathered object small enough to appear and disappear like a little microscope slide in a bad light. It dwelt a while, watching Christopher with an eye that was wise and bright, and then, with a flirt of little wings, it vanished into the shadowy bush.
The sun rays slanted, and a coolness came slowly. Christopher woke and remembered that it was always teatime when the sun over the Long Hill turned into that soft rosy roundness. There was a stillness everywhere and the only sound was the tinkle of the water over the creek stones.
Christopher faced a disconsolate outlook. There were certainly raspberry jam and scones for tea, but Mollie-ofthe-Wise-Eyes was so different. She was so lovely to look at, and understood boys, only giving a rough hug when times were extra exciting. Te Maire, the station pride, who had won three hurdle races, was a lamb when Mollie mounted him, and the two heifer calves by the imported Jersey bull, would follow her when she called. What could be bothering her? The tall blue-eyed Hewitt who plaited such marvellous flax whiplashes seemed to have something to do with it. Christopher had seen them standing by the dipping pens, and heard him say: “But can't you tell me? “—and Mollie had said: “Shoes are getting a habit with you, aren't they?” and walked away.
Christopher saw him jolt into the saddle and winced at the cut he gave old lady Frimp, a very washy chestnut, but the best tempered hack for miles around.
Mollie had tears in her eyes, Christopher saw, but they were hard and bright at afternoon tea, and then there came the difference in her voice.
He pondered all this as he stretched before getting up. The riro-riro fluttered back, flicked into the air, made two or three ecstatic circles, and Christopher gasped.
Its elfin form sat on the shoulder of a tall, handsome Maori. He was slender and graceful, but lithe and muscular. In the thick black hair was perched a black and white feather, and in one hand flashed a greenstone mere which in some magical way lightened and darkened in tint, as a leaf does, swaying from shadow to shine.
There was a quality of luminousness in the exquisitely tatooed body, naked save for a sumptuous whiteish skin cloak, and a plaited maro. In the eyes, wide apart and glowing, there was a light of celestial reckless mischief, a supernal disregard of consequences and a hint of the mirth that is part of gay skies, sparkling streams, and green growing things.
Christopher could not have put all this into words as he stared at this age-old Polynesian demi-god, nor had he any thoughts so complex. He simply recognised another boy like himself, and felt thoroughly at ease.
To his eternal delight, more birds arrived from the nearby konini clump, robins, thrushes and tuis which seemed, for some strange reason, to remain friendly with the others.
Christopher sat bolt upright and opened the conversation. He did not smile, but spoke in the grave fashion of boyhood.
“My name's Christopher,” he said.
“Mine is Maui,” said the other. “I heard of you many miles away, and I think I can help.”
Christopher sat bolt upright and opened the conversation.”
Christopher gasped again. He had heard about Maui from Crooked Mick who helped old Bismark, the station cook. Mick was so old that he remembered the first fences on Wainui; he claimed to have helped dig the first strainer post holes, and he remembered the Waikare Stream when it ran through the racecourse, before the big earthquake.
Mick had come from the Speewah River which ran through the middle of Australia, where everything was gigantic. Shearers there were so tremendous that one of them that Mick knew used a half wheel tyre for the spring of his shears; eels barked like dogs and lived on barbed-wire and lambs; the shearing sheds were so huge that if the boss sacked a man at one end he could walk for half a day and start at the other end and no one would know about it. Mick knew the Maoris, and had learned from them how this Maui had fished New Zealand up from the sea.
Here was a glorious chance of confirmation; some of the younger shearers had started to laugh at Mick and said “that the old cow's yarns were getting stale.”
Christopher stood and said: “I know about you—have you ever been to Speewah? Mick told me the billy there was so 'normous they had to send a steamer like the Rotomahana out to see if the tea was drawing?”
There was a ring of melodious
They walked along the creek-bed till they reached the great rata stump that stood on the cliff side facing the Ratanui Bend, that no one had explored.
The papa cliffs round it were a thousand feet sheer, and a reef of cruel rocks was only pierced by the wandering Rekanui River where it met the pounding Pacific between mighty headlands. Mick said that the Maoris had a story that in the flats at the back of the Bend there were places where mysterious folk had dwelt safely from the beginning of time.
“Steady now,” said Maui, as he swung Christopher to his shoulder and entered the huge hollow trunk. Christopher had the sinking feeling that he remembered going down in the lift when his father had been seeing the lawyer in Wellington, and Maui took his hand again. It was a pleasant place—a dream place with rich green grass, odd clumps of bush and little second growth totaras dotted about like Noah's Ark trees. Birds were about in thousands, and Christopher heard the melodious din of apparently millions of little golden gongs, made by countless bellbirds. As Maui tapped the trunk of a tree with his mere, two ungainly creatures with long thin beaks stood blinking with beady eyes, and vanished into the undergrowth.
“Kiwis,” said Maui, “like some women, they hate the sunlight. We will meet my friends soon and discuss all the trouble of your much loved relation. She is a noble lady. I have seen her often.”
It is shameful but true that Christopher had forgotten all about Mollie. There was too much to see.
They stopped at a small green clearing where several men were seated round a Maori oven. One was just taking the earth from the top of the stones and there was a luscious smell. Christopher knew it well, remembering the time Mick had taken him to the pa at Tauwhata. He was introduced to all the men, but remembered only two; Joe Burroughs who kept the billiard saloon at Tauwhata and was always in trouble with the Police—Mick said he was an “omadhaun but a gay-hearted scamp”; and there was a very old blue-eyed man who had the queer name of “Official Assignee.”
“I knew your grandfather,” he said. “He had a great fight, and was one of the few in the Long Valley who was never through my hands.”
“Well you've had most of 'em,” said Joe. “They've all been broke once, some of 'em twice.”
Christopher had his mouth full for the next half hour and did not pay attention to the conversation.
“Here is the cause of all the trouble,” said Maui, producing a pair of red shoes. “It is the story of the senseless, mischief-working tongue of a sly and idle woman. Hewitt, who is in every way a proper man, is helpless with love for Mollie. This visitor from Canterbury, pretty and cajoling, has no real love for him, but she is one of those women who, when they see a man, must capture him. At the dance
(H.C peart photo)A scene on the Greymouth-Westport Road, South Island, New Zealand.
“Her mother prized them, she said, and would he get them repaired and remain silent. Hewitt gave the foolish pledge about secrecy and put them in his saddle bag. He arose early in the morning, taking the short cut across the stream for this reason; he wanted to see his loved one go by at the ford crossing. He who is in love has lost his senses; and it is clear that in dismounting to get a clearer view of the lady Mollie as she passed, he dropped the shoes.”
“And I found them, the scarlet useless troublemakers.”
“Now, mark you, the Canterbury woman, days before in the privacy of the sleeping apartments of Wainui, had learned of Hewitt from the other women and that he was treasuring a discarded gold shoe of the lady Mollie. Hewitt made a blundering explanation of the disappearance of the shoes, and so the Canterbury woman made a quiet jest ensùring that it reached Mollie. Hewitt must be treasuring her shoes also, proving that his affections were unstable. It was done, in the manner of women, by whisper and blush and hinted underhand things.”
“Sheilahs don't change much,” said Joe Burroughs, “yet I knew a poor cow once that went up for bigamy.”
There was a silence, and the Official Assignee spoke: “You have a plan, O Maui,” he said.
“I have,” said Maui, “but I want to see if in your pakeha knowledge of customs, there is a flaw in the stratagem.
“I propose to take the lad back to the place where the shoes lay. Let, him sleep. It is drawing late and there will be an outcry and a searching. It will also be necessary to ensure that Hewitt learns of the search, so that there is a chance that he will encounter his beloved . at the ford, and I will place the shoes so that'he must see them. If I know him aright he will say, ‘Why, there are the damthings,’ and all will be well.”
The light danced in Maul's eyes. The Assignee nodded approval, and Joe Burroughs said “Bonser! I'll do me corner.”
Christopher woke in the morning. Mollie with shining eyes and flushed cheeks stood arm in arm with Hewitt at the foot of the bed.
Hewitt said: “You gave us a proper fright, young shaver,” and Mollie gave him one of her really rough hugs. Mick says the 'ole thing was a dream, but the red shoes were there, and Joe Burroughs always gives Chistopher a tremendous wink when they go past the billiard saloon door in Tauwhata.
.<name key="name-408642" type="work">Unrest</name>
Tohunga
The explanations of the meanings and origins of Maori names of railway stations on the North Island Main Trunk railway line are continued here. In last month's Magazine names along the line from Frankton Junction southward to the Ruapehu country were dealt with.
Ranga=to parade in ranks; to fall in; taua=war-party.
A modern transposition of the name Waitangi (“Sounding or Wailing Waters”), applied to a stream and waterfall in the vicinity. Tangiwai is the term applied to the beautiful translucent kind of greenstone or nephrite, formerly chiefly obtained from an outcropping reef on the shore of Milford Sound. But the local allusion here is to the waterfall.
River of the West (uru). The Waiouru stream is the most westerly branch of the Hautapu River, the principal tributary of the Rangitikei.
In the absence of definite tradition this name is capable of many interpretations. Mata means eye, face, point of land, spell or charm, swamp, etc. Roa=long.
Hihi is the stitchbird (Pogonornis cincta), now very rare or extinct in these parts. It is preserved on the Little Barrier bird sanctuary, and one or two other islands. Tahi=one.
Turanga=standing; rere=to fly or wave. The reference is to the parade of a war-party, or a haka party, with feathers waving in their hair.
Nga=the (plural); urukehu=reddish hair, fair-haired people.
Originally Otaihape, the home or place of Taihape. The word taihape means an elbow or angle; hape=crooked.
This is a curious name, with a story. Utiku is a Bible name, Eutychus; for the origin we have to go a long way, to Troas, in Asia Minor, and far back in time, too, into the days of the Apostles. For Eutychus, see Acts of the Apostles, chap. 20, v. 9, the story of perhaps the longest sermon on record. St. Paul exhorted the disciples all day at Troas, and continued till midnight, with painful consequences to the young man named Eutychus, who fell asleep and downstairs. And in our pioneer days there lived in the Upper Rangitikei district a Maori chief named Potaka (which means spinning-top). He lived at Rata and Mangaweka; he leased his bushlands to the early white settlers, he built a sawmill, and he was in one way and another an enterprising man, of influence and some wealth. When he came under missionary influence in his early life he chose “Utiku” from the New Testament translation as his Christian name. So we have the place-names Utiku and Potaka in the Rangitikei country to-day. Probably the sound of Utiku took his fancy when he was given his choice of baptismal names by the missionary. (Note: The name is pronounced “Oo-tee-koo.”). The original name of the place was Kaikoura, meaning a meal of crayfish.
Originally Manga-te-weka. A stream (manga) where the weka or woodhen was found. The pioneer pakeha name of the bush settlement here, on the terrace above the Rangitikei River, was “Three Log Whare.”
The tree Metrosideros robusta, plentiful here.
Various meanings—giddy, or stupefied; mad, stupid. Pourewa=Tower or elevated platform at one of the angles of a stockaded pa.
The parakeet.
A name given to numerous mountains and hills in New Zealand. Meaning: “Cloud of heaven,” also “light of heaven,” sometimes referring to the sunshine on a height when the lower world is in shadow. The name is ancient Polynesian, from Tahiti.
Great spear.
A stream blocked up.
Toko=staff, or support; maru=shade, shelter, shield, protected. A Polynesian name originally, the name of one of the ancestral sailing canoes from Tahiti and other Eastern Pacific Islands. From the crew of this canoe which landed on the North Taranaki coast, many present-day people are descended. There is a Toko Maru in the Japanese language, one of many surface resemblances between that language and Maori.
The place where the ancestor Hau camped, on his traditional journey down the West Coast.
The place where Haù marched carrying his staff or spear at the trail, or used it in various warlike attitudes, at the shoulder, the charge, etc.
Literally mullet river, but a specific origin is given in song and legend. In the chant of Te Rangitakoru for his daughter Wharaurangi, the original Maori of which is contained in Sir George Grey's “Nga Moteatea,” it is said that Hau looked askance, out of the corner of his eye (“ka ngahae nga pi”). He likened his eyes to the glistening of the mullet, or to the mullet's eyes.
Parapara=scraps or small waste fragments, chips; umu=earth oven. There is a tradition of a hungry war-party which, on taking a fortified village from which its defenders fled, found only the scrapings of food on the stones in the umu.
Pae=wooden perch, also a place for bird-snaring; kakariki=the green parrakeet.
Bell's Aforeyego
Hornibrook
When our Colonial visitors come to England, they most often travel by Main-Line Expresses. A journey in the “Flying Scotsman” from London to Edinburgh, or in the “Cheltenham Flyer,” when the speed frequently touches 80 miles per hour, must be an experiece full of interest to any railwayman; but I am sure the New Zealand railwayman visiting England would be very interested to travel on some of the little side lines in this country, where the whole routine is very different from that of the large expresses, with their wonderful dining-cars and their 100 per cent. efficiency.
I recently spent a holiday in a little village in the heart of the Dorsetshire hills. One day I was cycling, when the weather broke. The rain started to come down in no uncertain manner and I sought the nearest railway station (a place not often difficult to locate in this country of railways) and soon came to a small station, where life seemed quiet and peaceful enough. The man in the booking-office was sitting on a stool drinking tea and yarning to the staff, which consisted of the stationmaster and one porter. Forgetting to mention where I wanted to go, I asked at what time the next train was due to leave. “Well, it all depends on which direction you wish to take,” replied the clerk. This was a great joke and everybody laughed; so I told them the story of the drunken man who, arriving at a railway station, asked for a ticket; and when the booking-clerk inquired, “To which station?” said, “Well, what stations have you got?” More laughter! I was instantly accepted into the friendly circle and asked if I would like to join in a cup of tea. To refuse would have been impossible, so I took the cup of tea, which tasted as sweet as molasses. Personally I loathe sugar in my tea, but rather than hurt their feelings, I drank it with apparent relish; though I quite firmly declined a second cup.
“There is a train due to your village in half an hour,” said the booking-clerk; but in the meantime the Southern Express is due in ten minutes time.” So we went on chatting until the great train loomed in sight.
Is it to be wondered at that trains have such a fascination for children? They fascinate adults, also. How in the world is such a tremendous sense of power conveyed, as by a train travelling at high speed? There is always a feeling, too, of wonderment as to how the wheels manage to stay on the rails and how that huge weight can be made to negotiate the intricate network of lines that are found at various junctions. Of the fact that we place our lives in the capable hands of the signalman, we never think; and how few of us give a thought even to the skill and care of the driver and his mate—of their wonderful accuracy in maintaining, day after day and year after year, distances run to scheduled time. We takè almost for granted, especially in the British Isles, the civility of the men who handle our luggage, and handle it so efficiently. It is only when one goes to Continental countries that these things are brought home to one. When a train stops at a station in France or Belgium, you suddenly find yourself confronted by a porter who throws you aside, grabs your bags, and rushes madly out of the carriage, hoping to dispose of you in the shortest possible time and be back in time for another customer. You charge wildly after him, but he notices you not, his objective is the nearest taxi, into which he throws your belongings.
In England it is all so different—the porter asks you politely if you have any luggage—do you want a taxi? —and tells you where he will meet you when outside the barrier, and you let him go, feeling that you are in perfectly safe hands.
On the little side lines, of course, one gains a much better idea of the people of the country, than one could possibly get by travelling in the luxurious expresses. When the country train stops at each little flag station, or as we call it “halt,” the waiting passengers are hailed by those already in the train; many of them know each other, and there is at once friendly conversation. One hears remarks about the price of milk, sheep, cattle: how badly the country needs rain; and that Farmer Fudge has bought a motor-car for #20; secondhand, but it looked new.
“How few of us give a thought to the skill and care of the driver and his mate.”
Frequently the guard of the train will lend a helping hand to some woman laden with shopping parcels; or, as he did once in my case, hold up the train a minute or two for a belated passenger. He will carry on conversations with the porters and stationmasters at the little stations along the line; it is all pleasant and leisurely, and one is struck by the human touches one finds on the country railways, which are not possible in the same way on the main lines, though the wonderful politeness that one encounters on all lines, large and small, is a great feature of railways in the British Isles.
Probably one of the most amusing train journeys it is possible to take, can be made in the county of Donegal, in Ireland.
The total length of the railway is 60 miles, and its trains average about 12 miles per hour. It is an extremely narrow gauge, and when put down, was known as one of the Balfour lines, as it was laid during the days of the Balfour Administration.
Many stories are told about this line; one, supposed to be authentic, is as follows: —
The train reached a little village station, when the engine refused to go any further. One of the stranded passengers asked the staff, consisting of one man who combined the duties of clerk, stationmaster and porter, “Is there a hotel in this place?” “Yes sorr,” he replied, “there are two.” “Which one would you advise me to stop at?” asked the tourist. “It doesn't matter,” replied the man, “whichever one ye choose, ye'll be wishing you was at the other one.”
I once had rather an amusing experience on a railway journey I made in Tunis. It was a mixed train—decidedly mixed—comprising two tiny first-class carriages, and some third class, holding about fifty or sixty Arabs. The rest of the train seemed a mile long, and was made up of trucks containing mostly camels, horses, cattle, sheep and goats. When it moved it averaged about fifteen miles an hour and its arrival at every station seemed the event of the day. Hundreds of Arabs in their picturesque costumes came to meet it. The guard informed me that if I wanted dinner, he would telephone to a station up the line, where, he remarked we were due to arrive between 1 and 2 o'clock.
When we reached the spot, a town populated by 40 Europeans and some 500 Arabs, the stationmaster's wife, with the usual capability of the French housewife, had a perfectly marvellous six course meal awaiting us. I got my hostess to send out a bottle of red wine to the engine driver and his mate, and another to the guard, who were most profuse in their thanks.
The train was scheduled to stop for 25 minutes; and when I remarked to the guard that this did not give us long for our meal, he laughed loudly and snapped his fingers, saying, “25 minutes? you can have an hour and 25 minutes if you like.” I could not help asking, “But what about your time-table?” “Oh,” came the reply, “that does not matter at all. There are often camels on the line.” And as a matter of fact this happens to be quite true, because the camels will frequently actually sit on the line, and it takes the combined efforts of the driver with a whip, the fireman with a shovel, and the guard's language to shift them.
But the wonder is, not that a train averages only from twelve to fifteen miles an hour, but that, as a triumph of man's engineering, there is a train to be found at all, across such country.
Without it, the people would be almost completely isolated—they could do nothing, and go nowhere.
In conclusion, may I say, that I have travelled thousands of miles on the New Zealand and Home railways, and as just one member of the great mass of the public, I would like to return thanks in this “New Zealand Railways Magazine,” to the railway men of those countries for their unfailing tact, good humour, politeness, and above all for their efficiency which make train travelling to-day the safest mode of transport in the world.
If we do not express our thanks, perhaps as often as we should, it is not because we are ungrateful, but because we have come to regard these things as part of the Railway Service.
“There are often camels on the line.”
Iris Wilkinson
The Maori mind does not, and in my opinion will not, function along accepted lines. I know a woman who lived for many years in the wilds of the Urewera country. She was particularly struck by the proud and forbidding appearance of a large white boulder, perched on a nearby mountaintop exactly as though a pterodactyl, passing by, had halted on the wing and laid an egg at this surprising altitude. As time went on, she grew convinced that the white rock had an especial significance for the Maoris too. Gently but firmly, she commenced to pump. Gentlier but ever more firmly, they shied off the topic. At the end of five years or so, her interest in the white rock had reached a morbid pitch, and precisely at that time, an old gentleman in a blue shirt, a billycock hat and very little else, whom she had sustained at the back door with cups of tea, decided that now she could be inaugurated into the secret of the white rock. (For the interest of the pakeha woman in the white rock was by now a source of amused contempt to the Maoris throughout the district.)
The old gentleman did the thing in style. “You are now one of us,” he said grandly, “Know, then, this is what befell.”
The lady panted a little, but unobtrusively.
“On a certain day,” said the old gentleman, “a giant, who lived at a near distance to the sea-coast, became enraged, though not with any justice, over the actions of a giant who at that time was living under yonder mountain.” (Here ensued a description of the relations of the second giant with the first giant's sister, a bit Biblical for our purposes: and anyhow, as the old gentleman pointed out, the whole thing was a misunderstanding—romance, if you like, but not Reno. However, Giant Number One was a sceptic: “Aüe,” stated the old gentleman, pessimistically, “seizing the white rock like a tooth, which grew then on the sea-shore, he flung it at the head of the giant in our mountain. This he missed, striking the mountain, wherever since the white rock has dwelt. Aüe, aüe.” (Pronounced “'Ow, 'Ow,” and signifying “Tut, tut,” or, “What a pity.”) After this, he looked her darkly in the eye, and what on earth could she do but echo feebly, “'Ow, 'Ow?”
In much the same way, when halfway up the Wanganui River you come upon that interesting and delightful little spot, Pipiriki, it may astonish you to find that the place is so named because once upon a time, on his deathbed, a chieftain ate an extraordinary number of pipis there. It must have been a marathon banquet, the corpse, so to speak, assisting in and starring at his own funeral feast: none the less, to those unacquainted with Maori custom, it may seem surprising that the feat was commemorated. But that's nothing. Look at Kamo, up in Whangatei. Kamo means “Eyelash.” Whose eyelash? When and where and how? Was it that a chieftain here fell in love with the silken lash of some dark-eyed damsel, or merely that an eyelash got in his eye, and, feeling peeved about it. he decided that the happening should be immortalised?
This may seem a digression, and verily, so it is. All the same, when approaching Wanganui, my strong advice both to New Zealander and tourist is to remember that here, just under the surface, is Maori world— Maori talk, Maori custom, Maori charm. You won't get the best out of Wanganui if you eliminate the Maori from your quest.
After which grandmotherly little bit of psychology, let us revert (happily) to Marton Junction, which is the Main Trunk connection for Wanganui, and contains, at a rough guess, more newsboys, cups of tea and large ham sandwiches to the square inch than any place else in the world. Of the two major Main Trunk junctions, Marton always looks to me the more human and inviting, it is full of bustle; the station officials, Redcaps and Lost Luggage Lords and vociferous terrier dogs, all do their best to encourage you, being imbued with the spirit of adventure. It is a place of setting forth.
Here's a trifle of local information. Between Marton and Wanganui are not one, but two things worth viewing, especially in early spring. A milelong avenue of red-flowering mays, very jocund: and, better, rows and
Marton Junction, Main. Trunk Line, North Island, New Zealand.
A test of whether you know New Zealand or not is your knowledge of the cabbage palm. The stunted, sad, dingy little dwarf of suburban gardens —how plain it is, and how lifeless! But in the wilderness here, the palm takes back its old supremacy. Its slender height is as untamed as any tree in the world: and that rich perfume, ebbing and flowing on the winds
A scene on the Wanganui River, at Pipiriki, North Island, New Zealand.
A little orchard, whiter than alabaster with its freight of blossoms: toe-toe plumes bending down to dip their cream feathers into a wide steel-grey sweep of river: trying to learn to row, in a backwater, with a million bullfrogs solemnly expressing their souls to a papery wisp of a new moon: an old Maori woman sitting on my doorstep, with her black shawl over her head and a fearful little black clay pipe between her superb teeth: eating an unbelievably large and potent beefsteak, plus onions, at “Tony's” on a cold night: staggering to a vertical position: sitting down and eating more (in company with newspaper reporters), when Tony produced roasted wild duck …
Perhaps that's Wanganui. But on the other land, there is that ancient bronze fountain (it was exhumed in Rome somewhere, and has the grave and yet taunting loveliness kept by no other medium except weathered and battered bronze), standing darkish golden-green in the white sunlit entrance of the Sargent Art Gallery. You will like this Art Gallery, overcoming a first impulse to dislike it, because its whiteness, its pillars, its spacious system of halls, and the manner in which it takes and holds the sunlight are so very alien to New Zealand that at first glimpse, it looks theatrical. But it has achieved nobility, and will last. Its extraordinary effectiveness is not only effective… I can visualise now, between the white straight lines of an inner door, glowing yellow, and a dark, angry Eastern face: that is the painting of a Jewish girl at a well. There is some Burne-Jones work here, unfinished for the most part, and thus escaping from the look of sameness which characterises the perfected auburn locks, heavy mouths and long eyes of the dreamer-artist's choice. One lissome Burne-Jones drawing in the Sargent Gallery has escaped from a red thicket of fairy tale… There are lovely little bits of painting on ivory, smooth, flowery, finished with love and grace of those blessed days when Art and Craft were self-respecting brothers.
Then retreat in good order to the shabby (externally) old Museum, and see things from the other world… little bone flutes made from pieces of human thigh-bone (Tutanekei's friend, softly, softly calling Hinemoa over the lake waters with his flute), carved boxes for huia feathers, carved boxes for cosmetics … they were such great dandies, the young men and women of Maori world.
Somewhere in between the Sargent Art Gallery and the carved boxes, you can see a community which plays excellent bridge for sixpenny points, hunts and rides and flourishes at Hunt Balls (Wanganui women dress beautifully), and makes cross-stitch sampler patterns with autumn crocus and magnificent tawny chrysanthemums, in big gardens whose glades shelter karaka trees, and kuku, the metallic-winged, plump-bosomed old wild pigeon. As a community, the Wanganui people are more civilised than those of most New Zealand cities: by civilised, I mean hospitable, funny, interested in one another, keen on doing things together, passionate about rivalries, argumentative. They ignore very little. The really big city is a bleaker thing than any cave-dwelling.
But the river. You can't come to Wanganui without traversing its river (though myself, I could very nearly have come just for the satisfaction of seeing a slim and graceful archdeacon knock spots off everyone else at a game of lacrosse.)
Going up the river is complex nowadays only for those who loathe getting out of bed early in the morning. You must, you know. The little ferry steamer's siren shrieks mournfully when-everything's still grey-veiled and icy cold. Let there be no mistake about it. Wanganui River, in the early morning, is so cold that without rugs you are lost, physically.
The Maoris bundle on board the little boat, all brown face and blue chin-tattoo, expressive dark eyes and clay pipe. Usually they bring pigs. The pigs, tied up in fish-nets (it's no use asking me why, I'm simply giving you the facts), recline in the stern of the boat, and shriek blue murder from beginning to end. As a matter of fact, this isn't disconcerting, but amusing. Then the soft babble of unknown speech… Maoris in Wanganui, both old and young, are extraordinarily handsome. The full-blooded Maori woman of middle age has a solid fineness like a sailing-ship's figurehead. The half-caste girl in her 'teens is a wild lovely creature, with twinkling bronze legs, like a deer's. There are deer up in the riverbank forests, you can see them now and again between the trees—red deer, and the fallow fellows whose spottiness we used to love in our Zoo days, a long time ago.
The Mail-Bag Collie is an individuality with a plumed tail. The plumed tail is a help, of course, but even without it he would be a splendid and sagacious creature. Year in, year out, he comes down to the river's edge to
Little people of a not-much-changing world. The Maori woman whose twins, their fat bronze cheeks reposing on a spotless white pillow, were Plunket. She was so proud about it. The native farms are all along the river, until you come to the exquisite ferny tangle some few miles below Pipiriki, where nothing lives any more but the gliding shadows in the water. These river-farms are unbelievably steep, and to get the cream down to the company which handles it (on a co-operative basis, I believe) the Maoris have to be up at two in the morning. Their cattle must have legs like mountain goats. But a company manager who bought their cream told me how, within a few years of the fencing and subdivision of their land, these farmers had paid back their debts, kept their machinery a picture, and were drawing reasonable cream cheques. I always remember the Maori river farmers when listening to the wise discourse on the impracticability, or the unwillingness to labour, of the Maori race.
Through the green fans of the trees, you catch a glimpse of the comparatively new, but beautiful motoring road which heads for Tongariro. Here, too, echoes back the laughter and whistling of the Maori people. You can see a lad ride down to the water's edge, with the head of a wild pig grinning hideously from his saddlebow.
But look among the riverbank willows for the drawn-up canoes… not just the large and expensive redochred kind, once used for fighting and now mostly in the museums, but the humble little one-man affairs, hollowed from the single log, and polished shiny as amber straws with the years and years of slipping through the river waters. They are not painted, and decay is upon them. But they are so shapely and beautiful. I hate to think of the Wanganui without them.
There is a halt some few miles up the river. Here a tui sang with distracted fondness to his mate, who had concealed herself in a circle of kowhai trees. These rained down blossoms of a hot gold, like new-minted sovereigns. Thousands and thousands of blossoms, shining and falling, and the tui expostulating, “Oh, where are you? Where are you? Speak up, dear.” The Maoris say, “Spring comes with the red flame on the kowhais.” It is one of the two flowers that hold real warmth, anyhow. The other is the blossom of English gorse.
You sleep at Pipiriki first night up the Wanganui. There is a very excellent hotel—Pipiriki House a big white place, guarded by rowan trees and built on a rounded hill. Long before you get there, the river has abandoned any pretensions to civilisation, and is just its own glimmering self, the great interwoven fronds of the ferns perfectly mirrored in unmoving waters. The bush above makes reflected cliffs of deep purple, russet and green. You can see a tiny grey bird, not large enough to bend his wild fuschia twig, dart across the mirror. The world of reflections looks much more solid than the other one, and you long to step down into it.
There is a taniwha in the Wanganui River near Pipiriki, and if you want to be ceremonious, you can lay a green bough on his Offering Stone. Then perhaps the next morning, when you wake up and see the valleys threaded with a lace-fine blue mist, will be as lovely for you as it was for me..
Before saying goodbye to Pipiriki, one can slip back in an afternoon to Jerusalem, which is the little mission station built up in the very wilderness many years ago by the late Mother Mary Aubert and her French ladies.
Nothing but Maori is spoken at Jerusalem, except by the nuns. All the top of the hill is caught in a silvery cloud, where Mother Mary Aubert's cherry orchard takes its wild pleasure in blossoming to outshine its dark neighbours. Her little still-room, where she made medicines after the old Maori herbal prescriptions, is still there. We took aboard, going back from Jerusalem, a party of young Maoris whose canoe had broken down. They were dressed in all the colours of several rainbows, only gaudier, and they sang Alfred Hill's waiatas at us, in voices like throstles. All very gay. I like the Maori voice best unaccompanied. Since we can't have the little bone flutes, let us be thankful that a Maori can exist without a ukulele, The South Seas melody is so sticky.
I find it hard to describe the upper river journey, because, when you're actually experiencing it, continually your mind fastens on some relatively tiny detail… the swaying of a mamuk' frond in the reflected world, wild turkeys, with their shining copper breastplates, suddenly and unexpectedly gobbling from the riverbank, a glimpse of rotting red-ochred wood which was once an ancient battle pa, water gushing forth, heavy crystal, from the roof of a cavern whose mouth is ringed in a violet rainbow. River's end, from the Ladder Scene to that green place where the Houseboat used to lie, is more of a dream than anything else. You are glad of the occasional creak of a windlass (in summer, you have to be windlassed over shallow places). Yet if you should wake in the moonlight, or in a blue and misty morning, the place makes demands on you. You want to paint, or write… both of which are inadequate… or to listen, which mightn't be.
The famous Drop Scene, Wanganui River, North Island, New Zealand.
The Archdeacon is still playing lacrosse when you get back to Wanganui. “Tony” heaps your plate up with golden circlets of fried onion, and you think, recklessly, “This is odoriferous, this is vulgar, but I like it.” An old Maori voice cries softly after you on the short walk from main street to river's edge. Likely she wants “Baccy.” She wears greenstone round her neck, a fine tiki against the black woollen gown. At Castlecliff, the sea-place, there are both lupins and lovers, and one of those notoriously honey-coloured moons. At St. John's Hill, there is little Virginia Lake with its sailing black swans, and among the yellow trees a cicala threads the afternoon with his tiny stitch of song. “I grew this apple from the pip,” proudly says an old gaffer, indicating a monstrous red and gold bulge about the size of a small melon. “How do you think my chrysanthemums will do at the flower show?” says the nice tweedy woman, slightly though unnecessarily on the defensive. Her Airedale cocks an ear to hear your reply. “Marton Junction! —All change here for Wanganui! yells the stentorian voice of a porter, perhaps an hour's journey away.
To rail at tobacco for thirty years and denounce smoking as a vice and then conclude that you've been “barking up the wrong tree” all the time! What a “right about face!” The late Professor Huxley, the eminent scientist, was an anti-tobaccoite for half his lifetime. One day a friend persuaded him to try a mild havana—and straightway he changed his tune! He found it delicious, and lived to admit “there's no more harm in a pipe of tobacco than there is in a cup of tea.” But tobacco varies in quality just as tea does. In both cases it's a wise plan to buy the best but not necessarily the most expensive. In the case of tobacco the best is the genuine “toasted” which though quite moderate in price is matchless for bouquet and unrivalled for purity. The nicotine it contains (common to all tobacco) is eliminated by toasting, and hence the harmlessness of the five famous brands—Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cavendish, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold.*
He was the most restless of men, and a railway waiting-room at two o'clock in the morning was no place to provide an outlet for his superfluous energies.
He kicked the fire and drummed with his fingers on the mantlepiece; then he set off on a tour of inspection of the furnishings of the room. As he had done this four times already, he had evolved what might be called a routine. He read aloud the regulations regarding rabbits, and the times of the special trains running between Christchurch and Riccarton during Grand National week. He had exhausted the possibilities of these objects together with their ramifications, and he passed without comment to the Shipping Company's poster advertising Island Tours.
“Ever been to the Islands,” he asked, and receiving a negative reply, “well, you've heard a good deal about them, I dare say. All the nice romantic tales that you get from people who have been on pleasure cruises or stopped off a few hours from the mail boats. They tell you about the sunsets, which look all the better for being associated with rum punch. They tell you about the Papenoo and the glass-bottomed boats, and little Marie, who was so agreeable, and if you let them go on they'll probably tell you that they'd like to go back, and end their days listening to the surf and the twanging of guitars, and the nuts coming off the trees.
“They can have it for mine,” he continued, crossing to the fire and lowering himself into a chair, from which his long legs stuck out like the whiskers of a hermit crab.
“Because I once spent several very tiresome months listening to the surf on an island called Honu. Honu means turtle and that island was not much larger than a good sized turtle, but for all that it was neither small nor remote enough to escape the curse of civilisation; I refer to the embarrassment, to which a man may be subjected if he has insufficient means of support. You may think that if he has to be down and out, a man is better to be so on a nice warm beach in the tropics than, say, in Cashel Street, or footing it across the Plains. He is not. From Cashel Street he can at least walk into Colombo Street, and see something different. If he is tramping the country roads there is always the hope that there may be a job at the next house. In a place like Honu there is nothing —no change, no hope, just the everlasting sea-rim, and the beach and the slatting palms. Blue, white and green and, occasionally, the black of Mr. McHardie's pugaree. Mr. McHardie was the missionary, and I very soon began to avoid him, because it was hard to meet a man of my colour in such circumstances; Laroche, the trader too, but not for the same reason. I took to going inland to avoid the village when I wanted to get to the eastern side of the island, and, after a while, I stopped going to the eastern side because it was all the same when I got there—the same blue, white and green. I grew whiskers and my clothes fell to pieces, so I wore a loin cloth and burnt brown like a Kanaka, but I was of far less account than any Kanaka. Had I continued to live on Honu, I suppose I should have come to the stage when it would have been too much trouble to do anything but sit on the beach and scratch myself. I don't know. Things happened before I reached that stage.
“The only ships that came to Honu in the ordinary way were trading schooners and a bug-ridden little steamer called the ‘Thetis,’ and it was customary, the reef passage being a quarter-mile wide and easy to navigate, for them to come straight in as soon as it was daylight and anchor in the lagoon. It made it doubly surprising, therefore, when we awoke one morning and saw what appeared to be a large steam-yacht lying outside the reef. A white-painted ship with a clipper bow—and when the sun came up there was the sparkle of brasswork each time she rolled.
Now Honu regarded the arrival of any sort of vessel as an occasion demanding the observance of certain rites. First of all Laroche's Chinese house-boy chased the pigs out from beneath the billiard table in the Club—a title of courtesy bestowed upon the palm-hut behind the store—then he polished all the seventeen glasses and set them out in rows upon the counter. The native girls stuck flowers behind their ears, and the six outrigger canoes, which were all the island possessed in the way of sea-going craft, were manned ready to escort the visitor through the reef passage.
“We did all these things on this occasion and then found that our ritual had misfired, for the yacht just lay there without a soul showing about her decks, and when the canoes went out, a surly quartermaster armed with a rifle made signs to them to go back home.
“Everyone was naturally incensed at this, and when, towards 10 o'clock a small motor launch was seen to put off from the yacht we were still gathered round the store wondering what to do about it.
“You see, we were no Papeete or Apia with consular offices and so forth. All we had was a Union Jack which Mr. McHardie had hoisted on the mission house, a wireless station which had run out of petrol for its generating plant, and two old Martini rifles in Laroche's store.
“However, the launch was soon within hailing distance of the beach—we had no wharf—and an officer, who
“‘My Captain conveys his regrets, Senhors, that neither he, nor any of his guests, is able to return your hospitable welcome. You be'old,' he made a dramatic gesture towards the yacht, which we observed had hung out some kind of green ensign, and also hoisted the yellow guarantine flag, ‘you be'old a ship stricken. One of our seamen died only yesterday of what you call small-pox.
“‘We, therefore,' he continued after a pause to refer to his paper, ‘ave placed ourselves in quarantine and request only that we may be allowed to replenish our supply of fresh water which is running low.’
You may be sure that this little speech caused some excitement, and presently a long-distance discussion began as to how they were to get the water off to the yacht without risk of infection.
“Finally it was agreed, the officer apparently had notes on this too, that we should load our six canoes with fresh water in casks and the motor launch would tow them out to the yacht where they would be unloaded and then turned adrift in the lagoon. None of our islanders would be permitted to make the trip to the yacht in the canoes.
“It was well after mid-day by the time the canoes were loaded, and a new complication arose.
“As the day advanced the sky had become overcast—for it was just at the beginning of the rainy season—what wind there had been died away and a leaden surf pounded the reef in a manner that betokened dirty weather. The yacht was rolling heavily, and it was obviously impossible to load the water casks outside. She sounded her whistle and signalled that she was going to make the reef passage
“This manoeuvre gave me the opportunity for which I had been waiting—all eyes were upon the yacht as she moved slowly towards the unbroken water of the passage—nobody noticed me slip down to where the canoes lay, and secrete myself aboard one of them.
“You see I was determined to leave the island of Honu at any cost, even at the risk of smallpox. I thought that once aboard the yacht they would not dare to put me back on shore, indeed, if I were lucky enough, I might be able to get aboard unseen and hide until we were safely at sea.
“Soon enough the yacht was safely inside the reef and dropped anchor. The motor launch came shorewards again to pick up the string of canoes. They were lashed two abreast, and, being about thirty feet in length, my position in one of the last pair brought me alongside the yacht almost beneath the main gangway on the port side which was half lowered. This was what I had hoped for, and I waited until I heard the rattle of the cargo winch forward before I raised myself to see how things were going. Loading had started and (better still) the motor launch had
“Who the devil are you, and what are you trying to do?”
“There was nobody at all on the deck above my head, and scrambling out from between the casks I stood up, and as the next swell lifted the canoe, swung myself on to the bottom step of the gangway.
“Once on deck I made haste to find a hiding place, for I was in plain view of the men forward should they chance to look my way, to say nothing of any stray passengers who might come strolling round a corner. It struck me as strange that there were no passengers in sight, considering the stifling heat of the afternoon, and stranger still that three doors which I tried were firmly locked. Strange and awkward—for it seemed as though there was no place in that part of the ship in which I could hide.
“I had just about made up my mind to walk boldly forward and had taken a few steps, when I heard a rapping noise and saw a face at one of the deck cabin windows. And a very pretty face it was, too, although at the moment its owner was exceedingly angry or frightened, or both. She was making unmistakable signs and I hurried across and found that the window had been fastened with a patent catch fitted to the outside. I released it and it was jerked violently open from the inside.
“‘Thank God for a breath of fresh air,' said the owner of the face.
“‘It isn't too fresh,' I replied, ‘but if you've been shut up for long, I suppose it smells good enough. What are you doing there?'
“‘I might ask you the same question,' she retorted.
“‘Who, me? I'm a stowaway.'
“She looked at me very hard a moment. ‘You look more like a nature-man or something. Where have you come from?’
“‘Out of a canoe loaded with water casks, and I want to get hidden before they throw me back into it.'
“‘You fool,' she said, ‘get back to wherever you came from before anyone sees you.’
“‘Not a chance,' I replied, ‘I'm not afraid of smallpox.'
“‘Don't try to be funny,' she said angrily. ‘Get back to your boat.’
“‘I will,' I answered boldly, ‘when you tell me how you came to be locked in there from the outside.’
“At this moment voices sounded from the starboard side of the deck, the girl looked at me intently, then—
“‘Can you get through this window?' she asked.
“‘Easy—but'
“‘Never mind the buts—quickly—' and whiskers, loin cloth and all—I dived through that cabin window and found myself at the feet of the—well perhaps Honu had warped my judgment—but she certainly looked to me the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. More than that, she had nerve.
“‘Stay on the floor,' she said, and quietly shut the window while footsteps went tramping past. Then she sat down on the bunk and began to question me.
“‘Where are we anchored?'
“‘Two miles off-shore in the lagoon of the island of Honu.'
“‘What about these water canoes—could I get ashore in one?'
“‘You could, but they wouldn't let you land—not with smallpox.' She made an impatient movement.
“‘What is this nonsense about smallpox?'
“‘Well you—I mean there's been a case on board this ship, hasn't there?'
“‘She puckered her brows a moment. ‘So that's what they told you?'
“‘Now listen,' she continued speaking rapidly. ‘This boat belongs to Hallam Jefferies. He's a millionaire, he is, or was, one of the most prominent figures in Californian society, and he's gone completely mad. Two months ago he arranged a pleasure cruise to Hawaii, a homely little affair with only five of us to keep him company, a writer, an actor and his latest wife (an old lady who ordinarily just drives from one bridge party to another), and myself, a professional tennis player. We, all of us, except the old lady, felt that the publicity would do us good, and we all knew Jefferies and each other moderately well before we started. We know him and each other a darn sight too well now, for we never went to Hawaii at all, but down out of the trade routes into Heaven knows what part of the ocean.
“‘You can imagine the state we were in when we realised the truth—that we had to go on cruising indefinitely at the pleasure of a madman who explained that we represented the types of people who were the most destructive to his peace of mind, and it amused him to see us in circumstances so destructive to ours. I don't know but that he is not, at times, the sanest of us—he certainly enjoys our efforts to escape, our bickerings and our hysterical outbursts. At first we tried to get at the officers and crew, but they are all Brazilians, Portugese half-castes and negroes, and completely abject. We tried to reason with Jefferies himself. That was what he enjoyed most. He made elaborate plans to put us ashore, and then upbraided us for being so ungrateful. He made us play bridge, dance, drink his wines and cocktails—tirt with each other—and go on cruising, until our oil fuel runs out—which may be weeks yet.'
“‘Surely,' I said, ‘he must get tired of it himself soon.’
“She bit her lip at this and did not answer for a moment, then—‘We hoped that, too,’ she said, ‘but a complication has arisen. Hitherto Jefferies has kept himself apart from us —forcing us into all kinds of stunts for his amusement, but never descending to our level. Now it seems he wants to join the frolic.
“‘This morning he called us on deck—showed us the island, and told us he was going to anchor. Then he said we were free to go ashore—and stay there if we liked—on one condition—that I marry him. Be married there and then by the little runt of a Captain who can't even speak English.
“‘Perhaps I need hardly tell you that while the other pillars of society were all for it, the idea didn't appeal to me, with the result that Jefferies bowed and smiled in the oily way he has and said “Very well, ladies and gentlemen—I very much regret that until this young lady changes her mind we must continue to cruise”—and he had us all locked up in our cabins until we get away from the land—or—'
“Her voice died away and in the silence I could hear the cargo winch still rattling as they swung the water casks aboard.
“Come on,' I said, starting to my feet, ‘there's still a chance, how do we get out of here?'
“‘The way you came in,' she replied and turning to the window cautiously peered out. ‘All clear,’ she said. I moved across and then hesitated. ‘I hate to mention it,’ I said, ‘but if you have any money you'd better bring it —Honu's a difficult place to get out of without it.'
“Then I wriggled my way out of the window and helped her through after me. For a moment we halted breathlessly, then I crossed to the rail. The tide had swung the yacht broadside on the reef passage and the canoes—which were being cut adrift as they were unloaded were not floating clear, but were bunched about the yacht's side. I looked at the shore, the yacht
“Later, as we staggered to shelter, we saw the ship trying to fight her way to sea.”
“She moved towards the gangway and ‘Just a minute,’ said a voice behind us and the girl gave a little gasp —‘Hallam!’
“I spun round and struck at him, but he stepped back and covered me with an automatic pistol. He was a small man, bald headed, and he grinned with a crooked twist to his mouth. ‘I don't seem to recognise you,' he said, ‘but that won't prevent my shooting you if you make a move—who the devil are you and what are you trying to do?'
“‘I'm a British subject, and you're on British territory, and you can't hold this girl against her will.'
“‘You're a dirty sneak, and I'll give you just ten seconds to get over the side and swim back to your God forsaken island.' His face darkened with fury and he took a step forward—a step which brought him within reach of my feet. I grasped the rail behind me and aimed a kick at his wrist. The pistol went off and clattered on the deck. We both dived for it and I got in a short-arm blow which knocked the millionaire off his feet.
“I scrambled to my feet, expecting to see us surrounded. To my surprise the deck was deserted—but the shouting was still going on—and the crew forward had left the cargo winch and were knocking the pin out of the shackle that held the anchor chain. The engine room telegraph rang for full speed ahead, and then I understood.
“No need to look up at the black scud flying overhead—or listen to the humming roar that was rising above the confused sounds aboard the yacht, to realise that the leaden surf and menacing stillness of the afternoon had fulfilled their promise. To seaward the horizon had vanished and a black pall was sweeping down on the island of Honu.
“Overside the canoes were breaking away. I yelled to the girl to get down the gangway. The yacht began to gather way as I followed her. A canoe came twisting like a straw in a millstream and we jumped together, and then everything blackened out as the hurricane struck.
“That night was the most amazing and terrifying experience I ever had—and yet it had its romantic and gratifying moments. For ten hours the hurricane raged and then dropped as suddenly as it had begun, and when the dawn broke I found that whatever I might have been yesterday I was on an equal footing with the rest of the community now. We were all homeless, hungry and exceedingly ragged. For awhile the girl and I sat on the beach and watched Lorache, who apparently had only a pair of pyjama trousers to his name. Mr. McHardie and the native population came creeping back. Like land crabs emerging from their burrows they came, by twos and threes from the other side of the island to poke about among the uprooted palms by the shore of the lagoon in the hope of finding some of their belongings.
“But not a thing did they find—for the village had been wiped out as completely as if it had never existed. And so except for a few odds and ends of wreckage, had the yacht.
“The evening before, as the girl and I whirled ashore on the wings of the hurricane, later as we made a perilous, half-drowned landing and staggered
“Three days later the ‘Thetis’ called at Honu on her regular trip. Mr. McHardie stayed with his flock to rebuild the palm-hut settlement, but Laroche and the girl and I sailed for Papeete.
“It was a ten day voyage and the ‘Thetis’ was no pleasure-cruiser, but somehow we did not notice the time drag. On the contrary, when the girl saw what I looked like without my whiskers, and we had watched the phosphorescent wake and the old Southern Cross for several nights together, she decided that South Sea cruising was not so bad after all. In fact; we returned eighteen months later on our honeymoon!
They were talking about local industries in the smoke-room of an Auckland Club the other night. “I remember when the first New Zealand tobacco came on the market, nigh upon half-a-century ago,” remarked the ancient mariner smoking the big cherrywood, “the lines included both cut and plug—of sorts—also little smokes called ‘cigarillos’—just a bit of leaf with a filling of ‘cut-up.’ They had a fair sale—for those days—but the manager (an old friend of mine) told me it was the foreign labels he'd had printed and stuck on the boxes that sold them. No use, he said, to offer them as New Zealand made—no one would have looked at them!” What a change the years have wrought! To-day our beautiful New Zealand tobaccos—Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cavendish, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold—require no foreign labels to sell them! They sell at sight, and the demand is always growing. Not only is the quality superb but they're harmless no matter how freely you indulge. They're toasted!*
Improved Passenger Services.
A Happy New Year to all! Throughout almost the whole world of railways the past year witnessed a steady improvement in the traffic and general transport situation, and, so far as can be foreseen, 1936 promises to carry on the good work of its predecessor in this regard.
At Home, a feature of the season is the very liberal passenger services which are being operated during what is normally the slack winter period. The winter schedules of our biggest group system—the London, Midland and Scottish—include seventeen new 60 miles—per-hour runs, with numerous improved cross-country connections. The London and North Eastern has introduced new fast trains between London and Newcastle-on-Tyne, and London and Hull, while another winter feature is the augmented suburban service in the London area, particularly on Sundays. On the Great Western, the winter programme provides 139 new services. The total winter passenger train service on this line includes 5,484 daily trains, with a train mileage of 114,462. Incidentally, 18 trains on the Great Western system cover 1,772 miles daily at more than 60 m.p.h.
One of the most interesting new services just introduced in Britain is the “Silver Jubilee Express” of the L. and N.E. Railway, between King's Cross Station, London, and Newcastle-on-Tyne. This is a streamlined express performing the fastest longdistance run in Britain. It covers the 268 mile journey in just four hours, an average speed of 67 m.p.h. One intermediate stop is made at Darlington, and allowing for this the throughout average speed is nearly 70 1/2 m.p.h. Four locomotives have been built for this daily service. All are completely streamlined, with corridor tender. They are three-cylinder, simple expansion “Pacifies,” with an eightwheeled tender, and have been built in the Doncaster railway shops under the direction of Mr. H. N. Gresley. Boiler pressure is 250 lbs. per square inch, grate area 41 1/2 square feet, and cylinders are each of 18 1/2 inches diameter by 26 inches stroke. Streamlining of the front end takes the form of a horizontal wedge, not unlike the design incorporated by M. Bugatti in his high-speed French railcars.
The “Silver Jubilee Express” consists of seven coaches, articulated. Like the locomotive, the coaches are decorated with silver on their exteriors. The total weight of the train is 220 tons, and 198 pasengers are carried. Two restaurant cars and a kitchen car are included in the equipment. The train is available for ordinary ticket-holders, subject to an extra charge of five shillings for firstclass travel, and three shillings for third-class.
Across the Channel, Germany is also making tremendous progress in streamlining. The “Flying Hamburger” was, of course, one of the world's first streamlined expresses, and this unique Diesel-electric unit was actually the inspiration for other lands to launch out in the streamlining field. Railroads everywhere are now taking up the idea, and it seems certain that at no distant date many of the world's leading express trains will be completely streamlined.
Here at Home, and throughout most of Europe, attention is at present being concentrated upon the design of new streamlined expresses operating on coal fuel. Oil is relatively scarce on the continent, but we have abundant supplies of good quality locomotive coal, hence the leaning towards coal-fired locomotives. Various designs of steam-operated streamlined trains are being developed. In Germany, one type—built by the Borsig Locomotive Works—is intended to haul a 250-ton train on a 93 m.p.h. schedule, and to be capable of increasing to 108 m.p.h. when desired. Other designs include a Krupp 4–8–4 machine intended to draw 650-ton trains at up to 87 m.p.h.; and smaller
“The Flying Hamburger,” German National Railways.
Ready for Winter—a typical British Snowplough.
The day of the long and heavy passenger train now definitely appears to be numbered. Everywhere, lighter trains and railcars are being pressed into service, and in Switzerland there has just been brought into use a new lightweight streamlined railcar of really novel design. Fitted with driving motors deriving current from the overhead transmission lines that are already provided over most of the Swiss main-lines, the new electric railcar has a driving compartment at each end, and seating accommodation for 100 persons. The unique point about the car is that the driver's cab closely resembles that of a motor lorry. A hand-wheel (similar to the steering-wheel of a motor-car) when turned to the right, gives ten running positions, and when turned to the left, eleven braking positions. To crown all, the railcar has a streamlined bonnet, almost identical in exterior appearance to the bonnet of a modern racing motor-car. Speeds of up to 90 m.p.h. are being attained by the new Swiss railcar, which is proving a big business-bringer, and a very convenient means of providing fast and frequent service on main-lines of relatively light traffic density.
The annual railway returns of the Home lines for 1934, recently published, show that there was a very decided improvement in the British railway financial position during that year. Net revenue grew from £29,- 589,089 in 1933, to £32,254,986 in 1934. Gross railway receipts showed an increase of nearly £6,000,000 over 1933. The bettered position was noticeable on both the passenger and freight sides, the freight increases in particular reflecting very strikingly the general improvement in the country's trade.
Operating statistics for 1934 showed an increase in locomotive mileage of 4.15 per cent., an increase in passenger train-miles of 3.25 per cent., and an increase in freight train-miles of 5.03 per cent. Total passenger and freight train-miles for 1934 were 427,- 500,000. The total number of passenger journeys (including season ticket holders) were 1,199,961,976, an increase of 3.56 per cent. Receipts from passenger traffic showed an increase of 2.24 per cent. During 1934, the Home railways increased their freight tonnage by 7.34 per cent. and net tonmiles by 7.94 per cent.
One of the features of Home railway passenger traffic is the fact that something like ninety per cent, of the passengers handled are conveyed at special fares substantially lower than the ordinary standard rates. There are three fares divisions on the Home lines—first, second and third-class. Second-class is a relic of Victorian days, and in practice it is only on very few routes that second-class carriages now run. The standard fares for single journeys are based on the English mile—1,609 metres. They are respectively: —first-class 2 1/2., second-class (where in operation) 2d., and thirdclass 1 1/2 per mile. Return fares are normally double the single. Single journey tickets are available for three days, and return tickets are available for use on the outward or return journey any day within three months. Children under the age of three years are conveyed free when accompanied by a fare-paying passenger. Children between three years and fourteen are carried at half fares. The various fares concessions, of which so large a number of passengers make use, include among others week-end and monthly return tickets, at a single fare and a third for the double journey; day and half-day excursion tickets; pleasure party bookings; anglers', hikers' and golfers' tickets; and the like.
Central Passenger Station, Zurich, Swiss Federal Railways.
“
Manners Makyth Man”
The Chapel Interior, Christ's College.
Lastly, there was Professor Cook, a Cambridge man, Sixth Wrangler in die Mathematical Tripos. He was a typical mathematician, and at first sight a severe and forbidding apparition “solid serious, dignified.” I remember well, finding carved in my back desk in his lecture hall,
“In spite of what the bard has penned
I find that distance does Not lend Enchantment to the view.”
He was an ardent music lover, a good cricketer, and an enthusiast about athletics. He, too, had a capacity for inspiring affection and above all, was a superb teacher. One of his pupils was Ernest Rutherford. There were other great men, but those three pioneers are the richest figures in retrospect. It is as well, however, to be reminded of Sir Julius Von Haast and Professor Hutton, two early great professors.
Since then, a procession of distinguished figures has adorned the many Chairs of Canterbury College and the graduates who owe their love (or dislike) of learning to them are found in every part of the globe. And, this has to be said. Canterbury has produced far more than its quota share of writers; in fact, no other province remotely compares with it. The achievement is of great variety, too, including our best short story writers, a woman writer whose detective stories are the most subtle and polished in English, our best women poets, and a host of men with the gift of writing prose poetry on scientific subjects. In making the first anthology of short stories of New Zealand I found that eighty per cent. of the material had to be the work of Canterbury writers. The explanation is not far to seek.
Please now look at our illustrations. The double quadrangle was an inspiration. On a summer day this quiet close has the dreaming beauty of centuries of age. Here, again, in some magic way, the haphazard, here-andthere growth of the various buildings has burgeoned into harmonious sweetness It seems incredible to imagine that half a century ago, this was a heterogeneous collection of stone buildings, tin sheds, wooden halls and other odds and ends. It has shared in the English genius for right growth, that genius which causes the foreigner to remark irritably that the British Empire was founded in a fit of absent mindedness. However unintended, however divorced from any set plan, however free from any scientific regime, Canterbury College is, to-day, a personality of grey stone, coloured creeper, green lawns, bright flowers, fused into a unity of ordered loveliness.
I show now the breath-taking beauty of the exterior of the Old Provincial Chambers and its fairy-like assembly hall interior. Here sat the little Parliament of the days when Canterbury governed herself and cared naught for Taranaki or Marlborough. In that misty dawn of the settlement, this exquisite example of Gothic architecture was raised by our forbears. The roof of scarlet and gold is a flawless and magnificent specimen of the Gothic-vaulted ceiling. Here, I might say, that much of the old world sweetness of these Christchurch scenes is due to the inherent love of Englishmen for the noblest form of architecture, the Gothic. Its pointed arches, sharp-edged fretwork, delicate tracery, flying buttresses and its slendertopped spires appeal to something deep-seated in English hearts. It suits and adorns the countryside and, in Christchurch, they have contrived to preserve this in great measure. Christ's College, in its ivied chapel, Canterbury College in its cluster of double arches, and the Provincial Chambers in their perfect outline, are visions of delight.
These works of the hands of men are symbolic of a feeling so intense that it is often almost inarticulate; the feeling that the things of Old England must be cherished and safeguarded wherever Englishmen may go.
Magnificent Gothic Interior of the Provincial Council Chambers.
Ken Alexander
No doubt, dear reader, you have detected “something new in the air of the year,” for:-
“But why all the fuss and fol-dediddle over a new year?” saith the cynic, lacing his ale with aloes.
Why? Because new years mean more than steps to the attic of eternity. New years are more than mere measures of Man's mortality. New years are greater than a mess of minutes which count as corpuscles in the blood stream of existence; more than the hours which pulse through the arteries of unattested Time; higher than the days and weeks and months which contribute to the cosmography of chronology.
New years are all things to all men. A new year is “as you like it.” New years are as you make them.
The optimist, the pessimist, the cynic, the young, the old, the ascetic, the dyspeptic, the poet, the plumber, the mystic, the mummer—all make their new years in their own imàges.
The optimist can create a bonfire of bliss from stray straws of stimulation and the embers of emotion. An optimist can pluck a dead twig from the tree of Time and build a blaze that would thaw out the soul of a frozen Pole. He can illuminate the dimmest corners of his consciousness with faggots of fancy. His is a campfire of content. He gets what he expects and he expects what he gets.
The pessimist's new year is only an old year older; an effigy of Effluxion; Time in a trance, or a mess of moribund moments moulded by Melancholy to the lineaments of dazed Despair. The pessimist expects the worst and gets it worse than he expects it.
The cynic's draught in Time's bar is gin and bitters, without the gin. The poet fits the new year with wings, wraps it in golden gauze, and imagines he made it. He is happy with his home-made “hokus.”
The young take no heed of maturity's yearning for years, or laugh at such lunatic lapses. For the young see no significance in a mere muddle of months. To them all years are one year and one year is all years. Time doesn't gambol on the green with youth. He waits without the gates to arrest them as they emerge from their garden of gladness to the workaday world of worry, whiskers and wistfulness.
Age is equally indifferent to years, new and old.
The mystic endeavours to decipher the mystery of unmade moments, the ordinance of unallotted hours, the delights and delinquencies of undeciphered days, the ways of unweaned weeks, the melodies and melancholies of unmustered months; and perhaps he is happy on his hypothetical hurdygurdy.
The poet fits the New Year with wings.
But the plain person who calls a collar by its christian name, and a pie a pie without bothering to translate the menu, takes the new year for what it is worth and rejoices that, at least, he has survived to dip his nose into a fresh bin of chronological chaff. He welcomes the new year mainly because he is alive to cope with it.
The whole secret of the sublimity surrounding the birth of another slab of solar per-plexus is the average human's thankfulness for the opportunity to partake of its experiences—however hard, however happy. Another year means another round in the prize-ring of existence—another opportunity of presenting the KO to Catastrophe and the glad mit to Fortune. A new year always promises Ok or Ko—you never know.
If uncertainty is the spice of life, every new year is a particularly spicy party. The toast, gentlemen, is, “Here's hope.”
Which is why Scotsmen make a heyday of New Year's day. Scotsmen are notoriously hopeful; Macawber has nothing on MacCaber when it comes to “postponing for profit.” But the difference between Macawber and MacCaber is that MacCaber works for things to turn up and then waits until they turn up.
The New Year to the Scot—and to many who are more Scotched against than Scotch—represents a new year's opportunity of reaping an old year's profit. No wonder Scots welcome the new year with open throats and throttles and consign Care and Caution to Mr. Chubb while the new year breathes its first and the old year its last.
And now, more muddled metaphor! If Father Time is ever reduced, through lack of the human coin of
“The plain person who calls a pie a pie without bothering to translate the menu.”
To let: brand new year, never been occupied; close at hand; all opportunities laid on, including hot and cold comfort, experience, elation, consternation, and all emotions necessary to human progress.
The whole or any part can be remodelled by tenants to suit themselves.
Rent payable in accordance with the nature of the occupancy, and will be accepted under the deferred payment system if required.
Far superior to all previous years submitted to the public. Examine plans now! Get in on the ground floor! Furnish up with Conscience and Co.'s unbreakable resolutions!
This New Year rejoicing and rejuicing is almost universal. Everywhere people are commemorating the fact that they have lived to see another year lift its lid. At least, everywhere except China, where things are so different that it is always Wednesday when the rest of the world is enjoying Sunday. New Year in China is as uncertain as lunch on washing day; it is liable to fall where it's dropped. But the Chinese have met the situation by becoming fatalists, which means that they are able to keep up New Year's Day with Celestial calm, Oriental sang froid, Eastern equanimity, fatalistic fixity, and fireworks, at a moment when the rest of the earth, is concentrating on Ash Wednesday, hash Monday, tax Friday, or Saturday night. But there is a moral to be drawn from the Chinese Confucion of thought regarding New Year; and that is, “Whatever the day, let it always be New Year's Day.”
Get Along, Little Doggie, Get Along!
Shibli Bagarag
Until recently colour reproduction in the magazine field in this country was somewhat crude and unsatisfactory. Lately we have realised that there are block makers and printers in New Zealand who can produce in coloured illustrations results that compare more than favourably with the finished production in other parts of the world. This development has been most apparent in “The Mirror,” where the artistic four colour cover designs have aroused much favourable comment. The December issue of the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” appeared for the first time in a four-colour cover. Apart from the strong appeal to the reader, this development in colour block work provides an opportunity for enterprising advertisers. Four colour advertisements attractively designed and reproduced, have a tremendous pull over ordinary advertisements in black and white. This new development in the general pictorial and advertising fields in this country will be watched with interest.
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A gracious acknowledgment of the tribute that many admirers paid to Miss Jessie Mackay just over a year ago, comes in her “Vigil and Other Poems,” a booklet recently published by Whitcombe & Tombs Ltd. The book is dedicated to these friends of Miss Mackay's, and when they have read the precious poems it contains, they must feel that a further debt of gratitude is due to the Lady of Cashmere Hills. Jessie Mackay has a place in the hearts of every lover of poetry in these islands, also in the big continent across the Tasman. One at least in Australia, Mary Gilmore, will thrill with pride over the beautiful poem dedicated to her in this booklet. In the twenty or so poems included, are melodies to charm the souls of people of many minds and moods—all in the flawless harmony so characteristic of the singer.
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Reviews.
“New Zealand Pilgrimage” Alan Mulgan's Latest Book.
In his new book, “A Pilgrim's Way in New Zealand,” Mr. Alan Mulgan has certainly discovered a charming way to tell about a country. This is no dull, pedestrian guide book. It is, rather, an eminently readable piece of literature in which every page holds the interest by a combination of qualities in which are blended those of philosopher and poet, historian and descriptive writer.
Mr. Mulgan has it in mind that he must somehow explain New Zealand to England; and he does it by a series of chapters on principal national characteristics and features that combine naturally with the political and economic history of the country.
This is the way a book of the kind should be written. It avoids the “personal equation” factor and the undue attention to trivialities that mar many travel works, and it refrains from the necessarily somewhat tedious detail of the average guide book.
With all the information assembled in his mind, Mr. Mulgan has sifted and sorted and classified to obtain the essentials of his story; and then he has applied an exquisite sense of proportion to presenting the condensed essence of the most material factors of race, climate, outlook, geography, and experience, that have gone to the building of this self-contained, cultured, well-governed and highly productive country.
Many attempts have been made to present New Zealand in a readable form. Mr. Mulgan is to be congratulated on producing the best of the kind to date.
“Blue Coast Caravan,” by Frank Dalby Davison and Brooke Nicholls (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) is a plain but gripping story of a journey from Sydney to northern Queensland. Its very strength and interest is in its simple unaffected style. Because of this and the keen appreciation the writers have as to what will hold their reading public in what they saw and what they experienced on their journey, the book must appeal to everybody. Some of the chapter titles will indicate the interesting nature of the travels; In the Krambach Ranges, A Climb Through the Jungle, In the Mary River Valley, Days on Fraser Island. Among the Italians of the North, The Crocodile Hunter, To the Great Barrier Reef, Days on a Coral Island. The book is on sale at leading booksellers.
“Erie Water,” by Walter D. Edmonds (Hurst & Blackett, London) is an unusual and powerful story. I have read a fair number of novels of late, but I do not think any of them have held me so selfishly as this book. It might be described as a panoramic romance. We are given a big moving picture of that great achievement, the making of the Erie Canal, which as history tells, made New York. But while we are watching the creation of this colossal ditch, we are keeping an ever interested eye on young Jerry Fowler and his wife Mary, whom Jerrybought as a Redemptioner from an Albany sea captain. Mary takes her place as one of my sweetest heroines of modern fiction. The book is on sale at all branches of Whitcombe & Tombs.
“The Eunuch of Stamboul,” by Dennis Wheatley (Hutchison, London) is great reading for those who are looking for thrills unlimited. There's at least one on every page. It is a story of love and international intrigue in Turkey. The very human hero, Swithen Destime, loses his commission in the British Army because he assaults a Turkish dignitary who has behaved unchivalrously to an English girl. He is offered money and adventure
“Anything Doing,” by Spartacus Smith (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) is a humorous story of newspaper life. I have read painful stories of press life by writers who have never been through the mill of the newspaper world. Here, however, is a writer who is a newspaper man himself. He is competent to deal with his subject and handles it cleverly. Humour bubbles up on every page and the touch of love interest adds to the satisfaction of the readers. A capital yarn.
“Greek Fire,” by Dora Barford (George Harrap & Co., London) is described as “a novel of the sack of Smyrna, banditry in Greece and the search for a lost girl.” To attempt to outline the complicated plot unravelled in this exciting story would, however, take a page or two of this magazine. Although this is only the fourth novel written by this author it shows a clear working brain building up a story of clever literary architecture. The picture of the burning of Smyrna in the opening chapters is powerful. On sale at all branches of Whitcombe & Tombs, Ltd.
“Starlight Pass,” by Tom Gill (Angus and Robertson, Sydney) is an exciting tale of love and adventure among men of the forest service of the States. The main action of the story is sandwiched in between two thrilling fights between the mysterious hero, North, and the brutal Jean L'Abot. The first is staged as a legitimate boxing match, the second resolves itself into a fight-as-you-like test of brute force. The author is at his best in describing these encounters. There's not a dull page in the book. My copy from Whitcombe & Tombs Ltd.
“The Poisoned Mountain,” by Mark Channing (Hutchinson, London; New Zealand agents, Whitcombe & Tombs Ltd.) is a vivid, exciting story of adventure in the Kuen-Lun Himalayas. The author evidently knows much of the deep mysterious ways of the Indian ascetic. The amazing adventures of Major Colin Gray and his wife include such high lights as terrifying catacalysms of nature, the mysterious gas that is supposed to emerge from the mountains dealing death to all in its path, and gorgeous and sometimes awesome ceremonial in the Indian temples. The author has fine descriptive powers as well as a rare dramatic gift.
“Gunmen's Holiday,” by Maxwell Knight (Philip Allan, London) will capture the fancy of the reader who demands thrills. The author tells us just how a brace of Yankee gangsters might behave on a vacation in England. Plainly, gangsters are like busmen, they must get down to shop whether on holidays or not. Interleaved with all the excitement is plenty of humour and a fair slice of love. A book for a train journey, and that means you can read it any time. Whitcombe & Tombs are the agents.
“Australia and War To-day,” by W. M. Hughes (Angus and Robertson, Sydney) has had enough free publicity to make for its complete financial success. The purpose of the book may be summed up in the following excerpt from the author's introduction: … “recent events have rudely awakened us from our dreams of peace. We find ourselves unarmed and almost defenceless, confronting a world resounding with preparation for war. When all the world is armed, Australia dare not go unarmed. We must be up and doing without a moment's delay. Unless we are to stand like sheep before the butcher we must, without delay, create such defence forces as will make an attack upon Australia a venture so hazardous that none will attempt it.”
So much has been written about this vital book that this scribe does not propose to labour the matter further here except to commend the volume to all those who have not read this shrill cry of warning from the little man with the big brain.
“Black Valleys,” by M. W. Peacock (Angus & Robertson, Sydney), is an Australian novel that is different. The locale of the plot is divided between New South Wales and Bohemia. The Australian side of the story concerns the struggle for existence in the back country, of a young English farmer and his Bohemian wife. The bush takes tragic toll of their lives and we are left to follow the adventures of their two daughters, one of whom returns to Prague, the birthplace of her mother. There she finds ultimate happiness as the wife of her Bohemian cousin. This story of love and adventure is told in a style that is singularly unaffected.
“Crucible,” by J. P. McKinney (Angus & Robertson, Sydney), is the prize winning novel of a competition organised by the Victorian Branch of the Returned Soldiers' League. It is one of the finest war novels I have read. So vivid, so sincere one could imagine that the author was the hero he has created. Obviously, in the fighting, McKinney is living again through his own experiences. Apart from the engrossing interest of the story, we have a keen psychological study in the central figure, John Fairbairn. The book also is a mighty argument against the horror and futility of war. Altogether a notable addition to the library of war books.
“The Boundary Rider,” by R. B. Plowman (Angus & Robertson, Sydney), is the final volume of the author's notable triology of the outbacks of Australia. The first two books, “The Man from Oodnadatta,” and “Camel Pads,” were enthusiastically received by press and public, and I can visualise now an enthusiastic yet regretful call to the curtain for the nomadic padre, whose adventures and observations during his patrolling of his vast parish have made such instructive and entertaining reading for thousands. The book is certainly a great tribute to the back country people of the Commonwealth. We see here mirrored their joys and sorrows by a shrewd and kindly observer. The completion of this triology is certainly one of the literary events of Australia.
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Splendid sales are reported of “The Gael Fares North,” by N. R. McKenzie, which was recently published by Whitcombe & Tombs Ltd. The book will be reviewed on this page next month.
New Zealand writers should note that “The Bulletin” is offering #25 in prizes in a humorous short story competition. Entries close on January 31st. Limit in length, 3,000 words.
Among several literary productions due to be published coincident with New Zealand Authors' Week is “Ponto's Progress,” a novel by C. R. Allen (publishers, A. H. Reed, Dunedin). The story is based on the theme of Belloc's verse:
The big New Zealand sales of “Confessions of a Journalist,” recently published by Whitcombe & Tombs, are being echoed in Australia. One Sydney house had booked 80 orders before publication.
Timely Notes and Useful Hints.
Helen
Bounding that corner of “garden” was a wall—not one of mellowed brick, lovely to the eye, restful to the spirit as the green of lawns and fringe of flowerbeds—not a wall at all, in fact, but a fence—a utilitarian monstrosity of corrugated iron, baldly supported on the inside by posts and battens, available on the outside for the production by means of sticks, pencils, hands, of the cacophony dear to the ears of the young. This love of sound, by the way, should be disciplined, developed—percussion bands, perhaps, in our schools.
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The space enclosed by the aforesaid fence bore a fine crop of grasses, “Almost sufficient,” remarked Joyce, “to support one angora rabbit, or even two. And I hear that some people do well out of collecting grass-seed. It's a pity we haven't a canary.” —Which elicited from Bob a dissertation on the feeding habits of rabbits and canaries. Joyce having been reduced to helpless laughter, Bob proceeded to survey his future kingdom with a gloomy eye.
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That was three years ago. At first Joyce considered painting that eyesore of a fence, but decided to let Bob carry out his plans for the garden first. After the ground was cleared and deeply trenched, a late crop of potatoes was sown. For some time after that Bob's gardening seemed to consist of hoeing, weeding and earthing up, the family motto for the moment being “Death to weeds.” Labour had its reward—a good crop of tubers and a fairly clean soil.
Strenuous activity with shovel and wheelbarrow enabled Bob to give the ground a gradual slope up to the fence. The sloped part, about three yards in width, was to form a flowerbed. The rest was prepared for a lawn.
Joyce's, interest revived at the mention of flowers, and there were earnest discussions over nurserymen's catalogues as to the right size of shrubs or perennials for the background “to hide the fence.” Seasons of flowering complicated matters, as did the necessity for graduated sizes towards the front of the garden. Border plants were chosen, and Joyce claimed the spacès immediately behind the borders for groups of annuals.
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Summer visitors to the Joyce-Bob ménage now prefer afternoon tea on the lawn— “So delightfully private, my dear—and those clumps of flowers against the greenery—so charming!” and no-one even notices the fence, which, after all, was the prime mover in the planning of the garden.
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The physicists explain colour in terms of light, caused by a certain set of wave-lengths of varying frequencies and ranging from the unseen ultra-violet rays through the gamut of perceived colours to the unseen infra-red rays. Psychologists do not concern themselves with what colour is, but with what it does to us. Red excites or over-excites us; blue, green and violet (the colour background of nature) are cooling and soothing; yellow is a sunshine tonic.
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Our reactions to colour are so important to our mental well-being, that it is important to have our homes, where we spend so much of our time, suitably coloured according to aspect, size, and our own temperament. To the excitable “up-anddown” person an undue use of red in home decorating will put the nerves on edge, whereas blues and greens have a calming effect. Yellow is cheering, and can give a surprising impress of sunshine to the gloomiest room.
Claustrophobia, a fear of enclosed spaces, is present in more or less degree in many people. That is why we have a hatred of cluttered rooms. A clear floor-space is not only easy for the housekeeper, but pleasing to the eye and soothing to the nerves.
A narrow entrance-hall can give that prison feeling, after hours spent out of doors. Much can be done to minimise this effect by a judicious use of colour. A cool colour and light tints, especially blues, will tend to make the space look wider. Narrow spaces also seem to increase wall-height. Counteract this by painting the ceiling a warm colour which will seem to bring it closer; or the walls may be painted to eye-level in the chosen shade and a lighter colour above.
If blue or blue-green colours are used for the hallway, woodwork is best stained a light oak. A splash of colour may be provided by a bowl of orange flowers, orange pottery or an orange lamp-shade. Remember that yellow or orange light gives blue a greyish tint.
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A Ribbon Pochette Six and a-half Inches by Four Inches.
Materials required:- 9 yds. half-inch ribbon. 1/4 yd. sateen. 1/4 yd. silk lining. Tailors' canvas or other stiffener.
The design sketched (on p. 58) was carried out in two shades of green ribbon. Cut an oblong of sateen 6 1/2in. by 11in. and tack stiffener to it. Cut thirteen strips of pale - green ribbon 11in. long, and twenty-two strips of mid-green 6 1/2in. long. Tack the strips of palegreen to one end of the sateen and the strips of mid-green to one side. Machine stitch them to position. Weave the strip of mid-green next the stitched end over and under the pale-green strips and pin at the opposite edge. Continue to weave the
One end of the oblong must be cut to a curve or point for the flap of the bag. Machine ribbon firmly to sateen just within where you intend to cut. Cut bias strips from the lining silk and bias bind the oblong. Fold the oblong at four inch intervals
A plaited pochette of the same material as a frock may be made. Printed taffeta would be very suitable. Have a sufficient amount of material hemstitched in half-inch widths, and cut to form picot-edged “ribbons.”
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If a little care is taken, tennis flannels can be laundered at home without fear of shrinking. The best way to make a soap solution is to cut the soap up finely and put into a saucepan with boiling water. Keep boiling until the soap is thoroughly dissolved and then stand aside to cool. From this jelly prepare your solution for the flannels and allow them to soak thoroughly before kneading and squeezing; on no account rub, as this destroys the soft surface.
When this water has become dirty put the flannels into another fresh warm solution and continue the same process of kneading, etc., and when clean rinse three or four times in warm water. Then shake well and hang out to dry in a good breezy, shady place.
Mud must be brushed off carefully when dry, and any remaining marks should then be covered with a fine paste of methylated spirit and pipeclay, or, for more obstinate stains, use boracic acid and ammonia. This should be allowed to dry and then brushed off.
Grass stains are removed by gently sponging them with a weak ammonia solution.
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Now that the Christmas and New Year excitement is over a number of families are planning a fortnight's camping at the seaside, the country, or at one of the many ideal camping grounds that are growing up in various convenient places in New Zealand, where a family can be transplanted and life moves on very easily and comfortably for the mother—and the father—if the children will take their share of the work. This is the time when the children can come to the help of the mother, who has had all the planning of the home—and often mostly all the work—for the past year or more. Camp life is ideal for the children, but mother—taking with her the burden of cooking the meals—longs for the time when on holiday bent she is able to afford the luxury of a first-class hotel, and makes a firm resolve that this is the last time she will be cajoled into a camping holiday, although perhaps it is the only one that they can afford.
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How different camp life would be if it were operated as a joint concern, with a schedule of duties drawn up, involving the preparation beforehand as well as the actual work at the camp. I know of an instance where the mother went on strike and absolutely refused to entertain the idea of another holiday where she alone seemed to have to put up with the inconveniences incidental to camp life.
The family was staggered by mother's attitude, but after consideration, Mary (aged sixteen) saw her mother's point of view and, talking matters over with Jack (fourteen), they drew up a plan which they submitted to their mother. They were to take charge of the two younger children—eleven and seven—and sought her co-operation in the planning of the meals. Mother, realising that this camp promised a certain amount of relaxation for her, readily consented to withdraw her opposition, and amongst them they planned the following meals, which contained all the nourishment necessary for a healthy existence and with a minimum of work:
Breakfast: Citrus fruit or dessert prunes; “Ready-to-eat” cereals; wholemeal bread; butter; marmalade; coffee or tea.
Says He Owes Joy and Health to Kruschen.
Backache may be just bothersome; on the other hand, it may creep on and become chronic, and render you incapable of earning your living. Such was the unhappy state of the man who wrote the letter below. He experimented in vain with various remedies until at length he was induced to try Kruschen. To-day he has a different tale to tell. He is healthy and happy. Here is his story:—
“For three years I was badly troubled with my kidneys. They caused me such severe pain in the back that I had to quit working. I tried many prescriptions, but they wouldn't do me any good. One day I saw a Kruschen Salts advertisement in a newspaper. After using three bottles, my backache was entirely gone, and I can now work as never before. I shall never be without Kruschen Salts again. I owe all my joy and health to these Salts.”—J.E.
Pains in the back mean poisons in the blood—poisonous waste products which tired kidneys are failing to filter from the system. When these poisons settle in the regions around the kidneys they inflame the tissues and cause those excruciating pains.
The six salts in Kruschen will coax your kidneys back to healthy, normal action so that they will rid your bloodstream of every particle of poisonous waste matter. As an immediate result you will experience joyous relief from those old, dragging pains. And as you persevere with the “little daily dose” of Kruschen the twinges will become less and less frequent until finally your backache will be no more than the memory of a bad dream.
Kruschen Salts is obtainable at all Chemists and Stores at 2/6 per bottle.*
Lunch: Fresh or stewed fruit; lettuce; tomatoes; eggs; glass of milk.
Dinner: Meat; green vegetable; potatoes; stewed fruit.
Supper: Glass of milk and a biscuit.
A plentiful supply of barley water and Imperial drink was available, so that each member of the camp was able to have the requisite two quarts of liquid each day.
Mary undertook to see that these meals would be prepared without mother's assistance—although perhaps not without her advice—and drew up a list of the duties allotted to each member, who faithfully promised to do the work according to the time table. Jack—being the co-organiser—had to see that the supply of barley water and Imperial drink was sufficient for the needs of the campers. He obtained the following recipes:
1 tablespoon of barley.
1 quart water.
Boil for two hours. Then strain and add juice of a lemon and a little sugar.
1 lemon.
1 quart water.
2 teaspoons sugar.
Level teaspoon cream of tartar.
Mary was insistent that the three meals would be sufficient for the day. At first it was somewhat difficult to reconcile the younger ones to this idea—except, perhaps, for an apple or so—but after a day or two everything went well, and the whole family returned home feeling that it had been the most wonderful camping holiday it had experienced. Mother, wonderfully rejuvenated, was enthusiastic and never failed to impress on her friends the way to enjoy camp life.
During the month of November we have, in Wellington, experienced cold and changeable weather, but now, with the advent of the Christmas month we have the promise of warm, even hot temperatures, which we hope will favour us for many weeks to come.
Has it ever occurred to you to ask why, no matter what the atmospheric temperature may be, the temperature of a normal healthy body remains always the same, 98.4 degrees Farenheit?
Now, to answer this question we must tell you a little about your skin, which perhaps you regard as merely the covering for your body—the wrapping round the parcel, as it were, and of no more importance.
However, it is of much more importance than this, being the largest and one of the most important of the organs of the body.
In structure it is composed of three main layers, the outermost, commonly called the epidermis, is composed of layers of cells which, with wear, are being continually cast off, and in which there are no blood vessels or nerves. The middle layer is composed of fibrous and elastic tissues containing blood vessels, nerves and lymphatics, while the innermost layer is composed of looser tissues and fat cells in which the hair follicles and sweat glands begin, eventually finding their way to the surface through the other layers.
Attached to each hair follicle is a little gland which secrets an oily substance (sebum), while the sweat glands, quite independent of the former, secrete a watery substance.
The four main functions of the skin are: 1, Protective; 2, Sensory; 3, Heat Regulating; 4, Secretory.
1. Protective: The skin resists physical injury and protects underlying structures. It also prevents the ingress of germs. Furthermore it forms, amongst other substances, the much talked of Vitamin D, which is a protection against bone diseases such as rickets and dental caries.
2. Sensory: The nerves which permeate the second layer provide for the appreciation of touch, heat, cold, pain and pressure.
3. Heat Regulating: Heat, resulting from either external temperature, or from exertion, causes the superficial blood vessels to dilate and the skin to redden, so that a larger volume of blood comes to the surface, and consequently heat is lost from the body by process of increased radiation, the reverse taking place on exposure to cold which causes the vessels to contract, the skin to blanch, thereby preventing loss of heat by radiation.
As we will see later, the sweat glands also play a most important part in the matter of heat regulation.
4. Secretory: The glands of the hair follicles secrete an oily substance which lubricates the hair and forms a protective film on the skin surface. The watery secretion from the sweat glands normally equals the amount of urine passed by the bladder, the quantity increasing with heat, thereby reducing body temperature, and decreasing with cold, thereby conserving body temperature. The sweat glands also aid in ridding the body of impurities.
Now you will realise what an important organ the skin is, and appreciate the necessity of caring for it just as much as you care, or should care, for the stomach.
Its duties are manifold and complex Cleansing is essential in order to prevent blocking of the secretory glands, and to remove impurities given off by the sweat glands.
Correct clothing must be worn to suit atmospheric conditions, thus aiding the skin to maintain normal body temperature. Changing of clothing must be attended to, as it becomes contaminated by the skin secretions.
Avoid exposing the skin to sudden changes of temperature which gives rise to chills.
Above all, remember that the skin is one of the most important organs of your body, and give it the care and attention which it demands and deserves.
Ingram
What is the predominant personal factor about the champion athlete? What manner of man makes the best athlete? These are two questions that come to my mind when recalling my associations with some twenty-four of the best athletes who have visited New Zealand since the Great War.
Men of the calibre of Jock Oosterlaak, Bukes, and Dave Leathern, from South Africa; Kirksey, Krogness, Merchant, Hahn, Scholz, Lermond, Simpson, Rothert and Kiser, from America; Carlton, Golding, Fitt, Cooper, Metcalfe, Barlow and Hampson, from Australia; Peltzer, from Germany; Perasalo and Sippala from Finland; and the four British athletes, Craske, Murdoch, Powell and Rampling, come readily to mind as one visualises the excellent athletic contests seen and personal friendships made.
It is not my intention to sort out the greatest sprinter, middle-distance runner or field event man from that assortment, but I will endeavour to analyse the personalities of the men who helped to encourage athletics in New Zealand—men who have won honours in big company.
Take Jock Oosterlaak, the wellbuilt Springbok athlete, who came to New Zealand in the 1921–22 season. He had an ideal temperament for big athletics. He knuckled down to serious business when the occasion justified it, but he could see the humorous side of sport as well. What New Zealander would see the funny side of travelling nearly 200 miles over the rougliest roads in New Zealand when seated on the door of a motor car? Well, Jock thought it an experience worth the while and is it any wonder that his memory, to-day, is cherished by those who had the good fortune to know him? Yes, he sat on the side door of a car when travelling from Napier to Gisborne; there was insufficient room on the seats, so Jock volunteered to sit on the door—and would not change places with any of the others. He won the big sprint at the meeting next day!
And J. W. Bukes, another Springbok athlete, was a fine fellow. Here we had the more stolid type of athlete; a man who would go to sleep twenty minutes before the start of his race, wake up and run 73/5 sees, for 75 yards! Dave Leathern, the third member of the Springbok team I met, was more serious than any other athlete I have seen. He took his sport as a serious mission and was always anxious to return good measure to the public. Before any contest he desired most of all a cup of tea.
Jackson Scholz, the famous American sprinter.
Now for George Krogness, smiling young American hurdler and high jumper. Fair-haired, capable and courteous, George was happiest when he was showing the novices how to hurdle or to high jump. I recollect him being approached at one meeting to show a lad how to hurdle. George had already dressed, but immediately stripped off, donned his athletic gear, and went back to the track and gave a practical demonstration.
Maurice Kirksey was a different type of athlete. Perhaps I was unfortunate in meeting Kirksey when he was not feeling just right, but he was certainly not 100 per cent. affable—particularly when the competitors in a championship race kept breaking at the start. He was inclined to think that the world was not using him kindly, but I understand that he altered his opinion before he concluded his tour of New Zealand. My happiest recollections of Kirksey are of seeing him match his skill against George Gillett, 1905 All Black, at table bowls and at punting a Rugby football. Few New Zealand footballers could do better at kicking the ball than the same Kirksey, who represented America at athletics and Rugby football at the Olympic Games. George Gillett voted him a champion kick.
Jack Merchant, admired by males for his skill with the hammer and by the females for his figure and his looks, was a real man. For all-round skill he is probably one of the best athletes to visit New Zealand. He could throw the hammer, putt the shot, throw the javelin, high jump, hop-step-and-jump, sprint and, believe it or not, tell a good yarn! But his greatest joy was extolling the virtues of his team-mates Kirksey and Krogness. He was of the free and easy type of athlete, ready to congratulate a winner and quick to sympathise with a loser.
Lloyd Hahn, the Boston farmer who made it possible, for Rose to earn fame, was a deep thinker, gifted with a large slice of humour. The story is told that, when in Wellington, Hahn was shown the Government Building and assured that it was the largest wooden structure in the world. “Well,” replied Hahn, “I'll have to believe you, but we have a barn on our farm at Springfield, Massachusets, that looks just as big!” Hahn never complained about the handicapping of races in New Zealand, but I know that at one meeting he had to concede 270 yards in a mile race with the nearest man, myself, on 130 yards! The winner, off the limit, ran 4.131/3 sees., time never bettered off scratch in New Zealand before or since.
Jackson Scholz was in the eventide of his career when he came to New Zealand and was not taking the sport seriously. Nevertheless, he was the handicapper's friend. By that term I mean that he never won by large margins; it was usually his famous “shrug” finish that won him the race. When Scholz arrived in New Zealand he had left America a “dry” country and his expressions of pleasure after imbibing
Leo Lermond, another Boston athlete, was a misjudged lad in New Zealand. Only a young fellow, he missed the advice of his coach and had arrived in New Zealand with blistered feet, caused during a strenuous campaign in Australia. After defeating Rose in a thrilling mile race at the Basin Reserve, Wellington, Lermond notified the officials that he would not run twice the same day. He had the courage of his convictions and held out despite all endeavours to persuade him to change his mind. Leo had a will of his own and wasn't frightened to use it. But, with it all, I found him excellent company.
Dr. Peltzer, the German and world's record holder, was an enigma. Few athletes met him off the track, and he did little to improve sport in New Zealand. His was truly a flying visit —he spent most of his time at Rotorua—but his duels with George Golding, the Australian, proved him to be a wonderful runner, gifted with a marvellous judgment of pace.
At the same time that Lermond, Peltzer and Golding were in New Zealand, two Australian professional athletes, Jack Fitt and Lynch Cooper, were here. They did not compete in Wellington, but Fitt, world's recordholder and professional champion, had a training run at Athletic park. An old idea of a professional athlete being over-prone to “crooked” running was completely dispelled by my association with these men. Fitt, who came over under contract, returned most of his winnings to assist the promoting club and this was typical of his nature. He used to assist amateur athletes to train in Melbourne and offered to assist others in Wellington.
The memory of Simpson, Rothert and Kiser is still fresh. George Simpson, who ran more “91 sec.” hundreds than any other athlete in New Zealand, worried unduly, and always thought that he had not done well enough; that the public were disappointed.
Harlow Rothert was just a big boy, but a very capable boy at that. He smiled his way through New Zealand and made many friends. What a pity that most of his competition was done on the side of the ground away from the spectators when he competed at the bigger meetings. Spectators at Napier and Gisborne saw him at close range and could appreciate his efforts. As manager of the team Rothert had a worrying time; Kiser was out of form and Simpson injured his leg, but at no time did the “big boy” let the public down.
Rufus Kiser disappointed because he was not allowed to get well! He arrived in New Zealand with blistered feet caused by training on board ship, and, instead of taking things easy at first, he had to run against good men and concede big starts. He had a happy disposition for all that, and I think that it was his “to the devil with worry” nature that kept him going until he eventually triumphed over Rose in the fastest mile yet recorded at Athletic Park. He then went on to defeat Don Evans, New Zealand champion, at Taihape. Kiser had struck form, but it was too late! It was the end of the tour.
Jimmy Carlton, I had little to do with, but one incident should serve to illustrate his evenness of mind. Just before his “big test” against George Simpson, I was asked to introduce a friend of Jim's Australian trainer. The friend and I approached Carlton and the introduction was effected. Carlton was in the care of Dave Paris —and very capable care at that—and after a few minutes conversation Dave suggested that Jimmy should lie down and rest. Jimmy asked that he be allowed to yarn away with his old trainer's friend—“He's a link with Australia, Dave,” he explained. Ten minutes later Carlton had beaten the American.
The visit of the Australian, Jack Metcalfe, is too recent to need much comment. Metcalfe was a stylist and student in all his events, but it did not detract from his most attractive personality, and he was the nearest approach to Rydbeck among the many athletes I have met.
The British quartette, Craske, Murdoch, Rampling and Powell, here last season, had too much travelling to do, and seldom had time to fraternise; but during many conversations I discovered them to be of a totally different type from any other athletes. I have talked with. They were not keen on their sport; they looked on it as just part of a necessary day's plan.
Veikko Perasalo and Matti Sippala were handicapped by lack of knowledge of English, but they proved a happy pair, and Viekko, in particular, did not allow the language barrier to prove insurmountable. He had a smile for everyone, and his “I understand” was always accompanied by a happy grin. Matti could not understand one word of English, but when various humorous or semi-humorous remarks were translated for him by Veikko he would reveal that great gift—natural humour. Had he not been handicapped by this lack of language, Matti Sippala could have explained earlier why his arm was troubling him and thus saved himself many hours of pain caused by too much javelin throwing. Like Rydbeck, he triumphed over physical injury, and left New Zealand with a great record both as an athlete and as a man.
We were all thrilled recently to hear of the rail car, which, with the General Manager of Railways, Mr. Mackley, aboard, buzzed up to the Wairarapa and back in such record time. And the fact that in the near future we shall all be able to do likewise is an added thrill! The time saved by this mode of travel is a very big factor to the ordinary person like you and me, and particularly to the business man. It is very interesting, because of its vital importance to the public to read of the progress with regard to rail transport in our new little country. I saw by the paper a few days ago that Mr. T. J. Hartigan, Commissioner of Railways for New South Wales, interviewed in Auckland, said he had travelled in some of the fastest trains in the world, including the Hamburg flier, which reached a speed of a hundred miles an hour in its run from Hamburg to Berlin, and other trains on the Continent and in America which also reached a very high speed. It has been recognised that this speeding-up is necessary to keep pace with other means of transport—notably, by air. But, generally speaking, it is a rather remarkable fact that trains during the present century instead of speeding up have slowed down. Speeds in England were actually lower a couple of years ago than twenty-five years ago. The fact is, it is cheaper to run heavy, slow trains which carry a large number of people than to provide light trains which convey fewer people at a high speed. But now the era of small, fast trains seems definitely to have dawned; for these days we are all so very fast, in every way (I refer only to transport, of course!) a fact that will be brought home to us in a very striking manner when we in our remote corner of the globe are linked up with the great airways of the world. But this speeding business is not wholly to the advantage of the Railway Department, for while it is a money-saving proposition for the business man it is more costly for the former, for it costs about four times as much to travel at 100 miles an hour as it does at 50 miles per hour. Speed, whatever the conveyance, costs money. Harking back to the days when the train was a new contraption and therefore to be regarded with suspicion and distrust; when Queen Victoria travelled in state at a few miles per hour with scouts ahead to see that all was clear, the progress of transport of every description to-day provides a striking contrast to travel conditions in the early Victorian era.
—(Miss) J. Joyce Garlick.
Two dear old friends of mine, after much consideration as to how best to celebrate their golden wedding, finally decided to take a trip by rail from the Waikato to Whangarei. After a party given in their honour, the happy couple left for what proved to be one of the most enjoyable holidays they had ever spent.
On the way to Auckland (imagine their delight!) they came across an elderly man who had been not only a neighbour but also one of their best friends in the days of their early married life.
Officials took great care of the old folks during their journey up the line and down, too. Upon reaching Whangarei a married daughter, her husband and family gave the couple a royal time, and a fortnight later they stepped off the train at Frankton Junction feeling quite, quite sure they had chosen the best way possible of celebrating their golden jubilee.
—“Budgy.”
An American visitor was standing on the platform of a station when the “Flying Scotsman” rushed through. “Do you call that an express?” he asked a porter who was standing near by. “Bless your life, no!” exclaimed the porter, “that's Bill doin' a bit o' shunting; he'll be back in a minute.”
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Teacher: “Every day we breathe oxygen. What do we breathe at night Willie?”
Willie: “Nitrogen.”
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A weary knight of the road had stopped at the sign of the “George and Dragon” and had asked the landlady for a bite to eat and mayhaps an old pair of pants.
She (testily, etc.): “No, I haven't anything for the likes of you and I don't want to see you around here again. Well, be off with you! What do you want now?”
Tramp (meekly): “Well, then, Mam, could I speak to George?”
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Teacher: “Who can tell me what the former ruler of Russia was called?”
Class (in unison): “Tsar.”
Teacher: “Correct; and what was his wife called?”
Class: “Tsarina.”
Teacher: “What were the Tsar's children called?”
There was a pause, and then a timid voice in the rear piped up: “Tsardines!”
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“Mac, would you like a little of something Scotch—the real thing?”
“Well; now—I never—”
“Of course you will. Annie, just bring out that pot of Dundee marmalade.”
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Diner: “Do you serve crabs here?”
Waiter: “We serve anyone; sit down.”
Visitor: “Your son is rather small for his age, isn't he?”
Proud Mother: “Oh, no; most boys of his age are overgrown, I think.”
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Australian entering hospital:
“'Ullow, Bill.”
“'Ullow, Steve.”
“Come in to die?”
“No, yesterdy.”
Nut Cracking on the Railway.
An old lady underwent an operation. When consciousness returned she was asked how she had felt under chloroform.
“It was beautiful—just splendid. I thought I was in heaven—till I saw the doctor.”
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A lady asked the man who came to clean the windows whether he would have a cup of tea or a glass of beer.
“Beer's best, mum,” he replied. “I allus finds it gives a better polish when I breathes on the glass.”
A schoolboy's definition of luck: “A man was murdered in the street for his money. But he had left all his money at his office. That was luck.”
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“We're getting up a raffle for a poor man in our neighbourhood and I shall put you down for a couple of tickets.”
“No! None for me thanks. I would not know what to do with a poor man if I won him.”
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Author: “It's always the same. Whenever I want to work I can't lay my hands on anything.”
Wife: “But, dear, I've just filled your fountain pen and put out plenty of paper.”
Author: “Yes—but what have you done with the corkscrew?”
Canvasser: “Is the master of the house in?”
Young Father (wearily): “Yes, he's upstairs in his cradle.”
“What did you do when the judges awarded you first prize in the contest for the healthiest girl in the U.S.A.?”
“I fainted.”
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The foreman looked the applicant for work up and down.
“Are you a mechanic?” he asked.
“No, sorr,” was the answer. “Oi'm a McCarthy.”
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The following conversation is reported to have been overheard between a diner and a waiter, both Italians:—
Diner: F.U.N.E.X.?
Waiter: S.V.F.X.
Diner: F.U.N.E.M.?
Waiter: S.V.F.M.
Diner: I'll F.M.N.X. please. The waiter served him with ham and eggs.
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