<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?><TEI xmlns="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0" xmlns:xsi="http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema-instance" xsi:schemaLocation="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0 nzetc-p5.xsd" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail" xml:lang="en">
  <teiHeader type="text">
    <fileDesc xml:id="fileDesc-0001">
      <titleStmt>
        <title type="marc245">The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 11, Issue 3 (June 1, 1936)</title>
        <title type="sort">New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 11, Issue 03 (June 1, 1936)</title>
        <title type="gmd">[electronic resource]</title>
        <respStmt xml:id="respStmt-0001">
          <resp>Creation of machine-readable version</resp>
          <name key="name-121582" type="organisation">Keyboarded by Aptara, Inc.</name>
        </respStmt>
        <respStmt xml:id="respStmt-0002">
          <resp>Creation of digital images</resp>
          <name key="name-121582" type="organisation">Aptara, Inc.</name>
        </respStmt>
        <respStmt xml:id="respStmt-0003">
          <resp>Conversion to TEI.2-conformant markup</resp>
          <name key="name-121582" type="organisation">Aptara, Inc.</name>
        </respStmt>
      </titleStmt>
      <extent>ca. 233 kilobytes</extent>
      <publicationStmt>
        <publisher>
          <name type="organisation" key="name-121602">New Zealand Electronic Text Centre</name>
        </publisher>
        <pubPlace>Wellington, New Zealand</pubPlace>
        <authority><name key="name-411207" type="organisation">OnTrack (New Zealand Railways Corporation)</name> and <name key="name-411208" type="organisation">Toll NZ</name></authority>
        <idno type="etc">Modern English, Gov11_03Rail</idno>
        <availability status="unknown">
          <p>Publicly accessible</p>
          <p n="public">URL: http://www.nzetc.org/collections.html</p>
          <p>copyright 2008, by Victoria University of Wellington</p>
        </availability>
        <date when="2008">2008</date>
      <idno type="vuw-bbid">1122214</idno></publicationStmt>
      <notesStmt xml:id="notesStmt-0001">
        <note xml:id="note-0001">NZETC acknowledges the kind assistance of the Wellington City Libraries and the Alexander Turnbull Library in helping to make this text available.</note>
        <note xml:id="note-0002">Line breaks have only been retained for non-prose elements.</note>
      </notesStmt>
      <sourceDesc xml:id="sourceDesc-0001">
        <biblFull>
          <titleStmt>
            <title>
              <name type="work" key="name-413346">The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 11, Issue 3 (June 1, 1936)</name>
            </title>
          </titleStmt>
          <publicationStmt>
            <pubPlace>Wellington, New Zealand</pubPlace>
            <publisher>
              <name key="name-025035" type="organisation">New Zealand Government Railways Department</name>
            </publisher>
            <idno>Source copy consulted: Wellington City Libraries, Serials Collection, Ref 052</idno>
          </publicationStmt>
          <seriesStmt xml:id="seriesStmt-0001">
            <title>
              <name type="work" key="name-408509">New Zealand Railways Magazine</name>
            </title>
            <idno type="vol">11:03</idno>
          </seriesStmt>
        </biblFull>
        <bibl xml:id="text-1-bibl">
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410049">Heroes of the Rail New Zealand's Greatest Transport Service. Glimpses Of The Personnel.</name>
          </title>
          <author>
            <name type="person" key="name-120583">O. N. Gillespie</name>
          </author>
        </bibl>
        <bibl xml:id="text-2-bibl">
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410050">The Dreamer.</name>
          </title>
          <author>
            <name type="person" key="name-408038">Olive Igglesden</name>
          </author>
        </bibl>
        <bibl xml:id="text-3-bibl">
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410051">Ghosts.</name>
          </title>
          <author>
            <name type="person" key="name-408012">E. Mary Gurney</name>
          </author>
        </bibl>
        <bibl xml:id="text-4-bibl">
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410052">Peaceless.</name>
          </title>
          <author>
            <name type="person" key="name-207731">James Cowan</name>
          </author>
        </bibl>
        <bibl xml:id="text-5-bibl">
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410053">A Canterbury Shower.</name>
          </title>
          <author>
            <name type="person" key="name-408170">J. R. Hastings</name>
          </author>
        </bibl>
        <bibl xml:id="text-6-bibl">
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410054">Autumn.</name>
          </title>
          <author>
            <name type="person" key="name-402503">Ruth M. Mumford</name>
          </author>
        </bibl>
        <bibl xml:id="text-7-bibl">
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410055">Famous New Zealanders No. 39 William Ferguson Massey.</name>
          </title>
          <author>
            <name key="name-207731" type="person">James Cowan</name>
          </author>
        </bibl>
        <bibl xml:id="text-8-bibl">
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410056">Pots At Pets</name>
          </title>
          <author>
            <name type="person" key="name-408002">Ken Alexander</name>
          </author>
        </bibl>
        <bibl xml:id="text-9-bibl">
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410057">Our London Letter Famous Locomotive Types.</name>
          </title>
          <author>
            <name type="person" key="name-407992">Arthur L. Stead</name>
          </author>
        </bibl>
        <bibl xml:id="text-10-bibl">
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410058">Pictures Of New Zealand Life Land of the Kauri.</name>
          </title>
          <author>
            <name type="person" key="name-207731">Tangiwai</name>
          </author>
        </bibl>
        <bibl xml:id="text-11-bibl">
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410059">The Franco-Ethiopian Railway Djibouti to Addis-Ababa.</name>
          </title>
          <author>
            <name type="person" key="name-408350">W. W. Stewart</name>
          </author>
        </bibl>
        <bibl xml:id="text-12-bibl">
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410060">On The Road To Anywhere</name>
          </title>
          <author>
            <name type="person" key="name-208310">Robin Hyde</name>
          </author>
        </bibl>
        <bibl xml:id="text-13-bibl">
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410061">The Wisdom of the Maori Railway Station Maori Names.</name>
          </title>
          <author>
            <name type="person" key="name-408259">Tohunga</name>
          </author>
        </bibl>
        <bibl xml:id="text-14-bibl">
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410062">Limited Night Entertainments</name>
          </title>
          <author>
            <name type="person" key="name-408342">R. M. Jenkins</name>
          </author>
        </bibl>
        <bibl xml:id="text-15-bibl">
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410063">Cross Creek</name>
          </title>
          <author>
            <name type="person" key="name-408381">Colin Mcberry</name>
          </author>
        </bibl>
        <bibl xml:id="text-16-bibl">
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410064">The People of Pudding Hill No. 6.</name>
          </title>
          <author>
            <name type="person" key="name-408394">Shiela Russell</name>
          </author>
        </bibl>
        <bibl xml:id="text-17-bibl">
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410065">Among the Books A Literary Page or Two</name>
          </title>
          <author>
            <name type="person" key="name-120773">Shibli Bagarag</name>
          </author>
        </bibl>
        <bibl xml:id="text-18-bibl">
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410066">Heroic Lives A Village Heroine.</name>
          </title>
          <author>
            <name type="person" key="name-408102">F. A. Hornibrook</name>
          </author>
        </bibl>
        <bibl xml:id="text-19-bibl">
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410067">Panorama of the Playground New Zealanders Are Sportsmen</name>
          </title>
          <author>
            <name key="name-408307" type="person">W. F. Ingram</name>
          </author>
        </bibl>
      </sourceDesc>
    </fileDesc>
    <encodingDesc>
      <editorialDecl>
        <p>All unambiguous end-of-line hyphens have been removed, and
the trailing part of a word has been joined to the preceding
line.</p>
        <p xml:id="ETC">Some keywords in the header are a local Electronic
Text Centre scheme to aid in establishing analytical
groupings.</p>
      </editorialDecl>
      <classDecl>
        <taxonomy xml:id="nzetc-subjects">
          <bibl>
            <title>NZETC Subject Headings</title>
          </bibl>
        </taxonomy>
      </classDecl>
    </encodingDesc>
    <profileDesc xml:id="profileDesc-0001">
      <creation>
        <date>June 1, 1936</date>
      </creation>
      <langUsage>
        <language ident="en">English</language>
      </langUsage>
      <textClass>
        <keywords scheme="http://www.nzetc.org/nzetc-subjects">
          <list>
            <item>
              <rs type="subject" key="subject-000001">General NZ History</rs>
            </item>
          </list>
        </keywords>
      </textClass>
    </profileDesc>
    <revisionDesc>
      <change n="catalogueAddition"><date when="2008-09-18T17:15:07">17:15:07, Thursday 18 September 2008</date><label>editorial</label><name type="organisation" key="name-121602">NZETC</name>Addition of text to Library Catalogue<!-- BBID=1122214 --></change>
      <change n="live"><date when="2008-09-23T14:47:31">14:47:31, Tuesday 23 September 2008</date><label>editorial</label><name type="organisation" key="name-121602">NZETC</name>Make text available on NZETC website</change>
    <change n="epubPreparation"><date when="2009-08-04T14:08:24">14:08:24, Tuesday 4 August 2009</date><name type="organisation" key="name-121602">NZETC</name>Preparation of EPUB (and other formats such as DaisyBook)</change><change n="corpusAddition"><date when="2009-08-28T17:15:24">17:15:24, Friday 28 August 2009</date><name type="organisation" key="name-121602">NZETC</name>Addition of text to corpus</change></revisionDesc>
  </teiHeader>
  <text xml:id="t1">
    <front xml:id="t1-front">
      <div xml:id="t1-front-d1" type="covers">
        <p>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03RailFCo">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03RailFCo.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03RailFCo-g"/>
            <figDesc>Front Cover</figDesc>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03RailBCo">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03RailBCo.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03RailBCo-g"/>
            <figDesc>Back Cover</figDesc>
          </figure>
          <pb xml:id="n1"/>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03RailP001a">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03RailP001a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03RailP001a-g"/>
            <head>
              <hi rend="c">The Auckland-Wellington Night “Limited” Express, North Island, New Zealand.</hi>
            </head>
          </figure>
          <pb xml:id="n2" n="1"/>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail001a">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail001a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail001a-g"/>
          </figure>
          <pb xml:id="n3" n="2"/>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail002a">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail002a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail002a-g"/>
          </figure>
          <pb xml:id="n4"/>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail003a">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail003a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail003a-g"/>
          </figure>
          <pb xml:id="n5" n="4"/>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail004a">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail004a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail004a-g"/>
          </figure>
        </p>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n6" n="5"/>
      <div xml:id="t1-front-d2" type="contents">
        <head>
          <hi rend="c">Contents</hi>
        </head>
        <p>
          <table rows="20" cols="2">
            <row>
              <cell/>
              <cell>page</cell>
            </row>
            <row>
              <cell>Among the Books</cell>
              <cell><ref target="#n50">49</ref>–<ref target="#n52">51</ref>
</cell>
            </row>
            <row>
              <cell>Cross Creek</cell>
              <cell><ref target="#n43">42</ref>–<ref target="#n44">43</ref>
</cell>
            </row>
            <row>
              <cell>Editorial—Travel Clubs</cell>
              <cell>
                <ref target="#n8">7</ref>
              </cell>
            </row>
            <row>
              <cell>Famous New Zealanders</cell>
              <cell><ref target="#n18">17</ref>–<ref target="#n42">41</ref>
</cell>
            </row>
            <row>
              <cell>General Manager's Message</cell>
              <cell>
                <ref target="#n9">8</ref>
              </cell>
            </row>
            <row>
              <cell>Heroes of the Rail</cell>
              <cell><ref target="#n11">10</ref>–<ref target="#n15">14</ref>
</cell>
            </row>
            <row>
              <cell>Heroic Lives</cell>
              <cell><ref target="#n53">52</ref>–<ref target="#n54">53</ref>
</cell>
            </row>
            <row>
              <cell>Limited Night Entertainments</cell>
              <cell><ref target="#n37">36</ref>–<ref target="#n40">39</ref>
</cell>
            </row>
            <row>
              <cell>On the Road to Anywhere</cell>
              <cell><ref target="#n33">32</ref>–<ref target="#n34">33</ref>
</cell>
            </row>
            <row>
              <cell>Our London Letter</cell>
              <cell><ref target="#n26">25</ref>–<ref target="#n28">27</ref>
</cell>
            </row>
            <row>
              <cell>Our Women's Section</cell>
              <cell><ref target="#n58">57</ref>–<ref target="#n60">59</ref>
</cell>
            </row>
            <row>
              <cell>Panorama of the Playground</cell>
              <cell><ref target="#n57">56</ref>–<ref target="#n61">60</ref>
</cell>
            </row>
            <row>
              <cell>Pictures of N.Z. Life</cell>
              <cell>
                <ref target="#n30">29</ref>
              </cell>
            </row>
            <row>
              <cell>Pots and Pets</cell>
              <cell><ref target="#n23">22</ref>–<ref target="#n24">23</ref>
</cell>
            </row>
            <row>
              <cell>The Franco-Ethiopian Railway</cell>
              <cell>
                <ref target="#n32">31</ref>
              </cell>
            </row>
            <row>
              <cell>The People of Pudding Hill</cell>
              <cell><ref target="#n46">45</ref>–<ref target="#n48">47</ref>
</cell>
            </row>
            <row>
              <cell>The Wisdom of the Maori</cell>
              <cell>
                <ref target="#n36">35</ref>
              </cell>
            </row>
            <row>
              <cell>Variety in Brief</cell>
              <cell>
                <ref target="#n62">61</ref>
              </cell>
            </row>
            <row>
              <cell>Wit and Humour</cell>
              <cell>
                <ref target="#n64">63</ref>
              </cell>
            </row>
          </table>
        </p>
        <p>The <hi rend="i">New Zealand Railways Magazine</hi> is on sale through the principal booksellers, or may be obtained post-free for 6/- per annum.</p>
        <p>Employees of the Railway Department are invited to forward news items or articles bearing on railway affairs. The aim of contributors should be to supply interesting topical material tending generally towards the betterment of the service.</p>
        <p>In all cases where the Administration makes announcements through the medium of this journal the fact will be clearly indicated.</p>
        <p>The Department does not identify itself with any opinions which may be expressed in other portions of the publication, whether appearing over the author's name or under a <hi rend="i">nom de plume.</hi>
</p>
        <p>Short stories, poetry, pen-and-ink sketches, etc., are invited from the general public upon New Zealand subjects.</p>
        <p>Payment for short paragraphs will be made at 2d. a line. Successful contributors will be expected to send in clippings from the Magazine for assessment of the payment due to them.</p>
        <p>The Editor cannot undertake the return of <hi rend="c">Ms.</hi>
</p>
        <p>
          <hi rend="i">All communications should be addressed to The Editor, New Zealand Railways Magazine, Wellington.</hi>
        </p>
        <p>
          <hi rend="i">I hereby certify that the publisher's lists and other records disclose that the circulation of the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” has not been less than 20,000 copies each issue since July, 1930.</hi>
        </p>
        <p>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail005a">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail005a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail005a-g"/>
          </figure>
        </p>
        <p>
          <hi rend="i">Deputy-Controller and Auditor-General.</hi>
        </p>
        <p>25/3/35.</p>
        <p>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail005b">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail005b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail005b-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail005c">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail005c.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail005c-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail005d">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail005d.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail005d-g"/>
          </figure>
          <pb xml:id="n7"/>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03RailP002a">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03RailP002a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03RailP002a-g"/>
            <head>A view of the famous Fox Glacier from Cove Rock, South Westland, New Zealand.<lb/>
(Rly. Publicity photo)<lb/>
In a descent of 9,000 ft. the Fox Glacier comes down to 670 ft. above sea level. Nowhere else in the world does a glacier dip so low, except in the Arctic and Antarctic, with their quite different snow level. The area of ice, tributaries, and snowfield, has been estimated at 10,894 acres for the Fox Glacier.<lb/>
<hi rend="i">“The splendour of silence—of snowjewelled mountains and ice.”</hi>
<lb/>
<hi rend="c">Ingram Crockett.</hi>
</head>
          </figure>
        </p>
      </div>
      <titlePage xml:id="t1-front-d2-d1">
        <docTitle>
          <titlePart type="main">
            <hi rend="c">The New Zealand<lb/>
Railways<lb/>
Magazine</hi>
          </titlePart>
        </docTitle>
        <byline><hi rend="i">Registered at the G.P.O., Wellington, N.Z., for transmission by post as a Newspaper</hi>.</byline>
        <docImprint><hi rend="i">For Better Service</hi><lb/><hi rend="i">Published by the</hi><publisher><hi rend="i">New Zealand Government Railways Department</hi></publisher><lb/>
Vol. XI. No. 3. <pubPlace><hi rend="c">Wellington, New Zealand</hi></pubPlace> <docDate><hi rend="c">June</hi> 1, 1936</docDate>.</docImprint>
      </titlePage>
    </front>
    <body xml:id="t1-body">
      <pb xml:id="n8" n="7"/>
      <div xml:id="t1-body-d1" type="section">
        <head>
          <hi rend="c">Travel Clubs.</hi>
        </head>
        <p><hi rend="sc">There</hi> is a romance associated with travel which reaches down from the earliest days of civilised society. The traveller returning from distant lands has always carried with him an aura of splendour and of a higher kind of knowledge than that possessed by those whom he left behind.</p>
        <p>All literature pays tribute to the traveller, and poetry owes many of its most charming idealisations to the glamour of distant places.</p>
        <p>Masefield's “Cargoes” is a typical example of this, in the lines:</p>
        <lg type="verse">
          <l>“Quinquireme of Nineveh, from distant Ophir,</l>
          <l>Stealing home to haven in sunny Palestine</l>
          <l>With a cargo of ivory and apes and peacocks</l>
          <l>Sandalwood, cedarwood and sweet white wine.”</l>
        </lg>
        <p>The reason for this attitude towards the traveller is not far to seek. He has tales to tell of what he has seen and heard of peoples, customs and scenery elsewhere, and the human imagination delights in the contemplation of any new thing.</p>
        <p>Travellers’ tales supply this stimulus, and as the exercise of the imagination is one of the happiest of human joys, the popularity of travellers follows in an inevitable sequence.</p>
        <p>In recent years, travel clubs have been formed and have carried on successfully in many countries— particularly in those possessed of tourist attractions —with the specific object of gratifying in the mass this natural curiosity, this friendly interest and pleasure in the practical details as well as in the romance of travel.</p>
        <p>Hence the recent formation of such a club in Wellington, the Capital City of New Zealand, is in line with the trend of the times and should do much to bring travellers and citizens together for their mutual pleasure and enlightenment. Already, at Auckland, the Travel Club of that centre has gained the esteem of thousands of visitors from overseas as well as the goodwill of civic authorities, travel interests, the press and the general public. The formation of travel clubs with similar objects in other centres may be expected to follow.</p>
        <p>A chain of such clubs throughout the Dominion, with no other affiliations, but acting as helpful, friendly, social clearing-houses for visitors as they proceed on their travels, might do a service of incalculable value to the Dominion in the rapidly developing tourist traffic of the country.</p>
        <p>It is a service, too, which cannot, in the nature of things, be given by those actually engaged in the travel industry, for with them the business element will form some part of the substratum of all transactions, and the sensitive traveller may feel that while one hand is extended in welcome the other is held out for the cash!</p>
        <p>But a travel club is concerned solely with the social element. It collects nothing from the traveller except his experiences, and goodwill is the only exchange.</p>
        <p>The tourist business is a traffic which cannot fail to grow with a kind of arithmetical progression as overseas visitors, returning to their own countries, tell the tale not only of the marvels of our scenic and other attractions but of the kindliness, friendliness and helpfulness of the New Zealand people.</p>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n9" n="8"/>
      <div xml:id="t1-body-d2" type="section">
        <head>Railway Progress in New Zealand.<lb/>
<hi rend="i">General Manager's Message.</hi>
<lb/>
<hi rend="c">Progress By Co-Ordination.</hi>
</head>
        <p><hi rend="sc">The</hi> past month has seen material progress in the co-ordination of road and rail services through the purchase, by the Department, of a number of road service fleets which are operating under license on the more important routes related to railway transport in the South Island.</p>
        <p>By the co-ordination of these services under single ownership, operating costs will be substantially reduced and much more than ever before can be done to improve the transport facilities of the districts concerned. The new arrangements will enable visitors to the South Island to make better connections as between road and rail when travelling to the tourist resorts with which all these recently acquired services are connected.</p>
        <p>The magnetic attractiveness of the mountain and lake scenery and the romantic appeal they hold for the tourist and holiday-maker in winter-time are increasing in popularity from season to season, and they will undoubtedly receive more attention from the holiday-making public in all seasons now that the access and the transport services have been so much improved. These co-ordinated services will also enhance the prospects of the summer tourist traffic, which, next season, promises to be exceptionally heavy.</p>
        <p>In time, too, there will be further progress by co-ordination through rail cars which will be operating both in the South and North Islands. As these units operate at a cost very much below that of the ordinary steam train they will be used to improve the frequency, comfort, and cleanliness of the service, whilst their capacity for maintaining a much faster timetable will also be appreciated.</p>
        <p>I feel confident that the high standard of comfort and efficiency already established by the Departmental road services at present operating in other districts will be fully maintained on the new routes, and I can assure prospective users and the public generally that no effort will be spared to retain the good name that our road services have already gained, and to ensure that the service rendered is maintained according to the very best modern standards.</p>
        <p>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail008a">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail008a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail008a-g"/>
          </figure>
        </p>
        <p>
          <hi rend="i">General Manager.</hi>
        </p>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n10" n="9"/>
      <div decls="#text-1-bibl" xml:id="t1-body-d3" type="section">
        <head>
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410049"><hi rend="i">Heroes of the Rail</hi><lb/> New Zealand's Greatest Transport Service.<lb/> <hi rend="c">Glimpses Of The Personnel.</hi>
</name>
          </title>
        </head>
        <byline>(<hi rend="i">By <name type="person" key="name-120583"><hi rend="c">O. N. Gillespie</hi></name>).</hi>
</byline>
        <p>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail009a">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail009a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail009a-g"/>
            <head>(W. W. Stewart Collection).<lb/>
A camera study at midnight in the cab of a New Zealand express locomotive.</head>
          </figure>
        </p>
        <p><hi rend="sc">We</hi> were talking of dictators and their quaint doctrine that, in some way, war purifies men, and brings out the great qualities in mankind; heroism and self sacrifice and stern purpose. Somebody said, “What a ridiculous doctrine! War mostly consists in ‘drill and drudgery’; there are any amount of opportunities for heroism and any amount of dare-devils demonstrate that in peace time. What about the chap that tries a germ in his arm to test its real virulence? Or the airman who makes a pioneer flight over the ocean? Or the speed king, the Antarctic explorer, the Mount Everest team and a dozen others?” And I said, “Have you ever seen a railway shunter leaping about in the middle of the night in the dark and drizzle to hurry a late goods train away?”</p>
        <p>And so this article came to be written.</p>
        <p>It is dedicated to the enlightenment of that vast body of the public who use the railways without the slightest knowledge of the endless toil and selfeffacing endeavour of tens of thousands of New Zealanders whose night and day work makes the smooth running of the gigantic transport machine of our railways possible. We are accustomed to jumping out at Taumarunui, for instance, at midnight, after making several vows to turn in and go to sleep. The station is a blaze of lights, and on the lines alongside a sleepy glance shows that there are vans and moving figures, all apparently in a hurry. We might notice the train examiner as he plays his carillon, tapping the wheels. The quick dash over to the refreshment rooms is usually accompanied by a slight feeling of impatience that the girl does not have six pairs of hands. One more good story, and off to sleep is the next move, and how few there are who give any thought, either to that hive of working folk left behind to go on toiling for hours yet, or to the fireman steadily stoking as mountain, river, viaduct and tunnel, slip by as the express thunders on under the stars. It is a phenomenon of our complex modern life, this lack of knowledge of “How the other fellow lives.” It is not confined to railway users about railway workers. I remember lunching with two ladies from a sheepfarm who were staying in one of the hilly streets leading down to Wellington's business area.
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail009b"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail009b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail009b-g"/><head>(Rly. Publicity photo.)<lb/>
A rush job. Relaying Gang at work, under the glare of electric light, in the Wellington station yard.</head></figure>
They said, “The most extraordinary thing happened last night. We hardly got a wink of sleep after about two in the morning; a steady procession of people started about then; tramp, tramp, tramp until breakfast time; has anything happened?” I explained that this was a daily occurrence; these were cleaners, furnace men, stokers and all the hundred and one city workers whose duties commenced before or round about daylight, and that a considerable proportion of townsfolk worked until daylight. They were completely astonished. They had the primary producers’ complex that farmers were in some way a class of people who started work earlier than other folks and that the people of the cities went comfortably and smoothly to work at a nice easy hour. This delusion often
<pb xml:id="n11" n="10"/>
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail010a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail010a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail010a-g"/><head>(Rly. Publicity photo.)<lb/>
A driver getting his engine ready for the road.</head></figure>
affects people about what is known as the “Guv'ment,” or the Civil Service. When figures are quoted to show the high proportion of our people that are on the pay roll of the State, and the enormous cost of their services, the orator usually forgets that the greater percentage of these are in Thomas Carlyle's words “toil-worn craftsmen,” and that their working hours contain a substantial ratio of all-night toil, and the grinding exaction of allweather effort.</p>
        <p>The Railway citizen-forces contain more of these modest men of mettle and quiet devotion than any other organisation in the Dominion. Now let us consider them in some sort of detail.</p>
        <p>The Locomotive Branch will be taken first because it is more in the eye of the traveller than any of the rest. When a lad joins the service here, he first becomes a cleaner and his badge is a well-used piece of cotton waste, and his guerdon, an oil can.</p>
        <p>He has to learn his engine, and the machine parts of everything that need attention. The job requires intelligence ceaseless industry and watchfulness. His objective is to become an acting-fireman, then fireman, then acting-driver, and at last, engine driver. Upon the fireman and his efficiency depends the rhythmic swing of the locomotive as it hauls its enormous load over the rails. He has to have knowledge as the verse goes “of a number of things,” and his figure is a familiar one in the glow of the light as the fire doors open and, with deft and easy action, he fills the furnace. He has very little room, and the ordinary strong man would be in physical agony after a few hours of it. The engine driver is a mighty personality, worth all the adoration he has had from thousands of boyish hearts in their early dream-days. The guard may be the captain of the great steel landship that carries its freight of humans and goods along the winding rail routes, but the driver is the chief engineer.</p>
        <p>In the blaze of his headlights he watches for the possible slip, or the broken bridge. He is responsible for the condition of the enormous and
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail010b"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail010b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail010b-g"/><head>(W. W. Stewart Collection).<lb/>
A budding engine-driver assists his “daddy” with some minor repairs.</head></figure>
intricate piece of mechanism, the locomotive. Every detail of its working parts is known to him, and every minute element of its qualities. His working hours are various and arduous. His cares do not finish when he gets out of his cab, say at four in the morning. He still has to fill in a report which deals with oil consumption, coal used, causes of delay, exact times of arrival and departure, and the rest of it. Woe betide him if he puts an extra “1” in delay or drops a stitch in his explanation of being eight minutes behind time. However, possible promotion is in front of him. He can become Locomotive Foreman or Road Foreman. It should be said, too, that, given other qualifications, no position in his branch is forbidden to him.</p>
        <p>Consider for a moment, now, what is known as the “three-legged gang.” This is for locations that do not justify a full double crew. It consists of an engine driver, a fireman who sometimes becomes an acting-driver, and a cleaner who similarly sometimes acts as a fireman. When the fireman is having his spell, for instance, the train is taken out by the engine driver and the cleaner. Hours must be anyhow for this class of activity, and, naturally, each of the trio, has to know individually each facet of the job.</p>
        <p>The train examiner, in the grey dawn, or the midnight hour (and in between), can be heard at every stopping
<pb xml:id="n12" n="11"/>
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail011a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail011a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail011a-g"/><head>(<hi rend="i">Rly. Publicity photo.</hi>)<lb/>
A bridge repair job in progress.</head></figure>
place. There is no doubt about the proper manning of the Locomotive trenches.</p>
        <p>The Maintenance Branch comes next. When the train roars by a hillside where there is a lonely railway cottage with the chimney smoking at five in the morning, you can place that as the spot where a ganger lives. Under him are half a dozen or so surfacemen. These are the unnoticed heroes who watch for a sliver off a rail, look after the condition of fishbolts, plates and spikes, care for the joints and rail fastenings, the clearances, and clear the drains and mend the fences. They cluster most thickly where the curves are worst. It should be mentioned here that New Zealand has more curves in its railway system than any land on earth, and curves are sources of endless trouble. The All Blacks of this force are the relay gangs; and there are, of course, the specialists such as bridgemen and carpenters. The former have to clamber about viaducts and bridges, testing for faults and making, in mid-air, the necessary repairs.</p>
        <p>But it is when a big slip takes place, or a bridge washout occurs, that these men really see life. All branches of the service co-operate. Guard, driver, and fireman and a relief train assemble in quick time. The gang materialises from anywhere and nowhere with clockwork precision and breathless speed. It is probably two in the morning and raining, but nobody seems to worry about food. At the scene of trouble, they tumble out in the darkness and hurl themselves like demons at the mass of crumbling hillside or debris of rotten rock. Fatigue is a forgotten thing— “get her clear” the only idea in every man's mind. Then, maybe, a kerosene tin of hot tea comes along and some hunks of bread and meat, and after a rush meal, the attack recommences. I have stood by and heard the men with their eyes on the half-done job discussing in these rushed few seconds of time taken off, ways and means of tackling the mess. I have seen a junior engineer “stop a blast” from his senior for dipping his mug in the tea so
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail011b"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail011b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail011b-g"/><head>(<hi rend="i">Rly, Publicity photo.</hi>)<lb/>
Surfacemen at work on a section of line near Wellington. (Distinguished overseas engineers have given special praise to the high standard of permanent way maintenance in New Zealand).</head></figure>
badly needed by the actual toilers. Perhaps at mid-day will come along a message from the ganger's cottage a mile along the line that a hot meal is ready for seventeen men. How it was prepared, where it came from, and how it was managed remain mysteries, and it is a hundred to one that the wife forgets or smilingly declares against putting in any claim for it. Surely there is something just as fine here as any comradeship in the trenches?</p>
        <p>The last large division to consider is the Traffic Department. The civic private here is the porter. This is the man of all work of the service. He loads and empties vans and trucks, cleans carriages at times, and in fact “takes a hand at anything.” In his ranks are those Cinquevallis you see handling full milk cans as if they were pewter mugs, van after van, hour after hour. It is a daily vaudeville turn of prodigious strength and dexterity. I watched a porter one early morning passing out fish crates of a hundredweight and a half as if they were match boxes. Cheese crates are handled like cheese straws in their practised hands. In one day the united efforts of these men and their railway brethren moved into the port of Auckland 1,284 tons of frozen produce—over fifty tons per hour. It would entail the conscription of the population of the province to do anything like it in any other way. One of the features of our rail traffic is the
<pb xml:id="n13" n="12"/>
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail012a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail012a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail012a-g"/></figure>
<pb xml:id="n14" n="13"/>
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail013a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail013a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail013a-g"/><head>(<hi rend="i">Rly. Publicity photo.</hi>)<lb/>
Welding the rail joints on the Tawa Flat Deviation, Wellington.</head></figure>
movement of goods by night, by what are known as “express goods trains.” Business men who receive their consignments, before their doors open, do not often take time to consider the night hours that have been occupied by hard work to make that delivery possible. I am not so sure that any grumbler does not deserve a sentence of one journey on one of those trains. He would have a new feeling of respect and a glow of admiration for at least one section of his fellow countrymen. From a porter the next step is to shunter. Be reminded, too, that the most portly guard of our de luxe trains, with his air of being a mixture of diplomat, man of affairs and polite but firm official, <hi rend="c">Must</hi> have been at one time a shunter. In the distribution of V.C.'s for gallantry in action on the railway front, a quite disproportionate number would go to this personnel. In my many travels lately by rail in all parts of New Zealand, I have wondered again and again at the deathless enthusiasm of these men.</p>
        <p>A big junction yard, such as Frankton or Palmerston North, is a most impressive sight. All night, the breaking up, the re-aggregating, the marshalling of trains goes on. The vast maze of rails with its apparently endless masses of vans, engines with smoking stacks, its row upon row of parallel lines, interwoven on some pattern quite meaningless to the average watcher, make up a scene by H. G. Wells. Figures in blue dungarees leap about, apparently in breathless haste, uncoupling vans, waving signals to the driver, selecting with what looks like second sight which van should precede another, changing points, and generally taking the wildest personal chances, all to “get her through.” I landed one evening at another busy junction and had an hour to wait. I was standing at the platform edge when a figure appeared out of the darkness from the empty rails, and rushed into the station office. When he came out, again at a hand gallop, I said, “Somebody hurt?” He said, “No, the 7.30 from Waikikamukau is running an hour late and we're pushing out the 9.13 first,” or words to that effect. He dived away into the dimness, and I saw his figure dodging between moving vans with the speed of Joey Sadler. A score of times in my travels I have seen this epic; for that is the word needed to describe the proper tale of this selfless devotion to duty. And we hear folk solemnly say that,
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail013b"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail013b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail013b-g"/><head>(<hi rend="i">Rly. Publicity photo.</hi>)<lb/>
Repair work in progress on the Makohine Viaduct (238ft. high), North Island Main Trunk Line, New Zealand.</head></figure>
“You can't expect energy and initiative unless there is a possible profit.”</p>
        <p>These men are better than “Storm Troops,” more courageous than “Alpine Chasseurs,” and they are certainly more useful in the best sense. The shunter's next move is to signalman, or storeman, and thereafter to guard. Of course, he may get a sole charge station. I have had cups of tea at several of these, the little hut beside the line, the hastily boiled billy, for there is a train at any old time. At Waharoa I saw a typical scene. We were on what is musically called a “mixed train.” It was longer than an Address-in-Reply, an enormous, rattling, jointed mechanical snake, loaded with everything conceivable from sand and gravel, to motorcars. We got to Waharoa late. Here the guard and the sole charge man got to work. The guard on these occasions reverts to his old job of shunter to give a hand, signalling, coupling and jumping like a deer in the approved fashion. I do not know yet how he managed it, but he smiled and answered quite suave'y when asked by a hot and irascible passenger why on earth we were so late, and did we stop at Okoroire, and how far was the hotel, and what arrangements had the Department in existence to have passengers met, and couldn't something be done about the heat and the dust nuisance. The tall gum trees by the station seemed to be a grin to me, but the guard put up a show like Anthony Eden. Some of these are lonely jobs. Very often the nearest farm house is some distance away, and the man has to seek his own solitary recreation. At Topuni, for instance, I found an exceedingly good
<pb xml:id="n15" n="14"/>
self-trained artist. Honour to these heroes; they deserve it.</p>
        <p>The guard we all know. The best verdict on him I ever heard was when a particularly irritating and persistent questioner had failed to shake his imperturbability. “They must make lovely husbands” one woman said, sighing, as he went out.</p>
        <p>The guard selected for promotion can become passenger or goods foreman, and it is possible for him to arrive at the position of District Traffic Manager, assuming, of course, that he qualifies.</p>
        <p>It is impossible in the scope of this article, of course, to mention all those by rank or name who qualify for the Railway Steel Cross in this great service. I have not mentioned, for instance, the refreshment room attendants who keep their smiles working after midnight or in the raw early mornings, facing a serried mass of folk all in a hurry and all showing signs of travel galls; and here and there the woman who says, “Very weak, please get me some hot water; can my little girl have cocoa made with milk?”</p>
        <p>Bless them; they are wonderful.</p>
        <p>Two hundred and fifty million passengers during the last ten years have been carried without the loss of a single life on our railways.</p>
        <p>This record is due to the zealous care, the splendid sense of civic duty, and the high intelligence of the rank and file of that great organisation. These unassuming folk get no decorations and no newspaper headings. They give of themselves freely, and their courage is of the highest and their achievement of the noblest.</p>
        <p>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail014a">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail014a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail014a-g"/>
            <head>(<hi rend="i">Rly. Publicity photo.</hi>)<lb/>
A typical study of the shunter at work.</head>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail014b">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail014b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail014b-g"/>
            <head>(<hi rend="i">Rly. Publicity photo.</hi>)<lb/>
The Auckland-Wellington Express near Taihape, North Island, New Zealand.</head>
          </figure>
        </p>
        <p>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail014c">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail014c.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail014c-g"/>
          </figure>
        </p>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n16" n="15"/>
      <div xml:id="t1-body-d4" type="section">
        <head>New Zealand Verse</head>
        <div decls="#text-2-bibl" xml:id="t1-body-d4-d1" type="section">
          <head>
            <title level="a">
              <name type="work" key="name-410050">The Dreamer.</name>
            </title>
          </head>
          <lg type="verse">
            <l>… She dreams of birds,</l>
            <l>And her dreaming follows the other songs</l>
            <l>She hears from the marsh and the tawa's bough;</l>
            <l>For sleep has told as her spirit longs,</l>
            <l>And her prisoned loves have freedom now.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="verse">
            <l>… She dreams of birds,</l>
            <l>And she knows they go to their own again</l>
            <l>In the golden air where the marsh songs rise.</l>
            <l>… She dreams her dreaming is not in vain,</l>
            <l>And every bird in the sunshine flies.</l>
            <byline><name type="person" key="name-408038">Olive Igglesden</name>.</byline>
          </lg>
          <p>* * *</p>
        </div>
        <div decls="#text-3-bibl" xml:id="t1-body-d4-d2" type="section">
          <head>
            <title level="a">
              <name type="work" key="name-410051">
                <hi rend="c">Ghosts.</hi>
              </name>
            </title>
          </head>
          <lg type="verse">
            <l>In the lush grass and mist,</l>
            <l>By the dawn sun gold-kist,</l>
            <l>On the banks of the river,</l>
            <l>We shall live forever.</l>
            <l>On the plain's wild, wide sweep,</l>
            <l>Where eternal years sleep,</l>
            <l>With unnumbered ghosts, through the mist and the grass,</l>
            <l>We gallop forever, forever we pass—</l>
            <l>Shades from a tale that will never be told</l>
            <l>By the green of the grass, and the blue and the gold—</l>
            <l>To the dream of dark mountains, piercing the sky—</l>
            <l>My horse and I.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="verse">
            <l>Though his hoofs will not leap—</l>
            <l>He lieth asleep—</l>
            <l>In wild gallop there, ever again,</l>
            <l>On the blue and gold plain;</l>
            <l>Though life carries me on</l>
            <l>From dreams long since gone,</l>
            <l>They'll remember forever,</l>
            <l>The trees by the river—</l>
            <l>Willows that weap and poplars that shiver</l>
            <l>Gold in the sun, and the gorse and the broom,</l>
            <l>And the silver-grey plume</l>
            <l>Of the toi-toi that blows</l>
            <l>Where the grey river flows—</l>
            <l>The beat of wild hoofs, like the rolling of drums—</l>
            <l>He comes—oh, he comes!</l>
            <l>With his old esctasy,</l>
            <l>Like the waves of the sea</l>
            <l>That will never be still.</l>
            <l>He comes home from the hill,</l>
            <l>To race by the river</l>
            <l>Forever and ever.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="verse">
            <l>Under the sky,</l>
            <l>Ghosts, we pass by,</l>
            <l>My horse and I.</l>
            <byline><name type="person" key="name-408012">E. Mary Gurney</name>.</byline>
          </lg>
          <p>* * *</p>
        </div>
        <div decls="#text-4-bibl" xml:id="t1-body-d4-d3" type="section">
          <head>
            <title level="a">
              <name type="work" key="name-410052">
                <hi rend="c">Peaceless.</hi>
              </name>
            </title>
          </head>
          <lg type="verse">
            <l>At length comes morning</l>
            <l>And day's pale gilding</l>
            <l>Lights just one facet</l>
            <l>Of each dark building.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="verse">
            <l>I am a building</l>
            <l>And you the morning—</l>
            <l>Yet are there places</l>
            <l>Which know no dawning!</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="verse">
            <l>The gloomed recesses</l>
            <l>Make all light sickly</l>
            <l>And even to seaward</l>
            <l>Clouds bank so quickly.</l>
            <byline>(<hi rend="i">Written for the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” by <name type="person" key="name-207731"><hi rend="c">James Cowan</hi></name>
</hi>)</byline>
          </lg>
          <p>* * *</p>
        </div>
        <div decls="#text-5-bibl" xml:id="t1-body-d4-d4" type="section">
          <head>
            <title level="a">
              <name type="work" key="name-410053">
                <hi rend="c">A Canterbury Shower.</hi>
              </name>
            </title>
          </head>
          <lg type="verse">
            <l>I love the sound</l>
            <l>Of distant rain</l>
            <l>Coming across</l>
            <l>The fields of grain,</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="verse">
            <l>Up and over</l>
            <l>The slanting roofs</l>
            <l>Like antelopes</l>
            <l>With silver hoofs.</l>
          </lg>
          <lg type="verse">
            <l>I hear them forage</l>
            <l>Through the corn</l>
            <l>With flick of tail</l>
            <l>And tiny horn,</l>
            <l>Half expecting</l>
            <l>To see them run</l>
            <l>Up a rainbow</l>
            <l>Into the sun;</l>
            <l>When suddenly</l>
            <l>As wild things will</l>
            <l>They disappear</l>
            <l>Beyond the hill.</l>
            <byline><name type="person" key="name-408170">J. R. Hastings</name>.</byline>
          </lg>
        </div>
        <div decls="#text-6-bibl" xml:id="t1-body-d4-d5" type="section">
          <head>
            <title level="a">
              <name type="work" key="name-410054">
                <hi rend="c">Autumn.</hi>
              </name>
            </title>
          </head>
          <lg type="verse">
            <l>I wandered down a dusky way,</l>
            <l>When shadows fell and sleepy day</l>
            <l>Was dropping down behind the hill,</l>
            <l>And drowsy breezes all were still.</l>
            <l>And all along the path I trod</l>
            <l>Brown leaves had covered up the sod,</l>
            <l>And golden grass was bending down,</l>
            <l>Where thistles plucked against my gown.</l>
            <l>On either side, the silent trees</l>
            <l>With knotted arms and twisted knees,</l>
            <l>Were clad in crimson, gold and green;</l>
            <l>Each tall and graceful like a queen</l>
            <l>Who dons a robe of wondrous shades,</l>
            <l>And wanders through enchanted glades.</l>
            <l>I marvelled at the colours there,</l>
            <l>For though the boughs were almost bare,</l>
            <l>Each tree was decked in autumn gown,</l>
            <l>And frail fine leaves were drifting down,</l>
            <l>To form a carpet rich and deep,</l>
            <l>Where flowers of all the seasons sleep.</l>
            <l>The summer, winter and the spring,</l>
            <l>With all the joys and hopes they bring,</l>
            <l>Are beautiful; but autumn days,</l>
            <l>With golden sun and leaf-strewn ways,</l>
            <l>Are far more wonderful and fair,</l>
            <l>With pale leaves drifting thro’ the air,</l>
            <l>The dying flowers, the frosty dawns,</l>
            <l>The sparkle of the dew-wet lawns.</l>
            <l>And at the hour the sun goes down,</l>
            <l>And earth has donned her shadow gown,</l>
            <l>The last thrush calls, the first star peeps,</l>
            <l>And all night long the pale moon keeps</l>
            <l>Her watch upon the sleeping world,</l>
            <l>Where tinted leaves are gently whirled</l>
            <l>Down to the paths that I had trod,</l>
            <l>Where ragged stems in silence nod.</l>
            <byline><name type="person" key="name-402503">Ruth M. Mumford</name>.</byline>
          </lg>
          <pb xml:id="n17" n="16"/>
          <p>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail016a">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail016a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail016a-g"/>
            </figure>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail016b">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail016b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail016b-g"/>
            </figure>
          </p>
        </div>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n18" n="17"/>
      <div decls="#text-7-bibl" xml:id="t1-body-d5" type="section">
        <head>
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410055">Famous New Zealanders<lb/> No. 39<lb/> <hi rend="c">William Ferguson Massey</hi>.</name>
          </title>
        </head>
        <byline>(<hi rend="i">Written for the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” by <hi rend="c"><name key="name-207731" type="person">James Cowan</name>.</hi>
</hi>)</byline>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d5-d1" type="section">
          <p>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail017a">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail017a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail017a-g"/>
              <head>(<hi rend="i">S. P. Andrew photo.</hi>)<lb/>
<hi rend="c">The Right Hon. W. F. Massey, P. C.</hi>
<lb/>
Prime Minister of New Zealand, 1912–1925. Died, 1925, aged 69.</head>
            </figure>
          </p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Mr. Massey, who will always be remembered as the Dominion's Prime Minster during the Great War period, was an embodiment of all the sturdy qualities needful in the making of a nation in a new and undeveloped land. Although he did not arrive in New Zealand until 1870, much of the country was still in its pioneering stage, and he shared in the breaking-in and buildingup process. He came of the excellent North of Ireland stock whose original source was the Scottish lowlands and who gave to New Zealand many of its most dependable and self-reliant settlers. He was a farmer first and a politician afterwards. When he became Prime Minister his legislation leaned strongly to the side of the man on the land; by every means in his power he encouraged the growth of a population of yeoman farmers owning their own holdings. He had his limitations; his views were strongly conservative, he was averse to the broadening and liberalising process demanded by the changing age. He was doubtless at times a brake on the wheels of progress. But in the Great War he rose to the needs of the hour and shrewdly and capably led the Dominion in that unexampled time of trial and sacrifice. He developed a spirit of Imperialism less flamboyant than Seddon's in an earlier day, and he earned the respect of the whole British Commonwealth of Nations for his hearty devotion to the cause of a united Empire.</hi>
          </p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d5-d2" type="section">
          <head>The Lad from Limavady.</head>
          <p><hi rend="sc">Mr. Massey'S</hi> parents, like thousands of other Ulster families, were of Scottish ancestry. Those Scots - Irish settlers came from Galloway, Kirkcudbrightshire, Ayrshire. Many were given land there as military farmers, a bulwark against the native Irish. Some others left Scotland to avoid the persecutions of Claverhouse towards the end of the Seventeenth Century. Many ultimately intermarried with the Irish folk; others wholly retained their Scottish racial connections. Dr. G. H. Scholefield, in his excellent short biography of W. F. Massey (published in 1925) says that the Masseys first belonged in Ireland to the county of Tyrone where the name is very wellknown. It is a Norman one and appears commonly in Normandy to-day as “Masse.” His father's mother was a Hamilton and his own mother bore the name of Ferguson. The original Masseys were two brothers whose descendants are widely scattered over Ulster to-day.</p>
          <p>William Ferguson, the eldest son of John Massey, was born at the small market town of Limavady, in County Derry, on March 26th, 1856. The family were small farmers, the good, sturdy agricultural stock of the industrious and productive North. There were four in the family besides William, a son and three daughters. Education for the children was gained first at the National School at Limavady. William passed on to a private secondary school kept by a Mr. Brandon, and there received a solid grounding in English, Latin and mathematics.</p>
          <p>His parents left him at school when they emigrated to New Zealand. That was at the end of the ‘Sixties. They sailed in the ship <hi rend="i">Indian Empire</hi> and landed at Auckland, and after looking round leased a farm at the Tamaki. There the boy William joined them in December of 1870; he was then fourteen years old. In those days the Government offered free land to settlers who paid their own passages out to the colony; adults received 40 acres of land and minors 20 acres each. In this way a good-sized family could secure a comfortable little farm, under what was known as the “forty-acre system.” Many British and Irish families were first attracted to New Zealand by the publicity given to this arrangement, which assured them of a property on arrival. They were often people in comfortable circumstances, owning farms of their own; but the old places did not give sufficient opportunity for growing families, and the broad new lands called. But the Masseys were disappointed with the place allotted them; it was up in the Kaipara bush, and they never occupied it.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d5-d3" type="section">
          <head>The City of Auckland.</head>
          <p>The fourteen-year-old boy coming out by himself around the curve of the world, to join his parents, was half a sailor by the time he landed after a voyage of 84 days. The ship which brought him was the <hi rend="i">City of Auckland,</hi> one of the finest of the clippers in the beautiful sailing fleets of that maritime era. The ship was a favourite with passengers in the London-New Zealand trade, and she carried in her day thousands of immigrants to these shores. Her commander was Captain Ashby, probably the best known of all the masters in that trade when sail was in its glory. The <hi rend="i">City of Auckland</hi> was a handsomely fitted ship somewhat after the type of the carefully appointed East Indiamen. At the break of the poop were
<pb xml:id="n19" n="18"/>
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail018a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail018a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail018a-g"/></figure>
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail018b"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail018b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail018b-g"/></figure>
<pb xml:id="n20" n="19"/>
carved these appropriate lines from Campbell's “Mariners of England”:</p>
          <lg type="verse">
            <l>“Her march is o'er the mountain waves,</l>
            <l>Her home is on the deep.”</l>
          </lg>
          <p>Like many another young immigrant in those square-rig passage days, the boy Massey learned many a handy way aboard ship that stood him in use in after life on the land. He learned to put his weight on a rope, to tail on to the braces sometimes at a heavy job when passengers gave the sailormen a hand. Useful knots and bends learned from an obliging sailor were often of service to a pioneer farmer. Young Massey always remembered his sea home with affection. The ship left her bones on the New Zealand coast at last; she came to grief on a leeshore, the Otaki beach, and had to be abandoned.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d5-d4" type="section">
          <head>Ploughman at Longbeach.</head>
          <p>William Massey helped his father on the Tamaki plains farm until he was seventeen. Then he went to Canterbury to obtain a more thorough knowledge of work on the land, to qualify him to become a farmer on his own account. He entered the employ of Mr. John Grigg, the owner of the celebrated Longbeach estate, near Ashburton. His father and Mr. Grigg had been neighbours at the Tamaki.</p>
          <p>At Longbeach Massey remained for over two years, chiefly as ploughman, and also for a time in charge of a threshing machine. Before he returned to the North, his father had bought a property at Mangere, the farm which was carried on by the family for many years. Presently he leased a small farm of his own, and he bought a steam threshing machine. a profitable investment at that period, sixty years ago, when wheat was grown by nearly every farmer.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d5-d5" type="section">
          <head>The Mangere Farmer.</head>
          <p>In 1882, being now in a comfortably prosperous way, he married a Mangere girl, Miss Christina Allen Paul. Now he began to interest himself in public affairs. By 1890 he was first president of the Mangere Farmers’ Club; and he was the first president also of the Auckland Provincial Agricultural Association, which developed into a strong and very useful show organisation.</p>
          <p>In politics Mr. Massey, belonging to an individualist school of thought, became a leader in the Auckland branch of the National Association, a conservative body which was stoutly opposed to the newly-born Liberal spirit. Franklin was his electoral district, and the seat was hotly contested for many years by two veterans of the Maori Wars, Major Ebenezer Hamlin, a big and burly Waiuku settler, and Major Benjamin Harris, of Pukekohe. Well I remember those farmer-politicians, who detested each other heartily, for I had on several occasions to report their speeches. Presently it fell to my duty in the course of newspaper work to report Mr. Massey himself. He stood against Major Harris for Franklin in 1893— Major Hamlin having retired—and was defeated.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d5-d6" type="section">
          <head>Elected for Waitemata.</head>
          <p>In the following year there was a by-election for Waitemata, where the eloquent veteran Richard Monk had been unseated for bribery and corruption on the part of his agents. It was the comedy of the hour, that Waitemata election, as revealed when the case was tried. Mr. Monk was a teetotaller to the point of fierce hatred of the publichouse and all it contained, but his agents proceeded to assist his return by holding open house at Kumeu, a lively centre of the gumdigging business. The evidence conclusively showed that free beer flowed for all and sundry, and the convivial diggers voted as one man for “good old Dickey Monk.” He lost his seat, of course; it was hard on a rigid prohibitionist.</p>
          <p>When the seat was declared vacant, Massey was called upon to contest it on behalf of the Conservative party.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d5-d7" type="section">
          <head>At the Pitchfork Point.</head>
          <p>The invitation was conveyed in a telegram to the Mangere farmer; the incident has become historic. Mr. D. Stewart, of Helensville,
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail019a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail019a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail019a-g"/><head>Mr. Massey in a dug-out shelter in the New Zealand lines at Etaples, France, 3rd July, 1918.</head></figure>
and others of the Opposition party despatched the telegram. When it reached his place at Mangere he was engaged in harvesting and was on top of a stack. The message was handed up to him on the point of a pitchfork. There are classic parallels to this picturesque calling of a countryman to the affairs of the nation.</p>
          <p>It was February, 1894, that Massey was thus invited into the Waitemata fray. His opponent was Jackson Palmer, the debonair young Auckland lawyer whom Monk had defeated. The contest was hot and close; the Mangere farmer won by a narrow majority. So, at the age of 38, W. F. Massey entered the House of Representatives, in which he was to occupy, a place continuously for the rest of his life.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d5-d8" type="section">
          <head>Early Days in Parliament.</head>
          <p>Richard Seddon was firmly seated in the saddle of Government when Massey became a member, and he remained there for the next twelve years. During all that time the party of which the man from Mangere eventually became leader maintained a persistent criticism of the Government policies. It looked as if the Opposition would be there for life, so impregnable did the citadel of administrative power seem from the trenches of the attackers. But they kept up their fire steadily session after session, opposing a steady front to all the Liberal and experimental legislation brought forward. The story of that long and often very bitter fight
<pb xml:id="n21" n="20"/>
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail020a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail020a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail020a-g"/></figure>
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail020b"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail020b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail020b-g"/></figure>
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail020c"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail020c.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail020c-g"/></figure>
<pb xml:id="n22" n="21"/>
is well told by Dr. Scholefield in his biography. After his first election for the Waitemata seat, Mr. Massey returned to his own district and was the chosen of Franklin at every election. Captain Russell was for many years the leader of the Opposition.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d5-d9" type="section">
          <head>Leader of the Opposition.</head>
          <p>It was in 1903 that Massey took his place; his sound knowledge of legislative methods and his native ability and strength of character well qualified him for the difficult post. It was soon after he assumed the leadership, as Dr. Scholefield narrates, that the Opposition adopted the phrase, “Reform Party” as its fighting title.</p>
          <p>After Mr. Seddon's death in 1906, the strength of the Opposition steadily increased. Sir Joseph Ward did not possess the Seddonian touch of personal <hi rend="i">mana,</hi> and the farming population especially was solid for Reform. Freehold <hi rend="i">versus</hi> State leasehold was the great question of the day, and the never-slackening fight of the Opposition for freehold carried the Liberal walls at last.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d5-d10" type="section">
          <head>Massey Becomes Premier.</head>
          <p>After the death of Seddon a rift developed between the old Liberals headed by Ward and the Labour party, and the Reform faction gradually increased in activity and strength. Sir Joseph Ward resigned and gave place to Sir Thomas Mackenzie, whose regime was brief; he did not possess the qualities necessary in the leader of a strongly-attacked administration. The unsteady Government was defeated in 1912, and the Reform party entered into power for a long and momentous term of office. For eight years Mr. Massey had been leader of the Opposition, hitting hard all the way against the Liberals and the principles for which they stood. Now he had fairly earned his succession to the seat of the mighty. He retained it for thirteen years, until his death.</p>
          <p>In his first Cabinet there were some very able men, chief of them the veteran Sir Francis Dillon Bell, who was accounted to be the principal motivating power in the Reform Party. He was a sage adviser, a very keen, experienced politician, indeed one of the great statesmen of the Empire. Another tower of strength was Sir James Allen, Minister of Defence, Education and Finance. The Hon. A. L. Herdman was the Minister for Justice. Other members of Cabinet were Sir William Herries, Sir William Fraser, Sir Heaton Rhodes, and Mr. F. M. B. Fisher. Sir Maui Pomare was the Maori member of the Executive.</p>
          <p>There were many long-waiting items on the Masseyites’ legislative programme. One of the first was the land laws. Massey and his supporters were pledged to give the freehold to Crown tenants. The legislation now passed gave the right of obtaining the freehold to 13,175 Crown tenants, holding nearly three million acres of land. This was not altogether to the benefit of the country, for land values went up to an artificial value and there was a harvest for the speculator. Another branch of legislation was a new Labour Disputes measure. The Government passed an Act setting up machinery to investigate disputes and formulate proposals for settlement. A very disturbing question, the control of the Public Service, was next attended to. The Legislature removed the Service from the direct control of the Ministers and placed it under Public Service Commissioners, with very wide powers of appointment and control of State employees.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d5-d11" type="section">
          <head>In the World War.</head>
          <p>Then, in 1914 came the great ordeal of the World War, in which New Zealand was involved from the very beginning and in which the Prime Minister and his Legislature were burdened with responsibilities unprecedented in the history of the country. A National Cabinet was formed, in which the Liberals were represented, with Sir Joseph Ward well placed as Minister of Finance. For four years the exigencies of the war occupied the whole attention of Mr. Massey and his Ministers. The raising of the Expeditionary Forces and
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail021a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail021a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail021a-g"/><head>(Rly. Publicity photo.) Members’ Lobby and Lounge in New Zealand's Parliament Building, Wellington.</head></figure>
maintaining reinforcements, maintaining supplies, providing finance (New Zealand raised more than eighty millions of money for the needs of the War), the control of prices in order to prevent profiteering, and the maintenance of shipments of food and wool for the heart of the Empire—all these made up a tremendous load of responsibilities. Splendidly did Prime Minister, Parliament and people grapple with the task, in common with the other units of the British Commonwealth.</p>
          <p>Mr. Massey and Sir Joseph Ward visited England and toured the war front. One of our illustrations shows the Prime Minister climbing out of one of the underground sandbagged shelters in the New Zealand lines in France towards the end of the War.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d5-d12" type="section">
          <head>In the Councils of Empire.</head>
          <p>Mr. Massey came before the eyes of the world at the memorable wartime gatherings of Imperial statesmen. He was a member of the Imperial War Cabinet set up in 1915. At the War Conference of 1917 the subject of Dominion status was discussed, and as the outcome of the great services of the overseas self-governing countries under the British flag they were definitely declared to be free, autonomous nations of the Imperial Commonwealth. They were in future to be consulted about foreign affairs. Mr. Massey seconded the resolution to this effect. In 1918, when the Treaty of Versailles was signed, Mr. Massey signed on behalf of New Zealand.</p>
          <p>(<hi rend="i">Continued on page <ref target="#n42">41</ref>
</hi>).</p>
        </div>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n23" n="22"/>
      <div decls="#text-8-bibl" xml:id="t1-body-d6" type="section">
        <head>
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410056">
              <hi rend="c">Pots At Pets</hi>
            </name>
          </title>
        </head>
        <byline>Perpetrated and Illustrated by <name type="person" key="name-408002"><hi rend="c">Ken Alexander</hi></name>.</byline>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d6-d1" type="section">
          <head>What Is Home Without A Pet?</head>
          <lg type="verse">
            <l>A bird to sing,</l>
            <l>A pet to pat,</l>
            <l>A cat to slumber</l>
            <l>On the mat;</l>
            <l>Without a pet</l>
            <l>The home is flat—</l>
            <l>The human mind</l>
            <l>Is made like that.</l>
          </lg>
          <p><hi rend="sc">Man,</hi> the great big bassoon in creation's orchestra, yearns for a pet to pat, for a fragment of furred fauna or feathered fowl to fondle; something dumb and faithful and uncritical to reinstate him in his own good books when things come ungummed. He must have something to lean on; not that one can conveniently lean on a goldfish or a canary unless one is a remarkably skilful leaner. But, leaving leaning to the Tower of Pisa and the dieticians, the chief attraction of dumb animals is their dumbness. You can tip off an earful of trouble to a goldfish without his interrupting to tell you about the air-choke in his gills or the water on his bilge. He just conveys his silent sympathy by goggling glassily with one eye at a time, and blows a few bubbles to show what he thinks of life.</p>
          <p>When existence seems to sag, and life languishes into a kind of moaning without meaning, you can sneer at the canary, step on the cat's self-starter, tell the parrot where he gets off, or look black at the white mice; and their admiring eyes will only seem to say, “What a man!”</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d6-d2" type="section">
          <head>The Little Things That Count.</head>
          <p>That is the secret of Man's penchant for pets. They represent repositories for repressions, they are the recipients of his reflexes, his silent sympathisers, and probably his only admirers. Whether he seeks them, looking like “Sunlight on the River,” “War Clouds on the Bosphorus,” or “Fungus in the Underground,” matters not one whit nor wot. Under all conditions their opinion of him is almost as high as his own. He may be so good that he even bores himself; he may be so bad that even his wife realises it. But, will his canary give him “the bird,” will his cat “scratch” him, will his dog become tail-tied in his presence? No sir! Neither will his white rabbit burrow in the blancmange at sight of him. No wonder they are called dumb animals. And of all dumb animals the dog is the “dumbest”; which probably makes him so popular as a pet. Cats are cold. They seem always conscious that once they were fondled by the Pharaohs and pampered in the palaces of Egypt. When the spirit of Ancient Egypt moves them they can “cut” you deader than a butcherbaronet.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d6-d3" type="section">
          <head>Going To The Dogs.</head>
          <p>But dogs are true, true till debt, and after. They are so broad-minded that, even if they knew the truth about you, they would still look dog-like at you. A dog contains more foolish affection to the square inch than the average marriage license. Whether he is so
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail022a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail022a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail022a-g"/><head>“Step on the cat's self-starter.”</head></figure>
pure bred that he is ninety-nine per cent. pedigree and only one per cent. dog, or whether his antecedents are so confused that he couldn't bite himself without causing international complications, he is so full of faith in human nature that there is no room for discrimination. But human dogmatists are more fickle than faithful and, while loyal to Dog, their preferences vary from time to time as to dogs.</p>
          <p>Fashion affects dogs as well as dresses and drinks. Thus, in the words of the following doggerel there are—</p>
          <lg type="verse">
            <l>Dogs, dogs, all kinds of dogs;</l>
            <l>Short dogs and Dachshunds</l>
            <l>With torsos like logs.</l>
            <l>Fat dogs, and thin dogs</l>
            <l>That sag when they run;</l>
            <l>Rum dogs and glum dogs,</l>
            <l>And dogs full of fun.</l>
            <l>Dogs without tillers,</l>
            <l>And dogs without brains,</l>
            <l>Hot dogs and cold dogs,</l>
            <l>And watch dogs on chains.</l>
            <l>Scotch dogs with whiskers,</l>
            <l>And lurchers that leap,</l>
            <l>Pug dogs that whimper</l>
            <l>And wheeze in their sleep,</l>
            <l>Danes dumb and dreary</l>
            <l>That look like a bear</l>
          </lg>
          <pb xml:id="n24" n="23"/>
          <lg type="verse">
            <l>That's been through a mincer</l>
            <l>And lost all its hair;</l>
            <l>Bloodhounds and mudhounds,</l>
            <l>And bulldogs that look</l>
            <l>As if they've connected</l>
            <l>With Dempsey's left-hook;</l>
            <l>Gloomy Saint Bernards</l>
            <l>Whose job (as you know)</l>
            <l>Is rescuing travellers</l>
            <l>Out in the snow;</l>
            <l>Greyhounds, and whippets</l>
            <l>That whip through the air,</l>
            <l>Burly dogs, curly dogs,</l>
            <l>Dogs almost bare;</l>
            <l>Poms—shrilly pom-poms—</l>
            <l>Dalmations, Alsatians,</l>
            <l>Chow dogs and cow dogs,</l>
            <l>And tykes of all nations.</l>
            <l>Some time or other,</l>
            <l>It's proper to say,</l>
            <l>In public importance</l>
            <l>Each dog's had his day.</l>
          </lg>
          <p>So much for faithful Fido!</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d6-d4" type="section">
          <head>The Provocative Parrot.</head>
          <p>Broadly speaking—as he usually is— the provocative parrot is not a dumb animal. There are times when owners have wished that he were. The chief use of a parrot is to restrain dad from expressing his feelings in a natural manner when he drops the boot-last on his thumb. For parrots are delightfully imitative and love nothing better than regaling visiting vicars and rich aunts with fruity tit-bits garnered from dad's repertoire of vocal gems. Before purchasing a parrot it is always wise to examine its chest for tattood anchors; for a tattood anchor means that the bird is steeped in the traditions of the mercantile marine and is liable to come un-steeped and tell the world, just when the rich aunt looks like coming across with the “mazuma.” Many a parrot thus has put the acid on the gold brick of Fortune by speaking out of his turn.</p>
          <p>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail023a">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail023a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail023a-g"/>
              <head>
                <hi rend="c">“The Gift Of Tongues”</hi>
              </head>
            </figure>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail023b">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail023b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail023b-g"/>
              <head>“Have always longed to own a cray who would recognise my step.”</head>
            </figure>
          </p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d6-d5" type="section">
          <head>The Cray At Play.</head>
          <p>The British pet-lover is not very venturesome. He is satisfied with dogs and cats and birds and mice. He is a petty petter. Seldom do we hear of him harbouring a giraffe or a muskox in his yard, or a dolphin in the bath. More imagination is required if piquancy is to be added to domesticity. A clutch of bats—ding or plain—would help. A brace of carpetsnakes or lounge lizards would add zest to afternoon tea-parties. A pet platypus would lend a pre-historic, and post-hysteric, colour to the antique furniture. A wallaby would keep things on the hop, and a conger eel clambering up and down the table legs would be sort of chummy.</p>
          <p>Personally I favour a pet cray. I have always craved a cray to tell my troubles to. Its eyes are so sympathetic; they seem to reach out towards you. They have the same seeking sublimity as a pair of toffee apples, the same questing questioning as a couple of asparagus stalks. They swivel so sweetly, they convex so neatly, their periscopic protruberance is so submarinely satisfying.</p>
          <p>I have always longed to own a cray who would recognise my step—and breath—when I returned to the inglenook at eventide; to hear him gallop down the hall to meet me with a noise like a sack of dog-biscuits going through a chaff-cutter. I would call him Nip or Boozo, and he would clamber onto my knee with eyes brimming with affection, as only a cray's eyes can brim. I can imagine him playfully pinching my toes in the morning, the while he flapped his tail and capered on the bed rail. I would take him for a scamper along the beach, making sure that he didn't fall in the water and drown. I would train him to pull corks and pickled onions out of bottles, to nip undesirable visitors under the table, to shin up and fix the aerial, to find my collar studs and socks under the duchesse in the morning, and to weed the garden on Saturday afternoons. And what a “wow” he'd be at smoke concerts— provided he could keep sober! Dogs and cats are loyal but, for sheer craylike devotion, give me a cray.</p>
          <pb xml:id="n25" n="24"/>
          <p>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail024a">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail024a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail024a-g"/>
            </figure>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail024b">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail024b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail024b-g"/>
            </figure>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail024c">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail024c.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail024c-g"/>
            </figure>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail024d">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail024d.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail024d-g"/>
            </figure>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail024e">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail024e.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail024e-g"/>
            </figure>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail024f">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail024f.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail024f-g"/>
            </figure>
          </p>
        </div>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n26" n="25"/>
      <div decls="#text-9-bibl" xml:id="t1-body-d7" type="section">
        <head>
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410057">
              <hi rend="c">Our London Letter<lb/> Famous Locomotive Types.</hi>
            </name>
          </title>
        </head>
        <byline>
          <hi rend="i">by <name type="person" key="name-407992">Arthur L. Stead</name>
</hi>
        </byline>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d7-d1" type="section">
          <p>“Pacifics,” outside King's Cross Locomotive Sheds, London.</p>
          <p><hi rend="sc">Of</hi> all steam locomotive types, probably the “Atlantic” and the “Pacific” are the best known, alike to railwaymen and railway users. These two designs of locomotives have performed, and are performing, wonderful work throughout the world of railways, although the “Atlantic” engine is rapidly disappearing from the track to make way for more powerful equipment.</p>
          <p>The first “Atlantic” engine to be employed on the Home railways was the “Henry Oakley,” built in 1898, in the Doncaster shops of the Great Northern (now London &amp; North Eastern) Railway. This historic locomotive is shortly to be scrapped, after nearly forty years of service in fast passenger working. Just prior to the construction of the “Henry Oakley,” a type of machine had been evolved in America which consisted of a fourcoupled bogie locomotive, with the addition of a pair of trailing wheels helping to support the very large firebox. This engine was the world's first “Atlantic,” and the “Henry Oakley” was, to all intents and purposes, an adaptation of the American plan. The first British “Atlantic” weighed 58 tons. It had two pairs of coupled wheels, 6 feet 8 inches in diameter, set very close together, and driven by outside cylinders. Many sister locomotives were built, and these performed fine service on the AngloScottish main-lines, later being relegated to the London-Cambridge, working out of Liverpool Street station in the metropolis.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d7-d2" type="section">
          <head>Historic Locomotives Preserved.</head>
          <p>Following its commendable policy of preserving historic locomotives, the London, Midland &amp; Scottish Railway has recently restored and repainted two notable engines, and placed them on exhibition in Glasgow. These are the former Caledonian Railway 4-2-2 type engine No. 123, and the former Highland Railway 4-6-0 type locomotive, No. 103.</p>
          <p>The 4-2-2 locomotive was actually the last engine with single driving wheels employed on the Home lines for public passenger service. Built in 1886, No. 123 played a prominent part in the historic “Race to Edinburgh.” Its single driving wheels are 7 feet in diameter. The other engine to be placed on show was the first 4-6-0 locomotive to be introduced in Britain, being designed in 1894 for hauling passenger trains over the heavilygraded Highland tracks. An especially interesting feature in its design is the double chimney for draught induction. Several similar locomotives continue to give good service over the Highland section of the L. M. &amp; S. Railway.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d7-d3" type="section">
          <head>Re-arranged on Area Basis.</head>
          <p>Locomotive running-shed reorganisation has recently been undertaken on the L. M. &amp; S. Railway. The depots have been re-arranged on an area basis, one shed forming the “headquarters” for a particular district, all the other sheds being simply “garages.” Locomotive repairs not calling for a visit to the works are carried
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail025a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail025a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail025a-g"/><head>1,400 Class Locomotive, Madrid-Zaragoza-Alicante Railway, Spain.</head></figure>
out at the “headquarter” shed in each district, thus enabling repair shops and equipment at the smaller depots to be eliminated. In addition, the concentration of locomotive supply and repair on this area basis enables greater use to be obtained from the power within that area, and eliminates redundancy and overlapping in the provision of motive power.</p>
          <p>The various L. M. &amp; S. running sheds are also being overhauled and modernised in respect of their layout and equipment, thus saving a considerable amount of time in the aggregate in handling engines on and off the sheds, in coaling, and in other running shed operations. About twenty-eight sheds have so far been modernised, involving the installation of mechanical coaling-plants, ash-lifting equipment, and so on.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d7-d4" type="section">
          <head>Liverpool Street Station.</head>
          <p>One of the most interesting passenger stations in the world is undoubtedly the Liverpool Street Station of the L. &amp; N. E. R. in London. This immense station in a normal day deals with 1,260 trains, conveying nearly 230,000 passengers; while 10,000 bags of postal mails also are handled.</p>
          <pb xml:id="n27" n="26"/>
          <p>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail026a">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail026a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail026a-g"/>
            </figure>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail026b">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail026b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail026b-g"/>
            </figure>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail026c">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail026c.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail026c-g"/>
            </figure>
            <pb xml:id="n28" n="27"/>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail027a">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail027a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail027a-g"/>
              <head>London-Cambridge Express (L. and N.E. Railway) hauled by “Atlantic” Locomotives.</head>
            </figure>
          </p>
          <p>Liverpool Street lies to the east of the City, and is in charge of a stationmaster, assisted by two deputy stationmasters, covering the period 7.0 a.m. to 11.0 p.m. Next come seven inspectors, fourteen station foremen, and a total personnel of 395, this figure including 63 ticket collectors and 90 porters. Main-line services in and out of Liverpool Street connect the metropolis with all parts of East Anglia, and an important service is that linking London with Harwich in connection with the L. &amp; N. E. steamship route to the continent. In addition, the terminus handles the most intensive steam-operated suburban train service in the world.</p>
          <p>Apart from the usual underground railway connections, there is an important link at Liverpool Street between the main-line railway and that interesting transportation undertaking—the Post Office Tube Railway —which runs east and west beneath the capital. Exchange of traffic is effected by spiral chutes and a conveyor belt 502 feet long. Over the Tube, no fewer than 920 cars of mails pass daily to and from Liverpool Street. The cars, of course, are somewhat smaller than the standard railway carriage.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d7-d5" type="section">
          <head>For Third-class Passengers.</head>
          <p>As part of its big new constructional programme, the Great Western Company is building in the Swindon Works 124 third-class corridor coaches of a new design, embodying many outstanding features. These coaches will be used on all main-line express services, and will provide a greater degree of comfort than has hitherto been possible. Each of the new vehicles is 61 feet long, 9 feet wide, has eight compartments, and seats 64 passengers. Entrance is by doors at each end of the car, and a side corridor is provided. Each coach is built with massive steel underframes to which is attached the body, separately constructed and entirely encased with steel built on a timber framework and fitted with a steel roof.</p>
          <p>The outstanding feature of the new vehicles is the large observation windows, which stretch practically across the whole side of each compartment. The corridor partition has ben altered, and, by means of enlarged side windows and a wider sliding glass-panelled compartment door, an uninterrupted “window seat” view on either side is given to every passenger in the compartment. The interior scheme of decoration is in cream and brown. The seat backs are fluted and fashioned to fit the back,
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail027b"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail027b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail027b-g"/><head>A Northern Ireland Beauty Spot, Newcastle, County Down, viewed from the Railway Hotel. (Mourne Mountains in background).</head></figure>
and steamheating, electric lighting, and draughtfree windows add to passenger comfort. The coaches are excellently sprung, and the smoothness of running is a feature.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d7-d6" type="section">
          <head>Popularity of the Camping Coach.</head>
          <p>The camping coach holiday arrangement introduced by the Home railways three years ago, proved so popular that this season the group lines have placed at public disposal an additional 108 camping coaches, bringing the total number of these vehicles in use up to 323. Many extra sites have been selected for the coaches, these including the most attractive coastal and inland localities from Cornwall to the Highlands, and also Northern Ireland.</p>
          <p>Bookable in advance, the camping coaches may be rented, with accommodation for six or more persons, at charges varying from #2/10/- to #5 per week. Their equipment includes everything a modern camper on holiday is likely to require. Bedclothes, chairs, crockery, cutlery, kitchen utensils, linen, mirrors, oil lamps, and in some cases even a wireless aerial, are supplied. Fresh stocks of bed and table linen are provided through the railway laundries each week. A condition of tenancy is that return railway tickets for the holiday journey are purchased by the temporary tenants, who are also in many instances able to send their luggage in advance to the coaches, which are under the charge of local station-masters.</p>
          <pb xml:id="n29" n="28"/>
          <p>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail028a">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail028a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail028a-g"/>
            </figure>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail028b">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail028b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail028b-g"/>
            </figure>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail028c">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail028c.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail028c-g"/>
            </figure>
          </p>
        </div>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n30" n="29"/>
      <div decls="#text-10-bibl" xml:id="t1-body-d8" type="section">
        <head>
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410058"><hi rend="c">Pictures Of New Zealand Life</hi><lb/> Land of the Kauri.</name>
          </title>
        </head>
        <byline>(<hi rend="i">By <hi rend="c"><name type="person" key="name-207731">Tangiwai</name>.</hi>
</hi>)</byline>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d8-d1" type="section">
          <p><hi rend="sc">For</hi> many years a few of us have been urging that some attention should be given by the foresters of the Dominion to the regeneration and cultivation of the New Zealand native forests. For the most part this advice has fallen on deaf ears, although it has been shown repeatedly by scientific men such as the late Sir David Hutchins and Thomas Cheeseman that most kinds of indigenous trees respond quickly to the protection necessary to give them a start in the world. Even the kauri grows more rapidly here than the oak does in Europe. Some day, let us hope, there will be a reconstruction of present afforestation methods in the direction of planting native timbers largely, instead of relying wholly on exotics, as at present. In the meantime, there is a wonderful object lesson for our tree-planters, the young kauri nursery on the Waitangi endowment block, at the Bay of Islands, which the country owes to the great generosity of Lord and Lady Bledisloe. Ten pounds in weight of kauri seeds taken from the Waipoua forest and set on a piece of land near the hill called Mt. Bledisloe germinated rapidly, and within ten days thirty thousand seedlings had appeared above the ground. The little kauris are to be planted out over an area of 2,400 acres on the Waitangi block.</p>
          <p>This will be glad news to Lord Bledisloe, at whose request the experiment was made. He never wearied when here of advocating the merits of New Zealand timbers and of greatly increasing the area of native woodlands. The effort at Waitangi is the first result of his long fight for the cultivation of the indigenous bush. It
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail029a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail029a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail029a-g"/></figure>
certainly goes to disprove the arguments of those who thought it useless to attempt planting the kauri and other native trees. Wasteful sawmilling methods, too, will have to be stopped. At present millions of young trees and seedlings are destroyed in felling and milling methods. They can be made the nurseries of future forests if they are preserved.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d8-d2" type="section">
          <head>Bush Remedies and Maori Medicinal Lore.</head>
          <p>A correspondent wishes to know something about Maori medicinal knowledge and the herbal remedies used in curing diseases. He had been told that only the <hi rend="i">tohungas</hi> knew the remedies, and that such knowledge could not now be obtained.</p>
          <p>This statement is, of course, not correct, for there are native communities that depend entirely on bush remedies, and the uses of leaves, roots and bark of indigenous trees are perfectly well-known to many of the elder people. The <hi rend="i">tohunga</hi> proper was an expert in mental treatment; he relied chiefly on the powers of suggestion; he was more of a faithhealer than a doctor. He is not yet an extinct bird by any means. I have known many <hi rend="i">tohungas.</hi> They were all men of strong mentality, and I could well believe that their laying on of hands and their personal <hi rend="i">mona</hi> had a magnetic and magical influence on their patients. But for the ordinary physical ills of life, there are wise women as well as men in every community who can effect cures with simple remedies. One or two of these bush medicines are known to chemists, such as a decoction of <hi rend="i">koromiko</hi> (veronica) leaves for dysentery and an infusion of the <hi rend="i">kumarahou</hi> leaves as a relief for asthma. There is a great field for enquiry here.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d8-d3" type="section">
          <head>The Virtues of Leaf, Root and Bark.</head>
          <p>Here are a few of the native medical uses of our bush trees and shrubs and plants, of which I have heard from my elder Maori friends and oldsettled <hi rend="i">pakehas.</hi> They are set down to supplement the remedies mentioned in last month's Magazine.</p>
          <p>Flax-root juice, applied either raw or after boiling the roots, was a favourite application for gunshot or bayonet wounds in the wars. Charred supplejack was used to cauterise bullet wounds, which then were stopped up with clay, and nature was left to take its course; such wounds usually healed soon. The soft leaves of the <hi rend="i">papapa,</hi> a small ground plant, after the outer surface had been rubbed off, are applied to wounds and sores, and the liquid obtained from boiling a quantity is a strong soothing and healing agent. The <hi rend="i">kawakawa</hi> or pepper tree (<hi rend="i">piper excelsum</hi>) is a useful medicine tree. A boiled infusion of its leaves is good for colds, and the juice pressed from the roasted leaves makes an excellent dressing for bad wounds and sores. So, too, is the edible pith of the black ferntree or <hi rend="i">mamaku (Cyathea medullaris</hi>); it is applied raw. The <hi rend="i">nikau</hi> palm pith is a laxative. The leaves of the <hi rend="i">tarata</hi> shrub, chewed and made into a paste, will soon cure raw places on a saddle-sore horse.</p>
          <p>For digestive troubles there is virtue in an infusion of the <hi rend="i">piripiri</hi> or <hi rend="i">hutiwai,</hi> the stickfast plant popularly known as the “biddybid.” The bark of the forest tree <hi rend="i">pukatea (Laurelia)</hi> has a reputation as a backblocks remedy for toothache and neuralgia. The bark is steeped in hot water and the pulp applied to the aching place or held in the mouth.</p>
          <pb xml:id="n31" n="30"/>
          <p>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail030a">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail030a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail030a-g"/>
            </figure>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail030b">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail030b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail030b-g"/>
            </figure>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail030c">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail030c.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail030c-g"/>
            </figure>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail030d">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail030d.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail030d-g"/>
            </figure>
          </p>
        </div>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n32" n="31"/>
      <div decls="#text-11-bibl" xml:id="t1-body-d9" type="section">
        <head>
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410059">The Franco-Ethiopian Railway<lb/> <hi rend="i">Djibouti to Addis-Ababa.</hi>
</name>
          </title>
        </head>
        <byline>(<hi rend="i">By <hi rend="c"><name type="person" key="name-408350">W. W. Stewart</name>.</hi>
</hi>)</byline>
        <p><hi rend="sc">The</hi> little known country of Abyssinia is so much in the limelight at present that it is opportune to give a few details of its railway system. There is only one railway as yet, that which is operated by the Compagnie du Chemin de fer FrancoEthiopien, the offices being in Paris.</p>
        <p>The railway is of the metre gauge and the distance from the coast to Addis Ababa (7,875 feet above sea level) is 495 miles. As far as Dire Daoua, the permanent way consists of rails weighing 40 lb. per yard, limiting the axle load of the rolling stock to about 8 tons. This section is being relaid with heavier rails. Beyond Dire Daoua, 50 lb. rails are laid, permitting the use of more powerful engines.</p>
        <p>The locomotive and carriage shops are located at Dire Daoua and, although it is many miles from the frontier, the Customs offices are situated here.</p>
        <p>Amongst the important engineering works may be mentioned the steel viaducts at Chabele, 72 feet high and 511 feet long, and at Holl Holl 92 feet high and 466 feet long: many other bridges over deep ravines are met with, that of Laga Bora being 269 feet long. There is a long tunnel through the mountains at Har and a bridge over the river at Aouache, of 495 feet.</p>
        <p>“My after-breakfast pipe is the best of the day,” declared Tennyson, and plenty of smokers will agree with him. The poet, it's well-known, always smoked a “churchwarden,” otherwise “a yard of clay,” and never used the same pipe twice. Many old smokers hold that the tobacco counts for more than the pipe, whatever the latter is made of. So it does. So long as it's pure, sweet, soothing, comforting and fragrant — and the genuine toasted brands are all like that—any pipe will do provided it will draw.” “Toasted” owes its fame to its superb quality and also its harmlessness. The five famous brands, Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cavendish, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold are as near perfection as tobacco can possibly be. Practically without nicotine (eliminated by toasting), they can be indulged in not only with keen enjoyment but absolute safety. The toasting process (the manufacturers’ secret), is complicated, necessitating the employment of special machinery and skilled labour. Attempts to imitate these brands have all failed. They are “imitation-proof!”<hi rend="sup">*</hi>
</p>
        <p>The usual train service is four goods trains each way per day and a passenger service throughout twice weekly. The overall journey takes about three days, as night travelling is not usual, the actual running time being 33 hours for the 495 miles, except on special occasions, notably at the time of the coronation of the Emperor when a train made the run in 25 hours. Steps are being taken to accelerate the services by fitting electric headlights to the locomotives, etc.</p>
        <p>By reason of the long distance between the fuel and water stations all the main line locomotives are provided with large bogie tenders.</p>
        <p>There are 56 locomotives in service, made up as follows:—</p>
        <p>8 0-6-0 shunting tanks.</p>
        <p>9 2-6-0 tender engines, of which 4 are superheated and 3 are fitted with turbo-dynamos.</p>
        <p>13 2-8-0 compounds (4 cyl.) weighing 35 tons.</p>
        <p>8 2-8-0 simple expansion, 36 tons each.</p>
        <p>8 2-8-0 superheaters with turbodynamos, 38 tons each.</p>
        <p>10 2-8-0 superheaters weighing 46 tons each.</p>
        <p>Illustrated is one of the latest superheated 2-8-0 engines, built by the Societe Alsacienne of Grafenstaden in 1929. This has cylinders 18 ½in. diameter by 21 5/8in. stroke; driving wheels, 3ft. 5 5/8in. diam., and pony truck wheels
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail031a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail031a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail031a-g"/><head>(<hi rend="i">W. W. Stewart Collection.</hi>)<lb/>
One of the latest super-heated locomotives (2-8-0 type) employed on the Franco-Ethiopian Railway.</head></figure>
2ft. 4in. diam. The coupled wheelbase is 14ft. 1 ¼in. Working pressure, 180lb. per square inch.</p>
        <p>There are 46 carriages, of which eight saloons with sleeping berths and lavatories are fitted with electric light. Of the 445 goods vehicles, 229 are bogie wagons each carrying a load of 20 tons. Owing to the heavy and sudden rains which prevail at certain seasons of the year, a large proportion of covered wagons are in service. All wheels have centre couplers and the locomotives and carriages are fitted with the air brake and many wagons have the pipe and couplings for use on the mixed trains.</p>
        <p>The terminus of the railway at Addis-Ababa, of ornate architecture, was inaugurated by the Emperor Taffari and the Empress of Abyssinia on December 3, 1929, as a memorial to the late Emperor Menelik <hi rend="c">Ii,</hi> who granted the concession for the railway.</p>
      </div>
      <div xml:id="t1-body-d10" type="section">
        <head>
          <hi rend="c">“Railwayfication” Of The Roads.</hi>
        </head>
        <p>
          <hi rend="b">Among people who never use the railways because they own an automobile there existed at one time many who sincerely believed that the train was becoming obsolete, and that in the not very distant future the steel tracks would be torn up to make room for concrete surface automobile speedways. When there were only three or four automobiles per mile of roadway, it was easy for the motorist to believe in the superiority of his system, but now, with ton-mileage figures on the road approaching those on the railways, it is harder to find the advantage, or indeed to see any marked difference. The one-way street, the colourlight signal, driving tests, car parks or sidings, and the ban on overtaking in built-up areas (actually the new 30 m.p.h. limit amounts to this) are making the roads resemble railways ever more closely. Because motorists proceeding head to tail for miles in single file would be happier if strung together and piloted along by the head man, it wants but one bright person more interested in scenery than in another motorist's tail lamp to suggest this and the transformation will be complete—the railway system will have been invented again by the very people who affected to despise it.—“The Railway Gazette.”</hi>
        </p>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n33" n="32"/>
      <div decls="#text-12-bibl" xml:id="t1-body-d11" type="section">
        <head>
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410060">
              <hi rend="c">On The Road To Anywhere</hi>
            </name>
          </title>
        </head>
        <byline>(<hi rend="i">By <hi rend="c">“<name type="person" key="name-208310">Robin Hyde</name>.</hi>”</hi>)</byline>
        <p>With an Alpenstock at Arthur's Pass.</p>
        <p><hi rend="sc">I Suppose</hi> every city in the world has its little disadvantages. With Christchurch, City of the Canterbury Plains, the trouble is not, as some have supposed, too many bicycles, but too much decorum. The very same English gentility which was responsible for its grey Gothic arches, its avenues lined with fatherly chestnut and other trees, has done something repressive to its spirit of adventure. It is a city of charming people who, to my mind, rather lack the elan of young New Zealand. There is too much sitting about in the twilight listening to muted music. Of course, this is in some sense a relief— Christchurch, like Andrew Marvell's garden, is “a green thought in a green shade”—but the quietude and the contemplation are not the things I like best in a New Zealand which is too young and frisky to have developed much genuine poise as yet. Wellington's winds blow fresher, Auckland's merging of subtropical currents is more exciting and varied, Dunedin's fierce old hills are more intrepid….</p>
        <p>After which sacriligeous passage, let me hasten to add that the stranger has to feel like this about Christchurch, because otherwise he or she would remain for ever dissatisfied with his own home town. He would go about lamenting that other cities do not, by means of weeping willows, sliding river and occasional bubbling white fountains, contrive to look like a plate out of a Japanese fairy tale.</p>
        <p>Christchurch is to me something of a dream city. It grows its own brand of lotus, and the attraction thereof seems to be overpowering. Strong men settle there, full of versatility and ambition, and in a few years you find them cheerfully cycling about from Art Course lectures to their own little rock gardens.</p>
        <p>Nevertheless, the Christchurch folk do go a-roving, here and there, and from time to time. Sometimes they merely take to tramping over their backdrop of hills, rifle on shoulder, looking for the highly problematical deer which are supposed to exist within twenty miles or so of the city outskirts, but which one never actually encounters on the dinner table. The real and best way of working off your superfluous energy in Christchurch is, however, not deer-stalking, but hopping into the train that wends its way to the mountains.</p>
        <p>For, both summer and winter, the Railway Department people frequently decide to do something in the matter of an excursion. And then, in quiet suburban homes, are heard raging male voices, enquiring, “Lucy, Lucy! … What the deuce have you done with my alpenstock? You've used it to stake the green peas? Well, if women aren't the dizzy limit! …” And more to that effect. The shortest and most popular excursion—to Arthur's Pass—in winter-time provides big game for the world of mountaineers. Just a few hours to the nor'west from plains and City of the Plains, uprises Mount Rolleston—at any time a handsome peak, complete with glacier, but in winter such a grand old daddy among snow-mountains that the number of mountaineers who have scaled it can still be counted on the fingers of two hands. If you're not in the professional or giftedamateur class of mountaineers, there's still good climbing to be had on a small but effective mountain, commonly known as the Blimit. Dissect this word and you'll probably guess that the Blimit's sides offer quite a stiff pull for the young and daring.</p>
        <p>On the train everybody sings. I haven't the faintest idea why, unless the possession of alpenstocks and rucsacks gives a pique to the self-confidence of the usually reserved New Zealander. The young of our species, both male and female, look so much alike, and so happy, that it's difficult to tell how anyone will ever be able to make a living, writing problem novels in this country. Flannel slacks: shirts mildly suggestive of a Fascist generalissimo, but more in the flamboyant vein: rolled socks, and either boots (in the case of the wary ones who have met mountain shale before), or else the hardiest of sandals. Worn on top, a beret and a bob. And there you are, the complete Arthur's Pass excursionist, sitting in groups around the sensible youth who has thought to bring his steel guitar, and wails harmoniously that it's a long, long way to his home in old Kentucky.</p>
        <p>It's a joy to see the country suddenly forget all about green willow, and go native. First the hillsideflanks, bare but for that leopard-skin robe of tawny grass. Then clefts where native bush is still thick and dark betwen two hills, mountain streams singing into little waterfalls above great boulders, Troll King size, and a general look of mountainy strength and gloom. Farther on lies
<pb xml:id="n34" n="33"/>
the true wilderness of the West Coast —forest, wetness and romance, beginning with the wild beauty of Otira Gorge.</p>
        <p>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail033a">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail033a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail033a-g"/>
            <head>“Piteous visions hobble about groaning and swaying on their high heels.”</head>
          </figure>
        </p>
        <p>When you forsake your train, you learn one thing without the slightest delay. Shoes: it pays to be sensible. Piteous visions hobble about, groaning and swaying on their high heels. Even the mildest Arthur's Pass tramp is not the sort of thing you should take on without good, thick shoeleather between yourself and Nature. As for those who actually tackle the mountain-slopes, Rolleston or the Blimit, they become initiated into the mysteries of that painful thing known to mountaineers as shale. It looks innocent but cuts through ordinary shoe-leather, and reduces the ankles to pulp. Moral: hire good boots, which can be done at the little Arthur's Pass store where Oscar reigns supreme.</p>
        <p>The real end of the Arthur's Pass world would arrive if Oscar, who is a professional guide and hails from foreign lands afar—Switzerland, if I remember rightly—were to leave off wearing a feather in his beret. Befeathered berets have become one of the old familiar sights of New Zealand in the last few years, but it was Oscar of Arthur's Pass who pioneered the movement. In the store with him reigns his wife, a charming fairhaired young Esthonian whose soft accent adds to the touch of quaintness and “difference” in this rather neglected little resort among the mountains. For Arthur's Pass is, or has been, neglected. It's a Cinderella sister to peerless Mount Cook. Rugged and fine though its own scenery is, and enchanting though many find its alpine gardens, it has never been very fully developed as a tourist resort. Probably it goes down in the curriculum as “Mountain, smallsized.” Its old hands, who have built them summer huts in the valley, love it just the same, and the novices who come for the first time on the excursion trains nearly always decide to save up and build a summer hut of their own. I know one New Zealand authoress who always flies to Arthur's Pass when she wants to write a new book. But it's not a colony of the literati nor, thank Heaven, of the “arty.” Its backbone, from the population point of view, is supplied by hardy middle-aged gentlemen who do nothing very much but wander about in disreputablelooking pants, smoke grimy pipes, and consult with Oscar as to the best ways up and down Rolleston.</p>
        <p>The summer huts are the queerest and most picturesque little assortment of shanties. Nearly all are built of red-painted tin, or spare odds and ends of wood … and built <hi rend="b">how!</hi> They seem to have been put together without plans, specifications or the slightest trepidation. They have names like “Sans Souci,” or “The Better ‘Ole,” and although a good percentage of the tin chimneys looked to me as lopsided as something in Alice-in-Wonderland, they work all right when it comes to cooking an honest mountaineering snack of breakfast, so who cares about the rest? There is, however, a first-rate Arthur's Pass Hotel, where not only the excursionists but likewise the local residents, adjourn when they want to dine in state.</p>
        <p>One of the first things that happens to you at the Pass is having your photograph taken by a grinning press photographer who wants a good crop of alpenstocks and berets for his pictorial supplement. And it's quite a pretty sight to see the “townies” among us—especially the men—leaning upon their stocks as though they spend their lives careering up and down glaciers. After that the fun begins: rough roads, very up-hill-anddown-dale, leading past juvenile waterfalls and into the woods of manuka and fern, the forerunners of the natural alpine gardens where white daisies and ranunculi glisten in the sun. The Government has preserved and protected these alpine flowers, and there is something so gallant about them—nearly all flourishing their silken caps and tassels from lowgrowing plants, but forming together sheets of soft blossom—that one feels inclined to compliment them on their pluck. I suspect a good deal of mild poaching goes on: at all events, in Christchurch there are a good many rock-gardens where the thymey smell of the Alpine plants bobs up again, a long way from home.</p>
        <p>The manuka woods are full of wild bees, and the smell of their dark and heavy honey is on the air. I know one Christchurch bee-farmer who always leaves a row of hives over here in the wilder West, especially to collect the more pungent and darker manuka honey. It isn't accepted for export, but many local gourmets prefer its tang to the smoother clovertaste.</p>
        <p>Out of the woods, one sees a lonely and strange world, lost in a majestic dream of its own. High over Mount Rolleston's shale-slopes, the dark green of glacier-ice lies seemingly fixed, yet eternally moving with that slow, resistless movement which is the motion of the time-stream. From the dark sides of the Blimit, naked of snow, mountain cataracts leap down in a white flying mist, so graceful, so swift, that it is easy to see how the old Grecian legends of the oread, the white mountain nymph, arose.</p>
        <p>And if one goes so far as to tackle a climb, the rest is mainly breathlessness and barked ankles: and that unreasonable sense of personal triumph, of achievement over the whole world and the Heavens into the bargain, which every mountaineer knows.</p>
        <p>When you make the trip to Arthur's Pass you will be farewelled by a chanting of train-excursionists, not only very pleased with themselves because of their day's scrambling among the alpine flowers, but also made comfortable within by a hotel dinner served on a substantial basis which argues a pretty thorough knowledge of the mountaineering appetite.</p>
        <pb xml:id="n35" n="34"/>
        <p>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail034a">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail034a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail034a-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail034b">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail034b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail034b-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail034c">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail034c.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail034c-g"/>
          </figure>
        </p>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n36" n="35"/>
      <div decls="#text-13-bibl" xml:id="t1-body-d12" type="section">
        <head>
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410061">The Wisdom of the Maori<lb/> <hi rend="c">Railway Station Maori Names.</hi>
</name>
          </title>
        </head>
        <byline>(<hi rend="i">By <name type="person" key="name-408259"><hi rend="c">Tohunga</hi></name>.</hi>)</byline>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d12-d1" type="section">
          <p>(<hi rend="i">Concluded</hi>).</p>
          <p><hi rend="sc">The</hi> series of articles explaining the origin and meaning of Maori names of railway stations throughout New Zealand is concluded in the list of names given below. The country from the Bay of Islands to the coast of Southland has been covered in this survey of place nomenclature, a subject about which questions are continually asked. This list ends with Awarua, the Maori name of the Bluff Harbour. A few names have been omitted because they were obviously corruptions of the Maori, and the original word is now difficult to ascertain.</p>
          <p>In addition to these railway-stations names, a number of other South Island names of localities are explained on this page.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Stations on Southland Branch Lines. Otautau:</hi>
          </p>
          <p><hi rend="i">O</hi> = food for a journey; <hi rend="i">tautau</hi> = fastened in bunches.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Waikouro:</hi>
          </p>
          <p>Should be <hi rend="i">Waikoura,</hi> crayfish stream.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Aparima:</hi>
          </p>
          <p><hi rend="i">Apa</hi> = a party of workmen;</p>
          <p><hi rend="i">rima</hi> = five. The name, however, may be an importation from the Pacific Islands.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Wairio:</hi>
          </p>
          <p><hi rend="i">Wai</hi> = water, or stream; <hi rend="i">rio</hi> = dried up.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Tuatāpere:</hi>
          </p>
          <p><hi rend="i">Tua</hi> = a sacred ceremony preliminary to a gathering of people; <hi rend="i">tapere</hi> = an assembly for song and amusements. The accent is on the “ta.”</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Te Tua:</hi>
          </p>
          <p>The back, the farther side, of an object.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Te Waewae:</hi>
          </p>
          <p>The foot, or leg.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Waihoaka:</hi>
          </p>
          <p><hi rend="i">Wai</hi> = stream; <hi rend="i">hoaka (hoanga</hi> in the North) = a block of sandstone or other suitable stone on which
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail035a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail035a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail035a-g"/></figure>
greenstone weapons, etc., were ground, polished, or sharpened.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Orepuki:</hi>
          </p>
          <p>This is a <hi rend="i">pakeha</hi> corruption of <hi rend="i">Aropaki,</hi> the original name. One meaning is favourable appearance, as of the weather. It has also been applied to the ornamental border of a finely woven cloak.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Pahia:</hi>
          </p>
          <p>Slapped; also a preparation of mashed food.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Ruahine:</hi>
          </p>
          <p>A wise woman.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Wakapatu:</hi>
          </p>
          <p>Should be <hi rend="i">Whakapatu</hi> = to strike, or kill.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Colac:</hi>
          </p>
          <p>A corruption of <hi rend="i">Oraka,</hi> the original name, Raka's home.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Tihaka:</hi>
          </p>
          <p>A kind of basket woven of flax or cabbage-tree blades.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Otaitai:</hi>
          </p>
          <p>Where the sea dashes or strikes; also referring to certain sacred ceremonies in which food (<hi rend="i">O</hi>) was offered to the gods.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Waimatuku:</hi>
          </p>
          <p>Stream of the bittern, or of the blue heron.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Waianiwa:</hi>
          </p>
          <p>Water in which the rainbow is reflected.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Makarewa:</hi>
          </p>
          <p><hi rend="i">Maka</hi> = fish-hook; <hi rend="i">rewa</hi> = floating.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Waikiwi:</hi>
          </p>
          <p>Stream where the flightless bird the <hi rend="i">kiwi</hi> was seen.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Pukearuhe:</hi>
          </p>
          <p><hi rend="i">Puke</hi> = hill; <hi rend="i">aruhe</hi> = fernroot.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Nokomai:</hi>
          </p>
          <p>Corruption of <hi rend="i">nuku-mai</hi> = move this way, towards the person speaking.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Awarua:</hi>
          </p>
          <p>Two streams, or channels. This is the original name of Bluff Harbour; it has been given to a station about midway between Invercargill and the Bluff. It is a widespread name in Polynesia and New Zealand; <hi rend="i">Avarua,</hi> at Rarotonga Island, is identical with <hi rend="i">Awarua.</hi>
</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d12-d2" type="section">
          <head>Other South Island Names.</head>
          <p>The following are some of the names of places in the South Island selected for their general interest, or for the stories of their origin.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Kaikoura:</hi>
          </p>
          <p>Eat crayfish, or meal of crayfish. In full the name is <hi rend="i">Te Ahi-kaikoura a Tama-ki-te-Rangi,</hi> meaning “The fire in which Tama-of-theSky cooked crayfish.” The local tradition is that Tama, who commanded the exploring canoe <hi rend="i">Tairea,</hi> from the Eastern Pacific, landed in the South Bay, at Kaikoura Peninsula and kindled his fire there, at the place where the whaling station stands. Kaikoura is celebrated for the size and abundance of its <hi rend="i">koura</hi> which the ancient Polynesians relished so much.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Atiu:</hi>
          </p>
          <p>This is a particularly interesting name, one of many transplanted from the Pacific Islands. It is the name of a headland at Kaikoura and it is also the name of one of the islands in the Cook Group.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Rarotonga:</hi>
          </p>
          <p>This Pacific Islands name is also the Maori name of Centre Island, Foveaux Strait.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Akaroa:</hi>
          </p>
          <p>This is the South Island variant of Whangaroa. The meaning of both names is Long Bay, or Long Harbour.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Puketapu:</hi>
          </p>
          <p>Sacred hill, or holy mount. This is the graceful conical hill near Palmerston station, it overlooks the Moeraki beach, the traditional scene of the canoe Arai-te-uru's capsize on arrival from Hawaiki. Puketapu, according to legend, was the slave wife of a chief named Pakihiwi-tahi, whose name is that of the hill inland of the Palmerston station, on which the cairn to Sir John McKenzie originally stood. The Maori gods transformed them into these mountains, say the old people of Moeraki village.</p>
          <p>
            <hi rend="b">Kanieri:</hi>
          </p>
          <p>Originally Kani-ere, a reference to the act of sawing greenstone.</p>
        </div>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n37" n="36"/>
      <div decls="#text-14-bibl" xml:id="t1-body-d13" type="section">
        <head>
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410062">
              <hi rend="i">Limited Night Entertainments</hi>
            </name>
          </title>
        </head>
        <byline>By <name type="person" key="name-408342">R. M. Jenkins</name>
</byline>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d13-d1" type="section">
          <head>Part Xiii.<lb/>
<hi rend="c">The Queen'S Earrings.</hi>
</head>
          <p><hi rend="sc">This</hi> afternoon,” said the schoolmaster to a class of fifteen earnest students of geography, “we shall draw a sketch map of the North Island of New Zealand and put in from memory the principal towns and rivers.”</p>
          <p>Fourteen pupils began laboriously to trace a rocky pattern which they trusted would, when completed, bear at least a passing resemblance to the contours of the coast line of Te-Ika-A-Maui. The fifteenth pencil was held by a little girl at the bottom of the class. She had bright chestnut hair and sticky fingers and she reduced the windswept vastness of the Ninety-mile Beach, the bush-clad shores of Kawhia Harbour, the azure sweep of North Taranaki Bight, to a wavering line of imposing blackness. Cape Egmont swelled in a bulbous curve, there was a puncture in the paper at Castlecliff and a rubber-smudge near Kapiti Island.</p>
          <p>From the puncture at Castlecliff a line of surprising delicacy ran inland. At the end of this line was drawn a railway station with a signal in the “off” position, and then with sleepers, and all complete, a railway ran to where about an inch above the fortieth degree of latitude, appeared a house and a figure on horseback. This map earned a detention for its creator on the score of its unconventionality. But she was, after all, only emulating the old-fashioned cartographer who loved to embellish his chart with ships and mermaids and such romantic legends as “Here be whales.”</p>
          <p>If Mary Lenzie, for that was the little girl's name, could have been induced to write such a legend upon her map, her journey's end would have been inscribed “Here be the Queene's Jewelles.” For it is a fact that this point, if you can find it on an orthodox atlas, is where the Queen's Earrings may be found. They lie in a wooden casket beneath the hearthstone of a farmhouse on the eastern slope of a fertile valley. The casket, which is of Maori origin, dates from about 1850, but the earrings, two exquisite fire opals set in whorls of beaten gold, are much older than that, for their story goes back to a day in May, 1568, when Mary Stuart fled from the Battle of Langside.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d13-d2" type="section">
          <head>
            <hi rend="c">Chapter I.</hi>
          </head>
          <p>Disaster came at the moment the Queen lent forward to caress the arching neck of her mount. It was an impulsive gesture born of the beauty of sun-dappled hills and the breeze, that, sweet with the scent of hawthorn in blossom, brought the sound of pipe and kettledrum and the confused jingling murmur of an army on the move. Six thousand men, her men, were winding down the lane to the village of Langside behind the pennons of Hamilton and Argyll. True, they were but retiring to await reinforcements at Dumbarton Castle, but the sight of them, and the loyalty they represented had power to still the bitter memories of plot and imprisonment, spiritual and physical suffering, and promise a new beginning of better things.</p>
          <p>Distance perhaps and the love of a woman for a brave show dimmed her eyes to the folly of such a manoeuvre and the obvious unworthiness of the rabble of levies that the sergeants-atarms cursed along in the rear. But the village lay quiet, and beyond it by a grove of stunted oaks a scattered group of Murray's horse appeared no more than a reconnoitring party ready to take flight at the first sign of danger. Tears of joyful emotion filled the Queen's eyes in response to the restless movements of her jennet stallion, which, with ears pricked forward towards the distant glint of sun on steel, fretted his curb chain and shifted his hoofs with eager impatience.</p>
          <p>“Sois tranquil, mon petit,” she murmured, putting forth a hand to quiet him, but her fingers did not touch the quivering neck muscles, for at that moment he curvetted violently as a rattle of firearms rang out from the village below.</p>
          <p>Dun clouds of dust and powder smoke drifted over the roofs, lances tossed in confusion as chargers reared, struck at point-blank range by the slugs of the hackbutters who, under the command of Kirkaldy of Grange, lay hidden behind the walls and shuttered windows of the village street.</p>
          <p>Another volley, and riders thrown from maddened horses were trampled beneath the hoofs of their fellow troopers, as they turned about in a desperate effort to escape from the death-trap into which they had ridden.</p>
          <p>The infantry, pressed up close in the narrow lane, their vision obscured by dust and smoke, orders drowned in the din of battle, had no chance to rally themselves before they were ridden down by their own leaders; and the Regent's men loading and firing their hook-guns at leisure and in perfect safety, poured volley after volley into the hopelessly jammed soldiery.</p>
          <p>Panic followed and rout, the Royalists leaping walls and ditches were soon spread out over the countryside; tiny fleeing figures that threw down their arms as the pursuing cavalry overtook them. A score of Murray's horsemen spied the little group formed on the hilltop by the Queen and Lord Herries, Livingstone and the Douglases, and spurred their horses toward the rise.</p>
          <p>“Leave me now.” The Queen, overcome at the sudden dissolution of her army, seemed listless, ready to surrender and face imprisonment, perhaps death. “Leave me, I pray and fly for your lives,” she said, preparing to dismount, but the jennet stallion, excited by the drumming of galloping hoofs, reared, and in an instant the eyes of the brooding, defeated woman were lit with the fire of new determination, as she displayed her skill as a horsewoman.</p>
          <p>Herries swung from his saddle and laid a hand on the stallion's bridle.</p>
          <p>“Madam,” he cried earnestly, “Tarry no longer here, or these rogues burn thee, but ride with us southward to Dumfries and England—and I'll warrant
<pb xml:id="n38" n="37"/>
within a month the Queen will send such a force as will make this rebel lion a lamb for slaughter.”</p>
          <p>One last look then at the scene of her defeat and the Royal Standard of Scotland fluttering from its staff
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail037a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail037a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail037a-g"/><head>“Lenzie swung himself into the Queen's saddle.”</head></figure>
above her head, and the Queen, with the hoarse cries of her enemies dinning in her ears, clapped heels to the stallion, which, freed at last from restraint, leaped forward down the hillside.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d13-d3" type="section">
          <head>
            <hi rend="c">Ii.</hi>
          </head>
          <p>The rumours of the Royalist defeat came to Malcolm Lenzie as he sat in the library at Glenmayne Priory, an old stone building which lay in a hollow on the road to Kirkconnel. Lenzie, who was a man of some substance, had fallen heir to the Priory some years previously and had planned to end his days among its cloisters and panelled rooms. Peace and comfort had played no small part in these plans, for his life had been full of travel and warlike occasions, but so hard do the habits of a lifetime die, and so certain are the seeds of hard living to come to fruition, that his manner at times was more that of a caged bear than of a retired gentleman who professed to find his greatest adventure in the culture of roses by the terraced walks of the Priory garden.</p>
          <p>The black mood, then, in which he found himself this May morning, was occasioned by his inability to take part in the stirring events, the news of which was fanning the countryside. Mary Stuart, for so long little more than a memory, had escaped from Loch Leven Castle, and riding across the half of Scotland had come to Hamilton Palace where many of the Loyalist families had gathered round her.</p>
          <p>Malcolm's own son—sixteen-yearold Robin Lenzie—had the day before gone off with twenty men; a prideful figure, clanking his scabbard as he mounted the black gelding. Old Malcolm would fain have gone with him but for the cursed rheumatic pains— a legacy from the Low Country wars —which as he was wont to say, “twisted the strings of his back as though the Di'el himself would play upon a harp,” and left him no choice but to wander painfully through the silent rooms, and brood upon the tartan kilt which young Robin had cast aside for the panoply of war.</p>
          <p>Raising his eyes he spied beyond the open window old Angus, whose duty it was to gather up dead leaves and trim the grass plots, presuming to thrust his ugly pendulous nose into the heart of one of the choicest of the early rose blooms.</p>
          <p>“How now you old puddock,” cried Lenzie, “do you suppose that if the Good Lord had intended roses for your delight He would not have made them in the form of a trumpet—the better to fit your inelegant neb?”</p>
          <p>“Na, Lenzie,” the old fellow answered complacently, “I'm no but on my way to tell ye news o’ the battle.”</p>
          <p>“Battle? You bring me news of a battle and stop to play with posies on the way? I should have you trussed!”</p>
          <p>“An’ ye did t'would be no more than what's come to Hamilton, skewered upon the pikes o’ the Kirkaldy's men —so they say.”</p>
          <p>Lenzie leaped from his chair and immediately clapped hand to his back with a cry of anguish.</p>
          <p>“Aye,” old Angus admonished him, “there may be wars but they're no for the likes o’ you and me.”</p>
          <p>Lenzie hirpled across to the window.</p>
          <p>“Who says that Kirkaldy bested Hamilton?” he demanded grimly.</p>
          <p>“Man, the coutryside is full o’ runaways, one dinned at the gate and telt me that the Queen herself was headed this way. Forbye there's five others with her, and a score of green jackets not a bowshot behind them. There'll be a grand burnin’ I'm thinkin', an they catch them.”</p>
          <p>“They'll never whiles I draw breath,” cried Lenzie. “Open the gates by the stable yard—quick now, and get you into the road and should they come before I get there, cry as loud as your pipes will let ye, that this is Glenmayne, and we will stand siege against twenty times twenty o’ Kirkaldie's rabble if need be.”</p>
          <p>In the distance, as he finished speaking, came the drum of galloping hoofs and Lenzie, a hand clasped to the small of his back, hastened from the house. He joined old Angus at the gates, which swung wide as the Queen and her party came into view over the rise. Waving his arms and making every sign he knew for them to stop, he ran into the roadway.</p>
          <p>Herries drew sword and would have cut him down as they swept by, but Livingstone, who knew the laird by sight, cried to him to stay his hand and the lathered horses were reined in on their haunches.</p>
          <p>“We cannot halt here,” barked Herries, “Murray's men are just beyond the brow.”</p>
          <p>“Aye,” Lenzie answered him, “and ye canna escape them if I don't ride with ye—for there be inhospitable country ahead. Madam,” he bent his head stiffly to the Queen, “your cap and cloak I pray you, and then inside where the womenfolk will care for you.” He waved a hand toward the little group, Mistress Lenzie, her daughters and several wenches who had gathered within the gates.</p>
          <p>“You others,” he said, “gather round lest the odure that blows in your train sees me transform myself into a Royal fugitive.”</p>
          <p>Hastily donning the Queen's plumed cap and her cloak of purple velvet, Lenzie swung himself with a groan
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail037b"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail037b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail037b-g"/><head>“I pray you keep these trinkets … as a token of my gratitude.”</head></figure>
of “God be thanked for a low horse!” into the Queen's saddle and set the stallion bucking into the middle of the road and in full view of the pursuers as they came thundering over the brow of the hill.</p>
          <p>From Glenmayne Priory the road
<pb xml:id="n39" n="38"/>
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail038a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail038a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail038a-g"/></figure>
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail038b"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail038b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail038b-g"/></figure>
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail038c"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail038c.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail038c-g"/></figure>
<pb xml:id="n40" n="39"/>
went undulating without a bend for several miles across the lowlands. To the right, however, across a stone bridge, a cart track used by fern cutters ran upward through a narrow glen thickly grown with young larches.</p>
          <p>Fern-cutters’ tracks, though they may wander for miles among the hills come always to a dead end upon some lonely heath, so it was with a shout of joy that the Regent's men saw the flying cavalcade wheel into this turning beyond the bridge; but they shouted firm in the belief that the figure, close shrouded in a purple cloak, spurring a little ahead of the others, was the Queen.</p>
          <p>Old Lenzie led the chase shrewdly. The going was heavier now and the strain beginning to tell upon the sadly blown horses. As they toiled up the glen and gained the shelter of the trees, he divulged his plan.</p>
          <p>“Beyond this wood,” said he, “the track winds up the glen in plain view for nearly a mile, but just above it and at the wood's edge is a cavern, the mouth of which is screened by a mantle of fern and gorse. Let us ride there as swiftly as we may and hide in the cavern, and thus when the Regent's men find the road empty ahead, with no cover on the bare sides of the glen, they will think for sure that we are hidden in the wood. So may we at least gain time to breathe our horses, if we do not so confuse them as to give up the chase.”</p>
          <p>And so it was. The last of the Queen's followers had barely squeezed through the rock opening to the cavern, for it would admit but one horse at a time and that only after a hard scramble up the hillside—that the green clad horsemen emerged from the wood. They halted blinking in the sunlight, evidently puzzled by the empty road ahead; and then as Lenzie had prophesied, returned to the wood and by their shouts and trampling amongst the undergrowth gave evidence of their search for the fugitives there.</p>
          <p>The better part of an hour passed, and then emerging once more, they set off less confidently at a jog up the track, passing so close below the mouth of the cavern that the men concealed there kept close hold upon their horses lest the clink of a bit ring or a lifted hoof should betray them.</p>
          <p>“A merry ride to ye, gentlemen,” chuckled Lenzie as the last one turned out of sight up the glen. “An ye follow it far enough, that road will take you to the Indies. And now my lords,” he turned to his companions, “lest these knaves grow tired too soon of parleying with the hares and sparrow-hawks, let us return with all speed to the road. You will ride south to Michael's Cross where you shall find a good Catholic MacDonald to bait your horses and hide you until I bring the Queen by quaking moss and hill path to you, from Glenmayne.”</p>
          <p>Then bidding them God-speed at the cross roads Malcolm Lenzie turned the jennet stallion's head north once more to Glenmayne.</p>
          <p>Though his venture was not yet at an end, he experienced as he rode alone, a feeling of despondency. The excitement of the chase had driven the chills from his back, but his heart was faint. Perhaps, after all, at the wrong side of sixty it was better to turn the pages of a book and watch the bright sparks fly up from the hearth. Somewhat wearily he turned beneath the arch into the courtyard at Glenmayne and there halted with cold fear at his heart at sight of the mired and drooping black gelding on which Robin had ridden off so blithely the day before.</p>
          <p>From the contemplation of this object he was roused by a gentle bantering voice which addressed him from the steps of the house.</p>
          <p>“Does the Queen ride without her courtiers?” it said. Lenzie turned and gazed a moment at a slim youth with red-gold hair rudely shorn, and dressed, yes, surely he was dressed in Robin's doublet and homespun breeches over which were drawn thigh boots, then he swept the plumed cap from his head.</p>
          <p>“Your pardon, Madam,” he said, dismounting swiftly, “I left a Queen in the care of my womenfolk-I return to find-”</p>
          <p>“Still a queen, but one more suitably clad for an arduous journey. Tell me, Lenzie, how goes it with our friends?”</p>
          <p>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail039a">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail039a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail039a-g"/>
            </figure>
          </p>
          <p>“They are by now come near to Michael's Cross, where they will be safe for a time from pursuit. As soon as fresh horses are saddled. Madam, I will take you to them.”</p>
          <p>He pressed a hand to his heart and reeled a moment with a black mist before his eyes.</p>
          <p>“Nay,” cried the Queen, “but you are hurt.”</p>
          <p>“Not I, but old bones, it seems, are less willing than old heads to make staunch followers.”</p>
          <p>“Lenzie, your son has returned unhurt from Langside. May he not take me to Michael's Cross?”</p>
          <p>“Robin? Unhurt?” Old Lenzie's eye lit with pride and joy. “Why, then, there's a lad who will guide you better and more swiftly than I, his bones are young, and his heart—”</p>
          <p>Lenzie raised his eyes and remained staring a moment in uncomprehending silence. The Queen stood with her hand extended and in the soft palm of it reposed a pair of earrings. Two fire opals set in whorls of beaten gold.</p>
          <p>“Lenzie,” she said, “the owls and the little mice that run in the fields are more favoured than a Queen without a kingdom, aye, and less dangerous creatures to defend.” She paused and threw back her head, “But we shall return to Scotland with power and wealth, and I pray you until that time keep these trinkets which fell from my ears as they clipped my hair; not as a reward for what you have done, but as a token of my gratitude and a promise that I shall not forget.”</p>
          <p>(<hi rend="i">to be continued.</hi>)</p>
          <pb xml:id="n41" n="40"/>
          <p>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail040a">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail040a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail040a-g"/>
            </figure>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail040b">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail040b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail040b-g"/>
            </figure>
          </p>
        </div>
        <pb xml:id="n42" n="41"/>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d13-d4" type="section">
          <head>
            <hi rend="c">The Famous New Zealanders.</hi>
          </head>
          <div xml:id="t1-body-d13-d4-d1" type="section">
            <p>(<hi rend="i">Continued From Page <ref target="#n22">21</ref>.</hi>)</p>
            <p>This marked for all the world to see the entrance of this Dominion into the Imperial partnership. In making declaration of war or peace in future, Great Britain must consult her partners over the ocean.</p>
            <p>The Dominions were full nations now, entitled to take part in the deliberations which might affect their well-being and future. At the Imperial Conference of 1921, Mr. Lloyd George, then the British Prime Minister, defined the new position in these words:</p>
            <p>“There was a time when Downing Street controlled the Empire; to-day the Empire controls Downing Street.”</p>
          </div>
          <div xml:id="t1-body-d13-d4-d2" type="section">
            <head>The Soldiers and the Land.</head>
            <p>Post-war legislation of a very harassing character occupied the attention of the Massey Government after the National Cabinet had come to an end. The principal problem was the making of provision for the repatriated soldiers of the Dominion. All those who wished to become farmers were assisted to settle on the land. Land was bought at high prices, while the country was still at the top of the boom for production, and thousands of returned men were placed on sections acquired at absurdly inflated values. Here the usual canny vision and sound judgment of Mr. Massey deserted him. He and his colleagues should have foreseen the collapse of high prices for produce; such a fall was inevitable once the war was over. But they carried on as if war prices would last for ever. The result was disastrous to many soldier-settlers, whose sections were loaded with charges far in excess of the normal and reasonable. This was the principal error of judgment which must be written against the Massey postwar regime.</p>
            <p>Against this debit is to be set the creditable record of the sturdy Prime Minister, an unshakeable pillar of the British Commonwealth structure that resisted the heaviest shocks of war.</p>
          </div>
          <div xml:id="t1-body-d13-d4-d3" type="section">
            <head>A Historian's Vignette.</head>
            <p>Miss N. E. Coad, in her history “From Tasman to Massey,” thus admirably sums up the political character of the war-period Premier:</p>
            <p>“He was considered the farmers’ friend. Did he not understand their needs and sympathise with them in their difficulties? If anyone could help them to make 2d. a pound more on their wool surely it was he. Patriotic, imperialistic, steady, industrious, unimaginative, prosaic, he stands forth as a representative New Zealander. Always well disposed, and obviously sincere, ‘Plain Bill of the Square Deal,’ as he was called, commanded respect alike in high Imperial circles and in the humblest New Zealand electorate. He died at the age of 69, in the year 1925, after guiding the country through the most terrible crisis the world has ever seen. If ever a pilot weathered a storm it was William Ferguson Massey.”</p>
            <p>The seven years of heavy administrative toil that followed the end of the war made an increasingly heavy tax on the Prime Minister's physical resources. Like all successful and popular politicians, he overtaxed his strength. Had he been content to remain on his Mangere farm, quietly plying the calling of his yeoman fathers, he probably would be living still, a cheery octogenarian, judging ploughing matches—no better judge in the Dominion—and making felicitous speeches at the Agricultural Show, and, of course, heartily condemning the Government of the day. But the long toil at the desk, the long Parliamentary hours, the insufficient exercise, the unhealthy and unnatural conditions under which responsible legislators habitually work, laid him in his grave. He was mourned for as a strong and honest man, who for all his limitations served his country well in a period of unexampled stress.</p>
            <p>The grave of Richard Seddon looks down on Wellington from the breezy heights behind the city heart. The sleeping place of William Ferguson Massey is on a beautiful and commanding site, the steep extremity of Point Halswell, looking out over the waters and shores of Port Nicholson. There is no tomb like it in New Zealand; that gleaming monument of marble like some fragment of a classic temple, its graceful curve set off by a dusky selvage of young pohutukawa trees, a fitting frame from Massey's beloved shores of the North.</p>
            <p>
              <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail041a">
                <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail041a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail041a-g"/>
                <head>One of the latest additions to the Railway Department's Road Service Fleet running on the Kingston-Queenstown route. Mr. S. C. Doyle, Superintendent of Road Services, is seen on the left in the group.</head>
              </figure>
            </p>
          </div>
        </div>
      </div>
      <div xml:id="t1-body-d14" type="section">
        <head><hi rend="c">Pains All Over His Body</hi><lb/>
Prevented from Working by Neuritis and Rheumatism.<lb/>
Kruschen Made Him Feel a New Man.</head>
        <p>Rheumatism is an insidious complaint that strikes without warning. It attacks an arm, or a leg, and frequently the pains spread to all parts of the body, unless something is done to check them. That was the experience of this man, who had rheumatism so badly that at times he was prevented from working.</p>
        <p>“About 10 months ago,” he writes, “1 suffered terribly with rheumatism and neuritis. The pains were all over my body and some days I could not even get up from bed to go to work, A friend visited me and suggested that I should try Kruschen Salts. I did so, the result being that the pains seemed to gradually disappear. I have been going to work ever since without a break, thanks to Kruschen Salts, and I feel a new man. I would gladly recommend them to anyone.” —A. R.</p>
        <p>Rheumatic conditions are the result of an excess of uric acid in the body. Two of the ingredients of Kruschen Salts have the power of dissolving uric acid crystals. Other ingredients assist Nature to expel these dissolved crystals through the natural channels. In addition, there are <hi rend="i">still</hi> other salts in Kruschen which prevent food fermentation in the intestines, and thereby check the further accumulation not only of uric acid but of other body poisons which undermine the health.</p>
        <p>Kruschen helps blood, nerves, glands and body organs to function properly—you gain new strength and energy—feel years younger—look better, work better.</p>
        <p>Kruschen Salts is obtainable at all Chemists and Stores at 2/6 per bottle.</p>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n43" n="42"/>
      <div decls="#text-15-bibl" xml:id="t1-body-d15" type="section">
        <head>
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410063">
              <hi rend="c">
                <hi rend="i">Cross Creek</hi>
              </hi>
            </name>
          </title>
        </head>
        <byline>(<hi rend="i">By <name type="person" key="name-408381"><hi rend="c">Colin Mcberry</hi></name>
</hi>).</byline>
        <p><hi rend="sc">The</hi> traveller who had been at Cross Creek for twentyfour hours trying to form a Club to buy canteens of cutlery at eighteen guineas a case, sat down despairingly on his bags as he waited for the train to take him to pastures new, and—he hoped—more fertile. Among the hard-working, happy railway families which compose “The Creek,” none had that amount to spend on luxuries.</p>
        <p>“Does anything ever happen here?” he asked of the humorous-faced trainexaminer who, though he appeared to have plenty to do, even when there was no train in sight, now seemed slack for a few minutes.</p>
        <p>The examiner straightened up, wiping his hands on the inevitable piece of cotton waste. “Yes, things happen all right,” he replied. “Why, only last Tuesday week, Hippo Hunt killed a rabbit—he slipped when out mushrooming and sat on it.”</p>
        <p>The traveller took a surprised glance at the narrator. This, for excitement, was priceless. Then seeing the grin that disappeared quickly from the examiner's face, he guessed that he was having his leg pulled.</p>
        <p>“But honestly, what do you people here do for amusement? Not a shop of any kind—can't even buy tobacco; no pictures, no pub, no billiard saloon. What do you do?”</p>
        <p>The examiner spoke seriously. “Well, we have a good swimming pool, and there are the tennis courts which we hope to extend shortly. We are making a children's playground and gardens and hope soon to have the settlement the talk of the service. We are all pulling together fine.”</p>
        <p>“When did the last real incident happen? Does anyone ever die here, or is anyone ever born?”</p>
        <p>“No, the mountain air is too healthy,” was the reply. “If we wanted to start a cemetery—you notice we have none—we would have to run over some one with the heavy engine. But births have been known to occur.” The string of little faces hanging round the examiner and calling him “Daddy,” gave point to his remarks.</p>
        <p>“There was once—some time ago, though—a real incident took place here,” he went on. “See that hardfaced old driver over at the tank? Charlie Brusher is his name, and he was the hero of the exploit—though don't tell him I called him a hero; that's just to give the yarn a literary touch.”</p>
        <p>“Come and have a…” began the traveller. “Oh, I forgot there are no hotels here,” he ended lamely.</p>
        <p>“Never mind. I come of a talking family and I think I can spin the yarn without lubrication,” answered the railwayman with a grin.</p>
        <p>“I've forgotten the exact date, but trains were fewer along this line than they are now. Charlie had just come to this area with a great name for horsemanship. Horses were of more account then.</p>
        <p>“Charlie had no horse of his own and no occasion had arisen for him to show his prowess, but the yarn had drifted in that he was little short of a marvel. He said nothing about it himself.</p>
        <p>“Well, the season had been very dry —in fact we were not entitled to our name, for the creek was empty. The water to fill our tanks had to come by train over the mountain.</p>
        <p>“It was near the end of February and school was taking up in a day or two. A kiddie from The Creek—Janet Ann something or other—had been stopping with relatives near where the Pigeon Bush station now stands. Her mother received a letter saying that the kiddie was coming home on the evening train on this particular night. As she had a fair distance to go and wanted to be home in time to milk, the Aunt said she would leave her at the station to wait for the train.”</p>
        <p>“How old was the youngster?” asked the traveller.</p>
        <p>“Oh, about four, I think, but it was safe enough to leave her. The kids here are train-wise, and you couldn't run over them if you tried. There was nothing else to harm her—or so it was thought. Once on the train, of course, she was as safe as the Bank of New Zealand.</p>
        <p>“As it turned out, she was anything but safe. Some farmers, taking advantage of the dry spell and a wind from the North, decided to burn off a bit of bush down by the lake. If you know anything about Wellington weather, you know it is liable to change at any moment to Southerly, and this is just what happened as soon as the bush got going nicely.”</p>
        <p>“I can guess the rest,” interrupted the traveller. “The fire spread; the child's life was endangered and your famous horseman sped to the rescue. Is that it?”</p>
        <p>“That's a bare outline, leaving out the most interesting part,” replied the railwayman. “The fire certainly spread and became the most disastrous one in the history of the Wairarapa. When they saw how the fire was going someone tried to phone ‘Featherston for assistance but the wires were down. They tried to get through on a jigger but ran into an inferno where a bridge was on fire. They were able to get word to stop the train, by 'phoning Wellington who rang through the Manawatu to Masterton. But this was too slow to help the kiddie.</p>
        <p>“The road was clear though the line was not, but there were no cars in those days—not here anyway—and it would take hard riding to get there in time. Although there were near enough to a dozen horses in the settlement, only one, Perry's ‘Darkle,’ would have a chance of doing the job in time.</p>
        <p>“The mother knew the kiddie would not leave the waiting shed, as the aunt had impressed it on her that she must stay there.”</p>
        <pb xml:id="n44" n="43"/>
        <p>“The boy stood on the Burning Deck,’ all over again, eh?” commented the traveller.</p>
        <p>“Of course, there was no question who should go. Perry was laid up with a broken leg at the time and in any case he was no rider.</p>
        <p>“‘Darkie is down in the gully paddock,’ he said to Charlie Brusher. ‘He is easy to manage. Just go up to him and put the saddle on. He will manage the distance all right if you handle him right.’</p>
        <p>“A youngster who had just started here went with Charlie to give any assistance necessary, and he reported to Perry that they had had a hard job to catch the horse and that when
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail043a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail043a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail043a-g"/><head>“Sir, I'd like to shake hands with you,” he said to that worthy.</head></figure>
Brusher got on it, the thing played up something terrible. The last the lad saw was the neddy getting the bit between his teeth and bolting right out of sight at express speed but, fortunately, in the right direction.</p>
        <p>“‘It's a marvel to me if he's not thrown within a mile or two,’ he finished.</p>
        <p>“The whole settlement was worried to death about the matter, but we were short-handed and in any case it would be too late to start anyone else off on a slower horse. Late that night word came through Wellington that the kiddie was O. K., but it was not known if Charlie got her or not.</p>
        <p>“Next day, however, Charlie rode in as large as life with the kiddie on the saddle in front of him. The horse was a bit lame, but showed no trace of its former restiveness.</p>
        <p>“Perry had managed to hobble down on crutches and when he saw his horse limping he looked pretty black. All thought of the rescue slipped from his mind and he spoke sharply.</p>
        <p>“‘Fine horseman you are. First you can't catch a quiet horse like Darkie; then you can't manage him, and then you bring him home lame.’</p>
        <p>“‘Sorry about him going lame,’ said Charlie, who was not quick-tempered, ‘but I think it was because of him not being shod—the boulder road played up with him.’</p>
        <p>“‘Not shod?’ shouted Perry. ‘Why I had him shod only last week; you must have done some funny riding to make him cast his shoes so soon.’</p>
        <p>“Charlie looked at him curiously. ‘He's not only not shod, but he never has been,’ he said.</p>
        <p>“They all turned to look at the horse, which was covered with dust and sweat. At first glance he answered the description of Darkie. Black all over except for a white star on his forehead and one white stocking. Perry picked up first one hoof and then another. What Charlie said was right. The horse had never been shod! Perry looked again at the white stocking; then he yelled, ‘He's got the stocking on the right instead of the left leg. Good lord! he's ridden Gipsy!'</p>
        <p>“He was right. Gipsy was Darkie's full brother and was identical with him except for the stocking being on the opposite leg and except for his temper. Three years before, Perry had given up the job of trying to break Gipsy, and no one had laid hands on him since till Charlie caught and saddled him and rode him 30 miles or so and back. Now he was like a lamb. Darkie had been in the same paddock, but out of sight in some bush.”</p>
        <p>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail043b">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail043b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail043b-g"/>
          </figure>
        </p>
        <p>As the examiner finished, the train for which the traveller had been waiting came round the bend.</p>
        <p>“Well, I must say, a most interesting tale,” said the traveller, getting up and going over to Charlie Brusher. “Sir, I'd like to shake hands with you,” he said to that worthy and did so, with great vigour.</p>
        <p>As he stepped on to the train he remarked, “Well, I'm sorry I am not taking anything away from Cross Creek, but everyone has been very nice to me and I enjoyed my stay.”</p>
        <p>“Don't go away empty-handed,” said the examiner, as he slipped something into the man's hand. When he had taken his seat and placed his bags in the rack, the traveller looked at his souvenir. It was a buffer-tag stamped “Cross Creek,” and he chuckled as he slipped it into his pocket.</p>
        <p>“What did that old geyser want to shake hands with me for?” asked Charlie Brusher a little later.</p>
        <p>“Oh, well,” said the examiner, “he sort of put me on my mettle about nothing happening in The Creek, and I had to use what poor material was handy, and I made you into a hero. Did you shake hands with him?”</p>
        <p>“Of course,” was the reply. “Don't instructions say we're to do everything possible that a passenger asks?”</p>
        <p>Londoners are drinking considerably less beer than they did, but smoking four times as much tobacco—according to the latest statistics. Well, it's the same story in New Zealand, and the greatly increased demand for the weed is not altogether due to the increase in population. It's largely attributable to the rate at which we all live now and the rush and hurry of modern life. People crave for something to relieve the nervous tension, and find that tobacco helps considerably. The ever growing demand for the latter has been far more marked in New Zealand since the introduction of “toasted” which has fairly captured the public taste and is actually preferred by smokers innumerable to the imported article. This is by no means surprising because “toasted” is not only of the very highest grade but so free, comparatively, from nicotine, thanks to toasting, as to be safe for even the heaviest smoker. The five brands, Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Cavendish, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold, are as near perfection as tobacco can well be.<hi rend="sup">*</hi>
</p>
        <pb xml:id="n45" n="44"/>
        <p>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail044a">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail044a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail044a-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail044b">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail044b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail044b-g"/>
          </figure>
        </p>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n46" n="45"/>
      <div decls="#text-16-bibl" xml:id="t1-body-d16" type="section">
        <head>
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410064"><hi rend="i">The People of Pudding Hill</hi><lb/> No. 6.</name>
          </title>
        </head>
        <byline>(By <hi rend="c"><name type="person" key="name-408394">Shiela Russell</name>.</hi>)</byline>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d16-d1" type="section">
          <p>[All Rights Reserved.]</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d16-d2" type="section">
          <head>
            <hi rend="c">Miss Amelia'S Birthday Party.</hi>
          </head>
          <p><hi rend="sc">The</hi> Animals of Pudding Hill were all very excited about Miss Amelia's birthday party which was to be in a few days’ time.</p>
          <p>Up in the gorse hedge, the Hedgehog babies, Sam and Sue, were practising a dance which they were going to do. It was a great secret, but most of the Animals knew they were up to something.</p>
          <p>On a fence post Johnny Black was making up the song which he had promised to sing about the Field Mice who had once rescued him from the Butcher's Boy. This also was a secret, but Johnny Black always made up his songs out loud, and the Field Mice knew all about it. They were gathered in a circle round the bottom of the post making all kinds of remarks.</p>
          <p>“No more when the sun is shining,” sang Johnny Black.</p>
          <p>“No more when the skies are blue,</p>
          <p>Will Johnny the beautiful blackbird</p>
          <p>Be able to sing to you.”</p>
          <p>“We thought it was going to be a song about us,” squeaked the Field Mice.</p>
          <p>“I'm coming to that in a minute,” said Johnny Black, and he went on singing,—</p>
          <p>“Oh! who will get him out of the box?</p>
          <p>The People of Pudding Hill cried.</p>
          <p>And Johnny Black was rescued</p>
          <p>When the humble Field Mice tried.”</p>
          <p>The Field Mice didn't like that either.</p>
          <p>“We aren't humble,” they cried, “and we don't think your song is much good.”</p>
          <p>“Very well,” said Johnny Black, who never minded what anyone said as long as he could keep on singing. “We'll try again.”</p>
          <p>Miss Amelia, the tortoise, was busily writing invitations for the Birthday Party. She had chosen the Rose bed as the best place in which to do this, because she was able to use the fallen petals as paper, and a long sharp thorn as a pen. She had nearly finished and was just about to make a capital “D” for Daisy the lizard, when she heard what sounded like a loud sneeze, and something rushed along the path and jumped right over her.</p>
          <p>Quick as winking she drew inside her shell, and the thing, whatever it was, landed with a bump, and sent her carefully written notes scattering in all directions.</p>
          <p>She could not think what had happened, but presently she heard Mr. Tom, the tabby cat, who had been lying on the path, spitting and hissing in a great rage.</p>
          <p>“Who are you, and where did you come from?” she heard him cry.</p>
          <p>Then she heard a bark and she knew it must be a dog that was causing all the commotion. She poked her head out and looked around her. There was Mr. Tom standing with his back arched and his tail straight up in the air. Bouncing up and down in front of him was a little black dog with bright beady eyes and a rough coat. Every now and again he would stop bouncing and creep backwards, then he would growl and make a spring, but he was always very careful to keep just out of the way of Mr. Tom's claws.</p>
          <p>“I'm Jock,” he kept barking. “I've come to live here. I'll make you all frightened of me.”</p>
          <p>Presently, however, seeing that he could not make Mr. Tom frightened, he scampered off. Mr. Tom put his back down and stopped spitting, although he was still very angry. He came over to Miss Amelia who was sadly collecting up her scattered rose petals.</p>
          <p>“The young ruffian,” he exclaimed, “did you hear what he said to me?”</p>
          <p>Miss Amelia was nearly in tears.</p>
          <p>“What is to be done?” she cried, “we were all so happy together, he will frighten all the other animals away.”</p>
          <p>“You leave him to me,” said Mr. Tom. “I'll teach him his manners.”</p>
          <p>In the days that followed, however, the animals were badly upset by this rowdy little dog who had come to live amongst them.</p>
          <p>He frightened the Field Mice so much that they all ran away and hid in the long grass. He tried to play with Horace Hedgehog, but Horace curled himself into a ball and pricked his nose. He chased Peter Possum up into his tree and made such a noise in the daytime that Joe the Morepork could get no sleep at all. The animals began to feel that their happy days on Pudding Hill were over. None of them could go out without fear of being pounced on, and they began to talk of going away.</p>
          <p>Now Jock, for all his roughness, did not really mean to do anyone harm, and when he found that all the animals hid from him, he became very lonely, for there was no one to bark at or play with.</p>
          <p>On the morning of her birthday party, Miss Amelia, knowing that none of her friends would leave their homes to come to it, was sitting sadly in the garden.</p>
          <p>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail045a">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail045a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail045a-g"/>
              <head>“Miss Amelia's Birthday Party.”</head>
            </figure>
          </p>
        </div>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n47" n="46"/>
      <div xml:id="t1-body-d17" type="section">
        <head>Postal shopping</head>
        <p>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail046a">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail046a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail046a-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail046b">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail046b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail046b-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail046c">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail046c.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail046c-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail046d">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail046d.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail046d-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail046e">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail046e.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail046e-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail046f">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail046f.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail046f-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail046g">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail046g.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail046g-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail046h">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail046h.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail046h-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail046i">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail046i.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail046i-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail046j">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail046j.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail046j-g"/>
          </figure>
        </p>
        <pb xml:id="n48" n="47"/>
        <p>She was so disappointed, that, although she tried hard, she could not keep a few tears from splashing down on the stony path. She never heard Jock come along towards her, and drew quickly into her shell when he spoke to her.</p>
        <p>But it was a different Jock from the rowdy little chap he had been. He sat down in front of her and said very humbly:</p>
        <p>“Please come out of your shell, Ma'am, I do so want someone to talk to.”</p>
        <p>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail047a">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail047a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail047a-g"/>
            <head>“You look very unhappy, Ma'am,” said Jock.</head>
          </figure>
        </p>
        <p>Miss Amelia put her head out very cautiously.</p>
        <p>“You look very unhappy, Ma'am,” said Jock, “are you in trouble?”</p>
        <p>“Trouble?” Miss Amelia sobbed, as she again thought of everything. “It is you that is the trouble. You, with your bad manners. You have growled and barked at everybody so much that they are all frightened and none of them will come to my birthday party on the drying green.”</p>
        <p>Jock was very ashamed, and did not know where to look.</p>
        <p>“Did I really frighten them away?” he asked. “I know I said I wanted to, but I was only playing.”</p>
        <p>“You should never say things like that, not even in fun,” said Miss Amelia severely.</p>
        <p>And then she sat thinking for a few minutes.</p>
        <p>“If you really didn't mean it,” she said after a little while, “perhaps I can still have my birthday party, but we shall have to get Mr. Tom to help. Come along with me.”</p>
        <p>And they started off to look for Mr. Tom. They found him at the back of the house and he was very surprised to see Miss Amelia and the Puppy together. But before he had time to say anything Miss Amelia started to tell him of her plan.</p>
        <p>“Oh! Ho!” said Mr. Tom, and then feeling that this was an opportunity to use one of the long words he was so fond of, “A reconciliation, eh? Well now what do you want me to do?”</p>
        <p>“I want you,” said Miss Amelia, “to go round to all the animals and tell them that I am giving my party after all, and that they need not be afraid of Jock because he is going to sit beside me and be a good boy. Aren't you, my dear?” she added to Jock who nodded his head.</p>
        <p>So that evening the little people of Pudding Hill came down by twos and threes to the drying green and found spread out for them the most delicious feast. There were plates of porridge for the Hedgehogs, cheese sandwiches for the Field Mice. Johnny Black had celery seed, and the Sparrowdenes sugar biscuits. Peter Possum and Joe the Morepork drank milk and ate jam out of a tin. Mr. Tom had a tin of salmon.</p>
        <p>Then when they had all eaten as much as they possibly could, Johnny Black sang his song, and the Field Mice were so busy scampering about among all the empty plates that they forgot to make any rude remarks.</p>
        <p>Sam and Sue Hedgehog did their dance and Joe the Morepork sang a song, which came as a surprise to everyone. It was not very good. Nobody could understand what it was about and in the middle of it he said, “Good-night all,” and flew away.</p>
        <p>Then Jock the puppy stood up and he looked very big beside the others. So big that the animals suddenly became afraid and sat very still.</p>
        <p>“I want to be friends with you all,” he said. “I didn't mean to frighten you. I only wanted to play. So please don't go away from Pudding Hill, and we will all live happily together.”</p>
        <p>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail047b">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail047b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail047b-g"/>
          </figure>
        </p>
        <p>There was silence for a moment, then Peter Possum jumped up and cried. “Alright we'll play with you. See if you can catch me,” and he dashed off round the drying green.</p>
        <p>Jock went after him and soon all the animals were tearing round and round, laughing, squeaking and chirping until it was time to go to bed.</p>
        <p>Then they all said good-night to Miss Amelia, and thanked her for the jolliest party they had ever had.</p>
        <p>“My son's birthday to-morrow,” confided the little old gentleman to the tobacconist, “and what to give him I don't know, but something in your line might do.” “A pipe?” suggested the tobacconist. “Got about fifty,” said the little old gentleman. “A pouch?” “Stacks of ‘em.” “How about a cigarette case?” “He smokes a pipe,” said the little old gentleman. “Some tobacco, then?” “H'm,” ejaculated the little old gentleman, “have to be pretty good. He knows what's what!” “Has he sampled ‘toasted’?” “H'm—don't think so. Is it O. K.?” “Nothing to touch it,” declared the tobacconist. “Try a pound tin of Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), full strength.” “I'll try before I buy,” said the little old gentleman, “give me a fill.” Five minutes later he said, “let's have a pound. If he doesn't like this he ought to.” “He will!” said the tobacconist. And so he did! No smoker can resist “toasted!” Five brands: Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cavendish, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold. Not only famous for flavour and bouquet, they're harmless too!<hi rend="sup">*</hi>
</p>
        <pb xml:id="n49" n="48"/>
        <p>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail048a">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail048a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail048a-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail048b">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail048b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail048b-g"/>
          </figure>
        </p>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n50" n="49"/>
      <div decls="#text-17-bibl" xml:id="t1-body-d18" type="section">
        <head>
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410065"><hi rend="i">Among the Books</hi><lb/> A Literary Page or Two</name>
          </title>
        </head>
        <byline>(<hi rend="i">By <hi rend="c">“<name type="person" key="name-120773">Shibli Bagarag</name>.</hi>”</hi>)</byline>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d18-d1" type="section">
          <p><hi rend="sc">One</hi> of the most promising results of New Zealand Authors’ Week activities has been the increased output of locally published books. Prominent in such enterprise has been the firm of A. H. and A. W. Reed of Dunedin and Wellington. Their recent books have been largely of the historical order and the enthusiastic reception by press and public proves that the selections have been wise. Incidentally, the historical section of our National library has benefited. The latest production of the firm is “New Zealand Land Problems of the Forties,” by Ethel Wilson, M.A., a most interesting and conscientiously written historical document. The authoress was, for some years, a schoolteacher. She married, and reared a family of six sons. This in itself is a life's work for any woman. Mrs. Wilson, however, recently graduated B.A., gained her diploma in journalism and obtained her M.A. degree with first class honours. This, then, is the energetic, ambitious woman who has given us this story of the land problems of the early settlers. She deals with her subject fearlessly, has her authorities carefully arranged and provides, incidentally, a record of facts for any New Zealander interested in the history of the Dominion. In her preface Mrs. Wilson quotes the Maori proverb “The death of the Warrior is to die for the land.” How this proverb is wrapped up in her story, coupled with the arrival of the land hungry colonists, is revealed in a most readable manner in her book. The volume is well arranged, illustrated and printed. The edition is limited to 500 copies at 10/- each.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p>Coincident with New Zealand Authors’ Week the New Zealand Women Writers’ and Artists’ Society published “The Quill,” containing selections in verse and prose from leading members. In a modest foreword the secretary, Miss Nellie Donovan, explains the object of the publication, that of “endeavouring to help writers along the not-too-easy road which leads to the top of the hill.” Quite a creditable booklet.</p>
          <p>Bird lovers will be interested in “Birds of Cape York Peninsula,” recently published by A. and R., Sydney. This nicely printed and illustrated booklet contains ecological notes, field observations and catalogue of specimens collected on three, expeditions to North Queensland.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p>Of late I have been delving deeply into the life and writings (alas so meagre) of Richard Middleton, whose tragic suicide occurred about twentyfive years ago. The fact that his temperament has been compared with that of another poet, Thomas Chatterton, caused me to buy with eagerness a chastely produced volume of Chatterton's poems that I found in a second hand bookshop at Palmerston North recently. In the course of rehabilitating the volume I was about to erase the pencilled signature of the previous owner when I observed that the inscription was, “John Ballance, Wanganui, 1872.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p>On the same country trip I sighted in an auction room a beautifully made box, with a lid of perfectly inlaid wood. I opened it and discovered inside
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail049a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail049a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail049a-g"/><head>The book-plate of Mr. A. E. Donne, of Wellington. The designer is W. S. Percy, artist, writer and stare comedian.</head></figure>
the elaborate mechanism of an old-time music box. It was the finest example of its kind I have seen. It took me many hours to restore it, but at the finish I had the satisfaction of realising that I had purchased, at very moderate cost, one of the most interesting specimens of those delightful old-time creators of melody that I have ever seen.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p>Who “discovered” Gloria Rawlinson? I think the honour belongs to Winifred Tennant. Gloria, at the age of eight, and before she had tried her hand at verse-making, came to live under the same roof in Auckland as Winifred Tennant (the “Dawn Lady” mentioned in the dedication of. The Perfume Vendor), and each week-end the “Dawn Lady,” who looked after the cradles in Saturday's issue of “The Sun,” brought home the supplement of that paper, in which was her children's page, “Happy Town.” This strange metropolis was populated by “Sunbeams” (the children themselves) pixie postmen, fantastic people in velvet jackets and tip-tilted shoes, was approached by a secret thoroughfare, Tiptoe Street, and was hailed by children as a suburb of Fairyland!</p>
          <p>At that time Gloria's interest was centred in a puppy called “Tango” who eventually discovered that his mistress had become “literary minded” and retreated to the kitchen to make friends with the housekeeper. Great consultations followed, metre was mastered by the simple process of tapping out the beats of a line, and at length the “Dawn Lady,” coming home at night, would be besieged by contributions, many of which showed rare promise. Before long Gloria's poems were being featured in “Happy Town,” with illustrations by Minhinnick, then also on the staff of the paper. Many of them won the verse competitions, and in less than a year Gloria found herself a celebrity, with a mail that the postman declared should have belonged to a film star!</p>
          <p>In her wheel-chair she wrote poems about pixies, fairies, and every flower that met her eye, and these were absorbed Saturday after Saturday by “Happy Town.” It was in this page
<pb xml:id="n51" n="50"/>
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail050a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail050a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail050a-g"/></figure>
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail050b"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail050b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail050b-g"/></figure>
<pb xml:id="n52" n="51"/>
that she came under the notice of certain prominent literary people whose interest in her work has not abated.</p>
          <p>Thirty of these poems were included in a collection of forty-four, published a few years ago as “Gloria's Book,” now incorporated in her English edition, “The Perfume Vendor.” Gloria is now at work on a book of stories to be published in England.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d18-d2" type="section">
          <head>
            <hi rend="c">Reviews.</hi>
          </head>
          <p>Two recent publications from the house of Hutchinson (London), which are sure of big sales in New Zealand relate to the present and the late King. “George the Faithful,” edited, and with a preface by Sir Philip Gibbs, is a wonderful survey in story and picture of the life and times of the late King. While the story is an intimate one of Royalty it gains in interest and historical value through being closely wrapped up in the stirring events of the reign. The pictures, all beautifully reproduced on art paper, are also an all embracing record of the period. None the less interesting is “Our Ambassador King,” being a study by Basil Maine (with a foreword by Sir Harry Brittain) of His Majesty King Edward <hi rend="c">Viii.</hi> Here we have revealed to us in a striking manner the adventurous life of the young King and the secret of his amazing popularity. This book is also profusely illustrated. While monarchies have fallen throughout the world since the Great War the unswerving loyalty to the British throne remains. The secret of this loyalty, we understand, perhaps more fully, after reading these two volumes.</p>
          <p>Whitcombe and Tombs Ltd. are the New Zealand agents.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p>“A Century of Historical Stories,” edited by Rafael Sabatini (Hutchinson, London; Whitcombe &amp; Tombs, New Zealand Agents) gives us in a series of colourful verbal tapestries the famous romances of the centuries.
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail051a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail051a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail051a-g"/></figure>
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail051b"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail051b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail051b-g"/></figure>
ith the masterful Sabatini in charge, thirty-five leading authors take part in the historical pageant of over 1000 pages. The fact that Hector Bolitho and Jack Lindsay (son of Norman Lindsay) are represented is of particular interest to us on this side of the world. The former supplies an exquisitely phrased story of the love of Queen Victoria for Prince Albert, and the latter a powerful story of the Roman theatre. Among the other authors represented in the collection are Charles Dickens, Harrison Ainsworth, R.L.S., Lance Lytton and many other leading writers, past and present.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p>“Damballa Calls,” by Hans Possendor (Hutchinson, London; Whitcombe &amp; Tombs Ltd., New Zealand Agents) is a story of love and hate in the negro republic of Haiti. While the reader will be gripped with the plot of the story, a most unusual one, he will also be keenly interested in the pictures given of life in that remarkable island and of the thread of historical incident interwoven. The author is called “the Edgar Wallace of Germany,” and has some thirty novels to his credit. He has travelled extensively and has certainly made great use of his sojourn in Haiti.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p>“The Rocky Road to Jericho,” by Frank Chester Field (Phillip Allan. London; Whitcombe &amp; Tombs, New Zealand Agents) is a love story of the early days of Mormonism in America. Naturally it is somewhat overloaded with sex, yet the author's sincerity asks pardon for the offence. Mormonism is analysed fearlessly and with obvious good intent. The reader is left with a vivid picture of the early days of America, a feeling that the wives and sweethearts have rather swamped the story, but with an understanding as to why religious fervour may cause a circle of otherwise normal folk to gather at a street corner and proclaim their souls to an interested and amused audience. The hero, Martin Parkham, is splendidly portrayed.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p>“Murder Pie” (Angus &amp; Robertson, Sydney) is certainly correctly titled. It is the story of six murders, each one intimately related to the other, and is told by sixteen leading Australian writers. It is by no means such a gruesome and unpalatable pie as it may seem. The crust of the literary styles is crisp and appealing, and there is meat—the rich, juicy meat of sensationalism below. The whole idea is carried out in a most “un-morguelike” manner and yet the novel is crammed full of excitement. Miss J. L. Ranken commits the first murder, in most convincing style, in the opening chapter. Subsequent to a 'varsity psychology lecture at which pertinent questions relative to instinct and premonitions are put to the lecturer, a murder occurs in the 'varsity grounds. Then the various writers of the book, each contributing successive chapters, pile excitement upon excitement and murder upon murder until the last chapter arrives, and Mrs. N. Brennan is faced with the unravelling of the tangle of crime which she explains with logical celerity. The atmosphere and characterisations are well sustained. It is a book I can recommend and you will observe from my notes, that whereas I am a very charitable reviewer, I do not always recommend.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d18-d3" type="section">
          <head>
            <hi rend="c">“Shibli” Listens In.</hi>
          </head>
          <p>Miss Nelle Scanlan has just completed another novel, “The Marriage of Nicholas Cotter.” The locale of the plot is in England.</p>
          <p>One of the penalties of N.Z. Authors’ Week: In one week a N.Z. publisher received for consideration the <hi rend="c">Mss.</hi> of three novels, a collection of humorous sketches, two historical works, two collections of short stories and a treatise on a current human ailment.</p>
          <p>Such a plethora of <hi rend="c">Mss</hi>. from N.Z. writers has reached one big publishing house that they have decided to charge a reading fee of £1 for each <hi rend="c">Ms.</hi> submitted.</p>
          <p>There is much speculation as to the identity of M. Escott, the author of “Show Down,” a N.Z. novel published recently in England. The suggestion that the author is Mrs. Mary Scott is contradicted. “Shibli” can understand the possible diffidence of the actual author to reveal his or her identity.</p>
          <p>James Cowan has received word from London of the acceptance by Jonathan Cape of his collection of South Sea Tales.</p>
        </div>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n53" n="52"/>
      <div decls="#text-18-bibl" xml:id="t1-body-d19" type="section">
        <head>
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410066"><hi rend="c">Heroic Lives</hi><lb/> A Village Heroine.</name>
          </title>
        </head>
        <byline>(<hi rend="i">By <hi rend="c"><name type="person" key="name-408102">F. A. Hornibrook</name>,</hi> London.</hi>)</byline>
        <p>
          <hi rend="b">Readers are invited to submit “real life” stories of lives which could be called heroic in the true sense, as lived by people known to them in New Zealand. The following story is typical of the kind of article which would be acceptable for this feature. Stories should not exceed 1,000 words.</hi>
        </p>
        <p><hi rend="sc">Some</hi> time ago I spent a holiday in one of those little villages which are still to be found in England, right off the beaten track, down in Somersetshire.</p>
        <p>Making the local inn my headquarters, I felt, at the end of two or three days, on intimate terms with nearly all the villagers, as they seldom pass one without their cheery “Good-day!”</p>
        <p>Near by was a farmhouse, and working on the farm was a girl, or to be exact, a woman (for she was 32) whose appearance was in many ways striking—an open, pleasing countenance was framed by a head of the thickest black hair I have ever seen. It stood up six or seven inches high and reminded me very strongly of that of a Fijian. She weighed over 14 stone and, although she was fat, one could see by her quick movements that she possessed an extraordinary degree of muscular strength. I have seen her lift a heavy churn of milk from the ground into a cart with an ease which would be the envy of many a strong man. Her huge forearms felt like iron. I have heard many authentic stories of her strength which I can well believe, for once when I shook hands with her my fingers tingled for nearly an hour afterwards.</p>
        <p>One day the Innkeeper told me her story: Left motherless at the age of eleven, with an invalid father who had lost his capacity for work owing to an accident on the farm, she had one brother three years her senior and four younger brothers and sisters to care for, and she milked sixteen cows every morning before going to school. When her school days were over she assumed the whole management of the home—cooking, washing, mending and when necessary, nursing. The children certainly grew up a credit to her! Her elder brother married, but lost his wife after a few years, leaving three little children. So Hazel, for that was her name, just when she might have enjoyed a well-earned rest, stepped into the breach, adopted another ready-made family, and the daily round of duties began once more.</p>
        <p>However, nothing was a trouble to this brave girl, and the endless tasks were tackled cheerfully and always with a smiling face.</p>
        <p>Always cheerful, always contented and always working!</p>
        <p>Twice eligible suitors appeared on the scene, for a woman of this type would have been a treasure of a wife to any farmer: but each time Hazel said “No.”</p>
        <p>As she told me in her simple way, “It was no use my even thinking of getting married, because I had the kids to look after.” There was no trace of bitterness or regret in her voice; the fact that she had sacrificed herself, never seemed for one moment to occur to her. Her attitude was one of happy resignation.</p>
        <p>As for her recreation—well, perhaps once in a month she went to the Pictures, and paid an occasional visit to the kitchen of the Inn for a neighbour's chat and a couple of packets of potato crisps, most of which she took back to “the kids.”</p>
        <p>Hazel was a woman of many parts: the nature of her life's work had made her very level-headed and practical. No job was too big or too small for her to tackle.</p>
        <p>One day when the Innkeeper's wife was complaining that she could not get into town to have her hair triumed, Hazel volunteered for the job of hairdresser and a first class job she made of it. When complimented on her handiwork she just laughed and said, “Well, I've had plenty of practice. I cut all the kids’ hairs for years.” And then with a touch of justifiable pride, “I can cut a bob or a shingle—I always cut my own.”</p>
        <p>One night she arrived in the kitchen and surprised me by her appearance. Her hair was almost flat and in a few minutes the whole room reeked with the smell of cheap brilliantine. When the Innkeeper's daughter remarked, “Hazel, how lovely your smells,” “Hazel proudly remarked, “Yes, I put some brilliantine on it.”</p>
        <pb xml:id="n54" n="53"/>
        <p>How interesting it was to listen to these country folk! One night the conversation turned to ghosts and Hazel volunteered the statement: “I don't belive in ghosts; I'd <hi rend="b">like</hi> to meet one, and if I did I'd give him a swipe he'd remember.”</p>
        <p>It would take a pretty strong ghost to stand up to a swipe from Hazel!</p>
        <p>Hazel was very proud of the fact that she had the largest vaccination mark in Somersetshire; not mentioning that she had the largest arm in Somersetshire on which to put it! She explained the terrific blob which disfigured her arm as probably resulting from the fact that she had pulled the doctor's whiskers. “Still, she said, “I believe it did me no harm, for once when four of the kids took measles, and I had to nurse them and sleep in the same room, I was the only one who didn't take it. I reckon it was because of the stuff the doctor put in my arm that kept me safe.”</p>
        <p>The reason she did not “take it” was probably a point which either a medical man or a psychologist would have to answer.</p>
        <p>Hazel had been to London once, for three days, but she hated it. She said the noise gave her a headache most of the time.</p>
        <p>She was quite content to live her life in this little Somersetshire village, giving of her best for the sake of others.</p>
        <p>Had one suggested to her that her conduct was noble, she would probably have roared with laughter and told one not to be silly. But she gets lots of fun out of life; much more than is derived by many city women of leisure and money.</p>
        <p>One reads from time to time of the heroism and bravery displayed by men in war and in scenes of disaster; but here was work done year after year with indomitable courage, far greater than that displayed in many cases by men under the stress of emotional excitement when performing a heroic rescue. Hers was a life of selfsacrifice without a thought of sacrifice; a disposition concerned only with making bright the lives of others.</p>
        <p>So to Hazel, who denied motherhood herself, yet represents the ideal spirit of a true mother of the Race, I take off my hat.</p>
        <p>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail053a">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail053a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail053a-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail053b">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail053b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail053b-g"/>
          </figure>
        </p>
      </div>
      <div xml:id="t1-body-d20" type="section">
        <head>Railway Social Activities.</head>
        <p>Wherever railwaymen gather together there springs up some form of social activity for enlivening the hours away from work; and the success of functions arranged under the auspices of railway organisations is a sure sign not only of the popularity of the staff with the public but of their ability to carry through anything of the kind on the right lines.</p>
        <p>An example comes from the new Stratford-Okahukura line where, at Tangarakau (the one-time “Mushroom Town” of the district) a Railway Anniversary Ball was recently staged. From a report kindly supplied by Mr. T. Mallett, the local Inspector of Permanent Way, it appears clear that “Never before in the history of Tangarakau did so large a crowd take the floor for dancing. People who have lived in the place since the railway was being put through, and saw as many as nine or ten hundred living on the Flat, are unanimous that the Railway Anniversary Ball was the most outstanding ever staged. The train from Stratford was crowded out, and people came in from miles around. The hall and supper room were decorated with the Railway colours and early flowers.”</p>
        <p>The prizes ran to such things as shaving outfits and “21-piece tea sets”; so the new line, in opening up the virgin country of the back-blocks, is living up to the traditions of the older lines by the cheerful social activities of its railwaymen.</p>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n55" n="54"/>
      <div xml:id="t1-body-d21" type="section">
        <head>Leading <hi rend="c">Hotels</hi>
</head>
        <p>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054a">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail054a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054a-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054b">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail054b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054b-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054c">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail054c.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054c-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054d">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail054d.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054d-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054e">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail054e.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054e-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054f">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail054f.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054f-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054g">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail054g.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054g-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054h">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail054h.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054h-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054i">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail054i.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054i-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054j">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail054j.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054j-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054k">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail054k.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054k-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054l">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail054l.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054l-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054m">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail054m.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054m-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054n">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail054n.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054n-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054o">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail054o.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054o-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054p">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail054p.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail054p-g"/>
          </figure>
          <pb xml:id="n56" n="55"/>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail055a">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail055a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail055a-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail055b">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail055b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail055b-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail055c">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail055c.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail055c-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail055d">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail055d.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail055d-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail055e">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail055e.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail055e-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail055f">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail055f.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail055f-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail055g">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail055g.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail055g-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail055h">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail055h.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail055h-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail055i">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail055i.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail055i-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail055j">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail055j.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail055j-g"/>
          </figure>
        </p>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n57" n="56"/>
      <div decls="#text-19-bibl" xml:id="t1-body-d22" type="section">
        <head>
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410067">
              <hi rend="i">Panorama of the Playground</hi>
              <lb/>
              <hi rend="c">New Zealanders Are Sportsmen</hi>
            </name>
          </title>
        </head>
        <byline>(<hi rend="i">Specially Written for “N.Z. Railways Magazine,” by <hi rend="c"><name key="name-408307" type="person">W. F. Ingram</name>.</hi>
</hi>)</byline>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d22-d1" type="section">
          <p><hi rend="sc">At</hi> one time New Zealanders were looked upon as the best players of Rugby football in the world. There is sufficient proof, however in the experiences of teams visiting Great Britain and Ireland, South Africa and Australia, that this much-prized reputation is no longer upheld by results. Be that as it may, New Zealanders can rejoice in the knowledge that wherever their Rugby players have played they have left behind a fine reputation as sportsmen. Surely such a reputation is better than a mere “best players recognition? And with the gradual acquisition of Rugby knowledge among Continental, American and Japanese people there is every reason to believe that the oval ball code will eventually reach the universally high standard enjoyed by Association football. When that day comes—and the dawn of it is near—New Zealand will not have many seasons in which international tours do not figure as regular fixtures.</p>
          <p>One impressive feature about the growth of Rugby is the manner and enthusiasm in which it has been adopted on the Continent. In France, unfortunately, the zeal of the players led to an abandonment of Rugby relations between France and England, but in Sweden a totally different state of affairs exists. In that country a “Rugby school” has been in existence for three seasons! An English paper states: —</p>
          <p>“Sweden's Rugby school, which has just entered its fourth year and was founded in order to inculcate the principles and spirit of the game, and to teach its rules to aspirants, has given such satisfactory results that a move is being made in France to establish a similar institution. Most of the instructors in the Swedish school are Britons, and they carry out interesting courses of practical and theoretical teaching. At present only the national federation's school is authorised to examine intending players and certify them as suitable, but next season certain clubs may be authorised to establish schools.”</p>
          <p>It reads strange to New Zealanders that intending players have to pass an examination, particularly as New Zealanders are born to Rugby football, but the ultimate high standard that must be attained by a thorough practical and theoretical knowledge will surely prove the project to be worth while.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d22-d2" type="section">
          <head>The Radio and Sport.</head>
          <p>Five or six years ago radio broadcasting had not reached the high state of perfection that we know it to be to-day, and few purchasers of sets realised just what wide range of entertainment was to be put at their disposal. Nowadays it is accepted as commonplace to hear broadcasts of the running of the Melbourne Cup, the All Blacks playing in England, Royal messages from England, or English radio programmes. But in sport and radio there is always something fresh to interest those who are not blase. When Jack Lovelock raced Glenn Cunningham in America last year, an English sporting writer timed the race in England! He started his watch at the report of the gun heard by radio in England and stopped it as the announcer told of Lovelock passing
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail056a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail056a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail056a-g"/><head>The Bessborough Hotel of the Canadian National Railways at Saskatoon, Canada.</head></figure>
the post—and his watch showed time only one-fifth of a second slower than the official time! That was just one of the thrilling uses of radio in sport. Another example comes from the Arctic wastes. Here it is: —</p>
          <p>When H. B. Toft was selected as a hooker for England in a recent Rugby match he received innumerable congratulatory messages, but the one he prized most came by radio from Brandy Bay. It read: “Congratulations, good luck in match,” and was signed “Moss.” The sender was R. Moss, a school contemporary of Toft's. Nothing thrilling about that, is there? But wait a minute—. Moss is a member of the Oxford University Arctic Expedition to North-east Island. The party consists of ten men with a base camp at Brandy Bay, but Moss and one companion have established a camp of two on the ice about forty miles inland—(or in-ice?)—where they are conducting physical research into the nature of the ice. They are completely isolated for fourteen months, and from March to the end of April Moss was alone living in a hole bored in the ice, while his companion, was away on another task of research. The only means of communicating with the main party, and the outside world, was by wireless. The batteries were charged daily by suspending a bicycle and pedalling, the back wheel geared to a small dynamo. The names of the English team reached Moss over his radio, and</p>
          <p>(<hi rend="i">Continued On Page <ref target="#n61">60</ref>
</hi>)</p>
        </div>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n58" n="57"/>
      <div xml:id="t1-body-d23" type="section">
        <head>
          <title level="a">
            <name type="work" key="name-410068">
              <hi rend="c">Our Women's Section</hi>
              <lb/>
              <hi rend="i">Timely Notes and Useful Hints.</hi>
            </name>
          </title>
        </head>
        <byline>By <hi rend="c">Helen.</hi>
</byline>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d23-d1" type="section">
          <head>
            <hi rend="c">Health-All Round The Clock.</hi>
          </head>
          <p><hi rend="sc">In</hi> our last issue we briefly outlined a general plan for health guidance covering the routine for the average day, and we now propose to elaborate our remarks a little more fully.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p><hi rend="b">Rising.</hi> —A regular time must be adhered to for rising, and it is most important that this be arranged so that ample time is allowed not only for toilet, dressing and breakfast, but also for a few minutes’ leisure for reading the paper. The day is well started by drinking a glass of either hot or cold water immediately on rising, the teeth must be well brushed and the mouth cleansed, and the body refreshed by either hot or cold bath. After this, five or ten minutes should be spent in carrying out some simple physical exercises before dressing. If you prefer, this may be done before having your bath. A regular time must be set aside for the evacuation of the bowel either before or after breakfast, and this time must be observed even though there be no inclination at that time. This is a most important part of the toilet which should not be hastened, nor should it be postponed until arrival at the office, at which time something might occur to demand one's immediate attention, thus necessitating suppression of desire and encouraging one of the commonest causes of constipation. Remember that, in a normal person, there should be absolutely no need for laxatives which, most unfortunately, are so much in vogue today as to be looked upon almost as an article of diet. If you lead a normal, regular life, you will enjoy that wonderful feeling of good health without having daily resort to something laxative out of a bottle, tin, or carton.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p><hi rend="b">Breakfast.</hi> —This should not be a heavy meal, and should consist of slewed fruit, or cereal, lightly boiled or poached eggs, toast and butter, with tea or coffee as desired. Do not drink during the meal, but after. Should the standard breakfast of bacon and eggs be desired, this is in order, but bear in mind that fried dishes are more difficult to digest and therefore grilled bacon and poached eggs are more easily dealt with. Hot buttered toast is also indigestible. Now, having finished breakfast, do not bolt off immediately. Pause for a few minutes to read the paper, thus allowing time for the digestive juices of the stomach to mix with the food, thus commencing the process of digestion in a normal, healthy manner.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p><hi rend="b">Work.</hi> —Now to work. Whatever your occupation may be, the care of the body is just as important as is the care of your business. If working out of doors, clothing must be suited not only to occupation but also to climate, ensuring that the body be neither chilled nor overheated. If in doors, then it is essential that a free circulation of fresh air be provided, and that the temperature of the room be such that the same normal conditions for the body prevail. A chilled temperature will assuredly inhibit the proper working of the functions of your body which must carry on continuously, while an overheated atmosphere will cause a feeling of oppression and over-activity of the skin glands. It will also stultify your mental activity. Now, although a free circulation of fresh air is essential, draughts must be avoided as they cause increased evaporation from the skin surface with consequent chilling of the body.</p>
          <p>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail057a">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail057a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail057a-g"/>
            </figure>
          </p>
          <p><hi rend="b">Lunch.</hi> —Now for lunch. Unfortunately, in many cases, this is the most, rushed time of the day, the customary hour allowing too little time for partaking of what should be a more or less light meal. We would very much like to see embodied in the Forty Hour Week legislation, provision for a luncheon interval of at least one hour and a quarter. It is just as unwise to rush home and sit down immediately to a meal as it is to rush away immediately after a meal.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p><hi rend="b">Dinner.</hi> —Unless advised to the contrary, it is well to leave the so-called “heavy” meal until the evening, as there should then be more time and leisure to partake of this meal and to allow the digestive functions to perform their task more thoroughly. Masticate slowly, and again, do not drink during this process.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p><hi rend="b">Leisure.</hi> —Pause for a while after dinner to give the gastric juices a chance, then indulge in the recreation or exercise of your pleasure.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p><hi rend="b">Supper.</hi> —Ordinarily, this should not be necessary, but for those who wish it a cup of milk or tea and a biscuit will do no harm.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p><hi rend="b">Bed.</hi> —“And so to bed.” Do not sit up too late, and above all, avoid that unhealthy, pernicious habit of sitting “mooning” half asleep in front of the fire just doing nothing till all hours. Before retiring, brush the teeth well and cleanse the mouth, as particles of food remaining in the mouth overnight decompose and give rise to that unpleasant thick taste in the morning. Let your hour for retiring be
<pb xml:id="n59" n="58"/>
as regular as possible, and see to it that your bedroom is well ventilated, and that you are not exposed to draughts. Your bed covering should be light in weight but warm in texture, as heavy covering will oppress you, interfere with free respiration and the normal action of your skin, and further, will induce those weird nightmares which deprive you of full benefit of a night's repose.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p><hi rend="b">“Blow Out.”</hi> —For the benefit of those who did not read our notes in the last issue of this magazine, we repeat our opinion that “an occasional ‘blow out,’ judiciously arranged, does us all good.”</p>
          <p>In our next issue, we will probably have something to say about food and clothing.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d23-d2" type="section">
          <head>
            <hi rend="c">Fashion Jottings.</hi>
          </head>
          <p>Here we are, almost in mid-season, with the fashion surprises all exhausted save for adaptations of the mode which draw our interest.</p>
          <p>Top-coats have a definite surface weave—for instance, knap cloths, bouclés, tree-bark coatings, chevron and diagonal finishes. Furs give a luxury finish to necklines and sometimes to upper sleeves. Among a recent collection were noticed fox, imitation squirrel, dyed musquash, skunk, Persian lamb, pointed fox, opossum. Collars are mostly convertible. Waistlines are nipped in. Skirts have a slight flare.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p>For house and street, cosy comfort is supplied by knitwear, which is definitely smart this year. Colours and styles are manifold. At the beginning of the season, indeed, most of the large stores had a wider selection of these garments, one-, two- and threepiece, than of material frocks.</p>
          <p>Wool frocks are neatly fitting smartly pleated in front or with gores. Neckwear gives the touch of originality and decides the occasion for which the frock is suitable. By a quick change from, let us say, a turndown collar in piqué, to a three-tiered effort in organdie, to an impertinent neck-ruff or to a glittering lamé neck
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail058a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail058a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail058a-g"/></figure>
finish with a sparkling belt to match, one may skip straight from the office to a five o'clock party, or to the home of a friend who has asked some interesting people to dinner.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p>Buttons and belts, of course, you studied at the beginning of the season. If a frock looks tired, change these accessories. Cut out its neckline a little and tuck a gay scarf round your neck and into the front of your frock. Try velvet collar and cuffs or a velvet choker. Satin collar and cuffs on a wool frock brighten it. A new idea is to braid in a scroll design, the collar and pockets. The front of the frock may be cut out and a vest substituted; form the spare material into tabs, passing through gilt buckles.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p>I must recapitulate materials for evening wear. One's eye is always drawn to velvet—how the light, falling upon its graceful folds, breaks up its colour into many tones. Here, indeed, is complete colour harmony. Shot velvets, ring velvets, uncrushable velvets, tinsel fancy velvets—a wealth of beauty.</p>
          <p>The come-back staged by taffeta seems to be permanent. Cloque taffeta in a crinkled finish is charming for evenings. Shot taffeta in subdued shades gleams and glints by the fireside during an afternoon “at home.” Woven spots on shot taffeta add to its colour tones. A short swagger evening jacket in taffeta is crisp and dashing.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p>Tinsel cloque fashions smart gowns and bridge coats.</p>
          <p>Printed georgette is graceful for afternoon or evening.</p>
          <p>A gown of metallic crepe owed everything to correct cut and the material.</p>
          <p>To be noted is satin grano, a dull fabric with lacquer satin reversible back.</p>
          <p>A charming deb. frock had imitation flowers bunched under the projecting shoulder capes.</p>
          <p>A frock in figured satin, slimly cut, had an overdress of black net, high to the neckline and with cape sleeves. Over a plain slip, the net itself may carry the decoration. Shirred silk gloves are showing for evenings.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p>The renaissance mode calls for jewelled belts. We read of them, months ago, without much interest, but here they are in our shops, and how our eyes sparkle! Each to her taste, but I want my jewelled belt to hold in the filmy folds of pleated georgette.</p>
          <p>As regards afternoon gowns, don't forget “feminine frills” and the interest of sleeves, particularly the three-quarter length bishop affair and the slit variety.</p>
          <p>Suits form the basis of the wardrobe, whatever the season. Will we have linen suits again next summer? I think so! For now, however, we envy the friend with the man-tailored suit in what we used to call exclusively men's suitings. Our own suit in rough woollen is smart, but not quite so smart. For the country holiday, however, it is definitely superior.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
          <p>Blouses are mostly made to be seen, judging by the attention paid to sleeves. A combination of raglan shoulders and bishop sleeves appealed to me. All varieties of neck finishes are seen, neat or frilly. It seems not a matter of what type of suit you are wearing but of what you prefer.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d23-d3" type="section">
          <head>
            <hi rend="c">Beauty In Bathrooms.</hi>
          </head>
          <p>In 1886, “Come and see the Conservatory”; in 1936, “Come and see the Bathroom.” The show-room of the luxury home is, nowadays, the bathroom. The lucky owner, descending by shallow steps into his miniature marble swimming pool, is faced by a formidable array of faucets and gadgets, all adding to the pleasure and cleansing capacity of the bath. Aesthetic pleasure is added by the harmonious tinting of walls, floor, fitments, towels and even water.</p>
          <p>Opal glass, tiles, marble panelling form the walls of bathrooms of the rich. The merely “well to do” may have the lower part of the walls tiled, and the upper enamelled. Cheaper than tiling is wood with an imitation tile finish.</p>
          <p>If the tiles in your bathroom are coloured, your colour scheme is ordained for you. A pleasing colour contrast may be added in bits and pieces, such as a stool or mirror frame. If the bath is set in, the outside of the bath can add to the contrast note. But don't let the joy of enamelling outweigh discretion—leave the water-pipes matching the walls and fading into their background. Remember that good quality enamel, impervious to moisture, is required for a bathroom.</p>
          <p>If space allows, have a separate shower compartment.</p>
          <p>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail058b">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail058b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail058b-g"/>
            </figure>
          </p>
          <pb xml:id="n60" n="59"/>
          <p>Bath towels, face towels, guest towels, should, of course, harmonize with the bathroom colour scheme. (I won't suggest buying a bathrobe and sponge bag en suite). Towels are no longer conservative. From among plain towels with a raised pattern, bordered towels in two or more shades with, designs scenic, geometric or floral, “all-over” shadings and fadings of pastel tones, fringed towels, knotted fringed towels, chenille towels, strident towels, dull towels, good old Admiralty towels, we can surely choose something for the dual purpose of absorbing surface moisture, and accentuating the beauty of the bathroom.</p>
          <p>For the perfect contemplation of beauty I suggest lying in the bath, lapped in warm water, surveying the results of two tins of enamel and the pennants of the rest of the family draped on the rails.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d23-d4" type="section">
          <head>
            <hi rend="c">Care Of The Hair.</hi>
          </head>
          <div xml:id="t1-body-d23-d4-d1" type="section">
            <p>The first sign of trouble—long before the hair begins to fall out—is the tightening of the scalp. This indicates that the blood is ceasing its supply to the roots, and the only way to get it to function again properly is to treat yourself to a short course of massage.</p>
            <p>If it is not convenient to visit a hair specialist, slowly and gently, with a circular movement, massage your own head, being sure that you are loosening the scalp and not merely rubbing the hair.</p>
            <p>For dry dandruff, massage the scalp with the finger tips dipped in warm olive oil, at least two hours before a shampoo.</p>
          </div>
          <div xml:id="t1-body-d23-d4-d2" type="section">
            <head>Brushing.</head>
            <p>The whole value of hair brushing depends on the increased blood supply induced by vigorous friction and the removal of the scurf or cast-off skin causing strangulation of the hair roots.</p>
            <p>The hair, to be benefited to the utmost, needs to be steadily brushed from front to back all round the head with regular rhythmic movements, and only when the skin feels the effect of the brush and even tingles a little is the right effect obtained.</p>
          </div>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d23-d5" type="section">
          <head>
            <title level="a">
              <name type="work" key="name-410069">
                <hi rend="c">On Sharing A Letter.</hi>
              </name>
            </title>
          </head>
          <p>Such words as you would like to hear</p>
          <lg type="verse">
            <l>I cannot give from my soul's self</l>
            <l>Buried, inchoate, are, my dear</l>
            <l>Such words as you would like to hear.</l>
            <l>Yet take what came from one as near</l>
            <l>As I to you, sweet friendship's pelf.</l>
            <l>Such words as you would like to hear</l>
            <l>I cannot give from my soul's self.</l>
            <byline>—<name type="person">E.W.</name>
</byline>
          </lg>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d23-d6" type="section">
          <head><hi rend="c">A Variety Of Cheese Recipes.</hi><lb/>
Cheese Capers.</head>
          <div xml:id="t1-body-d23-d6-d1" type="section">
            <p>Roll out puff pastry and grate cheese thickly on it, add seasonings of salt and cayenne pepper, fold and roll out three times, quite thin. Cut in rounds and bake until a delicate golden colour. Hard boil eggs (according to quantity of pastry); chop up the yolks and add twice their weight in grated cheese and a tablespoon of whipped cream. Season well and then add a little vinegar from the caper bottle. Mix all thoroughly and then pile up the pastry rounds with conical heaps of the mixture.</p>
          </div>
          <div xml:id="t1-body-d23-d6-d2" type="section">
            <head>Cheese Pudding.</head>
            <p>Six ounces cheese, 3 ounces breadcrumbs, salt, pepper and cayenne to taste; two eggs, milk (about one and a-half cups).</p>
            <p>Mix the breadcrumbs and grated cheese and seasoning together, add beaten up eggs and sufficient milk to make a batter. Put in a greased piedish and bake in moderate oven for about three-quarters of an hour. As usual, with a custard, place the piedish in a dish of water to prevent curdling.</p>
            <p>
              <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail059a">
                <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail059a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail059a-g"/>
              </figure>
              <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail059b">
                <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail059b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail059b-g"/>
              </figure>
            </p>
          </div>
          <div xml:id="t1-body-d23-d6-d3" type="section">
            <head>Cheese Souffle.</head>
            <p>One ounce butter melted in a saucepan; add ½ oz. flour and 1 gill of milk. Mix well and add yolks of three eggs. Beat all well together, then add 3 ozs. grated cheese, white pepper and cayenne to taste, also the whites of the eggs beaten to a stiff froth. Bake in moderate oven for about thirty minutes.</p>
          </div>
          <div xml:id="t1-body-d23-d6-d4" type="section">
            <head>Cauliflower au Gratin.</head>
            <p>Boil the cauliflower, taking care not to get it too soft. Place neatly in a dish. Pour over it a thick coating of melted butter sauce with grated cheese in it. Sprinkle grated cheese and then breadcrumbs over all, and brown in a hot oven. One-quarter teaspoon mustard may be added if desired.</p>
          </div>
        </div>
        <pb xml:id="n61" n="60"/>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d23-d7" type="section">
          <head>Panorama of the Playground —</head>
          <div xml:id="t1-body-d23-d7-d1" type="section">
            <p>—(<hi rend="i">Continued from p. <ref target="#n57">56</ref>
</hi>).</p>
            <p>his own message had to be rebroadcast by the main party and thence by a wireless relay of several steps, including Norway, until it reached an amateur wireless operator in Surrey. Another wonderful example of radio and sport!</p>
            <p>New Zealanders will be able to listen to a running description of the Olympic Games next August, and it will not be difficult to imagine the enthusiasm there will be if—or should I say, when—Lovelock, Boot, Matthews, Giles, Fisher, Arbuthnot and Gordon, bring Olympic honours to the Dominion. The German Olympic organising committee has made elaborate preparations for special short wave stations to give descriptions particularly for the benefit of the citizens of outlying countries.</p>
          </div>
          <div xml:id="t1-body-d23-d7-d2" type="section">
            <head>What Wrestling Owes to Radio.</head>
            <p>Wrestling is one sport, more than any other that owes a great deal of its popularity to the radio. Until commentators gave the general public an idea of what modern wrestling was, few gave the mat sport a second thought. To-day there cannot be many New Zealanders who do not know the meaning of the “Boston crab,” the “Indian death grip,” or “body scissors.” But, more important than the benefit the radio has been to wrestling measured in terms of attendance and # s. d., is the contribution it has made, through wrestling, to the improvement in the physical and mental development of the young manhood of New Zealand. Wrestling is one of the best body-building exercises known, and the wonderful physique of visiting matmen must have impressed spectators. What has been the result? New Zealand youths have taken to the sport like ducks to water, almost every town, large or small, has its wrestling gymnasia where sane exercise is taken.</p>
            <p>Although wrestling as a means of livelihood is practised in New Zealand almost entirely by visiting grapplers, there are at the present time at least two New Zealanders making names for themselves—Blomfield and El'iott. They learned the groundwork of their profession in New Zealand and went overseas to discover the finer points, but one young athlete who may outdo their deeds is H. Bartlett, of Wellington. Now but 21 years of age, he has a physical development not bettered by any of the visitors and his knowledge of wrestling, gained by dint of self-sacrifice and perseverance under a most capable tutor has impressed competent authorities who predict the highest honours for him.</p>
          </div>
          <div xml:id="t1-body-d23-d7-d3" type="section">
            <head>Prospects of Olympic Year.</head>
            <p>Olympic year invariably produces athletic performances unexpected on the previous year's form, and 1936 in New Zealand has been no exception. Regularly each month the Council of the New Zealand Amateur Athletic Association meets in Wellington, and with almost monotonous regularity it has to scrutinise applications made for performances bettering existing figures. Prominent among the records by New Zealanders to get official recognition this season are the following (previous records given in parenthesis):-</p>
            <p>C. H. Matthews, 2 miles, 9 min. 17 3/5 sec. (9 min. 20 1/5 sec.); C. H. Matthews, 3 miles, 14 min. 18 3/5 sec. (14 min. 27 1/5 sec.); V. P. Boot, 880 yards, 1 min. 54 4/5 sec. (1 min. 54 4/5 sec.); V. P. Boot, 1,000 yards, 2 min. 14 3/5 sec. (2min. 15 1/5 sec.); 220 yards hurdles, P. F. Sharpley, 25 2/5 sec. (25 3/5 sec.); A. T. Anderson 440 yards hurdles, 55 3/5 sec. (55 3/5 sec.); E. Munro, women's discus throw, 91 ft. 7 ½ in. (no previous record); A. A. Cameron, discus throw by a New Zealander, 139 ft. 3 ½ in. (139 ft. 2 in.); D. Strachan, women's broad jump, 17 ft. li in. (16 ft. 6i in.); Canterbury team, 1 mile relay, 3 min. 34 sec. (3 min. 35 2/5 sec.).</p>
            <p>In addition to the records passed, the following performances, although officially checked, were not accepted through certain rules not being complied with, e.g., course not surveyed after and on the day of the race, or application forwarded more than one month following the date of competition:-</p>
            <p>C. H. Matthews, 2 miles, 9 min. 20 sec. (9 min. 20 1/5 sec.); V. P. Boot, 880 yards, 1 min. 53 2/5 sec. (1 min 54 4/5 sec.); B. Forbes, women's high jump, 4 ft. 11 in. (4 ft. 10 in.).</p>
          </div>
          <div xml:id="t1-body-d23-d7-d4" type="section">
            <head>Retirements of Mr. A. C. Kitto.</head>
            <p>Mr. A. C. Kitto, for sixteen years a member of the Executive of the New Zealand Rugby Union, will be missed from that body this season. He was the “veteran in service” on the Union, and his connection wiih the sport has been for the sport's benefit. After sixteen years he has earned a spell from executive work, but his interest will not dwindle.</p>
            <p>
              <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail060a">
                <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail060a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail060a-g"/>
              </figure>
              <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail060b">
                <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail060b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail060b-g"/>
              </figure>
            </p>
          </div>
        </div>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n62" n="61"/>
      <div xml:id="t1-body-d24" type="section">
        <head>
          <hi rend="c">
            <hi rend="i">Variety In Brief</hi>
          </hi>
        </head>
        <p><name type="person" key="name-207731">Tangiwai</name>'s article in the November issue of the “N.Z. Railways Magazine” reminds me that it was at the stockade on the hill mentioned in his article, that the women of the settlement often donned men's clothes during the day and did sentry duty, to relieve the men for the more dangerous night work. This was when all were keyed up, in hourly expectation of an attack. My grandfather, Thomas Frederick Goddard, who arrived in New Zealand in 1854 in the ship “Joseph Fletcher,”’ built the first hotel at Bell Block, and my grandmother, Victorine Palmer, or Tirini Katiti as the Maoris called her, though only five feet in height, was among those women who posed as men and carried a rifle at times. She was six feet high in spirit. Often she acted as, nurse (and no questions asked) when Maoris came to her with bullet wounds. Later, when her husband died and the Maoris were troublesome again, the authorities insisted on her returning to New Plymouth, in spite of the fact that the Maoris were providing her and her eight children with food and looking after her generally. In typically Maori fashion, they would not say that it was in return for kindnesses received—kindness cannot be paid for according to the Maori way of thinking—but said that as she had no man, someone had to look after her. Being provided with one room only for self and family) in crowded New Plymouth, “Tirini” slipped away and returned to her Bell Block home. The authorities finally sent her to Sydney where she remained till the Maori troubles ended. One of the wonderful pioneer type—which seemed like a special creation for the work they had to do—Victorine Goddard (or Palmer, for she remarried) died a few months ago in Hawera.</p>
        <p>“Katiti.”</p>
        <p>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail061a">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail061a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail061a-g"/>
          </figure>
        </p>
        <p>Those travellers lucky enough to have time to travel through the King Country during the summer season by slow train (the only way to truly see and enjoy the wonders of that journey) may view around Rangataua and onwards the magnificent sight of the New Zealand mistletoe in bloom. The English mistletoe of Druid and Cupid fame is a comparatively smallish plant with white flowers. The New Zealand mistletoes—there are many species—are much larger, fairly leafy and brilliantly flowered. All mistletoes are, of course, more or less parasitic, and the popular host plants favoured around the Mt. Ruapehu area are the beeches (“birches” if you like). Many species of native beech abound along the railway track past Mt. Ruapehu and they are mostly enveloped in “flames” which show up brilliantly against their own dark green foliage. The “flames” are the massed flowers of the crimson loranthus or mistletoe. The species growing there is probably the showiest of all. The actual bushes, high and low on their hosts, must range up to twelve feet in spread. The individual flowers, on closer examination, are long, tubular, fourpetalled gems of colour beginning with yellow at their base and merging to scarlet and carmine at the petal tips. Loranthus flowers in our summer, and it is legend in the district that they flower only once in eleven years. When the flowers fail, small berries which turn golden hued, take their place. The berries provide excellent food for birds, which transport them to the leaves and branches of another host.</p>
        <p>“Pumice.”</p>
        <p>* * *</p>
        <p>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail061b">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail061b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail061b-g"/>
          </figure>
        </p>
        <p>Dogs have often been known to adopt ducklings and to make excellent foster-mothers; but Wellington can boast of knowing a collie dog which has a strange affection for a kennelmate. This dog adopted no less than a young opossum! Recently several workingmen waiting for their early morning tramcars, were treated to the unusual sight of a large collie trotting alongside of its master with a young opossum serenely nestling on the dog's neck.</p>
        <p>To show the interested men the ‘possum and dog's paces, the owner took the ‘possum oft his perch and placed it on the footpath. The little nocturnal visitor to Wellington City immediately climbed, via the dog's hind leg, back to his perch.</p>
        <p>“When young,” said the owner in explanation to his audience, “we took the opossum from his dying mother's pouch and now it is undisputably the dog's family.”</p>
        <p>J.E.B.</p>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n63" n="62"/>
      <div xml:id="t1-body-d25" type="section">
        <head>
          <hi rend="c">Leading New Zealand Newspapers.</hi>
        </head>
        <p>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail062a">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail062a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail062a-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail062b">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail062b.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail062b-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail062c">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail062c.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail062c-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail062d">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail062d.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail062d-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail062e">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail062e.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail062e-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail062f">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail062f.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail062f-g"/>
          </figure>
          <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail062g">
            <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail062g.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail062g-g"/>
          </figure>
        </p>
      </div>
      <pb xml:id="n64" n="63"/>
      <div xml:id="t1-body-d26" type="section">
        <head>
          <hi rend="c">
            <hi rend="i">Wit And Humour</hi>
          </hi>
        </head>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d26-d1" type="section">
          <head>For Sleeplessness.</head>
          <p>Mark Twain had the best recipe for insomnia. He said: “If you cannot sleep, try lying on the very edge of the bed; you might drop off.”</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d26-d2" type="section">
          <head>The Waiter Explains.</head>
          <p>“Waiter! Waiter! What is the meaning of this? There are two flies swimming about in my soup.</p>
          <p>“Nonsense, sir. Why, they are both dead.”</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d26-d3" type="section">
          <head>How to Attain Longevity.</head>
          <p>It was the oldest inhabitant's hundreth birthday, and the local paper sent a reporter to interview him.</p>
          <p>“To what do you attribute your long life?” he was asked.</p>
          <p>“To the fact that I was born so long ago,” he replied.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d26-d4" type="section">
          <head>Oh Dry Those Tears!</head>
          <p>Dad: Well, th' cow belongs to th' missus, an' I know she'll sob 'er heart out if I sells 'er.</p>
          <p>Buyer: Righto, we'll call the deal off.</p>
          <p>Dad: No, make it another quid an' we'll let ‘er sob.’</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d26-d5" type="section">
          <head>Where the Catch Came In.</head>
          <p>Applicant: “And if I take the job am I to get a rise in salary every year?”</p>
          <p>Employer: “Yes. Provided of course that your work is satisfactory.”</p>
          <p>Applicant: “Ah, I thought there was a catch in it somewhere.”</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d26-d6" type="section">
          <head>Eliminating Competition.</head>
          <p>Waiter: I'm afraid we can't cash a cheque, sir. You see, we've a little agreement with the banks that we cash no cheques, and they serve no soup.</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d26-d7" type="section">
          <head>Proof.</head>
          <p>Cautious lady (buying a fur coat): “Can I wear this coat in the rain without hurting it?”</p>
          <p>Furrier: “Madam, did you ever see a squirrel carry an umbrella?”</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d26-d8" type="section">
          <head>Left Too Soon.</head>
          <p>Dean's Wife: “I hope you enjoyed the service, Binstead.”</p>
          <p>Butler: “Very much indeed, thank you, madam, but unfortunately I was obliged to leave before the Benedictine.</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d26-d9" type="section">
          <head>Settling: an Argument.</head>
          <p>A kindly housewife gave one of her home-made puddings to a tramp who called at the house for food. An hour or so later he returned.</p>
          <p>“Excuse me calling again, lady,” he commenced, “but would you kindly let me have the recipe for that pudding”</p>
          <p>The housewife looked puzzled. “But why do you want it?” she asked.</p>
          <p>“To settle an argument,” replied the tramp. “My mate says there's two cupfuls of cement in it, and I say there's three.”</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d26-d10" type="section">
          <head>Exactly!</head>
          <p>Interested Passenger (to platform announcer): “I see there are two engines on this train; is that necessary? Annauncer: “Oh, one of them's working back.”</p>
          <p>Passenger: “And the other one working forward, I suppose?”</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d26-d11" type="section">
          <head>The Good Old Days.</head>
          <p>The following warning to railway travellers appeared ‘in “The Morning Post” in November, 1838:-</p>
          <p>“All persons travelling by railway, are strongly recommended not to fix their eyes loo intently on objects which they pass, as doing so is likely to prove both painful and injurious to those most delicate organs. This is especially urged to those who may have a tendency towards a determination of blood to the head as being likely to increase that tendency.”
<figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail063a"><graphic url="Gov11_03Rail063a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail063a-g"/><head><hi rend="c">A Little Relaxation By The Way</hi><lb/>
(Courtesy Great Western Railway).</head></figure>
</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d26-d12" type="section">
          <head>When the Squire Came Home.</head>
          <p>The Squire, having been absent from home for some months, was met on his return by his chauffeur. “Anything been happening George?” —“Oh, nothing much, sir, except, well, the dog's dead.” — “Oh, I am sorry, Poor Toby. How did that happen?” —“I reckons, sir,‘e got charcoal poisonin”’ — “I say, where did he pick that up?” — “I reckon it was when the garage was burnt down, sir.” — “Good heavens! How did it come to be burned?” —“Well, sir, I think meself, it was the flames spreading from the ‘ouse that did it.” — “Good Lord! Are you telling me that the Hall is burnt out as well? When did that occur?” —“I don't exactly remember the date, sir, but I recollects it was the night your wife ran away with the Major.”</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d26-d13" type="section">
          <head>At a Party.</head>
          <p>Old Gentleman (ignorant of nationality of his neighbour): “A deplorable sign of the times is the way the English language is being polluted by the alarming inroads of American slang. Do you not agree?”</p>
          <p>His Neighbour: “You sure slobbered a bibful, mister.”</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d26-d14" type="section">
          <head>Worth His Hire.</head>
          <p>A man visiting an English country town went to the local barber for a shave. The barber made several slips with his razor, and pasted a small piece of paper over the cut to stop the bleeding. When the operation was over the victim handed the man half-acrown.</p>
          <p>“Keep the change, barber,” he said. “It's worth half-a-crown to be shaved by so versatile an artist. Why, you're a barber, butcher and paperhanger all in one.”</p>
          <p>* * *</p>
        </div>
        <div xml:id="t1-body-d26-d15" type="section">
          <head>No Sweating.</head>
          <p>The well-meaning pedestrian said to the contemptuous sandwich-board man: “Pardon me, but do you know your boards are turned wrong side out?” The contemptuous board man said to the well-meaning pedestrian: “Yer don't suppose I'm goin to work in me lunch hour, do yer?”</p>
          <pb xml:id="n65"/>
          <p>
            <figure xml:id="Gov11_03Rail064a">
              <graphic url="Gov11_03Rail064a.jpg" mimeType="image/jpeg" xml:id="Gov11_03Rail064a-g"/>
            </figure>
          </p>
        </div>
      </div>
    </body>
  </text>
</TEI>