A First Class Car on the North Island Main Trunk Line, New Zealand.
Contents
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Deputy-Controller and Auditor-General.
25/3/35.
The New Zealand
Railways
Magazine
Railways
Magazine
Registered at the G.P.O., Wellington, N.Z., for permission by post as a Newspaper.
For Better Service
Published by the
New Zealand Government Railways Department
Vol. XI. No. 2.
Wellington, New Zealand
May1, 1936
A Cheerful Outlook.
A Cheerful outlook in the individual is usually based on good health and courage. It is, of course, possible to be courageous when ill—but much easier when well! Hence the emphasis laid, in modern times, on a sound regimen of health is justified by the desire to improve the outlook of the individual, with happier results on those with whom he makes contact.
Fear is a constant factor fighting good health. But almost all fear is due to want of knowledge. Knowledge gives confidence, confidence drives out fear, good health follows confidence and from that a cheerful outlook is achieved.
“Courage,” said Emerson, “is the right or healthy state of every man, when he is free to do that which is constitutional to him to do.” It is the aim of all wise laws to maintain this necessary constitutional freedom for the individual.
It has also been said that courage consists in equality to the problem before us. That equality can be gained by self-confidence. Much has been said and written about the importance of heredity, and many learned tomes have been prepared to trace back the ancestry of this or that family into some period of the dark ages. In America there have been people who have built up very lucrative incomes out of the business of providing lengthy family trees for people with more money than good sense. It is of course clear that the actual length of the family tree of every person must be about the same whether we believe in descent from Adam or in the development of human life from some fortunate condition of natural forces.
In any case everyone living to-day is descended from people who have survived through countless generations every kind of hard luck or good fortune, every climatic change, every political upheaval, and every chance or change of every other sort that may have occurred since the dawn of human time. With this common ancestry behind us all, we can at least believe that there is some powerful toughness in us that should fit us to carry on, and with this knowledge we should be ready to face whatever is ahead with courage and cheerfulness. To do otherwise is, in a sense, to let down your ancestors, who, whatever they may have been, had the courage to play their part in the battle of life, and to give you the opportunity to be alive in this, the most interesting time in the world's history.
A cheerful outlook in the individual tends to develop a cheerful outlook both in the family circle, and also amongst industrial associates—above, below or on the same level. When it infects a nation nothing can prevent that nation progressing. Experience of life and the deepest researches of psychologists, clearly indicate that there are mental and physical reserves in the individual that are seldom fully called upon, and particularly that the mental reserves are sufficient for any emergency if properly applied. Here again, knowledge of the facts gives confidence for the occasion, and from this confidence wells up the cheerful outlook so necessary for human well-being.
The Railways have good reason for a cheerful outlook at the present time. Traffic is plentiful, the service given is appreciated, the prospects for further improvement are good. The customers of the Railways have also good reason to be of good heart. They know that the Department is prepared to meet any reasonable demand for transport and to perform the work capably.
The country has every reason to have a cheerful outlook as all the trade returns show a useful upward tendency. And incidentally, this Magazine has no reason to be downhearted—for the financial year just ended the Magazine sales were threefold those of the previous year.
General Manager's Message
Some unwarranted criticism has recently appeared in certain papers regarding the speed and cleanliness of trains on the New Zealand Railways and the facilities provided for the comfort and convenience of passengers.
This criticism has evidently been made without adequate knowledge. Indeed, I am reliably informed that a visitor whose statement to the Press within the last fortnight was given much prominence, and who (unfortunately) left New Zealand the day his statement appeared, made only one journey on a New Zealand train, and that by a “mixed service” which conveyed him and his car from Springfield to Otira (50 miles)—thereby enabling him to avoid the trip by road over Arthur's Pass. Some further information on the matter should therefore be of public interest.
The subject of train speeds is, of course, one which no general statement can cover, if it is desired to make a comparison of any value between the achievements of one country and another. There are too many factors of dissimilarity.
The fact stands out, however, that when the youth of this country is considered, when the comparative smallness of its total population (about equal to that of one of the larger Australian cities) is taken into account, and when due allowance is made for the quite extraordinary engineering difficulties (due to the physical features of the country) which had to be surmounted in laying some of the lines, the record of achievement of the New Zealand Railways is one in which every New Zealander has just cause for pride.
We have the evidence of our own people who have travelled overseas, and of a host of visitors who have actually used our services, and particularly of those with knowledge who are in a position to make comparisons, that in the matter of speed, cleanliness and convenience the Railways here hold their own with those of other countries of similar standing. This must be said in justice to those who have made our Railways what they are, and those who work them now.
Needless to say, further improvements are being made as circumstances warrant, and any well-informed criticism is welcomed by the Department; but the people of New Zealand, who are showing their appreciation of the Railways by steadily increasing patronage, have every reason for confidence in the capacity of their own transportation system to meet adequately the transport needs both of themselves and of any visitors from overseas who are prepared to use them.
In this, the largest industrial enterprise in the Dominion, it is inevitable that occasions will arise when legitimate cause for complaint may occur, or where suggestions for improvement can be profitably made. I would therefore appreciate it very much if members of the public would come to the Department's assistance on such occasions, and I can assure them that such assistance will be accepted in the helpful spirit with which it is tendered.
General Manager.
O. N. Gillespie
New Zealand Authors’ Week was instituted for one express purpose. Its objective is to impress upon the people of New Zealand the wonderful volume and the high standard of work in the world of letters achieved by their fellow countrymen. It has accomplished its task to some extent, but this article is intended to show a little of the cultural value in the modern world of the writings of native New Zealanders. It is time that our attention was turned to this further manifestation of the richness of our British heritage, and of the steadfast manner in which we have held to its best traditions.
(S. P. Andrew photo.)
Thomas Bracken.
It is a real truth that a good poet who is a bad painter will be prouder of his canvases than of his poems. This strange feature of human nature is well exhibited when New Zealanders put in their claims for special achievement. We are prone to mention our “All-Blacks” as our first line of defence in this regard. The sober truth is that we should concentrate on our literary record. Our famous writers make a far more imposing world list than our famous five-eighths. Our libraries of literary treasures are of world parity. The Turnbull Library, the Grey Collection and the Hocken Collection, will, one of these days, be the cause of crowded pilgrimages from older lands. Even in tiny Whangarei is at least the second best collection of Dumas in the whole world and Mr. Reed, its owner, has been twice decorated by the French Government. Our per capita consumption of good literary weeklies and monthlies is the highest in the world. We have a unique proportion of good daily newspapers, well written and devoted to the serious news of the world. Greymouth, Palmerston North and Gisborne, to say nothing of the four chief centres, have bookshops equal to anything on the globe. We have the same proportion of Oxford and Cambridge graduates to our population as Old England herself, and a larger ratio still of graduates from local universities. The incidence of our interest in world affairs is the widest on earth, and we have the best showing among all countries in the comparative space given in our press to world affairs and the local murder or sensation. We are a highly cultivated, literary-book-loving country with a tremendous body of acknowledged achievement in letters. The false impressions abroad about our cultural standards are largely our own fault. When we have been for years proudly pressing our claim to be the “Empire's Dairy Farm,” stressing our enormous production of lamb and wool and cheese, and emphasizing our world precedence in the ownership of motor cars, bathrooms, telephones and radio sets, we must not be disappointed when the folk of older countries imagine us lacking in the love of the things of the mind.
They see us, on our statements, as pre-occupied with material comfort. This attitude assists and intensifies that acute provincialism which is the mark of the dwellers in large cities. I edited the first anthology of New Zealand short stories. The English critics hailed them as bright, skilfully written, full of humour and sophistication; but while admitting their admirable technical qualities, said in chorus that they all “lacked distinctive New Zealand atmosphere.” The first anthology of New Zealand poetry was reviewed thus: “This is a book of verses written by New Zealanders. On the other hand, it is fair to say that our cousins down under play wonderful Rugby.” This is simply Cockney arrogance derived from ignorance. This type of mind wants an Australian story to be full of dingoes and wallabies, a South African romance must take place on the Karroo or the veldt, a Canadian yarn must have moose and North West Mounted police wandering through its pages, and a New Zealand author must deal in Maoris, hot springs, and sheep mustering. The truth is that the New Zealand “scene” in the novelist's sense, is taking definitive shape very slowly. The reasons for this need explanation. In many parts of the young colony, the victory over the forces of Nature was prosaic and swiftly won. The Canterbury settlement was a pleasant land of
(S. P. Andrew photo.)
Katherine Mansfield.(S. P. Andrew photo.)
James Cowan.
However, certain distinctive, national characteristics are emerging. Our form of life has a certain freshness in the world's history. The freedom of social experiment, the case and ubiquity of open-air life, even for the people of our larger cities, the extraordinary cheapness of most forms of sport, the everchanging picture of the relative standing of families and the genuine ease with which commercial or professional success may be won, make a panorama of colonial colouring. It is less crude, however, than in many new countries. It is leavened with a respect for tradition, and permeated with a respect for commonsense, and a caution best described as “Scottish.” We definitely, too, are tinged with the Maori love of high imagery, his utilitarian ideas of life and death that still are instinct with earthly poetry, and his recognition of the mysterious beauty but wayward forces of Nature. A multitude of examples of Nature's strangest deeds is all about us. In spite, therefore, of the lacking of infusions of alien blood
(Clifford photo.)
Ngalo Marsh.(S. P. Andrew photo.)
John Brodie.
Naturally enough, our first thousand books were largely written by folk who saw themselves as pioneers or exiles. They had transplanted their culture with them to a new home. The swift subjugation of the land, however, soon saw arising a host of New Zealand native born writers able to express themselves in the best tradition of fine English prose. In our own country already, scores of names are forgotten that are known the world over. I do not intend in this article to give a glossary or bibliography of our authors and the names mentioned are not meant to be anything more than random selections to illustrate points. If a New Zealander is asked to give in a hurry the names of figures from our land of international standing, he quotes Katherine Mansfield and Lord Rutherford and finishes there. Pember Reeves or Julius Vogel take their places with a score of others as writers that all England knew. Hereabouts I want to state a claim which I think is entirely valid. The one distinctive possession of New Zealand in the art of letters is this: we have produced a band of writers who have the gift of making a scientific work into an art object, a thing of beauty. Maeterlinck's “Life of the Bee” is strictly accurate in its basis of exact knowledge and authentic precision. Nevertheless, it is a prose poem. Fabre wrote on insects that enthralled readers who knew or cared nothing for entomology. You do not have to be a naturalist to
Sir John Salmond won the two great prizes for literary distinction given by universities in England and America for books on legal subjects, and one does not need to be a lawyer to be enthralled by his luminous and enjoyable work on the law of contracts. Our ethnologists are famous in the world arena of knowledge, of whom I may quickly enumerate Elsdon Best, Dr. Buck, Jenness and Beaglehole. They, too, employ literature in its highest sense in their expositions. Then there is that extraordinary, unique and fascinating production, Guthrie Smith's “Tutira.” Here is the complete biography of a sheep station, its soil contents, its geology, its bird life, its native fauna and flora, the history of its grasses, its experiments in stock raising and its development as a farm unit. It is romance of intrinsic merit and is a precious possession in the great world libraries. The list could be extended indefinitely, including such men as Mellor (the world's leading authority on refractories, and a chemist whose work was of such potent efficacy in the World War); Cotton, Morell, Gifford, and Tillyard.
Here, I like to think, is the flowering of one bloom explicitly and absolutely ours in the garden of letters. Good prose is founded upon clear thinking, but it can be enriched by the gift of imagery, and its meaning and inner beauty brought to living texture by the use of decorative language whose poetic structure enhances the clarity of the message. We may honestly and in all
Hubert Church.
(S. P. Andrew photo.)
Johannes C. Andersen.
Our verse, at first, suffered (in the writer's opinion) through excessive scholarship. It was loaded with classic allusion and metaphor alien to the heart of our life—the product of overmuch reading and too little living. More of our bush verse has been written in dinner jackets than in dungarees. In the last decade, however, there has been a spate of poetry which has the impress of original thinking and of distinctive beauty. Be reminded, too, that nearly every second New Zealander writes rhyme. The small verse volumes are innumerable. I am granting to our exceptional infusion of Celtic blood the credit for much of this new work, and I am hoping, too, that there is a little sign of Maori influence. The latter is not direct, but there is being borne in upon us something of understanding of our native brethren's splendid communal life and culture, and their mingling of poetry and common-sense in their ideas of death and natural forces.
In James Cowan we have a gifted writer whose wealth of stories of our early days and the conflicts between Maori and pakeha are woven from actual experience, actual first-hand knowledge; and a vast and sympathetic understanding of both races and the sources of their problems and misconceptions. A succession of skilled, studious and well equipped historians of the type of Lindsay Buick and Dr. Scholefield have furnished us with an extensive and picturesque panorama of our first days. Lately, too, New Zealand publishing houses have put out in numbers, books of memoirs of pioneer days. I am thankful to say that these are usually most successful; they are all well-written, and it is our duty to encourage this vital method of recording our history. Old men and women whose minds are storehouses of the treasure of “far off forgotten things” are dying all round us, and still more intensive effort is required so that no more of this precious legacy is lost to us.
The number of New Zealand writers who become successes abroad is growing apace. I want to sharply deprecate that saddest and silliest habit of New Zealanders when a fellow-townsman achieves fame in the great arena of the old world capitals. When Hector Bolitho leaps into London limelight as a writer of recognised standing, or when Merton Hodge writes a play “The Wind and the Rain,” which is a veritable triumph, we hear, “How did he do it? He was nothing very wonderful here.” This is comment of the small town mind, stupid and unforgiveable. We should say, “Of course, he succeeded—he is a New Zealander, and we have dozens of others who could do the same if only they had the steamer ticket.”
The New Zealand novel has taken new life lately, and “The Little Country” by Brodie, “A Poor Scholar” by C. R. Allen, and “The Greenstone Door” by Satchell, are works of art, and which is more important, they are wholly and inescapably of New Zealand origin, New Zealand atmosphere, and about New Zealand people. Moreover, there is not a kiwi or a geyser in any
(Continued on page 14)
(S. P. Andrew photo.)
C. R. Allen.
Tangiwai
The disappearance of a species of bird-life from a country is a calamity, and if it is hastened by man's acts it becomes a crime. That is what has befallen the huia. Now the same fate will overtake the pukeko if the acclimatisation societies and a section of the farmers and so-called sportsmen have their way. Protection has been removed from the handsome and harmless swamp-turkey at the request of the societies, or some of them, and unless the Forest and Bird Protection Society succeeds in its efforts to save the bird, there will be a massacre of a helpless bird this coming season.
This agitation in some quarters for the destruction of the pukeko is based on ignorance of the bird's habits and its place in the economy of nature in New Zealand. The farmer who sees a pukeko pulling a few straws out of his stack of oats may conclude that the bird is a “menace” (favourite word of the acclimatisation people) to the agricultural interests, and he may demand its extermination. What he does not know about the pukeko is the real cause of his objection. He forgets also that the draining of the swamps and lagoons to provide cow-pasture necessarily drives the pukeko to the farm for some of its food.
The tui and the bellbird in some places frequent the plantations and orchards in towns, as at Akaroa, but no orchard-owner grudges them a few pears or other fruit. He has his reward in the presence of the birds and their confidence in him, and their songs. The farmer who really knows something of the pukeko recognises that the bird is worth encouraging about the place for its usefulness in feeding on the grass-grubs and other insect life that would otherwise damage his pastures and his crops. When I was a youngster on the farm I took a shot at a pukeko now and again for the fun of the thing, if the old fellow was investigating the new crops near his swamp, nevertheless I always had a friendly feeling for him, and the shot was meant to scare him off rather than to kill him. I often watched the pukeko communities in the swamps, and delighted to see them jauntily stalking the roadsides, reposing a perfect trust in man. I have seen them following the plough, feeding on the worms and grubs turned up in the furrows. They give the farmer useful service, if he only knew it, far outbalancing any toll they may levy on his crops.
Most New Zealanders I am sure regard the pukeko-shooting as bird-murder; it is not only unnecessary but is a grave offence against the salutary balance of nature in the land. The pukeko, like the weka, helps to keep the grass and flax-destroying insects in check. Insect plagues increase when bird-life decreases before the ravages of man and acclimatised animals. Even if the farmer is to be excused when, in his ignorance or his misplaced annoyance, he pots an occasional pukeko on his land, that liberty certainly should not be extended to the town “sport” who goes out gunning for anything and everything, preferably something big that is not quick on the wing.
More than one doctor in the country learned from the Maoris something of the treasury of healing which the bush contains. There is the breath of life and relief from pain in the grand old Maori forest.
Dr. O'Carroll, a military surgeon and later a most popular practitioner in Taranaki, more than fifty years ago collected much native lore on the subject and put it to practical use. These remedies, which he had proved of practical value, were made public by him, and Mr. W. H. Skinner, of New Plymouth, gives them in an appreciation of Dr. O'Carroll, in his book “Pioneer Medical Men in Taranaki”:
A useful styptic plant, for checking hemorrhage, is the aka vine or white rata creeper (Metrosideros scandens). The juice of the aka is applied; and the juice of the young shoots of the latter is blown from the shoots on to wounds. It stops arterial bleeding. The juice of the aka is very rich in tannin. Kohukohu moss is also used. The inner part of the bark of the rewarewa tree heals wounds quickly.
Dr. O'Carroll said that he had seen cures of gunshot wounds by plugging the holes up with wet clay. Leaves of karaka, the shiny green upper surface, are applied to the wounds. Kawakawa and ramarama leaves—roasted, not boiled—and the bark of kahikatea, relieve severe bruises.
For skin diseases, the hot springs of the thermal regions are great healing agents. Elsewhere the Maoris use decoctions of hinau bark, towai bark, kahikatea chips, and kohekohe, infused in boiling water, are good tonic medicines. Towai or the flax-root principle if extracted, the Doctor noted, might provide a substitute for quinine.
New Zealanders In Literature.
(Continued from page 11).
of them. Then there is that remarkable revelation of the human heart, “The Children of the Poor” (by J. A. Lee, Parliamentary Under-Secretary), with its defined New Zealand setting and feeling. The popularity of the pleasant and easy stories of Nelle Scanlon and Rosemary Rees needs no mention here, but I would like to mention the brilliant work of Miss Ngaio Marsh whose polished, ingenious and engrossing crime stories place her definitely in the class of Dorothy L. Sayers and Agatha Christie.
In our press, recognised by all visitors to our shores as outstanding in its adherence to the best traditions of workmanship in writing, we have the forge for the making of authors. Our million and a half people are increasing in cultural stature. Do not be alarmed at the smallness of our population or treat it as a serious handicap. The teeming millions of Babylon must have often laughed at the literary ambitions of the handful of Greek sheep-herders and sea-going traders. Yet Greece made possible the whole modern world of culture and all civilisation is still in its debt. There is not a single reason why New Zealand should not do the same. All that is required is the stimulation of effort. We should increase the encouragement of writers and thinkers. The practical way to do this is to buy books. A poet still has to meet his food bills and pay his rent. So, in its final utilitarian aspect, that is the objective of “New Zealand Authors’ Week.”
However great is our past achievement, it can be bettered, and the name of our lovely land will stand for all that is best in human accomplishment.
Railway Correspondent Wanted.
Writing to the Editor of the New Zealand Railways Magazine, Mr. A. W. Weiland, a ticket agent employed by the Cleveland Union Terminals Co., Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A., expresses a desire to communicate with New Zealand Railwaymen, particularly those interested in collecting postage stamps. We have pleasure in reproducing his letter in the hope that it may catch the eyes of interested readers.
“Will you contact several persons whom you think might be interested in corresponding with me with a view to exchanging ideas and experiences, also to exchange postage stamps.
“I am employed as a ticket agent (you would term me a ‘stationmaster’) at the Cleveland. Union Terminal, one of the largest passenger stations in the United States. I have travelled considerably through the States, and therefore would like to correspond with someone in a similar capacity. Perhaps by so doing we can both be benefitted by exchanging veiws on methods of handling passenger business. If this person also collects stamps the correspondence can be made that much more beneficial.”
Parliamentary Broadcast
The Story
From Behind The Microphone.
From Behind The Microphone
Radio history was made last month with the first broadcast from inside Parliament. The story of the great innovation is told for “The Railways Magazine” by Mr. Chas. E. Wheeler, a well-known parliamentary journalist who was officially selected to initiate the broadcasts with descriptive “eye-witness” accounts of the election of the Speaker of the House of Representatives, and the next day's opening of Parliament by His Excellency the Governor-General. He also gives information about the technical organisation, equipment and practical operation of “outside” radio broadcast.
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
The Main Entrance to New Zealand's Parliament Buildings, showing the Royal Arms sculptured in marble.
The opening of New Zealand's 25th Parliament on the 25th March, 1936, was notable for one remarkable innovation. This institution, so jealous of its privileges and so concerned about “strangers,” allowed the broadcasting microphone within its well-guarded precincts.
“Parliament is to be brought into the people's homes, to their own firesides,” declared the Prime Minister, and as a very experienced parliamentarian, the Hon. M. J. Savage knew, when he said it, that this meant a tremendous innovation and a breaking down of strong tradition.
Radio listeners in the Dominion will get so easily into the habit of tuning in to hear what Parliament is doing on big occasions that they may come to regard the privilege as a common-place. At present it certainly is not! The jealous way in which Parliament maintains an attitude of exclusiveness about its proceedings has an origin deep in the past, when Parliament fought with Kings for the right, expressed in the famous phrase, “No taxation without representation.”
Even last March it was the duty of the Speaker of New Zealand's House of Representatives to make a request on its behalf to the Governor-General, the representative of His Majesty, in these words:
“I have now, on behalf of the House of Representatives of New Zealand, to lay claim to all their privileges, and especially to freedom of debate, and to free access to Your Excellency whenever occasion may require it, and that the most favourable construction may be put on all their proceedings.”
And there are other outcroppings on the rock face of modern parliamentary procedure, reminding us of historic, almost forgotten controversies. For instance, His Excellency the Governor, as the direct representative of the King, receives the elected members of the House of Representatives in the Legislative Council chamber on the opening of Parliament, and in a Speech from the Throne directs them regarding the legislative programme which his advisers, the Ministry, require to be passed during the session. Members of the Lower House thereupon return to their own chamber “for the despatch of business” as their summons runs.
But do they proceed at once on the King's business? No. The Prime Minister at once moves the first reading of “The Expiring Laws Continuance Bill,” a measure not mentioned in the Speech from the Throne, but assertive of Parliament's privilege of legislating without direction. Only after this formal revival of a hard-won privilege does the House hear one of its members give notice that next sitting day he will move “That a respectful Address be presented to His Excellency, in reply to His Excellency's Speech.” Nothing more is heard of the Expiring Laws Continuance Bill, the counterpart of which, in the British House of Commons, is “The Prevention of Outlawrys Bill.”
As an institution, Parliament's official attitude towards the newspapers is merely one of tolerance. Members of the Parliament Press Gallery are there on sufferance (though they are given every facility, and some comforts) and they are included among the “strangers” whom Mr. Speaker does not “see” —otherwise they can be removed. The Standing Orders of the House inferentially recognise the Press Gallery by including a penal clause under which any newspaper representative may be excluded from the Gallery for committing breach of privilege.
And it was in this exclusive atmosphere that the broadcasting microphone came into action on the afternoon of March 25th when, for the first time in history, the actual proceedings of a legislative assembly were allowed to be heard outside the walls. Having accepted this innovating “stranger,” Parliament did the thing handsomely by giving what it called “the official commentator” a seat on the floor of the House, close to backbench members on the “Noes” side. Here on a table was the relay apparatus and the announcer's microphone, while suspended above members’ heads down the centre of the chamber were three microphones, since increased to four. They are of the ribbon type evolved by the British Broadcasting Corporation's engineers, and represent the last word in efficiency for broadcasts outside a radio studio.
(Continued on page 49)
James Cowan
The political career of the late Sir Joseph Ward was distinguished by two features which have marked several other great lives in Colonial history: his rise from smallest beginnings to the highest position in the Dominion and his quick, vigorous, far-seeing share in the affairs of the British Empire. Like his chief, Seddon, he was one of those men who made their way upwards without any assistance, by inherent merit and force of character. Ambition was strong in him, but it was ambition with sound and brilliant capacity behind it. The spirit of initiative was his in an unusual degree; he was not afraid of criticism once he was convinced that his actions were in the country's best interests. He was for forty years a consistent champion of Liberal principles in Government, and he was responsible for necessary reforms and innovations in the country's administration. Like Ballance and Seddon, he was a victim of overwork; he remained in office too long, with that fatal clinging to administrative power which has shortened many a great man's life.
(S. P. Andrew, photo.)
Right Hon. Sir Joseph G. Ward, Bart., P.C., K.C.M.G.
(Premier of New Zealand, 1906–1912; 1928–1930. Died 1930, aged 74).
Sir Joseph Ward was one of a pair of bright and promising young men who entered the New Zealand Parliament in the latter part of the ‘Eighties and who soon began to take a prominent share in the beginnings of the Liberal movement in politics. They came in at the parting of the ways; before long they were to travel together the fascinating highway of bold “experimental” legislation. The other young man of great gifts was W. P. Reeves. Ward came from Awarua, the Bluff, where he had begun his working career as a telegraph messenger boy. Ward owed nothing to the kindly fortune that smiled on Reeves’ young days. His education was the most elementary; the world of work and business was his college and university. He was generally described as a young man of push and enterprise who was afraid of nothing. Certainly he was not afraid of pushing in among his elders. He was a borough councillor in Campbelltown, the Bluff township, at the age of twenty-one; indeed he was not quite of age when he was elected.
He was not New Zealand-born; Melbourne was his native town; but he came as a child to this country with his parents, and he grew up a thoroughgoing young New Zealander, developing a vigorous spirit of local patriotism. He was a greatly popular young citizen of the Bluff; he took a leading part in social and sport movements; he developed the spirit of discussion and debate on local affairs.
He did not long remain content with carrying other people's messages and working for the Government. At twenty he was on his own account in business in a small way, and soon to expand greatly.
Young J. G. Ward—they called him “Joe” or “Joey” then and all his life, which matched Seddon's “Dick,” “Good old Dick” —was speedily found to be a quick, keen, incisive speaker, with a particularly able grasp of financial matters. He made a good impression in Parliament, as elsewhere, by his pleasant manner, his brisk debonair ways, his agreeable voice that had not then taken on the rather high petulant note the wear and irritation of politics sometimes gave it in later life. He represented Awarua capably from 1887 onward, and, with intervals, he continued to be the elect of that southernmost constituency all his life.
In the election of 1890, following immediately on the settlement of the great maritime strike, the Atkinson party, the representatives of Conservative policy met an irretrievable defeat, and the Liberals entered into power. John Ballance became Premier, and he recognised the value of brisk young Joseph Ward by making him a member of his Cabinet, as Postmaster-General and Commissioner of Electric, Telegraphs. A high testimonial this to Awarua's member, after only three years of Parliamentary service. He held this position many times later, and displayed a thorough knowledge of the working and the needs of the service and its capacity for expansion. He was far and away the most successful of all the Ministers who controlled the Post and Telegraphs.
Ward's most noteworthy act as Minister was the introduction of penny postage for letters. From the very first he had realised its advantages, and, in 1891, he succeeded in obtaining Parliament's authority for the establishment of the penny postage in New Zealand and on reciprocal terms with any country which might be disposed to adopt it. But the initial difficulty, the losses that at first would follow reduction, delayed the actual establishment of the reform until January 1, 1901, when the people were for the first time enabled to send a letter for a penny.
In the meantime, Mr. Ward had been out of politics through business troubles, but on his return, in 1899, he took up the cause on which he had set his heart, and carried it through. Further concessions to the popular needs were made, such as the reduction of telegraph charges.
The honour of knighthood was conferred on the Minister soon afterwards; it was a fitting recognition of his untiring work in the cause of freer and cheaper communication. At the International Postal Conference in Rome, in 1906, he appealed for the universal adoption of penny postage— a great and bold reduction from the existing charge of twopence-halfpenny. The cautious Convention did not adopt the reform then, but the proposal set the nations thinking and moving, and penny postage came at last.
Another important step forward was the establishment of the Government Department of Tourist and Health Resorts. Sir Joseph was the leading advocate of the institution which had for its object the management of such places as the Rotorua spa and the world-wide advertisement of New Zealand's glories of scenery, its attractions in sport, and the healing virtues of its wonderful hot mineral springs. The first manager of the new Department, Mr. T. E. Donne, was exactly the kind of man required, and under Sir Joseph he built it up into a most useful branch of the public utilities service. The world soon began to hear all about the wonder and beauty of the country and its unusual qualities of landscape, its shooting and fishing, and its place as the holiday land of the southern world. All through his Ministerial career Sir Joseph fostered this live Department, as an agency greatly necessary in the advancement of the national interest.
In his youth Sir Joseph Ward had seen some service in the employ of the Railways Department, and throughout his political career he dealt with the affairs of the State lines with inside knowledge. Mr. R. A. Loughnan, in his excellent biography of Sir Joseph, wrote of him as Minister that, “he plunged into the intricacies of railway affairs with a brave heart and a clear head. So doing he kept both eyes open—fixing one on the travelling and trading public, without losing sight of the weight carried on the railway account by the taxpayers, and the other on the personnel he relied on for efficient and cheerful working of the railway system.” He did not want the railways to pay all charges, recognising that the development brought by railways required time for the return of profits. At the same time he held that the lines must pay something more than their expenses, some fair margin of profit. Roughly speaking, he arranged for a profit of about 3 per cent., leaving the balance of the overhead charges to be paid from the Consolidated Fund. He took up the burden of the system soon after the Railway Commissioners had laid it down, pursuant on the new policy of direct Ministerial control, a policy which, as Mr. Loughnan summed it up, gave good results. Certainly the Ward regime was greatly satisfactory both to users of the lines and to the staff of all classes. Sir Joseph introduced the legislation establishing the Railways Superannuation Fund in 1903; it is one of the numerous measures for the public betterment that stand to his credit.
In the process of the extinction of private companies’ rights over the country's railways, the final act was the purchase of the Manawatu Railway section from the company which had built and operated it. When the Purchase Bill went through Parliament in 1908, after long negotiations, many tributes were paid to Sir Joseph Ward's skilful handling of a difficult matter. The bargain was fair to the owners of the line, and satisfactory in the interests of the colony.
(Rly Publicity photo.)
An historic gathering: Sir Joseph Ward (centre) on the occasion of driving the last spike of the North Island Main Trunk Railway, 1908.
In many another department of State enterprise Sir Joseph Ward took a vigorous hand. Pensions, trade tariffs, the public health, the country's defences, financial reforms, all were dealt with successfully. The Premier's consummately skilful handling of the nation's finance is a matter of history which is discussed with knowledge and approbation in Mr. Loughnan's biography. Indeed, Ward's complete command of all the mazes and intricacies of high finance has never been equalled in the story of the colony, not even by Sir Julius Vogel. Both men were described as “financial wizards,” both were execrated by critics and worshipped by those who admired bold and courageous tactics.
Ward, the War Finance Minister, had an infinitely more trying and responsible part than Vogel, the pioneer of development. To quote Mr. Loughnan again, in describing the financial operations in the great national emergency of war, the country pays tribute to the sagacity and courage of the Finance Minister who got the enormous sum of 55 millions from the New Zealand money markets. “As Finance Minister, Sir Joseph got his money and saved the honour of New Zealand as a dependable unit of the Empire.”
Leading New Zealand Newspapers.
But in making mention of Sir Joseph Ward's wonderful achievement as Minister of Finance in the war-time National Cabinet, I have for the moment run in advance of his work in the building up of the spirit of Imperial solidarity which served us so well when the great tragedy of 1914–1918 befell the world. From the turmoil of local, often parochial, politics he entered early as Premier into the inspiring atmosphere of British Empire Councils. He attended the Imperial Conference of 1907, in London, and gave his views on the value of co-operation of all the units of Empire, and at the Conference of 1911 he enlarged upon that principle as the only effective method of holding the Empire together. He was the strongest advocate of a representative Council of an advisory character in touch with public opinion throughout the Empire. His views on Imperial development coincided with those of other progressive representatives at the Conference, and the sentiment of mutual co-operation on equal terms was developed with enthusiasm. Then in 1914 came the tremendous test of those principles of united action enunciated by the Imperial delegates, and we know how the British peoples the globe over put the co-operative theories into effective practice. One of the most discussed acts, several years before the war, the seemingly impulsive offer of a Dreadnought to the Empire, was a master-stroke justified by results. Therein Sir Joseph was a seer, a prophet; he had vision and imagination that were verified to the full.
When do you have your first smoke of the day? Lots of chaps start before breakfast and many save up the dottels from yesterday's pipes for their early morning smoke. Doctors don't recommend this plan, by the way. Immediately after breakfast is the time preferred by multitudes of smokers for a first “lighting up.” Others will smoke at any time, from daylight to dark. But some never exceed a certain number of smokes a day. Tastes differ a lot regarding tobacco. Here in New Zealand a pretty considerable proportion of smokers pin their faith to “toasted” owing to its alluring flavour and delightful aroma. It certainly excels in those respects—and in another—its harmlessness, due to toasting which rids it of its nicotine and leaves it pure, sweet and fragrant. “Once a smoker of ‘toasted,’ always a smoker of ‘toasted’.” All five of the genuine toasted brands, Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cut Plug No. 10 (Bulls-head), Cavendish, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold appeal irresistibly to smokers. But worthless imitations are on the market. Beware!*
In this brief sketch of one of our greatest of New Zealand public men, it is not needful to go into political history to any extent; that is dealt with competently and authoritatively in the biography already mentioned, the last work of that grand old journalistic comrade of ours, the greatly-beloved Robert Loughnan. He wrote with inside knowledge of the political machine of his time. No doubt I have omitted mention of some of Sir Joseph's important political acts. But it is rather the personal note that appeals to me.
I write of Ward as it was my good fortune to know him—a pleasant, clever, brisk, active man, with a wide range of interests. It was probably his Irish ancestry that gave him his sunny nature, his traits of generosity and quick sympathy. His kindly nature was not repressed by political antagonism. I like to dwell on his generous genuine nature. It is natural for a man in power to smile on his friends; it is not so easy to be generous to fierce opponents. Hot speeches once over, Ward was the most genial of companions. Honours came to him, but he was never puffed up. He was a firm and steadfast friend, therein he was closely akin to his great chief, Seddon. If he made some enemies, as every strong and prominent politician does, he had an army of life-long friends. Thousands of New Zealanders have warm and kindly memories of Joseph Ward; he lives in the hearts of his friends, his fellow-country people, and that is the best monument any man or woman can have.
Ken Alexander
Could we all but recover the soul of Saturday the world might wag instead of wobble.
But man, in the main, gropes in irksome excavations of Expediency, dug with his own fingernails—wells of necessity, badly bored and boresome. He sacrifices colour for collar, wisdom for whiskers, freedom for fret, comfort for cash, ingenuousness for ingeniousness and simplicity for complicity. He is hopelessly grown-up, an incorrigible adult, a moribund machinator with miserly Molloch, and a pitiful plaintiff in the courts of Common Sense, suing for the things he has tossed to the tumbrels and wondering why he loses the case and bears the costs. Because he has sacrificed the soul of Saturday and exchanged Simplicity for Duplicity he is of the lost legion. For the soul of Saturday is the soul of Youth and the charge to be answered by us mendacious meddlers in the schemes and schisms of the Wider Wisdom follows the fact that Youth never dies unless it is murdered.
So, we who moan and mumble that gone is the light from life, the gilt from Glamour, the “rococo” from Romance, and the soul from Saturday, are mental gangsters who have taken Youth “for a ride” and put it “on the spot.”
If, in spite of the exigencies of the interior and exterior, we can keep our souls up while we keep our noses down, there is hope while we grope, and we may regain that subtle something which, in our youth, was the soul of Saturday and the epitomisation of elation.
For this soul of Saturday is but a symbol for sentient salubrity.
Unless we have become atrophied in the “attic” and petrified in the perceptions, we surely can resurrect the emotions which, when life was young and our future was before us instead of behind us, lifted us from the moraine of mathematics and the antics of Algebra and transported us to the bonny braes of Saturday, where the sweet fresh breeze of Freedom blew the dry dust of durance out of the chinks in our brain.
Don't you remember Saturday? Why, even Friday was warmed by the anticipatory efflatus of Saturday. Even dull Duty, with pen poised over facts and figures in the Book of Scholastic Skill and Nutrient Knowledge, smiled wanly on youth, toiling to acquire they knew not what, for what they knew not.
Friday was almost as admirable as Saturday because, “if Friday comes ‘twill soon be Saturday.”
Some of us adulterated adults must still be capable of capturing a faint reflection of those fibulous Fridays. Even yet—
He is Hopelessly Grown-Up.”
But Saturday always remains—just Saturday.
When we were young the early air was different on Saturday. The gooseberry bushes, the cat, the back fence and the wood-pile somehow looked different. It seemed that, although our eyes were unchanged, the mind behind had been burnished bright overnight. Perhaps that sixth sense of Freedom produced a clearness of vision unblurred by chalk, chanting and chewing-gum. For on Saturday there was no clanging summons to the altar of Erudition; no cheerless champing over the Kings of England, no Battle of Hastings—ten-sixty-six, no recitations to mumble, no dates to jumble, no vulgar fractions and frictions, no stink of ink, no mental mumbo-jumbo to justify the idiot actions of hypothetical merchants who bought and sold in a frenzy of fallacious finance.
Instead, there loomed ahead a fine unfettered fillet of freedom, from daylight to dark, to be lived and loved and squeezed dry of the juice of joy; an unalloyed, untramelled, unchallenged slice of Time's terrain.
Our bare toes fondled the warm asphalt, or the wet grass caressed our ankles; the wind whipped us, the sun blistered us, and even the rain failed to quench the light that burned within us, on Saturday. Flying footballs, supplementary sodfights, action, reaction, but never inaction—such was Saturday. Grime and glow and, above all, release from the dour dictates of “hire civilisation.” That was Saturday. Saturday is the only day with a soul. Other days have characteristics.
Monday is mourn-day, a durational requiem for dead joys—a time of pondering on the “white man's burden.” Not a cheery day!
Tuesday confirms the sentiments of Monday but offers a little consolation in the fact that Monday is over until next Monday.
Wednesday sees us poised between the
“The White Man's Burden.”
Thursday produces mixed emotions. Thought for the day “Will the weekend be fine?” Watchword, “Hope.”
Friday (see alleged verse above).
Saturday: Ask yourself!
Sunday is all things to all men: a day of meditation or mending, rest or zest. Valued mainly by some for beakfast in bed. Slogan: “Think not of the morrow.”
Such horrors of civilisation will disappear when we exchange whizz-dom for wisdom and can conceive that man's tale is not told in toil alone; that leisure and pleasure can be as profitable to Progress as pressure.
An army moves on its stomach, but mankind moves on its mind. The Chinese philosopher knew more than his laundry who advised “Tread softly and go far.”
One day men will be so enlightened that leisure will be deemed as valuable to human progress as the panting pursuit of pelf, and then the soul of Saturday will be the soul of everyday. Until then let's pretend—
play
“Wild Oats,” the attractive title of a book by Eric Muspratt, is good reading. Among his adventures was a trip round the Horn, before the mast, in one of the old “windjammers.” Half way Home the ship ran out of tobacco —and consternation reigned in the fo'-castle. One day the bosun, rummaging in his old sea chest, found a long-forgotten packet of cigarettes and offered them to his shipmates at six-pence each! They were snapped up before you could say “wink!” Another time (when ashore) Eric had to go without tobacco for several weeks. Picture his joy when he had his first smoke after that! Stay-at-homes who have never had to go without tobacco for a single day don't realise their luck! Here in N.Z. you can get the finest tobacco manufactured—Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cavendish, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold, at the nearest tobacconist's shop, and they're not only famed for flavour and aroma, but practically free from nicotine because they're toasted. There's enjoyment in every whiff!*
“
Holing Out In One.”
“Returning, he produced sundry pieces of quartz.”
(By Hori Makaire.)
Gold, they maintain, is where you find it; and history has proved the saying true.
There is a story by Jack London of two hardened prospectors who spent the whole of a nerve-trying Yukon winter in an unsuccessful search in virgin country that showed stray “traces” only. Completely worn out with the hardships of the trail, they had made their last camp ere commencing the long trip back to Dawson. One of them happened to kick away a clod of frozen earth, and a small shower of nuggets fell from the withered grass roots. It was the beginning of a record strike—the basis of a good story in the author's inimitable style. The real Bonanza was, of course, discovered in much the same fashion—by sheer accident, under an old moose pasture that thousands of diggers had passed by in their journeyings to the rich creeks above.
“Someone'll find it—some day.” That was the stock phrase of the late Benjamin Biddle, veteran Maori fighter, and hero of many a skirmish in the dense bush and along the wild fern ridges of the Urewera country. It was of the Urewera, little known and little explored that Ben spoke, for he knew it more intimately than most pakehas of the day. The reference concerned the rumours of gold, “somewhere” back in those remote mountain fastnesses, that occasionally reached Whakatane. It will be shown that there was something more than mere rumour to be considered. Incidentally, I have always cherished a suspicion that Ben knew a great deal more about the reports than he cared to say. At the time—1910—of which I write, several of Te Kooti's followers, actual participants in the Poverty Bay massacre were still alive, and—well, I can best shorten things by saying that the old feeling of enmity seemed to have died hard. These ancient men lived twelve miles inland, at Ruatoki, and, with other members of the Tuhoe tribe were far from friendly to the pakeha. Permission to go over their ground as the only access to the wild country beyond was given grudgingly, and very often refused in no uncertain manner; and in other ways they showed an aggressive dislike to excursions of the white man, whatever the object of his quest. But, Ben held their wholesome respect, and if this particular section of the tribe did know anything of the gold business, he was the one most likely to share the confidence. Ben was not one to break the confidence of anyone, white or brown.
Some almost forgotten history takes us back to the early ‘eighties, when a party of surveyors had camped on the river-bed near Taneatua. So far as can be gathered, their visit had to do with the Dividing Line, the course of which can still be traced along the flats beyond the township mentioned. The camp cook had been on the Australian fields. It was his custom— the camp appears to have been run on rather free and easy lines—to make periodical trips into the interior. On one such occasion he was away for several days. Returning, he produced sundry pieces of quartz, stating that he had found signs of gold in one of the creeks, and had traced them to the reef itself—a rich reef, too. Shortly afterwards, the head surveyor was visited by a party of Maoris, who were openly hostile. The text of the conversation which followed can only be surmised. As a result, the cook was sternly ordered to stick to his pots and pans, and to leave gold-seeking severely alone. For a time he did so. Eventually, the fever apparently got the better of him. One day he disappeared and was never seen again. I have heard the story many times, with all the many colourful variations this sort of story is bound to gather, but these appear to be the main facts. Possibly the musty Departmental files of the period confirm them, and offer some good solution of this fifty-year-old mystery; probably the wise old men of the Tuhoe know of a better one.
In the latter part of 1909, when Rua was at the height of his power, he frequently visited Whakatane with a small army of followers. Then money would indeed flow like the proverbial water. “They'd buy up all in sight, useful and useless, too,” said an old resident in describing one of these purchasing orgies. “Where did they get the money? Well, that question has been asked many times, and we're all just as wise as ever. It couldn't have come from the Land Court. Money they just had—‘tons of it,’
It was shortly after the sly-grog incident that rumours were freely passed to the effect that gold from some inland quarter was being shipped secretly to one of the Auckland banks. The story gained much support as the outcome of a nocturnal disturbance outside one of the hotels. An obliging barman was helping away a quarrelsome visitor—a Maori from the Waimana country. There was a struggle, from which the barman emerged more than slightly knocked about. His hurts included an ugly bruise above the eye which he declared had been caused by a stone. He maintained he had seen the departing guest take the missile out of his pocket and “let fly.” The “stone” was picked up next morning. Certain colours noticed on the surface resulted in the specimen being sent to Auckland. It was quartz—rich in both gold and silver. Bret Harte might have set his imagination working overtime to run the story on into twenty chapters or more. So far as my knowledge goes— and with others I wasted much time and ingenuity in attempting to follow the trail—it ends right there.
A much admired design used by the Railway Department for advertising during the recent Easter holiday period.
Coming to some facts which are beyond dispute, there was the find made in 1911 at Otara, Wairere Bay, an inlet to the south of Whakatane. A small piece of quartz, but slightly water worn, was picked up on the beach. Through it ran a distinct vein of colour, nearly half an inch in thickness. The outer crust of stone was similar in appearance to that of the cliff face which overhung the Bay. To even the most inexperienced, the discovery suggested all the elements of a rich strike, and an assay made at Auckland confirmed the most optimistic views. Several members of the syndicate that was formed are still in business at Whakatane. The find was necessarily kept a close secret. There followed much digging and sinking of trial shafts. Over a period of weeks practically the whole cliff face was blown away in an endeavour to unearth the supposed reef. It is recorded that on one occasion the small coastal steamer that then plied between Opotiki and Auckland was nearly wrecked while moving over-close to the shore line in order that the skipper might discover what the explosions were all about. Nothing was ever found, and where that singularly rich piece of quartz came from remains a mystery to this day. Obviously, it was portion of a larger deposit somewhere in the locality.
It is quite natural that the reader should inquire whether the Urewera has ever been prospected on any methodical basis. I can only say that there is no official record of it having been done, and, in any case, in view of the hostility of the Maoris I have previously referred to, such an expedition could only have been possible in comparatively recent times. When the Otago diggings were at their best, the Urewera was forbidden territory to the pakeha. It has been stated that in 1890 or thereabouts, a party financed by the late Sir James Carroll made a hurried trip through. It is difficult to find any verification of this report. Probably, various attempts of the kind have been made, for the incidents related were more or less common property, and would provide an irresistible temptation for the average fossiker. Be this as it may, the fact remains that the possibility of gold being there in payable quantities is really no more unlikely than the Bell-Kilgour and similar finds in the South would have been considered a few years ago; and there is the practical evidence to be faced, commencing with the disappearance of the surveyor, and ending with the Otara-Wairere Bay venture. It all goes to create a somewhat romantic mystery. Reflectively, I again examine a tattered Miner's Right, for which I paid a hard-earned ten shillings in the Whakatane Courthouse twenty-four years ago….
What do the wise old men of the Tuhoe know?
We had some difficulty in finding a suitable mount for Captain Maurice Overton when he came to stay at Ngamahoe, for he stood six feet three and weighed over fifteen stone. Eventually, however, the boss borrowed for him a Tribulation mare of seventeen hands which could be more or less depended upon not to get her feet crossed on our precipitous hillsides, and thereafter he spent most of his time helping one or other of us to ride round the ewes. And great company he was with his rolling laugh, his occasional bursts of song, which had to be discouraged in the lambing paddocks, and the keen interest he took in everything about him.
Although he had never before visited New Zealand, he had apparently spent the greater part of his life knocking about the world in a state of perpetual insolvency, and it was at such less enjoyable moments as during one of the sudden hailstorms, for which our uplands were famous, or the plucking of a very dead sheep, that he would come to light with one of his colourful stories. “It's nothing,” he would say, “to what I once experienced in the Balkan mountains, when I walked from Copenhagen to the Piraeus and sang for my supper in the wayside inns,” or, “I remember one time returning after an irrigating dam had burst and finding the compound of my house full of corpses!” —and present unpleasantness would be forgotten in the ensuing flight of fact or fancy, we could never be quite sure which it was!
One evening he and I were returning along the Kereru track, which skirts the hillside by the Main Trunk railway line, and there, shooting a vast plume of smoke into the sunset, came the north-bound express toiling up the long grade to the tunnel beneath the Forty Acre. It was a grand sight, and we halted our horses while the brightly lit cars were clicking by and vanished one by one beneath the hill. For some minutes the Captain remained staring after them in silence, then he turned and critically surveyed the valley and the rails that, like two slender shining ribbons, went winding down it.
“What a place for a hold up!” he ejaculated, and ignoring my satirical laugh, “how fast do you suppose that train was moving; fifteen, twenty miles an hour? An active man could have boarded it down there by those—whats-itsname trees?”
“Karaka—”
“Quite, —he would have taken the first car, climbed over the tender to the engine cab and ordered the engineman at the point of a gun to stop the train. On such a gradient that would be accomplished in quite a short distance, say opposite those manuka bushes, where the remainder of the gang would be lying in wait. The rest would be simple.”
“Simple enough except for the fact that your train-robbers would be outlawed within the confines of two very small islands 1,200 miles from anywhere; they could never get away with it!”
“Yes,” agreed the Captain, “therein lies your safeguard from such unpleasant happenings! I was once in a holdup in country so similar to this that the sight of the train there brought the incident to mind.”
And this, as we urged our horses forward once more, was the story he told.
Four members of a disbanded Opera Company were trying to get to Mexico City from Ahuehuete in the State of Morelos. Their reason for so doing, apart from the fact that their manager was locked up in the calabozo and their costumes in the Teatro Alamo for debt, was that a fellow called Zapata was making things very uncomfortable for foreigners in the South. They had very little money, but a train was leaving that afternoon for the capital, and by pooling their resources they managed to secure tickets as far as Maguey—a town that was supposed to be beyond the range of the revolutionary Zapatista's activities.
They were a badly-used quartette, hungry, dishevelled and spat-upon as they took their seats in the rear coach of the train, and prayed that it might speedily carry them away from the vicious tatterdemalion crowd that paraded the dusty platform. Lorado Tait, who played Geronte de Levoir, Miss Veree, a somewhat over-ripe Manon, and two younger people who, by reason of their humble roles as “persons in a market place,” and such like, had hitherto been ignored. But life runs swiftly on the red tide of revolution, common values are apt to be smashed along with the plateglass windows, and it was Herrick who had assumed the leadership of this little band of fugitives, and in so doing had kindled a flame of more than passing interest in
“It was grand sight and we halted our horses while the brightly-lit cars went clicking by.
After three hours of irksome travelling they arrived at Maguey, and finding the place a silent smoking ruin, they decided, tickets or no tickets, to remain in the train. It was when the train had started again, and they were discussing how best to square matters with the conductor, that that official made his appearance. A nasty temper he was in, too. “Yanquis” of any kind he declared were nauseous, those without money—pah! They were nothing more than “piojos” and “gachis,” and he, a good servant of the railroad, was going to stop the train and put them off in the scrub. They would walk. Where? Back to Maguey, perhaps, or the devil, it was all the same. One did not ride on his train “de baldo”—or as we should say, “buckshee.”
The train was climbing the steep grade out of the Arroyo Maguey. The coal was poor, oil-fuel was not then in general use on the Mexican lines, and Herrick, looking from the window as they rounded a curve could see the engine making very heavy weather of it; the speed could not have been above six miles an hour. He realised that if they stopped the train there, they would never get it started again, and said so.
“Then,” shouted the conductor, “you shall dismount now,” and he made a threatening movement towards them. For a moment Herrick hesitated what to do. Undoubtedly the best thing would be to “dismount” the conductor
“Came the north-bound express toiling up the long grade.”
“Look,” cried Herrick, “bandits!”
The conductor stuck his head out of the window and swore bitterly, then he turned and charged down the car; they could hear him bellowing three cars away. Heads came poking out of the windows, but were hastily withdrawn as the bandit reappeared and firing a random shot into the air, ran back once more into the scrub. He was answered by a fusillade from the express car next the engine that could only mean one thing—the train was carrying bullion and the usual shot-gun messenger had been supplemented by an armed guard. Miss Veree began to weep dramatically and Barbara Craven drew close to Herrick's side. “What's the next thing, partner?” she asked.
Herrick smiled and squeezed her arm reassuringly, “More chit-chat with the conductor I expect,” he replied, and he was right, for the man returned just as the train gained the top of the rise, and began the steep descent.
“You see,” he cried, flourishing a nickel-plated revolver, “even bandits do not ride my train ‘de baldo’.”
“You are a brave man,” Herrick told him, “and when we arrive in Mexico City, I shall see that you—” he did not finish his sentence, for at that moment there sounded three short blasts from the engine's whistle. The conductor frowned and turned towards the door, the signal was repeated, and he disappeared at the run.
“What's the matter?” asked Barbara.
“Brakes,” replied Herrick shortly, “the engineer can't apply the train brakes.” He leaned far out of the window. “By Heaven!” he cried excitedly, “that bandit knew his business—he must have pulled up the brake cock behind the combination car. We're running away! Quick,” he turned to the others, “get out on to the rear platform.”
Staggering down the now violently swaying car, they gained the rear platform as the train rounded a wide curve. Their speed was increasing every moment. At the rear of the combination car they could see the conductor crouched upon the step as he vainly tried to reach the brake cock. Ahead was a vicious reverse curve, the engine snapped out of sight round it, howling like a lost soul. The express car followed and the combination, careening violently, catapulted the conductor from his precarious hold. His body was still tumbling amongst the rocks and scrub as the rear car flashed by.
Miss Veree began screaming and Lorado Tait was forced to slap her. Once more the front end of the train came into view. Suddenly a great cloud of dust, streaked with fire, shot into the air, and the cars, with a terrible crashing and rending, began piling themselves one on top of the other. The rear car pitched and swayed, began to mount the one ahead of it, and then, as though changing its mind rolled half over, spilling its occupants rudely, but without much hurt, into the right of way.
Herrick must have been partly knocked out, for his next impression was that of a vast sombrero blotting out the stars, which by now were beginning to appear, one by one, in the evening sky. Beneath it stooped a peon who prodded him in the stomach with the butt of an antiquated rifle. Lorado Tait and the girls were standing close by and when Herrick got upon his feet the four of them were herded to a point further up the line. The train had smashed up in a cutting, and here, huddled against the rock-wall, guarded by more armed peons, were such passengers as had survived injury; what was happening to those less fortunate was only too horribly apparent from the shots and cries of anguish which marked the progress of ghoulish figures amongst the wreckage. Mounted men were arriving every minute, cut-throat “indios” and half-breeds in every kind of looted garment from knee-boots to opera cloaks; they could be seen by the light of the flames that were beginning to lick the splintered woodwork, dragging the heavy bullion cases from the express car. These they carried up the line to a small adobe building, and breaking them open loaded their contents on to the backs of pack-mules.
Until this important work was finished no notice was taken of the prisoners, and then there bore down upon them a score of well-armed men. In the centre of this bodyguard swaggered a squat, hairy figure, barbarically splendid as far as his waist; new felt sombrero decorated with silver ornaments, orange silk shirt crossed with two well-filled bandoliers, and striped serape artistically draped over one shoulder, but his trousers, cotton— “calzones,” were dirty and ragged, and he wore sandals on his feet. He puffed at a long thin cigar,
“You know me?” —he said in Spanish argot—“I am General Zapata who will one day be President of all Mexico, but like all great generals and presidents I need money. Your willingness to oblige me will be proof of your goodwill toward the high ideals of Zapatismo!”
“I am afraid,” whispered Lorado Tait, “that there will be some misunderstanding in regard to the members of the Miraflores Opera Company.”
“But for the fact that this man is not Zapata,” Herrick answered.
“Who is he then?”
“Some dirty half-breed who is doing a little private raiding. We must try and play for time.”
The other passengers were disgorging such valuables as they possessed, and presently it was Miss Veree's turn; she screamed as the guards laid their dirty paws upon her, and Herrick stepped for-ward.
“General,” he said, “we are the four chief singers of the Royal Opera. We play to-morrow night at the ‘Mexi-capa’ in Mexico City. I,” he struck an attitude, “am Alvarez.”
The “General” swept his sombrero from his head in an ironical bow, “I am indeed in luck, senor,” he said, “you have undoubtedly much ‘duro’.”
“Undoubtedly General, but not here, famous players do not need ‘duro,’ they travel ‘de baldo’.”
“How? the General puckered his little monkey eyes suspiciously.
Herrick made a disdainful gesture;
“Juggling with coins is beneath us, when we arrive in Mexico City there will be bands and flowers, the patron of the ‘Mexicana’ theatre himself will present the President of the railroad with money and gifts in gratitude for our safe arrival.”
The “General” looked puzzled. “How do I know you speak the truth?” he demanded.
“It would be an honour for us to enact a little play, a play which thousands in the city would pay millions of pesos to see. You will then be convinced that I speak the truth and give us safe transportation to Mexico City. Arrived there we should not only be able to provide you with much ‘duro,’ but also to make things easy for you with those in high places who are in sympathy with Zapatismo. Quien sabe, General? You may be President in a fortnight.”
The “General” looked dubious, he drew one of his lieutenants aside and conferred with him in an undertone. Then Herrick was invited to the conclave, and there was much expansive gesturing with the hands. Presently Herrick returned to his companions.
“It's all right,” he said in English, “we are to give a performance.”
“Never, cried Miss Veree, “you are taking too much upon yourself Mr. Her-rick; you seem to have forgotten your position. Anyone would think we were buskers that we should entertain these ragamuffins in the middle of the desert.”
“Better to be a live busker than a dead opera singer, however bad,” Herrick retorted.
“But how is the performance to help us,” asked Lorado Tait?
“Listen,” Herrrick spoke rapidly, “this so-called General is just one of the local
“I am General Zapata, who will one day be President of all Mexico.”
Lorado Tait looked round at the desolate hillsides. “Who are you expecting?” he asked with an effort at satire, “the marines.”
“Down by that adobe shack,” Herrick ignored the interruption, “is a passing loop. The shack itself is connected with the telegraph wires. That means it contains an emergency key for the use of train crews. We will arrange the ‘General’ and his bravos on the tracks, and the space immediately in front of the shack will be our stage. We will make our entrances from behind the shack, and while you three hold the stage I'll try and get into it and call up the nearest division point.”
“What do you propose we shall play?” asked Lorado Tait. “We can't do much with only four of us and no costumes or music.”
“That's up to you,” replied Herrick, “we need something with plenty of time off stage for me, and plenty of noise from Miss Veree to drown the sound of the telegraph key, and it will have to be good, because the Lord knows how long it will be before help arrives.”
And so, under the purple canopy of the night, with the ruddy glare from the burning cars as their footlights, this fragment of the Miraflores Opera Company produced a remarkable hotchpotch, a revue almost, of operatic talent, which at moments bore a faint resemblance to the great Carmen. If a performance may be judged from the point of view of heroism then it was the finest they had ever given; the appreciation of their audience was considerably enhanced by the looted wines of Maguey which, squatting about on the railroad tracks, they washed down with native tequila. The forceful Herrick dominated the situation. He combined a caricature of a toreador with the role of impresario. He made impromptu speeches and dubious jokes, and begged a couple of quarts of champagne from one of the guards on which he fed his little troupe and all the time he worked feverishly under cover for their salvation.
In his exits he examined the back of the adobe shack and found that by swinging himself upon the projecting ends of rafters he could reach the thatch which was rotten enough to be torn away. When he had made a hole large enough to squeeze through, he found as he had hoped, that the building did indeed contain a telegraph key. He returned to the stage and launched Miss Veree into her duet with Lorado Tait then, while her top notes were rousing answering howls from the coyotes on the surrounding hills, he entered the shack by the hole he had made and feverishly tapped his SOS. Hurrying back to the stage to allay any suspicion a lengthy exit might have aroused, he strained his ears to catch the chittering of the key in reply.
“Mio madre io la rivedo,” sang Miss Veree, and “Louder, dammit!” whispered Herrick as the key suddenly began to click.
“You'll have to improvise a bit now. Remember the reward for failure is…” he drew a finger expressively across his throat. Miss Veree paled and redoubled her vocal efforts while Herrick backed off the stage with pantomimic gestures to cloak his desperate purpose.
(Continued on P. 37.)
Robin Hyde
Going South was ever an adventure, long before that English poet started chanting about the palms and temples of southern isles. The South Islanders of New Zealand are fortunate people. But they must not be surprised to learn that in the North, their Greenstone Island is surrounded with a faint aureola of the new and strange. What, the same as ourselves? Don't they have bald-headed alps, glaciers, unfathomable blue lakes, the “Finest Walk in the World” (from which the weaker brethren of the North return with their boots in pieces, their waistlines reduced by inches and such conceit that there is no holding them for months afterwards), not to mention the Otira Gorge, and memories of the bush-rangers? Besides, Cook's Strait lies between us: a lesser sleeve makes England one world, and the Continent quite another. Putting out to sea in a south-bound ship is at least the beginnings of adventure in itself. The English Channel has not half the force and volubility of our own strip of water: and yet around it, Rupert Brooke wrote his famous poem, beginning, “The damned ship lurched and shivered…”
Well, she didn't. Not the little Tamahine, which is the ship that takes you to the Marlborough Sounds. The Tamahine is a good girl of a ship, though I must say this about her. Having undressed (it's a night trip, starting with a Wellington sunset, ending with the piercing moonlight of the Sounds), you supply yourself with a magazine and a bun, and retire to your attic.
Nevertheless, and despite many of the laws of nature, you fall asleep.
And in the twinkling of an eye, your little stewardess assaults you, shaking your shoulder, saying firmly, “French Pass in five minutes, madam.” A word of warning. Take rugs, and if you are not averse to one of those hot, biting drinks, take brandy as well. The morning air (you get into French Pass at about 3 a.m.) is as cold and clean as a silver scimitar. Even in this darkness, there is an almost incredible beauty about the shadowed Pass. Purple-headed mountains, as in the hymn, stare solemnly at their reflections in the sleeping water, which is sheltered just here from all noisy sea-outgoings, and rocks black and silver under a crescent moon. At French Pass, there is what the French Passians call a wharf. It is a sort of jetty, and its only lighting is a tin lantern containing a candle. When you descend from the Tamahine, the wharfinger, who is also the hotelkeeper, guide and general conscience of the place, picks up the lantern and trudges away, with you at his heels. No blazonry of hotel lights awaits you. Everyone has gone to bed. You are shown a room, containing a water-jug and a candle in an enamel stick. Then you go to bed…
“More-pork, more-pork,” says an owl outside your window. You might be terse with him, but what's the use? I recommend the brandy.
Morning means a shrill squealing of scores of little pink and black china plate pigs, and also of children. Near the hotel there is a sort of green, the one flat space beneath those overweening, lofty mountains. It is the nearest thing to a village common that I have seen in New Zealand. On the far side is a Post Office, and in between, pigs, dogs, cattle and children make themselves utterly at home. Your breakfast is bacon-and-eggs, siz-zling: you pump your bath-water.
One day, French Pass, through which Dumont D'Urville sailed on the Astrolobe more than a hundred years ago, will be famous as a tourist resort. It has scenery, it has a wonderful lifegiving air, it has fish. At present it is a sort of roadhouse on the way to anywhere. In my case, on the way to D'Urville Island, which is about twenty-five miles of rock and bush and queerness. It has no hostel, only a few island families who sometimes put up a tourist, and sometimes do not. There isn't a road on the length and breadth of the island, and when one family wants to call on another, they use a launch, if the sea is not too stormy for launches.
There are sweet-smelling English-flowered little patches of garden around each house, sheep more nimble than mountain goats spring from crag to crag against the morning sunshine, and under overhanging native trees, drone and dance bees in white hives. Up and down the sands mince the pied oyster-catchers, and birds with heron legs and crested heads. Gannets fall
“Yards of conger eel worn like a necklace over their shoulders.”
The light will be either candle or lamp, an enormous kerosene lamp that fizzles and spits like a hornet's nest, and the fires, in cold weather, the gorgeous roaring of huge piled-up driftwood logs, whose flames are salty green and blue. These driftwood fires are a Sounds specialty, not only on the Island but all the way along to Picton and Blenheim. There is, by the way, very little literature save agricultural journals containing the portraits of enormous, curly, conservative sheep and bulls: and when you go abroad in the land, you will find yourself obliged to leap from rock to rock, and curse the frequency with which high tides seem to occur. On the other hand, I cannot imagine a more peaceful place, nor one with grander pictures of sunset, bush and sea.
French Pass, where nobody goes swimming on account of the whirlpools, can turn creamy and opaque like muttonfat jade, or like the South Island's own beautiful inanga greenstone. I have seen there a sea that was absolutely purple, little bloomy grape-coloured waves floating away into the sunset. If you don't collect purple waves, you don't, but there they are, just as Dumont D'Urville and his Frenchmen in their red caps saw them so many years ago. Most of the Pass and Island gardens have that impression of age. Great tawny masses of honeysuckle, white clouds of jessamine, tangle with the falling stars of the native clematis. No plant bothers to do up its hair in curl-papers. And there are the onions, the beautiful onions. The Island grows them, by the cartload, I should think, and red-skinned stacks and strings of them make one imagine “Italy!” But really there's no need to brood on foreign lands afar. I should think that for sheer beauty, this part of New Zealand would be incomparable the world over.
Passing by launch to Pic-ton … a day's heavenly journey… one sees little topknots of island, some bare, some darkly wooded. The bare ones are Maori burial grounds, both ancient and modern. So many Maori rangatira have been buried here, and the soil over the naked rocks is so shallow, that now the Maori dead are laid grave over grave. But the tangis are still held on these tiny islands often enough.
Waters of greenstone, waters of transparent jade. The ocean around New Zealand is perhaps of a more varied magnificence than any other, changing from the grand sweep of breakers at Piha and Matata to the misty sounds at Milford, the gay blue glitter on Auckland's surfing beaches and Kawau Island. But the Marlbor-ough Sounds, old and haunted in New Zealand history, have their own colcouring… this perfect green, so pellucid that one can see on the ocean-floor the movements of great pink and orange star-fish, the queer fat saus-age-shaped sea-slugs, and the palpitating sapphire of a rock-cod, lying there in plain sight of the covetous fishermen. The bush, for mile after mile, is practically untouched. One passes little Endeavour Inlet, where a stone anchor commemorates Captain Cook's landing. Before the afternoon sunlight has faded, another wharf, this time of very respectable proportions, looms overhead. And there is Picton, with a sort of golden smile on its sleepy face, which turns out to be composed in equal parts of sunshine and overflowing laburnum.
A man I know, who roamed the world and sailed in many seas, once told me that he wept, on a Japanese boat, at discovering Picton bloater on the menu. The Picton bloater has a fame of its own, also the Picton New Year's Day regatta, which is rowed off over a heart-shaped green harbour with considerable eclat. A few infamous addicts to the noisy, yapping, and in every way undesirable speedboats have found out about Picton, and come down to grin like dogs and race about the harbour. How I wish Pelorous Jack would rise up and bite them! This place was made for quiet, for enjoyment, for fisherman's art and craft, for wandering and rowing and swapping yarns. If anyone attempts to mechanize Picton, they should at once put up a statue to him, tie him to the statue, and drop both into the harbour, which, fortunately, is of re-markable depth. The Pictonites proudly say that it is deep enough to accommodate the whole British Navy, and frequently English and other big boats do put in, for the tiny golden town is celebrated for its hospitality as much as for its scenery.
It has no tramway, but a picture-hall which functions on silent and flickering lines twice weekly, or thrice when the tourist hurly-burly sets in round about Christmas. But the tour-ists cause surprisingly little trouble, for Picton's lagoon-like harbour and the Queen Charlotte and Pelorous Sounds reaches are indented with hundreds of mellow-sanded bays, and on each of these somebody or other owns a cottage, disposing of it to the tour-ists in season. You get free driftwood firing, you could almost live on fish (though the hotel chef refused to cook the thirty-six red cod I caught in a single afternoon, alleging that they were a fish with muddy innards), and
pa near Picton, a friendly place. Often one sees Hone and Hori wandering home with yards and yards of conger-eel worn like a necklace over their shoulders. Every other fisher-man hates the conger, which comes up savage and snappish from the deeps, and makes himself a nuisance in the bottom of the boat: but if you pass your conger on to Hongi, he will very nearly love you, and quite love the conger.
Incidentally, the Picton fishermen do believe in sea-monsters. One of them told me a graphic tale of being held up in Tory Channel (where the Sounds run into Cook Strait) by a formless and massive black Something which ran up against his bows and kept him in a cold sweat till morning. On the less imaginative side, the old Tory Channel whaling-station is still functioning, as in the earliest days, and the smoke of its whale-burning goeth up for ever and ever, very smelly, from one beach, while another is white and spectral with the skeletons of scores of whales.
Near Picton there is one place called World's End. It has a garden of wine-red lilies and dark ferns and palms, and is as beautiful as anything, well “this side of Paradise.” A few people have found out about it and go there in the summer, but the Marlborough Sounds are still unspoiled in every way. And one word of advice. There is nothing to fear in a Marl-borough winter. I was there in the dead of winter-time, and the incredible place averaged five days of daffodil-yellow sunshine per week. Then wat-tle trees came out, by the hundred, followed up by red gums, enormous venerable bluegums, the largest I have seen in New Zealand, daffodils, laburnum and lilac. This could not happen if Picton were a famous and fashionable tourist resort. God only loves the Franks in moderation and limited numbers.
All aboard for Blenheim. The little Picton-Blenheim train has a whistle nearly as large as itself. Trains are one subject over which the whole Marlborough district population sees visions and dreams dreams. When the Picton - Blenheim line was inaugurated, the first train run through was received in Blenheim like an Emperor. A white satin ribbon was stretched across its path, it was laden to the brim with town celebrities, including the Mayor, and received with speeches. That night, the entire youth and beauty of Picton celebrated with a ball at Oxley's Hotel. The opening of the line was thought to be the prelude to the South Island Main Trunk theme, and if you want to be popular in Marlborough, you must never say a word against this ambition. Everybody still wants it, hopes for it and even expects it. As yet the Picton train is a tiny brunette, very black, but very jolly. The run to Blenheim is only a matter of an hour or so, during which you will notice native swamp-hens stalking in great numbers through quivering green raupo swamps.
Blenheim is a thoroughly up-to-date little town, where life moves with pace. It has that modern miracle, “the talkies,” in several good theatres, and I ate chocolates there throughout one very comfortable Philo Vance matinee. There are tea-rooms, public gardens, a solemn old clock in the Square, Plunket rooms, civilisation's “all things that's nice.” It has a large and active population in which farmers and civil servants seem to predominate. But as a port of call for a tourist, it is a cheerful and good-humoured little place, with banners of sunshine hung out in welcome: not to mention its home-made scones with cream and jam.
(Rly Publicity photo.) Picton, at the head of Queen Charlotte Sound, South Island, New Zealand.
And then there's England-come-south, England in apple-blossom time. Nelson, with its clean, deep-gardened streets shadowed by fine old trees, and on the way to it, one whole district submerged under a tide of apple-blos-som. It has a sort of deep repose (oddly enough, capped school boys fit particularly well into the picture); a beautiful Cathedral; and, most import-ant from the visitor's point of view, drives which are little scenic idylls in themselves. Nelson has important industries, but somehow, all of them have contrived to work in that touch of the picturesque. Which do you prefer, the lifeless rattle of factory wheels, or brown-faced men, women and children picking the pale green clusters of hops from the vines, and holding concerts outside their huts after dark? There is good pay in these seasonal occupations of the Nel-son district. I know two girls who, in the tobacco-sorting sheds, made enough for a trip to England. Other departments, the fruit-farms where apples are picked and graded for overseas shipment, the small-fruit farms where the berry and jam industry absorbs hundreds of seasonal workers, every year brown-up pale, city complexions, and, just as useful, pep-up anaemic city purses.
But it is to the Marlborough Sounds that I am going to retire in my de-clining years; to those enormous drift-wood fires, and the stripey Mabel Island lilies, and the rock-cod, gleaming against the ocean floor, unconscious that his vivid sapphire suiting has betrayed him.
(Continued from P. 31.)
Fumblingly, for the morse did not come readily to his mind, he spelled out his message to the train despatcher at Espada. “Northbound train,” he did not know its number, “ditched by bandits about five miles east of Maguey. Send engine and troops at once.” The despatcher replied with a flood of feverish morse, most of which Herrick, damning his excitability, missed, but he caught the word Espada again, and decided that that must be the division point; he tried to remember its position on the map and figure how long they must hold their audience before help could come. Then he locked the telegraph key and straightening the roof thatch, returned once more to the stage.
Half-an-hour passed, an hour; the “General” yawned and signed to one of his guards who fired a shot into the air.
“It is enough,” he cried, “you are wasting my time; it is unwise to delay here.”
He rose and stretched himself, and at a word of command his guards began driving the bullion-laden pack mules out of the cutting. Herrick came forward, “You will give us transportation to Mexico City?”
The “General” looked at him beneath lowered lids, “Si, senor,” he said oilily, “all except that one,” he indicated Barbara Craven, “she rides with Zapata.”
Herrick's jaw stiffened; they had lost after all, then. The strain of the past hour snapped in a surge of blind fury. He was about to leap upon his evilsmelling captor, when above the sound of the crackling flames and the cries of the muleteers, the rumble of distant wheels came faintly to his ears.
“The senorita will be honoured, General,” he said in a tone that matched the “General's” for suavity, “but may I ask a favour?”
He laid a hand on the half-breed's arm, and inclined his head away from the group who surrounded them. The “General” hesitated, then nodded, and Herrick drew him nearer to the flames, the crackling of which for the moment might drown the sounds of those wheels.
“General,” he said, playing desperately for every second, “you are taking our little sister from us, she will be honoured, but one thing I would—”
The silver ornaments of the “General's headgear flashed, details of the wreckage and the cutting walls leaped into high relief in the white glare of a headlight; Herrick drove both fists in rapid succession into the bandit's face, and as he staggered back, raised his rifle, and clubbed him. By a miracle not one of the bullets which the “General's” bodyguard sprayed in his direction struck him. Doubtless the sudden turn of events spoiled their aim. They had no chance to fire again, for coupled in front of the engine was a gondola filled with Federales who opened fire immediately. Herrick, dodging across the tracks hustled his companions into the shelter of the adobe shack.
The operatic quartette, and the other surviving passengers, were housed and fed that night in the caboose of the wrecking train which had followed the troops. At daylight a spare engine and two cars would take them on to Espada. It was a period of irksome inactivity when over-taxed nerves relaxing gave no peace.
Barbara Craven pushed away her coffee cup and listened a moment to the restless clang of steel and the staccato shouted orders that came from the wrecking crew down in the cutting. Then her glance rested on Herrick thoughtfully filling his pipe, and she smiled faintly.
“What's the next thing, partner?”
He looked up and for answer thrust a hand into his pocket withdrawing a bundle of American and Maduro currency bills.
“For you people,” he said, “Mexico City. The ‘General’ kept his promise to furnish you with transportation—post-humously.”
“But what about you?” There was dismay as well as surprise in Barbara's voice.
Herrick smiled and shook his head. “I don't think I have any future in grand opera,” he said. Turning towards the door he jerked his pipe in the direction of the dull red glow which still pulsed above the cutting. “As a matter of fact, the Captain of the Federales thinks I should make a good trooper.”
“Better than a trouper, with the ‘u’,” suggested Lorado Tait.
“Exactly. We are going on to Maguey as soon as the line is clear. When you are singing at the Mexicana I shall be in the front row of the stalls, third seat to the left of the gangway with a chestful of medals.”
He held out his hand to Barbara, “Adios, partner,” he said gently, “I wonder what the next thing will be?”
You don't ‘arf enjoy yer pipe de yer?” said the bus driver with a grin to the chap alongside. The “fare” smiled. “You can gamble on that,” he said, “and you'll win.” Smoke a lot, don'tcher? queried the bus driver. “Oh, about half-a-pound a week.” “Lumme,” said the driver, “if I smoked that much I reckon I'd soon be where they don't smoke. Three ounces does me.” “It's not so much the quantity as the quality that matters,” said the “fare,” “I smoke toasted myself—Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), and you can smoke toasted all you want. It can't hurt you. The toasting cleans up the nicotine. Oh yes, there's several brands. There's five: Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cavendish, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold. The two last make the best cigarettes you ever smoked.” “I've often heard tell of this here toasted,” said the driver, “and blow me if I don't git some. I want a change, anyhow.” “You'll never change again once you've tried toasted,” said the “fare” as he got down.*
Tohunga
Railway Station Maori Names.
(Continued)
The Canterbury-Otago Line.
The names of railway stations and other places in the South Island contain many perversions and mis-spellings of the original Maori, and in some cases it is difficult to fix the correct orthography, because the traditions accounting for the name-giving are lost. The following list of names on the Canterbury-Otago lines contains the right spelling and the origins of names as far as they could be ascertained when enquiries were made among the elder Maoris of the Ngai-Tahu tribe, by the writer, many years ago.
Rakaia:
South Island form of rangaia, to arrange in ranks.
Rangitata:
Rangi=sky, or day; tâtâ=near, close; a day of lowering clouds.
Orari:
O=the place or home of; Rari, a personal name.
Temuka:
Corruption of Te Umu-kaha, literally “The oven of strength”; a sacred fire used in certain war-rites.
Arowhenua:
Aro=face, or front; whenua=the land. An ancient Polynesian name transplanted to New Zealand.
Timaru:
Ti=cabbage-tree; maru=shade. Popularly mispronounced with the accent on the “ru.” The syllables should all be given equal values.
Pareora:
Literally as it stands, a defensive act, or charm, a warding off of danger. But it may be a corruption of “Pureora,” a sacred rite performed for the recovery of the sick. There is a mountain of that name in the King Country.
Makikihi:
Ma=stream, branch of a river (contraction of manga); kikihi=murmuring.
Waitaki:
South Island (Ngai-Tahu) form of Waitangi=sounding water, or crying water.
Pukeuri:
Puke=hill; uri=black stone.
Oamaru:
O=food (especially sacred); a=of; Maru, a war-deity of the Maoris. Sacred food set apart as an offering to the god Maru. Should not be pronounced “Ommaroo,” as is the common way, but each vowel should be given its full value.
Waiareka:
Water of sweetness, or Reka's stream.
Totara:
The forest tree podocarpus.
Maheno:
An island; also to unfasten.
Waimotu:
Wai=water or stream; motu=island.
Kartigi:
Corruption of Katiki, the name of the ocean beach near this station, at Moeraki. Ka=nga, the Ngai-Tahu form for the plural article “the”; tiki=carved figures, on posts, etc.
Wairunga:
Wai=water, stream; runga, above or from above.
Tumai:
Tu=stand; moi=this way, or towards the person speaking.
Waikouaiti:
Properly Waikawa-iti, or “Little Waikawa.” Wai=water; kawa, bitter, or salt.
Puketeraki:
Properly Puke-tiraki. Puke=hill; tiraki=lifting sharply skyward.
Waitati:
Properly Wai-tété, water spurting out.
Purakanui:
Properly Purakau-nui. Purakau=pile of timber, also heap or store of weapons of war; nui=large.
Mihiwaka:
Mihi=a poetic greeting, chant of salutation, affection or sorrow: waka=canoe.
Maia:
Brave; a hero.
Other Southern Stations.
Waimate:
Dead water; a backwater; stagnant water.
Tokarahi:
Big rock.
Tapui:
Friend; close companion.
Ngapara:
Contraction of Nga-tepara, “the tables,” a curious combination of pakeha and pidgin-Maori. The owner of a sheep station wished to give it a Maori name equivalent to “Table-lands,” and so this hybrid form was coined.
Kurow:
Corruption of Kohu-rau, meaning “many mists,” the name of a mountain near this place, which frequently was covered with fog. There is a legend of a warrior chief of old who when retreating up this range, pursued by his enemies, by magic prayers conjured up a heavy fog, which effectually concealed him, enabling him to escape.
Otago Central Line.
Taioma:
A white earth.
Parera:
Native duck.
Pukerangi
Puke=hill; rangi=sky.
Matarae
A headland; projecting spur of a hill.
Ngapuna:
The springs of water.
Tiroiti:
Little or circumscribed view.
Kokonga:
Corner; angle.
Waipiata:
Glistening water.
Auripo:
Swirling current; whirlpool in a river.
Omakau:
The place of the spouse, wife or husband.
Waenga:
In the middle, as of a valley or a bush.
Dunedin-Invercargill Line.
Owhiro:
The place of Whiro, god of darkness; also moonless night.
Titri:
Corruption of “Tea-tree,” pakeha name of the manuka shrub.
Waihola:
Corruption of Waihora=water spread out; the large, shallow lake here.
Warepa:
Whare-pa=fortified house.
Kaihiku:
Eat the tails (of fish).
Waiwera:
Hot water.
Kuriwao:
Bush dog.
Wairuna:
Wai=stream; runa, dock, and other waterside plants.
Waipahi:
Flowing or leaking water.
Pukerau:
Many hills.
Mataura:
Red or glowing face; glowing eyes.
Kamahi:
The tree Weinmannia racemosa=tawhero.
New Zealand Verse
New steam locomotives of various interesting types continue to be built by the Home railways for their fast passenger services. For many years, it would seem, we shall have steam engines hauling our crack expresses, electrification being such a costly business, and the cost of the average steam locomotive being only approximately one-third of that of the newer Diesel engines, about which so much has been writ-ten.
One of the outstanding British locomotive types is the “Royal Scot” class of the London, Midland and Scottish system. Engines of this type are now being fitted with a taper boiler. They have three cylinders, 18 inches by 26 inches; wheel diameter of 6 ft. 9 in.;working pressure 250 lbs. per square inch; grate area 31.25 square feet; and tractive effort, 33,150 lbs. In all, there are 71 locomotives of this design in traffic, and recently many of these engines have been given distinctive names associated with the British Army. The latest locomotive—No. 6170 —has been christened “British Le-gion,” in honour of the ex-servicemen's organisation.
In its latest passenger locomotives, the L. M. and S. Railway has not gone in for streamlining. This is rather curious, for on the London and North Eastern, and Great Western lines, streamlining is being extensively introduced in new locomotive design. The Doncaster authorities, in particular, have found streamlining of the greatest utility, and during the present year seventeen new streamlined “Pacifics” of the “Silver Link” type are to be constructed in the L. and N. E. shops at that point.
The “Silver Link” locomotive, it will be recalled, was introduced last year to haul the new “Silver Jubilee” express between London (King's Cross) and Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Stream-lining has been found to save a great deal of power. In the case of the “Silver Link,” it takes the form of giving the engine a sort of prow in front, built like a wedge, but placed horizontally. In addition to effecting power savings, streamlining has solved the problem of lifting smoke and steam so that it does not obstruct the driver's view. For high-speed running at rates in excess of 60 m. p. h., it has also been found that the reduction of wind resistance effected by streamlining has had beneficial effects upon coal consumption. Apart from the new “Silver Link” engines, the L. and N. E. authorities are also to build this year four new locomotives of the “Cock o’ the North” type, for service on the difficult road between Edinburgh and Aberdeen. These engines will be partially streamlined, and will form a noteworthy addition to the Home railway locomotive stocks.
Every year the Home railways spend something like £17,500,000 on maintaining and renewing their permanentway, signals, buildings, etc. More than 1,000 miles of track are laid or renewed annually, for which 183,000 tons of steel rails, more than 3,800,000 sleepers, and nearly 1,800,000 cubic yards of ballast are required. Increasing passenger train speeds have made great demands on the permanent-way in recent times. As yet, however, this high-speed running has not affected the design of the Home railway track to any appreciable degree.
London, Midland and Scottish Express passenger locomotive, “British Legion,”
Standard track on the four Home groups takes the form of 95 lb. British standard bullhead rails in 60 ft. lengths, carried in cast-iron chairs weighing 46 lbs. each, on 24 sleepers per rail length. On the L. M. and S., L. and N. E. and Southern lines, the chairs are secured to the sleepers by three screws. On the Great Western system, a through-bolt is employed. The two larger groups—the L. M. and S. and L. and N. E.—have laid a limited mileage of 100 lb. rails. Actually, however, these rails are of 95 lb. section, with 5lb. additional per yard on top of the head, the idea being to extend rail life where heavy wear is experienced.
A new idea which is gaining favour in some continental countries and in the United States, but which is viewed with a certain amount of doubt by Home permanent-way engineers, takes the form of welding rails into long lengths. Germany has done a good deal in this direction, and in that country, too, the recent introduction of specially fast passenger trains has called for very extensive track alterations and adjustments on the mainlines such as Berlin-Cologne, Berlin-Hamburg, and Berlin-Frankfort.
New Pullman car trains, introduced by the Home railways, direct attention
Coaling Belts and Hoists, L. & N. E. R., King George Dock, Hull.
The latest all-Pullman express to be placed at public disposal is the “Bournemouth Belle” daily train of the Southern Railway, operating between Waterloo Station, London, and the south-coast holiday and residential centre of Bournemouth. This train also serves Southampton in its daily flight to and from London. The train is composed of first and third-class Pullman cars, and already it has become most popular with the travelling public.
French passenger and freight services are being considerably improved by the introduction of new Diesel railcar services in and around the principal centres of population. On the French State and the Eastern Railway, new Diesel railcars seating 60 passengers are being employed. These are 72 ½ ft. long, have an overall width of 9 ½ ft., and weigh when empty 27 tons. Aluminium alloys are largely employed for the bodywork. The cars are carried on two four-wheeled bogies, and at either end is a six-cylinder, 130 b. h. p. oil engine. Speeds of up to 80 m. p. h. are practicable, and rapid acceleration is a feature.
On the Paris, Lyons and Mediterranean system, Diesel-electric railcars have been introduced experimentally for the conveyance of goods traffic. These haul loads of up to 60 tons. The power equipment consists of a pair of six-cylinder Diesel engines and generators, and the maximum speed of the cars is approximately 55 m. p. h. Smalls traffic is carried in the car itself, while, when required, the car can haul from one to five ordinary goods wagons, and so form a sort of light freight train. At the outset, the cars are being employed experimentally in the Lyons area.
Underground railways perform exceedingly useful service in big traffic centres like London, Paris and Berlin. In the latter, capital work is proceeding steadily on the construction of a new underground route traversing the city from north to south, and connecting with the existing east and west railway at the Friedrichstrasse station. In length the new line is just 3 ½ miles.
Interior Pullman Car “Bournemouth Belle” Train, Southern Railway.
The Home railways are known to be largely interested in docks and steamships, but it may come as a surprise to learn that the four group lines are actually the largest dock-owners in the world, and their extensive equipment includes the world's largest drydock—that of the Southern Railway at Southampton. The railways own docks on all coasts, and the latest mechanical appliances have been installed, so that vessels may be loaded or unloaded and their cargoes transferred to rail or warehoused, with the minimum of delay. In South Wales, on the northeast coast, and in Scotland, a feature of the dock equipment is the installation of coal-shipping appliances capable of dealing with 20-ton wagons. 7,000 ft. of new quay has been brought into use at Southampton, and an extension, 1,120 ft. in length, of Parkeston Quay, Harwich, has also been completed.
Hotels
A Reliable Travellers Guide
).Thos. Watson
(Photo., Havelock Williams, Timaru.)
St. David's Memorial Church, at Cave.
Only in the world's great cities may classical buildings be seen that attract sight-seers from the ends of the earth; but New Zealand can now claim to possess a building that is attracting increasing numbers of people within her own borders and many a visitor from overseas. But this building is not in any of her cities—not even in a village, but in the “way back,” where it stands in all its artistic and romantic beauty, placed there as a monument. It is therefore, surely, unique.
This building is St. David's Memorial Church, situated on the crest of a low hill some twenty miles from Timaru. Remarkable alike, as stated, with regard to the site, but more so for its architecture, the mode and materials of its construction, and, above all, shall we say, the conception and purpose it is designed to serve.
It is safe to say that in hardly one feature is this building like any other church of which the writer has knowledge. No other combines within or without its walls so much that is romantic, poetic, chaste—the expression of a noble sentiment and a gracious memory. That may sound a big claim, for a building situate away in the “out-back” of Canterbury, but as proof of its justification, the New Zealand Institute of Architects awarded the gold medal for 1934 for the building of best design in New Zealand since 1930 to the architect for the building, Mr. H. W. Hall, of Timaru.
Quite appropriately this church might be termed the “Cathedral in the Wilderness” (although, be it noted, the surrounding country possesses scenery both varied and beautiful). But, excepting the Railway siding buildings and a few dwellings in the valley below, there is no township within miles.
The building is on the property of T. D. Burnett, Esq., and built by him primarily in memory of his parents, Andrew and Catherine Burnett, who settled in the Mackenzie Country when that frigid region was still in its pristine wildness; and secondly, to commemorate also, the noble band of pioneer run-holders who took up runs in the Mackenzie and other South Canterbury areas enfolded by the snowclad Southern Alps. On the walls of the Church are the names of the original run-holders—some forty-odd—with name of the run, its area, and date of occupation. But interesting as such records undoubtedly are, it is when we come to the architectural design, variety of detail, and the rare artistry of its execution, that the beholder is filled with the wonder of the unexpected; and spell-bound by the accumulated effects of this chaste memorial, born of a memory that truly carries the heat and colour of its birthplace—the heart of the one to whom the whole edifice owes its being.
The Church is built of boulders gathered from the nearby hills (what a labour?) all carefully selected for size, colour and texture, the boulders being split to show the colour. The roof is of split slates from Westmoreland—probably the finest obtainable. The spouting and downpipes are of thick copper.
The porch is paved with smaller stones, but the steps of bigger ones; and here one may halt to gaze on the rugged mountains that lie behind. When the worshipper leaves the Church there is cover overhead, but no glass to obscure the view, which may be of sheep in the far distance. On a slab of Timaru blue stone is inscribed these words:—
“This porch is erected to the Glory of God, and in memory of the sheepmen, shepherds, bullock-drivers, shearers, station hands—who pioneered the back country of the Province between the years 1855 and 1895.”
The light above in the porch is the actual masthead light of a ship that entered Timaru roadstead before there were any harbour works, and the lamp sheds rays of electric light generated in the far Highlands.
The great principals are rough forest giants. They are ironbark, whilst the rafters are of jarrah, all rough adzed, with very few bolts securing the timbers, as they are mostly pegged, and nowhere is iron visible, so that the acoustic properties might be as perfect as possible. The walls are plastered, but it is rough thrown. The floor is altogether something apart. It has two feet of shingle ballast, with four inches of concrete, whilst on top-of these are inlaid blocks of totara, 9 in. by 3 in. by 2 in. on bitumen paint—the surface finished with a dual polish, the colour contrasting with the:
The pulpit is probably the most original ever erected. It is also built of boulders brought from Mount Cook station, and were the hearthstones of the first habitation of Andrew and Catherine Burnett—a V-shaped hut.
The top of the pulpit and the border are rare works of art amidst the primeval of Nature. The wood is portion of a prehistoric forest. This beautiful piece of totara (grown on the Cave Downs) and drooping to the Bible rest of mountain-ribbon wood and mountain lily, shows a finish of the polisher's art which experts regard as mahogany. The boulder work of the pulpit and the polish of its top certainly show the work of a master hand.
The Font is another most inspiring conception. Certainly, nothing so absolutely unique could be imagined. The base is a huge boulder of gray whacke brought from the Jolly River gorge, weighing about four hundred weight, and was previously used in the building of a musterer's hut. Above the boulder is placed the great hub of a bullock dray in which the pioneers first travelled into the Tasman Valley. The crowning piece of the Font is of sandstone and was used by the fore-bears of the Burnetts in Scotland, as the mortar in which they ground the oats and barley.
Suspended from the centre of the Nave is an electrolier, quite as original in design as the other parts. It is composed of wrought iron, and the links of its chain are also hand wrought with no marks of a file to be seen. It carries seven electric candles. The porch, choir, and vestry are also lit with electricity, and the Nave by the same power. All the electric switch covers are hammered out of wrought iron.
There are fourteen memorial windows of medieval grisaille; twelve depict the Twelve Apostles, and each quite distinctive, and the other two the pioneer women of the Mackenzie Country—all works of the highest or-der. These windows are Norman in design, surmounted by Tudor arches. The inscriptions on the Mackenzie windows read—
“To the Glory of God, and in honour and in memory of the pioneer women of the Mackenzie Country who, through arctic winters and in the wilderness, maintained their homes and kept the faith, these windows are dedicated.”
The arch over the pulpit is built of limestone quarried from the hillside in Mona Vale. The keystone was originally cut for the Christchurch Cathedral. The ceiling is of jarrah and is pegged, in order that the acoustic properties might not be affected. The floor of the Choir is paved with small boulders in keeping with the boulders of the pulpit.
The chief characteristics here are the memorial windows in the Eastern gable. The first is that of Ruth, the Moabitess, who spoke the finest love declaration in all literature (that is the opinion of the writer, at all events), in making answer to her mother-in-law, Naomi who, resolving to return to her own country of Bethlehem-Judah, besought her daughter-in-law, Ruth, to remain behind with her own people. A part only of her declaration is given:—
“Whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge.”
In the second window, the central figure is that of Christ, the “Good Shepherd”: underneath being the words:—
“The Lord is my Shepherd.”
The third represents David, the Shepherd King, with the words:—
(Photo Havelock Williams.)
An interior view of St. David's Memorial Church.
“The Lord is my Shepherd.”
On a brass tablet is the inscription:—
“This Church is erected to the Glory of God, and in loving remembrance of Andrew and Catherine Burnett, who took up the Mount Cook sheep run, May, 1864, and in the wilderness founded a home.”
But all that is attempted of description fails to convey the thrill that this memorial inspires—this noble shrine, beautiful in its rugged simplicity, in its strength and variety of conception and master workmanship, makes powerful appeal to the mind of every beholder who can react to such wealth of love and veneration so bountifully expressed.
New Zealand'S First Parliamentary Broadcast.
(Rly Publicity photo.)
The author at the microphone, on the floor of the House of Representatives, describing the scene in the Chamber when members were taking the oath of allegiance to H. M. the King. On the right is the relay operator, controlling the sound output picked up by four microphones suspended above the heads of legislators.
The formal opening of Parliament, with all its picturesque pageantry, was due for the following day, and this first radio broadcast was confined to the proceedings of the House of Representatives with the object of giving the people of the Dominion an intimate insight into the way in which a new Parliament elects its Speaker, without whom it could not meet the representative of the King on the following afternoon. Here were the eighty members, fresh from a memorable election campaign, nearly half of them unfamiliar with their surroundings. Their first duty was to take the oath of allegiance to His Majesty King Edward, and although they probably did not know it, they were liable to severe penalties if they voted without complying with this essential Standing Order. The proceedings were directed by the Clerk of the House, but he is not permitted to address Parliament, and when in due course he had to indicate the member desiring to nominate the Hon. W. E. Barnard as Speaker, he could only point to him. The official commentator was required to announce the name for the information of listeners, and as the broadcast commenced more than half an hour before the Speaker's election was held, it comprised a description of the scene, with occasional introduction of the interesting process of the swearing-in of members. The whole of New Zealand, if it had been listening-in, could have heard the new Prime Minister swear due allegiance to His Majesty King Edward, but in the absence of television, it could not see Mr. Savage write his name in the handsomely bound volume containing the signed oaths of hundreds of men who have helped to make history in the Dominion
The four national stations of the Broadcasting Board were linked up for the parliamentary broadcast. It was an historic event for radio, and the Broadcasting Board has in its archives a complete sound record of what went over the air. These are the opening sentences:
“This is a broadcast from the New Zealand House of Representatives Chamber on the occasion of the opening of the twenty-fifth Parliament.
New Zealand's House of Representatives photographed from the radio commentator's table, showing how four microphones are arranged to secure broadcasts of the debates. The Speaker's chair in distance, and above it the Press Gallery.
“For the first time in the history of New Zealand broadcasting, the microphone has been introduced into Parliament itself, so that even the most distant elector may gain some first-hand knowledge of the more important happenings. New Zealand is blazing the trail for parliamentary broadcasts.”
The printed comment following the two first radio broadcasts seems to have contained nothing but appreciation of the new opportunity given to the people of hearing Parliament at work. A good deal of descriptive narrative had necessarily to be provided on these occasions, where much ceremonial is observed, and the writer was selected to “tell the story” because he was familiar with it, and had experience of presenting broadcast talks, involving an entirely different technique from that of descriptive journalism, for scenes had to be described as they happened—there was no opportunity to carefully consider the exactly-right word or phrase, no friendly editor or proof-reader, but a great listening public possibly critical over an innovation, but happily in the sequel, quite appreciative of the effort.
Behind the broadcast, which was a technically perfect one, were the experts placed along the chain right from the microphone at the announcer's elbow in Parliament, to the studio in Wellington and all the other broadcasting stations; alert technicians concerned with the sound output and the maintenance of quality and volume, as well as the “faultmen”
To present over the air an adequate representation of the formal opening of Parliament by His Excellency the Governor-General it was necessary to set up three relay equipments at what might be called strategic points. One microphone stood on the steps of the main entrance to the great marble building, fronting which the troops lined up to give the Royal salute on the arrival of the Governor-General. This was the instrument which picked up and made heard all over New Zealand the boom of the saluting guns firing from Point Jerningham, down the harbour, immediately His Excellency commenced the journey from Government House, through the Capital City, to Parliament Building. A second relay equipment was installed in the gallery of the Legislative Council immediately above the Speaker's chair, and a broadcasting microphone was suspended over the floor of the chamber in front of the dais from which Lord Galway delivered, in clear, cultured, emphatic tones, the Speech from the Throne. Still another broadcasting point had to be set up, for the proceedings in the House of Representatives following the formal opening of the session were relayed to all national stations, enabling the people of New Zealand to hear the tributes of their national representatives to his late Majesty, King George.
One microphone on the steps of the building and another in the Legislative Council were needed simultaneously for the broadcast from the moment His Excellency left Government House, until the Speech from the Throne had been delivered. There were outside as well as inside features of the picturesque ceremonial to be described, but the observer could not be in two places at once! I have to make a little confession about the solution of this problem, by admitting that my description of the “outside” scenes, including the arrival of His Excellency and the inspection of the Guard of Honour, had to be given from memory of many previous events of the kind, fortified by a general survey of the outside scene, including a look at the weather, some minutes before taking my place at the microphone.
The relay points were connected by telephone with the studio, where an operator dealt with the “sounds without” from the Parliamentary steps, and blended them with the spoken description. As the latter had to synchronise with actual happenings outside, invisible to the commentator, the studio telephone gave the signal when the outside microphone picked up the sounds of the mounted escort trotting ahead of His Excellency's motor, and it was possible at the right moment to announce “His Excellency has arrived, and we will hear the National Anthem being played by the band, and the sounds of the Royal salute.”
In the Legislative Council at this moment the members waited silently for the Governor-General's arrival, and the last spectator had been packed into the overcrowded galleries. Nothing was happening which could be described, but a broadcast must be continuous, otherwise listeners might become anxious over the working of their sets, or think something else has gone wrong. So the narrative had to proceed, the narrator speaking in subdued tones close to the microphone, so that the august silence might not be disturbed by this modern innovation. There was a reassuring message afterwards from a high officer of Parliament that the announcer had not been heard in the chamber, although the quiet voice, amplified at the relay point and further reinforced at 2 YA studio, was heard at the extreme ends of the Dominion.
The Speech from the Throne having been delivered. His Excellency left the chamber, and the broadcast had to be resumed as soon as possible in the House of Representatives. It was necessary for relay operator and commentator to make a quick journey from one chamber to the other, bul with crowded corridors this was no easy matter. Messengers and police were warned beforehand to give quick passage to the operator who carried the microphone, for he had to be ahead of the commentator, and set up communications with the broadcast system before speech could go over the air. One could not resume a broadcast in a breathless condition, so the commentator's progress was deliberate—and he arrived before the technician. Here was a dilemma! Fortunately it was soon over, for the relay official came in hurriedly with the explanation that he had lost himself in the complicated corridors.
Only a few moments, and the relay point was working, just as Mr. Speaker commenced to announce that members of the House, having proceeded to the Legislative Council, had there heard the Speech from the Throne “of which, for purposes of greater accuracy,” added Mr. Speaker, “I have obtained a copy.”
From that point onwards, description ceased, and the commentator joined the radio listeners in hearing Parliament speak for itself.
Shiela Russell
Peter Possum and Joe the Morepork were two of the animals who lived near a cottage on Pudding Hill. They both had their homes in the branches of an old gum tree which stood close to the cottage. In the daytime they curled up and went to sleep, but when night fell they came out to look for food and talk to the other animals.
One evening Peter Possum and Joe were talking together up in the old gum tree. Joe was the kind of person who thought he knew everything, and he made Peter Possum, who didn't know much about anything, feel rather silly.
The people who lived in the cottage had lit a fire and sparks were coming out of the chimney. Peter Possum liked to watch the sparks. He thought the way they floated down gently was very pretty, and he wanted to know all about them, so he said to Joe:
“Well, fancy not knowing that,” said Joe scornfully, “really, Peter, you are ignorant.”
“What's ignorant?” asked Peter Possum.
“Ignorant is not knowing anything,” said Joe.
Peter Possum thought about this for a moment, then he asked, “How is it that you know everything?”
“I know everything,” said Joe, “because I fly about and see, everything. Every night I fly miles and miles and see all kinds of interesting things. Do you know what I saw last night?”
“What?” asked Peter Possum.
“I saw,” said Joe, “on another hill where all kinds of strange animals live in cages, an animal as big as that cottage, and it had a tail at each end!”
Peter Possum gasped.
“A tail at each end?” he said.
“A tail at each end!” Joe nodded his head decidedly.
“Whatever would it have a tail at each end for?” asked Peter Possum.
“So that it doesn't have to turn round,” said Joe. “As a matter of fact it's so big it can't turn round. When it gets to where it wants to go and it's time to go home, it just goes backwards. Only it isn't backwards, really, because both ends are in front.”
“But,” said Peter Possum sadly puzzled, “I thought it had a tail at each end, and a tail couldn't be in front you know.”
Doll pricked up her ears. “You don't mean the Zoo, do you?” she asked.
“Why not?” said Joe rather huffily. “I don't know,” Peter Possum replied
“That's just it,” snapped Joe, “you're ignorant, as I said before.” And with that the rude bird flapped his wings and sailed off into the darkness.
For some time Peter Possum sat still, feeling rather sad. He wanted to be friendly with Joe, but it isn't easy to be friendly with anyone who calls you ignorant. And he just couldn't believe all that about the animal as big as the cottage. The biggest animal he'd seen was Doll the milkman's horse, and she most certainly had a tail at one end only. Thinking about Doll gave him an idea. At about this time of the evening she used to toil up the far side of Pudding Hill with a flat cart loaded with bottles of milk. She had told him once that it was part of her round, and that her round was a very long one—miles and miles! It was quite possible, thought Peter Possum, that she would have heard of the animal with a tail at each end.
His mind made up, Peter Possum scrambled down the tree and ran through the grass, up the hill, and over the top to the other side to where the road wound away down into the town. Sure enough, there was Doll slowly coming up the hill with the cart. Peter Possum sat down to wait. When she arrived and the milkman had gone down with the milk bottles for the cottage, Peter Possum came out of his hiding place.
“Good evening!” he said politely. (Doll snorted). “My goodness, you gave me a fright,” she said.
“I'm sorry,” said Peter Possum, “but have you heard of an animal that can't turn round and has a tail at each end?”
“Indeed I have not,'.’ said Doll.
“It lives,” said Peter Possum, “on a hill like this one with some other peculiar animals who live in cages.”
Doll pricked up her ears.
“You don't mean the Zoo, do you?” she asked.
“I'm not sure,” replied Peter Possum, “but does your round take you anywhere near it?”
“Oh, yes, we deliver six quart and three pint bottles at the Zoo.”
Peter Possum's little heart began to patter with excitement.
“Could I go with you to-night?” he asked.
“Well, I suppose you could,” said Doll.
The milkman could be heard returning.
“Quick,” said Doll, “climb up into my feed bag; you'll find it hanging underneath the cart. I'll tell you when we get to the Zoo:”
Then began one of the most exciting events of Peter Possum's life. As soon as the milk cart reached the top of the hill Doll began to trot, the wheels rumbled, and the feed bag in which Peter Possum was hidden swung from side to side. Every now and then they would stop and Peter Possum would ask “Is this the Zoo?” but Doll would say—“No, not yet.”
At last they stopped and Doll called out, “Here we are.”
Peter Possum climbed out and saw in front of him a row of pine trees.
“There's nothing I like to much to do, As go for a walk at five-to-two.”
“Where do I go?” he asked a little nervously. He felt a long way from home and would rather like to have been back in his own tree on Pudding Hill.
“Straight through the trees and over the fence at the back,” said Doll. “Good luck.”
And Peter Possum slipped across the road and disappeared among the shadows.
From the top of the fence he looked around and saw the cages of which Joe had told him. And amongst them a very big house with a round top. It must be there Peter Possum decided that the animal that had two tails and was as big as the cottage on Pudding Hill, lived.
So he hopped off the fence and ran towards it. But just outside he stopped dead, scarcely daring to breathe, for inside he could hear something moving and a voice singing softly.
Peter Possum plucked up courage because it was a nice voice, and squeezing through a drainpipe in the wall of the house, found himself in a big room. Then his big round eyes grew bigger and rounder at what he saw.
Joe the Morepork had been right. The animal was as big as the cottage on Pudding Hill, or nearly so, and it certainly had something like a tail in front.
All of a sudden it stopped singing and the tail in front stretched out towards Peter Possum. It had two holes in the end of it and it sniffed as though to find out who Peter Possum was.
“Who's this?” asked the animal.
“I'm Peter Possum from Pudding Hill.”
“Let's have a look at you,“said the animal, and to Peter Possum's horror, the tail curled itself round him. Then it lifted him off the floor high up in the air, and Peter Possum found himself looking into a pair of twinkly eyes. They looked at him for some moments and then he was lifted still further up and put down on the animal's head. And such a head! It was as big as the water tank at the cottage on Pudding Hill.
“Who did you say you were?” asked the animal again. “Excuse me putting you up there, but I can't hear you on the floor.”
“I'm Peter Possum,” he said again.
“That's very interesting,” said the big animal. “I'm Ranee the elephant.”
“Oh,” said Peter Possum. “Can you turn round?”
“Of course I can, only not here, because there isn't room. But I can do lots of other things as well. I can kneel down and stand on my hind legs and roll over on my back.”
“Why do you have two tails?” asked Peter Possum.
Ranee became annoyed at this.
“I have only one tail,” she said sharply. “Wise people know that this,“she raised her trunk, “is my nose. It's only ignorant people who go about saying I have two tails.”
“I'm very sorry,” said Peter Possum, “but I've never seen an elephant before, and Joe the Morepork told me that you had two tails and couldn't turn round.”
“I never heard such nonsense,” said Ranee, “but I'll forgive you this time.”
Peter Possum was silent for a little while, then he began to say over and over to himself,
“Ranee the elephant has only one tail and she can turn round, stand on her hind legs and roll over on her back—just like anyone else.”
“That's right,” said Ranee happily, “you are a clever person.”
“I think I ought to be going now,“said Peter Possum, “I'm a long way from home.”
“Very well,” said Ranee, “but come and see me again,” and she lifted him down from her head. “And tell that silly Morepork that the really ignorant people are the ones who pretend to know everything without bothering to find out the truth.”
So Peter Possum started off home. It took him a long time to get there because he wasn't sure of the way.
It was broad daylight and Joe had already gone to bed, when he arrived back at the gum tree on Pudding Hill. But Peter Possum didn't care. He woke him up and told him all about his night's adventure and how he had been quite wrong in saying Ranee the elephant had two tails and couldn't turn round. He even went so far as to tell him what Ranee had said about the people who pretended to know everything being the ignorant ones; which offended Joe so much that he went into his hole and shut the door.
But in the end it did good because ever afterwards Joe the Morepork was very careful not to say he knew everything, and most careful not to call anyone ignorant again, and the Animals of Pudding Hill were the happier for it.
Shibli Bagarag
Notable New Zealand Trials.
In “Notable New Zealand Trials,“Mr. C. A. L. Treadwell, the well-known Wellington solicitor, has scored a distinct success.
Turn up the book at any page and there you find something of absorbing interest—some sidelight on human character or emotion, some reference to the facts and fiction of the past, some telling argument or comment drawn from sound reasoning or profound knowledge.
Mr. Treadwell's style is terse, his facts are the result of intimate research, and each story is treated in a distinctive and masterly manner.
As a study in criminology the book bids fair to become a standard work of reference, whilst for human appeal, the “Trials” outshine most of the more remarkable imaginative stories of this type.
A large number of “Trials” have already appeared, in illustrated form, in the “New Zealand Railways Magazine,“but readers will appreciate having these, together with many others in the same series, assembled in book form.
The publication itself is a splendid example of the printers’ art applied to the making of an easily handled and easily read publication. In choice of type and lay-out the book is definitely attractive. The printers, Thomas Avery & Sons Ltd., of New Plymouth, have done work well up to the best world standards.
New Zealand has seen many notable trials—and doubtless will see many more. It is a subject of perennial interest at such times to refer back to the circumstances of past events, where points of similarity might be detected. As people talk much of these affairs, they can make their conversation more interesting and better informed by reference to this volume, which covers an extraordinary range of human interest trials and is published at the comparatively low price of 7/6d.
New Zealand Authors’ Week.
New Zealand Authors' Week, so brilliantly organised, is just over. Never in the history of New Zealand have New Zealand books and the literary activities of New Zealand, from the creation of the authors' thought to the finished product in book form, been brought so forcibly and so appealingly before our reading public. I do not propose to hark back on the details of the elaborate programmes so faithfully and strikingly presented. There is sufficient evidence to be found in the columns of the daily press. I am here to discuss, not the past, but the future. It is strikingly evident that Authors’ Week has re-awakened the New Zealand public to the fact that they need not, as in the past, rely entirely on the overseas literary product. The most practical result of the week has been the increase in the sale of New Zealand books, and this will continue, for the public, having tasted of its own country's wares, will, because it is satisfied, with its appealing quality, continue to buy.
But will the output be equal to the demand? To a certain extent it will, for, apart from the numerous books published, in the spirit of optimism
An Interesting bookplate drawn for himself by Frank Cooze, of Wellington.
The abiding incentive for future endeavour is the magnificent publication that embraces in bioliographic detail, article and verse, the story of New Zealand literature up till April, 1936. This publication is already under order by the leading libraries of the world. When April, 1937, comes along there should be a still more inspiring story to tell.
The, March issue of “Art in New Zealand” features the work of Sydney L. Thompson, one of our most distinguished painters. Two colour plates and four reproductions of his work in black and white are supported by a well written survey by James Shelley. Mr. C. A. Marris, the editor, gives helpful criticism in announcing the result of the quarterly's short story competition, which was won by Mrs. E. D. M. Doust. Tom Mills, close friend of the late Dave Souter, writes interestingly on Souter's book-plates with illustrations of his work. Poems by “Robin Hyde” and Peter Middleton are among other features of this attractive issue, I hope the inspiration of Authors’ Week will move more New Zealand literary and art enthusiasts to support this excellent: magazine.
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We in New Zealand must be proud of C. R. Allen because of his latest novel, “A Poor Scholar.” He has in the past done fine work as a poet, novelist and essayist, but nothing so sincere, so living as this novel. It has all the ingredients—style, plot, truth and interest. He has taken a poor lad from the rather drab home of his parents and converted him into a Rhodes scholar and knighted him, and, he has done it convincingly. I feel that I know Frederick Lawrence (“Ponto”) as a friend, and every reader of this charming book will feel
The story is simple—the development from poverty of a Rhodes scholar, the story of his boyhood, his manhood, of his loves and his triumphs. And without any effort Mr. Allen has made it so redolent of New Zealand.
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Reviews.
“They Died With Their Boots On,” by Thomas Ripley (Angus & Robert-son, Sydney), tells a thrilling story of the life and true adventures of John Wesley Hardin and other Texan desperadoes. The author, who was the grandson of “one of the toughest, hardest-riding cavalry rebels ever to swing a sabre,” has in his blood the thrill of those lawless days succeeding the American Civil War. He has the ability to tell the story and the industry to unearth records to vouch for the truth of his yarns. The central figure, Hardin, was a picturesque and notorious killer and his career of shooting plays the predominant note in the orchestration of gunfire and outlawry. A vivid book.
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“The Lure of New Zealand Book Collecting,” by Johannes Andersen (Whitcombe & Tombs, Ltd.) appeared, most appropriately, in time for New Zealand Authors’ Week. We have revelled in following the track of the gold seeker of half a century ago. Here we go hand in hand with a seeker after greater riches—the treasures of literature. To my mind there is no more fascinating hobby in this whole world than book collecting. Although the author refers often to market values, he is no mercenary seeker of tomes. He is a prospector of their literary worth. The nuggets
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“A Century of Horror” (Hutchison, London; Whitcombe & Tombs, New Zealand agents), is one of the latest of the Century Library. Being statistical, it contains 52 stories by 47 authors and comprises 1,024 pages. Being descriptive, the book has in it enough stories of horror to stiffen the hair on the scalp of the most blase reader. There's something terribly fascinating in reading a well told horror story. In this book we have such masterful writers as Ambrose Bierce, Walter de la Mare, Edgar Allen Poe, Balzac, Algernon Blackwood, H. G. Wells, de Maupassant and Denis Wheatley. The last mentioned has been selected, most appropriately, as editor of the collection. Wheatley is a connoisseur of the weird and certainly he has scoured the purple shadows most assiduously in the compilation of this volume.
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“Fifty Years of Ghost Stories” (from the same publishers), is a fit companion for the volume mentioned in the preceding paragraph. Whether or not they leave us shivering, ghost stories always appeal to the great majority of readers. A long procession of ghosts of great variety are summoned from the shadows by such expert story spinners as E. F. Benson, Algernon Blackwood, W. L. George, Sheridan le Fanu, Bulwer-Lytton, Bram Stoker, etc. Whether they have a dripping dagger in their shadowy chests, their heads in their hands or plenteous bangles of clanking chains, all these ghosts are very interesting, if shuddersome. Quite the ideal book for waiting wives anxious to be awake and mentally alert for the attack on late coming husbands.
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“The Cattle King,” by Ion L. Idriess (Angus & Robertson, Sydney), is the life story of one of Australia's greatest men, Sir Sydney Kidman. No writer could be better fitted to tell this story than Idriess, one of the most popular of Australian authors. His book contains not only the story of the acknowledged Cattle King of
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Shibli” Listens In.
Mr. Walter Jago, who brilliantly edited “Aussie” for a number of years, has been appointed editor of “The Australian Magazine,” which is due to appear shortly in Sydney.
A number of leading New Zealand writers are collaborating in a murder mystery novel on a scheme similar to “Murder Pie,” recently published in Australia by A. & R.
Helen
Of particular interest in the mannequin parade were the evening toilettes. Furs, velvets, satins, paraded in a glamorous mist of colour. Only by concentration could one escape the general effect and note a particular model.
First, I looked for line. Gowns were sheath-like, with or without floating draperies; bouffant from a fitted hipline; sharply cut by the line of peplum, blouse or jacket. Materials were such as suited the type of frock—chiffon, georgette or ninon; satin, crepe or matelasse; velvet, lame or brocade. Many of the filmy fabrics were threaded with metal in silver or gold. Colours ranged from pastel tints for the dainty double-pug-sleeved affair of the debutante, through the rich shimmer of renaissance shades to the dark lustre of velvet.
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Try to picture a cabaret frock in burgundy, embroidered with gold thread; a slim skirt, lustrous in black velvet, topped by a blouse or tailored jacket in silver lame or brocade; a frock in clinging lace with a cape shoulder; a tunic gown, the tunic with its fullness held at the waistline and swinging out with peplum effect over the clinging skirt; a longer tunic, sheath-like, over a pleated underdress; a glorious gown in misty-grey finely pleated chiffon, held at the waist-line with cerise; a green taffeta gown swinging out at neck and hemline in stiff quilting; chiffon again with wing sleeves (fairly short and square ended, or else falling low to a point) effectively lined in contrast.
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Evening coats, cloaks and capes are more interesting than they have been for many years. Among the furs, the short fur cape, especially in white, is prominent. A charming version had black ermine tail-tips in an unusual design at the neck-line. The capes may have a round neck unadorned, or a high collar giving an Elizabethan
For Evenings.
effect. A long white fur coat, plain save for ermine tails near the hemline, looked regal on a tall, dark girl.
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Velvet wraps lead for richness and comfort. Black is usual, but any shade looks well. Many of the coats are long, from three-quarters to slipper length. Voluminous sleeves of the bishop variety are featured. One model had very full sleeves with shirring smoothing the shoulder-line and holding the fabric tight to the wrist. A hood, reminiscent of a monk, an Eskimo, or a renaissance beauty, frames the coiffure or is pushed back in soft folds round the neck. The very plainest wraps arc adorned by one large ornamental clasp of mediaeval design. Black cloaks are often lined with a brilliant colour.
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Evening purses glitter with beads, sequins, diamente, jewels. Shoes match frock materials, or shine silver or golden to match trimmings, jewelled ornaments or belts.
A dinner-dance dress boasts a tailored jacket of silver lame. Have your evening blouse softly draped in lace, pleated in georgette, high-cowled in satin, gleaming in lame or brocade.
Looking Back.
One of the stock jokes of the world is the elderly club bore, who repeats, oblivious to the fidgetings and stifled yawns of his more polite acquaintance, anecdotes of his boyhood, youngmanhood or middle years. In all of these, be it noted, he figures as rather a fine person, the kind of person who not only has things happen to him, but makes them happen to others. “He's getting old, poor old chap!” we excuse him by saying—and continue our efforts to avoid conversation.
How much worse is it to meet the still fairly young bore whom old age, in the form of grouching, inertia, loss of ambition, has seized too soon; the man who looks back on what he did a few years ago and, with a brave attempt at self-importance, says, “Look! Such a man I was then! There were possibilities—I've never followed them up, but you see what I might have done.” Poor thing! He listens with a wistful look to the doer, the man whose life is so active that he can find time for even more interests, grasping them eagerly. The has-been thinks, “I started off on that road once” —and leaves it at that.
In all of us, of course, there is a sneaking admiration for what we were once. Perhaps the greatest pleasure of retrospection lies in glorifying our distant selves. But retrospection is good only in small doses. To the young bore we feel like saying, “Look back by all means—for a while. See what in you was admirable, and realise that you still possess those qualities. Decide to develop them, now! Look back in future only to measure your own rate of progress.”
The pleasure to be gained from being now is insuperably greater than that of having been. Take your place with the doers, the place that you know belongs to you by right of the qualities that are in you, the place for which you were shaping yourself those years ago when you admired yourself. Do that, gaining happiness in proportion to effort. Do that, and
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Colour In The Kitchen.
Kitchen maids, dark cellars, black beetles, small windows peering out below the street level, great drab rooms whose activities revolved perpetually about the grimy wood and coal consuming cooking contraption so inadequately termed the kitchen range —all this has so often supplied the local colour in novels, depicting the Victorian domestic scene that even the post-war generation is familiar with it.
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The revolution in kitchen affairs commenced, no doubt, soon after the introduction of gas for cooking purposes. It was found that gas was a much cleaner cooking medium than coal had been, and it was no longer necessary to have the kitchen walls of a hue “that wouldn't show the dirt.“Even the galvanized iron protective backing for the earlier gas-stoves, and the impressive “extinguisher” top were soon painted, as the washable qualities of paint were more and more realised. Strangely it was discovered that light, pleasant hues, even dead-white, were kept as easily clean as the drab colours.
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The introduction of electricity hastened the change which was already under way. Gloomy skirting-boards and dadoes disappeared from the newer kitchens. Light crept into them. Slowly architects came to realise the importance of the workroom of the home. With the disappearance of long terraces of semidetached houses and the evolution of the bungalow, the kitchen became the subject of careful planning. Efficiency experts calculated how many steps a woman was required to take a day from cunboard to stove, from sink to table. Model kitchens were planned, with the aid of painters and decorators who supplied glossy-finish paints and enamels for walls and ceilings, and crisp, gay cottons for window drapes.
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And now we have the modern kitchen, large enough for comfort, but small enough for step-saving, planned for efficiency with its electric refrigerator, heat-controlled cooker, fitted closed-in dresser, vegetable rack,
There are so many possible colour schemes. For a south room I suggest the palest of yellows for walls and cupboards, and ivory for the ceiling, with a contrast in blue or green for cupboard handles, linoleum or floor mats.
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Floor-mats in the kitchen, for colour and cleanliness, should be of rubber. Throw out that grubby bit of axminster, even if it is warm under your feet on cold days. Rubber will insulate you just as well. Keep a rubber mat, too, for placing in the sink when washing up your best party china. Remember that curtains with a rubber finish can be bought for kitchen or bathroom.
For a room with a northerly aspect, or one where the use of gas or a coal stove may raise the temperature considerably, cooler walls in a soft shade of blue or green are advisable. A little judicious warmth of colouring may be introduced even in the saucepans, those of coloured enamel being very popular.
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A kitchen of the modern type provides a cheerful environment for small meals—breakfast or a light lunch. The kitchen linen, of course, is part of the harmonious whole. Some homes have a dining-alcove off the kitchen. The alcove may have a colour scheme of its own, but I prefer to have it en suite with the kitchen, the whole necessarily being planned to look slightly less utilitarian.
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Linoleum seems one of the best finishes for the kitchen floor. Buy for quality, and even then protect the space by sink and stove with mats (of rubber). The linoleum designers, of late, have given special attention to kitchens. A word of warning about checks—they look well, especially when the eye is drawn to checked gingham curtains to match, but their immaculate appearance is easily besmirched. An all-over mottled effect is better for the much-used kitchen.
A visit to an auctioneer will probably unearth an old office stool which, duly enamelled, will prove a boon to the housewife who so often, unthinkingly, stands to prepare vegetables, stir sauces, beat eggs. Remember that, in the kitchen, you are as young as your legs.
Health Notes.
Already we find a nip in the air and a shrink in the day, and although summer has not been too kind to us, we fondly hope that winter will favour us, for winter with its attendant ills is now not far away. Then let us put our human house in order so that we may the better be able to withstand the rigours of the season.
Nor need this preparation be on an elaborate scale as, given a normal body and a wholesome mind, the preservation of good health is a simple matter.
To those afflicted with illness or infirmity, more assistance is necessary. But even these people can con-siderably help by paying attention to the rules pertaining to the normally healthy ones.
As we have told you before, the ills to which the flesh is heir are usually caused by some agent of infection entering the body when below par. Now please note those last three words, “when below par,” and at the same time realise that if the body is at par, any invading organism has but a very poor chance of developing its “disease-producing” activities. Now, bearing this in mind, and when we tell you the simple methods by which you can keep your body tone at par, you will no doubt take steps to ensure a safe passage through the coming winter. The only trouble is, that as the methods are so simple and commonplace it is an easy matter to overlook them when busy or postpone them when disinclined.
Now, taking the daily cycle of 24 hours, the old wiseacres divided it out fairly well, except as regards remuneration—“Eight hours work, eight hours play, eight hours sleep, and eight bob a day.”
Taking these three periods seriatim:
1. Work:
It is essential that as far as possible the day's toil be evenly distributed over the working hours, thus regulating the expending of energy and conserving the vital forces upon which rush efforts are only an undue strain.
Maintain regular hours, as regularity is the keynote of good health, not only as regards work, but as regards every thing connected with one's life.
2. Play:
“He who knows not work, knows not the joy of play.”
We may not be able to choose our work, but we can, more or less, choose our play, and it is just as essential that we play, as it is that we work.
Here again, play has to be chosen and regulated in accordance with one's vital forces, and games and exercises must be in keeping with the build and physique of each individual.
Many plead lack of opportunity with regard to exercise, but this is not a valid excuse, as physical fitness can be well maintained by setting aside ten minutes night and morning for a few physical “jerks” which can be carried out in the confines of a bathroom. Naturally, the outdoor games provide a much more pleasant means for exercise, but if not attainable, an instructor will, for a few shillings, outline simple exercises suitable for the individual which can be carried out at home.
Here, again, remember that regularity is the essence of the contract, and that to be effectual these indoor exercises must be faithfully performed.
Above all, avoid the so-called “potted” exercise, by which we mean concentrating the week's exercise into the week-end; a proceeding which might dangerously strain and injure one's health, and which will certainly leave one with that “Monday morning feeling” more accentuated than ever. In other words, maintain your fitness by doing your daily “jerks” night and morning, then the week-end's play will leave you feeling so fit that on Monday morning you will almost go in and ask for a rise.
3. Sleep:
If regularity be essential in connection with work and play, it is almost more so in connection with sleep— that elusive state which blots out the worries of the day, rests mind and body, and fits one to wrestle with the problems of the day to come. Few people realise the value of the socalled “Beauty Sleep,” or, in other words, the sleep procured before the hour of midnight. The saying goes, “One before is worth two after”; nor do we regard this as an exaggeration, for sleep lost before midnight can rarely be made up by extra hours in the morning. Have a regular hour for retiring and a regular hour for rising, and in so doing you will ensure that sleep which is so essential for one's health of mind and body.
4. Eight Bob a Day!
No good, you say? Quite right, too! But remember this will increase in direct proportion to the attention you give to the fitness of your mind and body. You have been given something worth-while, but the onus is on you to keep that something worth while, and in so doing to make it even more worth while.
In summing up, remember regularity of routine is the keynote to health, happiness and prosperity, but at the same time we realise that an occasional “blow out” judiciously arranged does us all good.
We are just going off for one ourselves, and in our next month's notes will go further into the subject of the care of the body.
Recipes.
The following are good and tried recipes:—
Tablespoonful butter (or less), 1 ¼ cups breadcrumbs, 1 cup milk, 2 eggs.
When thoroughly melted, add 2 hard-boiled eggs chopped small and a
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A tasty way of cooking fry and bacon is to wrap the bacon round the fry, cut in thin strips; fasten with a toothpick and cook in the oven for about twenty-five minutes.
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Roast Beef (tomato sauce, grated horse radish, mustard and pickles), Roast Pork (apple sauce). Roast Veal (tomato sauce, onion sauce, mushroom sauce). Roast Mutton (currant jelly, caper sauce). Boiled Mutton (onion sauce, caper sauce). Boiled Fowl (bread sauce, onion, lemon sauce). Roast Lamb (mint sauce). Roast Turkey (currant jelly). Boiled Turkey (oyster sauce). Venison (currant jelly). Roast Goose (apple sauce, currant jelly).
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For a recipe book I suggest the loose-leaf system. The book will lie flat when open. Pages may be removed, inserted or rearranged at will. A linen cover protects the book and will renew its freshness in any wash.
Variety In Brief
I was exceedingly interested in Mr. James Cowan's article in the March number of the “N.Z. Railways Magazine” about the work of the early Wesleyan Missionaries, the more so as the Rev. John Hobbs is my greatgrandfather, and the Rev. William Gittos my great-uncle. Mr. Gittos was greatly beloved of the Maoris. I recently met a descendant of a Maori who knew him, at Lower Hutt, and he spoke glowingly of the Maoris’ love and regard for “Te Kitohi.” In 1839, Mr. Hobbs made the trip from Hokianga to Port Nicholson by whaleboat, accompanied only by Maoris. En route he called on his friend Te Rauparaha, at Kapiti Island, the latter's stronghold. That worthy had profound respect for the missionary, and received him with the utmost cordiality. Only a day or so previously, however, he had ordered a slave girl who had been unfortunate enough to incur his displeasure to prepare an oven for her own cremation! Arrived at the entrance of the Hutt River, Mr. Hobbs found a Scotsman who was trying to fashion a boat, and as he had no nails he was melting metal in a fire and trying to make substitutes. Being the only white resident in the Wellington province, he pined for the society of some of his kind, and hoped to sail to Akaroa, where there were a few white settlers. Strangely enough it was only a year after that, that the first white settlers arrived at Port Nicholson. When they parted, the Scotsman, wishing to express his gratitude to the missionary for his help and inspiration, presented him with his most treasured possession—a book of the Psalms of David. Mr. Cowan referred to Mr. Hobbs's share in influencing the Maoris to sign the Treaty of Waitangi. For many weeks previous to the signing of the Treaty. Mr. Hobbs's friend, Tamati Waka
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An extraordinary thing happened in the United States some time ago. A locomotive weighing nearly 170 tons, one of the biggest freight engines in the country, was lost during a flood. There was a cloud burst and a wall of water roared down a ravine, destroying an embankment and sending the engine hurtling into the ravine. It disappeared entirely into a stream that filled the gully.
No one knew exactly where it was. Yet it was valuable enough to justify salvaging. How could its whereabouts be found?
An engineer passed over the stream holding a magnetic needle. Suddenly the needle began to move, as though attracted by a mass of iron.
“Here,” said the engineer, “is the engine.”
Arrangements were made to salvage it, and it was found at the exact spot indicated by the needle. —“Redan.”
W. F. Ingram
In last month's issue of the “N.Z.Railways Magazine” reference was made to the success of Malcolm Champion, the first New Zealand representative to win an Olympic gold medal. Unable to gain selection in the Auckland team for the New Zealand championships to be held in Christchurch, Champion managed to get a trip to Wellington on the Hinemoa and arrived in the Capital City in time to attend a carnival at Thorndon Baths.
Champion, a swimming enthusiast as well as competitive swimmer— and there is a difference, you know —strolled along and paid his shilling to have a look. His friend off the ship let it be known that Champion was a great swimmer and before he knew what had happened he was invited to take part in the trials. This he did, and with so much success that he was persuaded to go to Christchurch as a member of the Wellington team. It was just as well he decided to do this, as his club in Auckland was not affiliated, and had he gone direct to Chistchurch he would not have been allowed to swim. Instead he linked up with a Wellington Club and was included in the Wellington team.
What did he do at this meeting? Rather what didn't he do! He won every event from 100 yards to the one mile—defeating the Auckland representative miler, George Tyler, in the easiest manner. What is more, he established New Zealand records in all events, and his time for the mile stood until Dave Lindsay, another great alldistance man, broke it a few years ago. But Champion's success and fast times were even more remarkable because at that time he could neither start properly nor turn correctly. At the start of each race he used to jump in, and readers will realise that the present dive start means as much as a second to many successful swimmers in 100 yards. His method of turning was neither more nor less than a flounder—totally different from the scientific methods now used even by school children. It was not until Doug. Stewart, an old representative footballer, put in many hours coaching him that Champion mastered the starting and turning technique.
The success which came so sensationally to Champion did not go to his head, and although he maintained his position as New Zealand's best swimmer he continued to train with the aim to improve not only his pace but his style. He had many trips to Australia but, strangely enough, never showed his true form over there. Accustomed to taking and receiving advice from a trainer he could not adjust himself to the different conditions across the Tasman. It would be fairly safe to state that Champion was one of New Zealand's most widelytravelled athletes. That is, an athlete officially representing New Zealand. “Buster” Andrews, the tennis player, would probably rank as The most widely-travelled athlete, but his travels have not been when representing New Zealand.
In 1911 Champion represented New Zealand at the first Empire Games meeting—held at the time of the Coronation of King George the Fifth. The swimming events were held at the Crystal Palace lake and practically every country in the British Empire sent representatives. The New Zealander won the half-mile and five-mile swimming races, and was easily winning the biggest race of the carnival—the one mile—when he took cramp near the finish and had to be assisted from the water.
The following year saw Champion selected as a member of the Australasian team to the Olympic Games at Stockholm. At that time New Zealand did not have separate affiliation with the International Olympic Games Federation, and New Zealanders competed in the Australasian team. In the 1,500 metres free-style, Champion reached the final but did not succeed in winning a medal, retiring at 800 metres. In the 800 metres relay, in which Healey, Champion, Boardman and Hardwick represented Australasia, he helped to win first place, thus becoming the first New Zealander to score an Olympic gold medal. This race was swum in 10 : 11 1/5, an Olympic record.
Returning to New Zealand, Champion competed until 1914, when he definitely retired. His last championship meeting was at Blenheim where he was once more successful.
Retiring from active competition did not mean any loss of interest in the sport, and Champion soon earned for himself the reputation of being one of New Zealand's greatest swimming coaches. It is not every champion who has the ability to impart information to other swimmers, but Champion proved equal as a coach to what he had been as a competitor. With Professor Olds, late of Otago—who died about a year ago in America, where he had built up a great reputation in swimming circles—Champion did much to raise the standard of swimming in New Zealand. His own daughter, Edna Champion, proved to be one of New Zealand's stars of the water and a record holder, while I have vivid recollections of Pauline Hoeft, at one time holder of the world's record for 150 yards, telling me how he had
Champion's successes in New Zealand swimming championships include:
100 yards—1901, 1912, 1913, 1914. Best championship time of 1 min. 1 sec.
220 yards—1901, 1908, 1910, 1911, 1912, 1913, 1914. Best championship time of 2 min. 30 secs.
440 yards—1901, 1910, 1911, 1912, 1913, 1914. Best championship time of 5 min. 40 secs.
880 yards—1901, 1908, 1911, 1912, 1913, 19914.
One Mile—1901, 1910, 1911, 1912, 1913, 1914.
Based on the only method of assessing the standard of New Zealand athletes—a comparison with the best times recorded overseas during the current track and field season—it must be admitted that the runners chosen to represent New Zealand at the Olympic Games in Berlin next August rank on a very high plane. J. E. Lovelock (former holder of the one mile world's record and present champion miler of the British Empire), V. P. Boot (holder of the 880 yards and one mile N.Z.A.A.A. championships and credited with records, yet to be approved, for the 880 yards and 1,000 yards), and C. H. Matthews (New Zealand three miles champion and holder of the 2 miles record, 3 miles record, yet to be passed, and Australian record holder for 3,000 metres), will represent the Dominion in running events. A quick run over the best times set by Boot and Matthews in comparison with overseas performances will prove of interest.
Boot's best time for 880 yards is 1 min. 53 2/5 sec. Compare this with the best times recorded in 1935: Belgium, 1:56 1/5; Finland, 1:53 3/10; France, 1:55; Germany, 1:54 1/10; Great Britain, 1:53 3/10; Hungary, 1:54 2/5; Italy, 1:53; Norway, 1:52 9/10; Poland, 1:52 2/5; Sweden, 1:54 1/10; Switzerland, 1:58 4/5; United States, 1:52. The best time in Europe was 1 min. 52 2/5 secs., and the best in the world was 1 min. 52 secs. All the times listed above were made on cinder tracks whereas Boot's run was made on a grass track at Lancaster Park under adverse conditions. On a basis of times Boot must go close to scoring high points in the final of the 800 metres. Lack of experience in good class may prove a big handicap, but his efforts in New Zealand prove him to be possessed of a “fighting heart,” and he will not disgrace his country. Boot's half-mile in 1:54 4/5 secs, at the New Zealand University championship meeting, held in Wellington on Easter Monday, was the most brilliant run ever made in Wellington.
C. H. Matthews is at his best over the three miles course and will concentrate on the 5,000 metres at Berlin. Matthews has covered three miles in 14: 17 3/5 in Christchurch, and a comparison of that run with the times made at the Olympic Games in Los Angeles reveals that it approximates time equal to that better than the fourth man returned in the final. But the tracks at Los Angeles were “super” and not likely to be equalled outside the State of California where climatic conditions were perfect. So we fall back on the “Best Athletic Performances of 1935” to see how Matthews measures up when faced with worldclass. The best times for the three miles are: Belgium, 14:39 1/5; Finland, 14:4 4/5; France, 14:25 1/10; Germany, 14:25 7/10; Great Britain, 14:26 3/5; Hungary, 14:24; Italy, 14:24 2/5; Norway, 14:16 3/10; Poland, 14:51 2/5; Sweden, 14:12 3/10; Switzerland, 15:0; United States, no performances. The best time returned in Europe was 14 min. 4 4/5 secs. This was also the best time recorded in the world. It is estimated that a grass track is from three to four seconds slower than a cinder track over the one mile, and if such an estimation is to carry any weight it is apparent that Matthews's run of 14: 17 3/5 for the three miles would approximate 14:6 on a cinder track! He Must be given a chance at the Games.
G. R. Giles, Canterbury cyclist, is another top-class performer. When he won the 1,000 metres sprint championship this year he was timed to do 12 3/5 secs. over the last furlong. The watches were started as the leading man passed the furlong mark and stopped when the winner passed the post. Giles was several yards behind the leader at the furlong, but flashed over the finishing line a good winner in time equalling that returned by Van Egmond, winner of the Olympic sprint in 1932. It was the cycling sensation of the year when Giles was not nominated for the Olympic team, but to the credit of members of the executive of the New Zealand Amateur Cycling Association the decision was revoked when the true merit of Giles's ride was pointed out.
Three boxers—T. Arbuthnot, C. Gordon and N. Fisher—will complete the team. The boxers have to be taken on trust, as there are no means of ascertaining their comparative standards as in the case of swimmers, cyclists and runners, but the New Zealand Boxing Association has indicated its confidence in them to do well. New Zealand boxers have not had much success at Olympic Games in the past although it is a boxer— Ted Morgan—who has won the only Individual gold medal to come to New Zealand. Of the six boxers to fight for New Zealand at Olympic tournaments only one has qualified to fight in the second round. C. Purdy, A. Cleverley, H. Thomas, R. Purdie, and A. S. Lowe were all defeated in the first matches! It has been claimed that the standard of judging is not favourable to New Zealand boxers— that fighters are encouraged instead of boxers—so, unless the method of judging is to be different this year, our boxers will be fighting under a handicap.
Knocked Ten Years
Off His Age
Off His Age
When He Got Rid of 35 lbs. of Fat.
Did Not Diet—Just Took Daily Dose of Kruschen.
This man found he was carrying far too much weight. As is usually the case—with women as well as with men—his overweight made him appear older than his years. When he eventually got rid of 2 ½ stone of fat, he looked ten years younger. His letter tells you how he achieved this result:
“I am 33 years of age and weighed 14 stone 10 lbs., yet my height was only 5 ft. 6 ins. I was looking older than my age. For about five months I kept up the ‘daily dose’ of Kruschen and I could see each week a gradual improvement all round. My friends, unaware of what I was doing, noticed this alteration of form, and in time it became quite a mystery that I should lose some 2 ½ stone so perfectly, and improve in appearance. It is common talk among my friends that I have reduced handsomely, and that reducing is mainly at the points I was worse affected. My appearance and body form have improved so much that I can say from the many friends who have discussed it with me that I look 10 years younger. I certainly feel it. I did not diet at all, nor did I do any special exercises to reduce my weight.” —A.A.D.
Kruschen is based on scientific principles—it is an ideal blend of mineral salts found in the aperient waters of European Spas resorted to by the wealthy for the reduction of excess weight. These Salts help glands, nerves, blood and body organs to function properly and maintain a splendid degree of robust, rugged health—they build up remarkable strength and energy while you are training yourself down to a point of normal weight.
Kruschen Salts is obtainable at all Chemists and Stores at 2/6 per bottle.*
Wit And Humour
Conductor: “Elgin Avenue! Elgin Avenue!” (pronouncing the “g” soft).
Passenger: “You will excuse my mentioning it, conductor, but the correct pronunciation of that word is ‘Elgin,’ with the ‘g’ hard, as in ‘gun.“'
Conductor: “Oh, gin's good enough for the people abaht ‘ere.”
* * *
Two small London boys were gazing at the shop windows decorated for Christmas. Presently they came to a butcher's shop, and one of them pointed to a number of hams hanging from a large holly branch. “Look, Tom,” he said. “Look at them ‘ams a-growing up there.”
“Get away,” said the other. “'Ams don't grow.”
“Well, that's all you know about it, “said the first scornfully. “Ain't you ever ‘card of a 'am-bush?”
* * *
“Sure,” said Mrs. Flanagan to Mrs. Murphy, “what the mischief's the matter wid ye an’ yer childher?”
“What do ye mane?” replied Mrs. Murphy.
“Why don't you conthrol thim the same as I do mine?” said Mrs. Flanagan.
“Sure,” replied Mrs. Murphy, “that would be like putting wather on a duck's back—in one ear an’ out the other.”
* * *
“I've had a terrible time with my car.” “Yes?”
“Yes. Bought a carburettor that saved 50 per cent. of petrol, an induction gadget that saved 30 per cent., and a sparking plug that saved 25 per cent., and after I had gone 10 miles my petrol tank was overflowing.
* * *
Boss: “Say what does this mean? Someone called up that you couldn't come to work since you were sick.”
Man: “The joke's on him. He wasn't supposed to call up until tomorrow.”
The teacher was trying to impress on the children how important had been the discovery of the law of gravitation.
“Sir Isaac Newton was sitting on the ground looking at a tree. An apple fell on his head and from that he discovered gravitation. Just think, children,” she added, “isn't that wonderful?”
The inevitable small boy replied: “Yes'm, an' if he had been settin' in school lookin’ at his books, he wouldn't have discovered nothin'.”
* * *
“I sent my little boy for two pounds of strawberries, and you only sent a pound and a half.”
“My scales are all right, madam. Have you weighed your little boy?”
* * *
A very nice old lady had a few words to say to her grand-daughter.
“My dear,” said she, “I wish you would do something for me. I wish you would promise me never to use two words. One is swell and the other is lousy. Would you promise me that?”
“Why, sure, Granny,” said the girl.
“What are the words?”
—Courtesy, Great Western Railway.
A simple device to enable smokers to smoke in non - smoking compartments without annoyance to the other passengers.
“Well, dad,” said Jimmy, the Scout, at the breakfast table, “I've done my good turn for the day.” “What!” exclaimed his father. “You've been very quick about it. What did you do?” “It was easy,” explained the boy. “I saw old Mr. Brown going for the seven-twenty train, and he was afraid he would miss it, so I let our dog loose, and Mr. Brown got to the station in time.”
* * *
The Irish foreman found one of his men sleeping in the shade.
“Slape on, ye idle splapeen,” he said, “slape on. So long as ye slape ye've got a job; but whin ye wake up ye're out of wurrk!”
* * *
Mactavish: “I see ye're advertisin' life-size enlargements for 7s. 6d.”
Photographer: “Yes, sir!”
Mactavish: “Awheel, ah've brought along ma snap o’ the ‘Queen Mary’.”
* * *
In a Lancashire town, the rivalry between the caretakers of two separate chapels was acute. So the first was in great glee when he met the other one Saturday night. “'Ee, lad,” he said, “we've got it over thee now. We've got organ.”
“Then tha on'y wants monkey,” was the curt rejoinder.
“Tha's reet,” said the other; “an tha on'y wants organ.”
* * *
Magistrate: “You and your car are a danger to the countryside. This is the sixth person you've knocked down in one year.”
Bright Young Thing: “Pardon me— only the fifth. One of them was the same person twice.”
* * *
Prison Governor, to released convict): “I'm sorry. I find we have kept you here a week too long.”
Convict: “That's all right, sir. Knock it off next time.”