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The stately tree-fern leaned aside …—Alfred Domett.
A scene in the Omanawa Valley, near Tauranga, North Island, New Zealand.
New Zealand
Railways
Magazine
Railways
Magazine
Registered at the G.P.O., Wellington, N.Z., for transmission by Post as a Newspaper
Service Copy
Published by the
New Zealand Government Railways Department
“”
For Better Service.Vol. XII. No. 4.
Wellington,
New Zealand
July1, 1937
Locomotive Developments.
While the steam locomotive remains the principal agency of power on the railways of the world, the development of greater power for a given unit of fuel—and particularly improvement in the economic use of fuel at the higher speeds—is a matter of considerable moment to those who work the railways.
A great deal of quiet research is carried on by railway engineers who are ever trying to solve the enigma of the marked disparity between the latent and the developed power of the fuel used on steam locomotives, because in the solution of this problem lies one important factor of the possible triumph of the rail in its fight for transport supremacy.
The railways, however, do not bring out a new model yearly and advertise its many virtues with the flourish of trumpets to which the producers of road transport vehicles are addicted, a custom which induced one caustic commentator to declare that “the difference between this year's model and last year's is that the flex of the cigar lighter is one inch longer.”
The railway custom is, rather, to treat its technical improvements in locomotive design with professional reticence, and when the facts are eventually revealed, to dress them up in a maze of technical detail, with graphs and engineering formulae and mathematical calculations that make impossible reading for any but engineers.
The more spectacular developments in locomotive design and practice—stream-lining, speed records, and so on—are the things in which the public find their greatest interest. Hence it is likely that the work of M. AndréA Chapelon of the Paris-Orleans Railway in studying the work of existing locomotives for the purpose of improving their performance may pass unnoticed in the world of news. Up to the present, copies of a paper he contributed to the Société des IngéAnieurs Civils de France, do not appear to have reached New Zealand, but as it is evident that he has been able (to quote “The Railway Gazette”) to “double the power and efficiency of existing engines simply by careful attention to fundamental principles” his work deserves to be more fully known.
M. Chapelon's research also serves as a useful reminder of the value of careful attention to detail in other classes of work where improvements are possible.
The efficiency of rail-cars, for instance, in which experiment has shown that tractive effort may be saved by a close attention to weight, suggest that more might be possible along this line in train construction, thus lessening the demands upon the locomotive and enabling further modification in its design to suit the lighter type of train.
The very durability of railway equipment—with locomotives still giving good service at the age of fifty and over—is a disadvantage when any large-scale change is found to be desirable. The virtue of M. Chapelon's work, it seems, lies in the fact that he has not called for new locomotives. He has simply made certain modifications in old ones, modifications that have helped to recover lost energy—mainly modifications in cylinder and valve design—much in the same way as a modern surgeon helps a deranged human system to better health.
The knowledge gained from these observations and experiments will also doubtless prove of great value to the designers of new locomotives, and as fuel costs are a very material factor in the economics of railway transport, keen interest will be taken throughout the railway world in any further developments arising out of the careful researches of M. Chapelon.
General Manager's Message.
If ever there was an occasion for great public rejoicing over railway progress in New Zealand, the opening of the new station at Wellington on the 19th June was surely one of the most outstanding in the seventy years existence of the system. This magnificent central depot of our Railways has been very thoroughly and extensively described and pictured both in the general press of the Dominion and in various issues of this Magazine. Thus there is no need for me here either to describe the building or to point to the infinite variety of ways in which it will serve both the public and the railway organisation in the days to come. But I do wish to draw public attention to the problems with which the members of the staff were confronted in effecting the change-over to the new station, and the magnificent manner in which all the initial difficulties of operation were overcome without accident or break-down of any kind, and with no more than some slight inevitable delay to certain trains on the first day of full operation.
Not only had the whole two-station system, which had grown up over a period of fifty years, to be converted to a one-station system literally overnight, but, owing to the conformation of the old yards and station layout and the practical limitations of time and space, only one access could at this stage be provided from the Locomotive depot and for car shunting purposes for the first week's operation of the new station. The other lines of access had to be provided through the ground occupied by the old Thorndon station which again, in order to maintain unbroken timetables, had to be worked up to within two minutes of the departure of the first train from the new station. In the circumstances, all concerned in the work associated with the actual translation from the old stations to the new, did remarkably good work, and I wish to express, by means of this message, my very real appreciation of the way in which every detail of the job was planned and executed and the train and shunting movements carried out.
Now that the new station has become a living organism in the transport system of the Dominion, every railwayman should appreciate the fine facilities it provides for the performance of their work and social activities, and should take a pride in its cleanliness and appearance and comprehensive efficiency as their principal station, and headquarters of the nationally important business upon which they are engaged.
General Manager.
Addresses bythe Hon. D. G. Sullivan , Minister of Railways; the Hon. P. Fraser, Acting Prime Minister; T. C. A. Hislop, Esq., Mayor of Wellington; the Hon. Sir Alfred Ransom, K.C.M.G., M.P., and C. H. Chapman, Esq., M.P.
Work on the Wellington New Station began on 7th November, 1933. The Foundation Stone was laid by H.R.H. The Duke of Gloucester on 17th December, 1934, and the official opening took place on 19th June, 1937. The building is of seven storeys and covers an area of just over 1½ acres. The platforms are about 1⅔ acres in area, with a total platform frontage of about one mile. There are 250 rooms in the building, with a floor space of 185,000 square feet, and ¾ mile of passages. The total floor space of the building is nearly five acres. The building will accommodate a total of 675 railway employees, including the whole of the Railway Department's Head Office administrative staff.
The New Railway Station, Wellington, New Zealand, under Flood-light. (
Rly. Publicity photo.)
Minister'S Speech.
“As Minister of Railways it is my good fortune to have the honour and privilege of welcoming here to-day his Excellency the Governor-General of this Dominion, Lord Galway, the Acting Prime Minister, Mr. Fraser, his Worship the Mayor, Mr. T. C. A. Hislop, and this vast assemblage of citizens and visitors on the occasion of the official opening of this paradise for railway-men and great national depot for the public, the Wellington new station,” said Mr. Sullivan. “To-day's ceremony will mark the final stage in the long-drawn and arduous period of preparation that has taken place since it was first decided that Wellington must have a new station. When I say that it is just thirty years since proposals were formulated for a new station fronting Bunny Street, it will be realised how long that period of waiting and preparation has been, and it will also be understood why, with a project of this kind in the air, little was done in the way of capital expenditure upon the Wellington stations that this building is to replace.
“The building itself is the largest building ever erected in the Dominion, and I venture to say no structure has ever received greater care in design to meet the present and future needs of the centre of New Zealand's railway system, or in its completion has given greater satisfaction to all concerned in it, that is the whole of the public of New Zealand, including the large staff of approximately 700 railway employees who will be accommodated here.
“Work on the building began on November 7th, 1933, its foundation stone was laid by his Royal Highness the Duke of Gloucester on December 17th, 1934, so it will be seen that the whole work has been accomplished in three and a half years. The building itself is seven storeys in height, and covers an area of over one and a half acres. The platforms have an area of almost two acres, and supply a total frontage of one mile. The building has 250 rooms, a floor space of 185,000 square feet, and three-quarters of a mile of passages. The total floor area of the building amounts to nearly five acres.
“Some further idea of the magnitude of the building may be gathered from the fact that nearly 10 miles of reinforced concrete piles were driven under the foundation, and 150 tons of coal used in keeping the steam hammer going to drive them. Ten thousand yards of excavation were necessary. The concrete-mixers dealt with 15,000 yards of shingle and 12,000 yards of sand. Five thousand tons of cement went into the concrete and plaster-work, the latter including 6½ acres of wall surface and 12 acres of floors. One and three-quarter million
(
Rly. Publcity photo.)
Arrival of His Excellency, Viscount Galway (centre right) to perform the opening oeremony. With him are the Hon. D. G. Sullivan (left), Mr. G. H. Mackley, General Manager (right), and (in uniform) the Stationmaster, Mr. E. J. Guthrie.
“The history of Wellington stations goes back to 1874, when the first station was opened on a site close to Davis Street. This was called Pipitea station. In 1880 a new station known as Wellington station was opened on the site of the Railway Head Office buildings in Featherston Street—buildings which are now being vacated by the Head Office staff for the more convenient and commodious offices provided in this new building.
“Some idea of comparison between the Wellington station of 1880 and the present 1937 station may be gauged from the fact that the former station building was only 150 ft. in length and the platform was only 120 ft. long. The contract price for that building was £2,294—the contract price for the present structure was £339,137.
“The next change in Wellington's stations took place when the Pipitea station was closed in September, 1884, and Lambton Station was opened for passengers in 1885.
“The Manawatu Railway Company's line had been commenced in 1882, and its first station (intended to be a temporary one) was opened at Thorndon in 1886. Owing to inability to reach an agreement, the original intention of the company to bring its trains to the Wellington station was abandoned, with the result that for the last fifty years Wellington has suffered the inconvenience of two stations instead of one central depot for the transaction of its railway business.
“The Government took over the Thorndon-Longburn (Manawatu railway) in December, 1908, in anticipation
(
Rly. Publicity photo.)
The Hon. D. G. Sullivan, Minister of Rallways, addressing the gathering in the Booking Hall.
“Throughout the years since then the increasing traffic has intensified the disadvantages of the two-station system, and the 1907 proposal for a new station fronting Bunny Street was one which envisaged a central passenger station. The following year the Wellington Harbour Board outlined a scheme for new wharves and this included railway access for which extensive reclamation would be necessary to meet both railway and harbour requirements.
“The next stage was reached when a contract was let for the Thorndon sea-wall, and on completion of this work silt was dredged from the harbour into the area behind the wall where there was a depth of thirty feet of water. It was not until 1930 that the completed reclamation was sufficiently consolidated to permit of building construction, but in that year a goods shed of steel and concrete construction, with a length of 500 ft., was built and brought into use in 1931.
“The plans for the present building were first prepared in 1929 by Messrs. Gray, Young, Morton, and Young, architects, the plans including not only station accommodation, but also offices for the headquarters and district staffs of the railways, but the scheme was held in suspense for four years owing to the then existing financial stringency.
(
Rly. Publicity photo.)
The architect, Mr. W. Gray Young, presents His Excellency with a gold key for the official opening ceremony.
“Since the time that the contractors, the Fletcher Construction Company, Limited, commenced work upon the building in November, 1933, there has been steady progress with the work, which is beyond question an outstanding achievement, reflecting the highest credit on all connected with it.
“Although the full service of trains will commence to use the new station to-morrow, the changes which the new building makes possible are not yet complete, for there is the electrification of the Manawatu line to Paekakariki and the Johnsonville line still to be carried through, and I look forward to a considerable increase in the service of rail-cars operating to and from this new station, so that in the not distant future we will have, in addition to steam trains, two types of electric traction, and two types of rail-cars in operation, plus the road services, all radiating from Wellington's new station.
“If ever the term ‘a home away from home’ could be truthfully applied, it could in all sincerity and honesty be used in relation to Wellington's new station, for what do we find?
“Here on the ground floor spacious and comfortable waiting-rooms for men and women, a hairdressing saloon with shower and plunge baths; a kitchen with dining-room and buffet, all of which are equipped with every modern convenience. Then on the second floor, immediately above the women's waiting-room on the ground floor, is a spacious, well-equipped, and comfortable rest room (with bath-rooms), where waiting women passengers may rest in ease and comfort.
“And then on the fifth floor mothers will find the most up-to-date and best-equipped nursery in New Zealand, where a fully-qualified Plunket nurse, assisted by a thoroughly experienced kindergarten teacher, will relieve them of the responsibility of looking after their children while they rest or go shopping.
“The time at my disposal does not permit me to describe these facilities more fully, but you will see them for yourselves this morning, I hope, and realise how inadequate any description of my own must be in view of what your own observations will reveal.
“The railway recovery in recent years in every feature of transport activity has been most marked, indicating that whatever the railways have achieved in the past for the development and progress of the Dominion will be far exceeded in the years to come.
(
Rly. Publicity photo.)
His Excellency, after the key had been presented, preparing to leave the platform to open one of the doors of the main entrance.
“It is this sound belief in the future service for the people of the Dominion that the railway system has exemplified that gives me every faith in the necessity and desirability of facilities being provided such as this building represents. Associated with it is the very important feature of line duplication of the shorter Tawa Flat deviation, where considerable running time is saved, which, with greatly reduced grades and curves, promises reduction in haulage cost sufficient to substantially offset the capital invested in the change; with a much pleasanter and faster run into and out of the city and greater freedom in the movements of trains to be enjoyed by the train control operator, who finds it difficult to manipulate his trains over the existing single line between Tawa Flat and Wellington, with its steep grades and bad curves, and restricted speeds of 25 miles an hour, all of which after to-day will be but a memory, as will also be the long and patiently tolerated inconvenient terminal at Thorndon.
“A big development of suburban traffic may be anticipated from these changes, and a great stimulation of railway transport generally will inevitably follow from the magnificent new facilities now provided.
“This building really represents a dream come true,” concluded Mr. Sullivan.
The Acting Prime Minister (the Hon. P. Fraser) apologised for the absence of the Prime Minister (the Rt. Hon. M. J. Savage), and remarked that Mr. Savage had taken a great interest in the progress of the building ever since its initiation. Mr. Savage had asked him to convey his personal congratulations to the Railway Department upon the crowning
(
Rly. Publicity photo.)
His Excellency opens one of the main entrance doors.
In addition to congratulating the Railway Department, Mr. Fraser said he desired to pay a tribute to the Government's predecessors in office for the part they had taken. The Rt. Hon. J. G. Coates occupied a Ministerial position when the first step was taken in connection with the building, and the Rt. Hon. G. W. Forbes was Minister of Railways when part of the work was carried on. It was only fitting that the present Government should thank those who had commenced the work. “I do so,” said Mr. Fraser, “very heartily and very sincerely.” (Applause.)
The present Government, said Mr. Fraser, had shown its faith in the railway system by deciding to extend the system and complete the railways, work on which was temporarily stopped. They believed that the railway system had a great future, and were proud of the system and the men connected with it. Mr. Fraser referred to the many engineering difficulties which had had to be overcome in the building of the railways, and said that there was reason for self-congratulation on the railways by the people. But that did not mean that there was not room for improvement, and in that statement he would probably be supported by Messrs. H. H. Sterling (former chairman of the Railways Board), G. H. Mackley (General Manager), and E. Casey. Those now actively engaged in the railway management would bring that improvement about.
With the Minister of Railways, he congratulated the architect, the contractors, and every worker in the part they had played. He hoped that the station would be a monument of success
(
Rly. Publicity photo.)
The first train to leave the new station. The Hon. D. G. Sullivan (right) and Mr. G. H. Mackley (left) of the microphones.
He felt that all citizens had the right to feel that they were citizens of no mean city, and as a citizen of Wellington he was pleased to see the building. It was of importance to the whole of the Dominion, because it would be the hub of the railway service. “We have a station worthy of Wellington, and worthy of the capital city of the Dominion,” he said. “I wish the railway service and all connected with it the greatest possible measure of success.” (Applause.)
The view that the new station would increase the feeling of civic pride already possessed by the people of Wellington was expressed by the Mayor.
Mr. Hislop said it was his privilege, on behalf of the citizens of Wellington, to join in the expressions of grajpgication at the opening of the station. The day marked the culmination of over twenty years of endeavour, because it was in 1914 that power was given to the then Minister to undertake consideration
(
Rly. Publicity photo.)
Scene on the platform at the new station before the departure of the first train.
Now that those ancient structures at Thorndon and Lambton were definitely things of the past, they should consider what the new station would mean to the people of Wellington. “Consider the fact,” said Mr. Hislop, “that when the electrification is completed Tawa Flat will be as near to the centre of the city as Miramar. Consider the adjacent areas which are going to be brought within fifteen or twenty minutes of the city. These areas will become available for the purpose of accommodating the people of Wellington. It means that ultimately all these areas will, I hope, come into one general administration. and thereby provide in a radius of twenty miles of Wellington ideal and permanent conditions for the homes of the people. That is one of the greatest developments that any government, national or local, can bring about.
“There has been in our own city in the last few years a remarkable development in the way of modern and up-to-date buildings. Only comparatively recently we have had erected the Citizens' War Memorial, the Carillon, the National War Memorial and Art Gallery, and many fine commercial buildings. Within the next few weeks the Wellington City Council will be accepting the successful tender for the erection of a new municipal library. When you think of all these things and when you look upon this magnificent building, you must be impressed by the wonderful development of the town, and you must be inspired by a feeling of national and civic pride. All these things are indicative of our progress as a community, but they do not mark the end. Just a week from to-day there will be inaugurated an air service from Wellington to Auckland, a service that will take passengers from Wellington to Auckland in three
(
Photo., courtesy “Evening Post.“)
The last Auckland-Wellington “Limited” express to arrive at Thorndon Station.
The necessity for an adequate population in New Zealand so that the cost of public utilities would become less per head of population was stressed by the Hon. Sir Alfred Ransom, who spoke on behalf of the Leader of the Opposition (the Hon. A. Hamilton), who was unable to be present.
Sir Alfred joined with other speakers in congratulating the people of Wellington and the Dominion on the completion of the station. Wellington residents had waited many years for more up-to-date and satisfactory railway facilities. When he was an apprentice boy over fifty years ago they had the same old station, and there had been very little improvement since.
Sir Alfred recalled that Lord Nuffield had expressed himself as very pleased with the good service on the New Zealand railways.
After referring to the number of new buildings that were being erected in New Zealand, Sir Alfred said that we were rightly building for future generations, but surely not for a mere population of a million and a half. The Wellington and Auckland stations were sufficiently commodious to serve a population of at least 5,000,000, and public utilities generally were all in advance of the population. What was to be done about it? If we
A satisfactory system of assisted immigration of the right type of settler and industrialist would go far to solve some of New Zealand's problems. The Dominion could support a much larger population. Dairy output had been doubled in ten years, and that could be done again. “I say this with a full knowledge of my experience as a farmer, and Minister of Lands for six years,” said Sir Alfred. Other primary products—wool, meat, etc., all showed substantial increases. “With an increased population we could consume more of our own production,” said Sir Alfred, “and largely increase our exports, and thus make buildings such as this an economic proposition.”
The total cost of Auckland and Wellington Stations and necessary undertakings was £4,825,000. “We must, therefore, take the necessary steps to spread the burden of taxation necessary over a greater number of people,” he said.
The New Zealand Railways in the past had done much to open up this young country, and although not meeting interest on the whole capital cost, had been jusjpgied. The new station was further evidence of the confidence of the country and administrators and heads of Departments in the future of the Dominion. The station would be another attraction for tourists, and it had to be remembered that they had a long way to go before the possibilities of tourist traffic was exhausted.
“In conclusion,” he said, “I sincerely trust, and am confident, that the rising generation will have reason to approve of the provisions now being made (at some considerable presentday sacrifice) for their future requirements.”
The member for the district, Mr. Chapman, said that for many years the people of Wellington North and, indeed, the people of Wellington as a whole, had had to listen to complaints and grumblings regarding the old stations at Lambton and Thorndon. They had had to apologise for them on many occasions, and it was a matter for congratulation that those days were gone for ever.
There was a feeling of solidity, importance, and dignity about the new building, which should serve the people of Wellington and of New Zealand for a hundred years or more. It would simplify some of the transport problems with which they were faced. The people of Wellington North took a very real pride in the many fine buildings in their district, and they were well pleased with the latest addition. The new building would impose upon the Government of the day the duty of remodelling the district, and he hoped that when the programme of public buildings was completed attention would be paid to improving the houses in which many of the people were forced to live. Many people had to live in shabby houses, and if these were remodelled the outlook of the city would be greatly improved.
His Excellency the Governor-General, prior to declaring the building officially open, said:—
“I feel it a privilege to have been invited here to-day to open formally this splendid new railway station in the capital city of the Dominion. On December 17th, 1934, his Royal Highness the Duke of Gloucester formally laid the foundation-stone of the structure, and the successful completion of the building two and a half years later speaks much for the organisation displayed by those who have made it possible for the building to be opened this morning.
“It has been a matter of interest to me to read the history of the railway service in New Zealand—from the turning of the first sod in 1861 (when the railway between Christchurch and Heathcote was commenced) until today, when another landmark has been
(
Rly. Publicity photo.)
The new station as seen looking up Featherston Street, showing the old Lambton Station behind the new building.
“A few days ago I was glad to have the opportunity of inspecting this new building informally, and I must say that I was most impressed with what I saw—with the magnificence of the structure as a whole and with the completeness and thoroughness which marks its construction; with the facilities and comforts provided for the travelling public; with the splendid arrangements for train running and for the handling of rolling stock; and with the excellence of the accommodation provided for the staff. In particular, I would say that the provision made for the comfort of the travelling public of the Dominion leaves little to be desired. The Minister of Railways has just given you a brief outline of some of the up-to-date facilities provided in the new building. That that outline is no exaggeration the public will have an opportunity of deciding this afternoon when, I understand, the building is to be thrown open for public inspection.
“We all know that, in the comparatively near future, more intensive production will take place in the country districts of the Dominion. So far as I have been able to judge, the demands likely to be made on the railway service for the transport of such increased output will be met amply at Wellington for many years to come.
“I should like to say also that during my informal inspection I could not fail to notice that the architects and the contractors had rendered most faithful service in this undertaking;
“I am aware that during the past two or three years several officers in specialised branches of the Railway Department have given of their best in an endeavour to overcome the many problems which were encountered in connection with the lay-out of the station and buildings. I am sure that Mr. Gray Young will be one of the first to agree that the valuable assistance in this direction rendered by Mr. Mackley and those of his officers so associated with him has had much to do with the success of the undertaking.
“I feel, too, that it is fitting that the station should have been completed in good time before the opening of the New Zealand Centennial Exhibition in 1940 during which year, I understand, it is almost certain that the facilities at the Wellington station will be exhaustively tested by abnormal traffic.
“Generally speaking, when a fine public building is erected in a town or city, the public feel that they have grounds for self-congratulation. That is quite as it should be, but in the present case I should like to remind the people of Wellington that their new station has involved an expenditure of over £339,000—a very large sum indeed—and that, if the railway service in the future is to be an asset rather than a liability, it must have the wholehearted patronage and support of the people of the Dominion.
“Wellingtonians, as well as the travelling public, must feel kindly disposed towards a service which has so admirable a site for the conduct of its business. Its close proximity to the wharves, to the ferry steamers, and to the city itself, as well as to the only main road outlet of the city, gives it advantages on which there is no need to elaborate. Mr. Sullivan has stated that considerable development of suburban traffic as well as great stimulus to railway transport generally, is expected as a result of the new facilities. It is my sincere wish that those expectations will be fully realised. The abolition of the two-station system, and the unification of the railways service at this central point, will, I feel sure, do much to regain public patronage to the Railway Department.
“I am sure that all those assembled here to-day will agree with me that this new station building is a great asset to Wellington, and that it represents a further distinct landmark in the progress of the city and of the Dominion.
“With this key, which Mr. Gray Young has just handed to me, I will now proceed to unlock the main entrance door of the station, and at the same time will unveil the commemoration stone which records the official opening of the station. In doing this, I should like to convey to the Minister of Railways, to the General Manager, and to the members of the railway staff in Wellington and throughout the Dominion, my very best wishes for the future progress of their great national service.”
After unlocking the door, his Excellency said:—
“I now declare this building formally open and unveil this commemoration stone as a record of the official opening of this station.”
The opening ceremony was performed in the booking lobby, which was reserved for the 800 invited guests, but there was no restriction, except that of space, upon the public attendance in the great concourse and on the platforms, and the speeches were made audible everywhere by means of a public address system.
Grajpgied amazement was the keynote of the general comment. The harmonious colouring of the beaujpgully-figured marble, plaster, and mosaic on the walls and floors and ceilings, the dignity of the bronze fittings of grilles and column heads,
(
Photo., courtesy “Evening Post.“)
The Hon. D. G. Sullivan calls for three cheers for the driver and fireman after the arrival of the last train at Thorndon Station.
The invited guests were not allowed to go away empty. Over 180 were catered for in the dining-room, which has a staff all told of 19, and 600 in the fine staff social room upstairs. The appointments here, as elsewhere in the station, aroused both pleasure and surprise. The public spent the afternoon wandering round the amazingly extensive premises. Each of the guests was presented with a handsome souvenir of the occasion, a scarlet-covered, beaujpgully-produced record of the progress of the railway service, and also with a rich blue-covered souvenir programme of the day's ceremony.
The pleasure given the public by the smoothness and lack of confusion of the big crowd handled at the opening and during the hours of inspection was due to the wholehearted way in which members of the head office staff assumed the duties of individual hosts. From the General Manager to the messengers everyone was on deck and helpful, even the typistes serving as waitresses in the social rooms.
Mt. Roskill, S.2.
April 30th.
Dear Mr. Railway Man,
We thoroughly enjoy those items over the air which boost the Railways— Our Railways and needless to say we are 100% in agreement with your views of making full and complete use of our great national undertaking for the advancement of our land ….
While listening to the “Railways” broadcast last Wednesday night (which we always enjoy), I heard an announcement to the effect that I could have a free copy of the “Railways Magazine”….
After hearing and, incidentally enjoying your programme from 1ZB, I wish to take advantage of your kind offer….
These three quotations are taken at random from a huge pile of letters which were being eyed with some perturbation by the circulation clerk in the “Railways Magazine” office.
It is an interesting story.
Do the general public realise the queer uncertain feeling that takes possession of anyone performing before the “mike?” Of course we can remember that famous opening in New Zealand “This is Bernard Shaw talking to the Universe,” but the modest New Zealander in the studio hardly feels that confidence. As the neat studio clock ticks on, and the utter stillness of the room bears in upon you, there rise little flocks of doubts. You cannot tell whether there are five really hearing you (and all disliking it) or five thousand, all adoring the show. Devising some test which will be conclusive has baffled the radio entrepreneurs from the beginning, but there are ways of getting some sort of certitude. Of course, the proven rules of entertainment values apply to radio programmes; the public want to be entertained. Anything that looks like forcing culture willy nilly into the evening's brightness is certain to result in wasting sweetness on the broadcast air. But it is obviously rather difficult to know whether the audience has turned the knob in bored fashion, or whether the show is being applauded. The Publicity Department of the New Zealand Railways, however, has lately learned some interesting news. The Department has been running for many weeks a programme of radio entertainment from IZB Auckland. It consists of a mixture of song and story, the singers are the best that New Zealand has, the songs are jolly but high class, and the characters are New Zealanders in the “dinkum” sense. There is a wise old Irish tablet porter, there are three camping New Zealanders close by, a pretty schoolmistress and her friend sundry well-known characters living in Kiwi Flat and the scene is mostly laid in the social hall attached to the Wai-kikamukau wayside station.
It rather differed in type from the
(Photo., J. T. White.)
The Buller Gorge from the Cascade Coal Bins, South Island, New Zealand.
However, any doubts as to whether the programmes were being heard by our fellow countrymen, or whether they were being enjoyed, were dispelled this month.
In passing, the announcer mentioned in a talk as to the merits of the Magazine, and announcing a verse competition, that if anyone among the listeners, had not made the acquaintance of the best of New Zealand's national monthlies, a line to the Editor, Mentioning the Programme, would free copy.
Then the deluge started. By Friday morning (the broadcast was on Wednesday evening), the full spate of the stream of letters reached the office. They did not come in dozens but in scores and hundreds.
The addresses represented a glossary of the Auckland Province, and strays arrived from Petone and other southern localities, and even from places in the South Island.
Readers should enjoy the embarrassment in the Magazine department, for as a rule, all available copies have been placed within days from publication date.
The wide range of the sources of the letters gives a fascinating vista of the magic, the power and the meaning of the radio.
Here are some addresses taken at random from the huge pile: “R.M.D.” Patumohoe, c/o Post Office, Waimauku, R.N.Z.A.F. Base, Auckland, Bon Accord Harbour, Waiau Pa via Patumahoe, Oratia, Woodhill, Te Kohanga via Tukau, Kaukapakapa ….
It is splendid romance; it is a miracle of the fashioning of modern achievement; it is the highest poetry. It is beyond the conjuring of the highest form of imagination to visualise that panorama of listeners who hear the starting bell, the guard's whistle and the Choo Choo of the train as the programme starts. They are in small rooms and large rooms, in cosy suburban “dens,” and bare outback sitting rooms, in hillside huts, luxurious homestead billiard rooms, and city mansions.
It was just a little surprising to find that so many of our own people did not know the “Railways Magazine” but it would seem that a salutary method has been discovered of curing that disability and, incidentally, contributing to the enjoyment of a new
The programmes will be continued. Their contents bill will, of course, change and any amount of delicious humour and new bright songs will enliven the entertainment.
Congratulations are extended to IZB for, unless the rest of the evening's entertainment attracted attention from hosts of listeners, the Railways programme would be rather lonely.
The Romance of Transport Programme will be on the air at 8.30 in the evening on Wednesdays from IZB and at 7.30 p.m. on Mondays from 2ZB.
It is announced by the well known “Bell, Whistle and Choo Choo,” and is described as the “Fellowship Programme of the New Zealand Railways, Your Railways.”
It tries to be an examplar of the surpassing feeling of brotherhood that pervades the largest industrial under taking in the Dominion. It will have jusjpgied its existence if it gives listeners a gleam of vision of the splendid enthusiasm for the service of the community which exists in all ranks of this great army of our fellow countrymen.
Smokers die young! So the antitobacs are never tired of telling us. Yet the newspapers are constantly giving the lie to this assertion, and an ounce of fact is worth a pound of say so. The deaths of smokers of advanced age, as you must have noticed, are frequently chronicled in the World Press. Apropos of this the demise of Timothy Humphries of Melbourne, has just been recorded. Tim was a “character.” He had no use for cigarettes or cigars, but loved his pipe. He started to smoke at 17 and lived to be 87. Seventy years of smoking! He was particular in his choice of tobacco though—so ought you to be if you value your health. The safest of all tobaccos is “toasted”; why? Simply because it is toasted! Toasting rids it of its nicotine. That's why it's so safe. While for flavour and aroma its equal cannot be found. There are only five brands of real toasted: Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Cavendish, Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold. Make a note of that!
New streamlined steam passenger services, between London and Scotland, are a feature of the summer working on the Home railways. Commencing, on July 5, streamlined expresses are being run between King's Cross Station, London, and Waverley Station, Edinburgh, over the London and North Eastern route; and between Euston Station, London, and Central Station, Glasgow, over the metals of the London, Midland and Scottish Company. These new daily services, in both directions, bring Edinburgh within six hours of London, and Glasgow within 6½ hours of the metropolis. In September, another daily “streamliner” will operate in both directions between London (King's Cross) and the Yorkshire industrial centres of Leeds and Bradford. These trains will maintain an average speed of 68 m.p.h. Streamlined “Pacifics” have for some time been successfully employed in the “Silver Jubilee” express service of the L. and N.E. line between London and Newcastle-on-Tyne, and it is interesting to note that for the new L.M. and S. express service between Euston and Glasgow streamlined “Princess Elizabeth” type of locomotives are utilised. While streamlining is not essential to the maintenance of high speeds over long distances, experience has shown how great are the increased economies realisable through streamlining at speeds over 70 m.p.h. In the London-Scotland runs, now being introduced, speeds of over 70 m.p.h. are reached, and exceeded, on suitable sections of track.
While southern England has nothing really spectacular to offer this year in the way of new express trains, on the Southern Railway, Coronation year is being marked by the completion early this month of the electrification of the main-line between Waterloo Station, London, and Portsmouth. The naval base of Portsmouth, and the ever popular holiday haunt, the Isle of Wight, are being served by 48 new trains, with a total passenger carrying capacity of 18,000.
Looking back, the Home railways may rightly pride themselves upon their achievements in the handling of the Coronation crowds. May 12 was, of course, a public holiday, but there was little rest for the railwayman on that occasion! Special services of boat trains were run from all the principal ports of disembarkation, and hundreds of special trains were arranged to London from all corners of the country. On Coronation day itself, the four group lines operated more than 200 long-distance excursion trains to London, in addition to the ordinary services, while for some days previous, tens of thousands of sight-seers were conveyed to the capital by rail. For the first time in their history, the London Underground Railways ran right throughout the night on May 11–12 for
Circulating area, Glasgow Central Station, L.M. and S. Railway.
A century ago, railway transport in Britain was rapidly entering a boom period. The year 1837 was an espe-
(Photo., courtesy French National Tourist Office collection.)
The Harbour, St. Malo, France.
Heavy passenger business this season is expected between Britain and France, many of our Coronation visitors rounding off their European trip by attending the vast International Exhibition being held in Paris from May to November. Passenger movement to and from France is largely in the hands of the Southern Railway, which owns 47 sea-going vessels, manned by 1,000 officers and men. Last year these vessels steamed 612,162 seamiles, conveying 4,000,000 passengers, 200,000 tons of cargo, and 42,359 motorcars. Dover, Folkestone, Newhaven and Southampton are the main jumping-off points for France, steamship services operating between these points and the French ports of Dunkirk, Calais, Boulogne, Dieppe, Le Havre and St. Malo. Between London-Dover-Calais-Paris, the Southern Railway of England and the Northern Railway of France operate the daily “Golden Arrow” service—the fastest link between the two capitals. An alternative means of passage, for those who dread the usual Channel crossing, is provided by the new Channel train-ferry between
Freight traffic at Dunford Bridge on the L. and N.E. Railway, Sheffield-Manchester route.
Fast and comfortable travel at remarkably cheap rates is this year offered by the French railways. Circular tickets allow break of journey without extra charge. Fifty per cent, reduction is quoted for party travel (not less than 10 persons). Free transport of motor-cars is allowed when several persons travel together, and the free allowance of luggage has been increased up to 66 lbs. per passenger. On the Paris, Lyons and Mediterranean and Paris-Orleans lines, special new sleeping-cars have recently been introduced. The Paris-Orleans cars consist of converted composite day coaches. These formerly had six first, four second, and two third-class compartments. In the first and second-class compartments, the partitions have been removed, and new ones, spaced at 6ft. 2in. apart, installed. In each of the new compartments, two bunks—an upper and a lower—are provided. These run the full length of the compartment, and are 25¼ inches wide. The third-class compartments have been converted into sleeping sections, each with an upper, middle and lower bunk, running across the car. Night travel grows in popularity throughout Europe.
.<name key="name-411031" type="work">To the Lost Huia</name>
* * *
Taking Long Leave.
* * *
So Quiet a Thing.
* * *
(By
)Tangiwai .The most beaujpgul thing I have ever seen in Wellington was a midday picture in a garden on the Brooklyn hills one day this month, and in fact for several days. It was a pair of tui fluttering in the branches of a ngaio tree, and hopping down into close-quarters view, within a few yards of the window where I sat writing. I heard them before I saw them; there was no mistaking that chuckling gurgle, with a touch of the flute in it, “chuk-chuk-choo.” I was back in the bush again, that moment; it seemed too good to be true, the tui's notes in a garden within a mile of the city. But there they were, those lovely birds and a plump, well-rounded pair they were, in their glossy plumage with the parsonbird throat ruffle of white. They had found the town gardens to their taste, that was evident.
The pretty couple foraged a while, perfectly at home, and then whirred over the hedge to the next garden. One or other of them returned every morning, food-scouting; and sometimes before sunrise, we could hear the deep, rich “bong” from the hilltop garden near us that was their favourite haunt. There are eucalyptus trees there, the best things that have ever come out of Australia; and the red-gum especially is a meal-tree for the pretty honey-suckers.
The tui is taking trustfully to the town gardens in many parts, and the plantations of gums and other food-trees are a certain source of food supply in the winter when the bush rations fall short. Wellington, Wanganui and many other urban centres are visited every year by little flocks of tui, and the bellbird too, is losing its
The custodians of the bird sanctuaries, Kapiti Island and the Little Barrier Island, have a host of callers for a touch of milky porridge every morning in the hungry time when most bush flowers and berries are off.
The tui have moved on, but we have a flock of lively little tauhou, the white-eye, or silver-eye, pegging away at the scraps in tins hung on a tree for them. All day is their meal-time, as long as there is a bit of porridge or pudding or bread remaining. This week of writing their russet waistcoats seem to fit them more tightly every day.
When the little bird first appeared in New Zealand the Maori called it tauhou, meaning “stranger.” It is supposed to have come from Australia. It is a welcome and useful bird. It cleans up any insect or blight on the trees and plants. Like the fantail, it is never idle; you may see it more busy than any bee, darting from bush to bush and snapping up trifles everywhere.
The Maori of the past generations, such men as the old Urewera bushmen I knew in my forestlore cruises of the ‘nineties, would have relished those fine fat tui, in the bird-taking season. His spearing and snaring methods were sensibly regulated; he had his close seasons for the birds, and the forest continued to furnish him with plenty of kaka parrots and tui and pigeons, year after year. The old bird-snarers told me that they found that the gun frightened the pigeons and the other birds away, and so they continued to use their ancient and noiseless methods.
In the South Island, the Maori explorers and the trans-alpine travellers relied largely on the weka or woodhen for food, as I mentioned in a recent account of routes between the West and East Coasts. There, too, the Maori had a thought for the future.
The old men of Arahura, and also a pioneer explorer of the Coast, told me that in crossing the Southern Alps from one coast to the other an expedition would usually exhaust the supply of weka for the time being; at Maruia, for example, or on the Hurunui transalpine route, they would camp and eat out all the birds procurable about the flats before moving on. For that reason, they would seldom return by the route they had taken, if they were coming back immediately; they would take another pass in order to be sure of a plenjpgul supply of weka and to give the birds on the first track time to increase again.
There was also the class of bush food termed generally by the Maoris “kai-rakau,” or products of the forest, such as hinau and other berries, and the roots of the ti or cabbage-tree; and the pith of the fern-tree; and sometimes even fungus. The hinau and tawa berries—only found in the lowland forests—had to be subjected to much pounding, steeping and drying before they were fit for food. The early pakeha explorers had often to fall back on some of those forest foods.
Alan Mulgan .
Unfortunately nothing could be got out of that dulcet smile of Horsey Stewart's.
“Seen anything of Lloyd?” demanded Gillespie.
“Lloyd-Lloyd-Lloyd,” murmered Stewart; “in a minute you'll have annoyed.”
“Lloyd, yes, Lloyd,” cried Gillespie. “Impskill Lloyd. He's escaped.”
“‘He's my little lonesome lover in the moon’,” crooned Stewart.
“Rats,” exclaimed Gillespie. “You're drunk!”
“My name is Eric Brannigan,” said a voice suddenly beside Gillespie. “I'm a duly qualified and registerd medical practitioner. I found the accused by the side of the road at 10 p.m. smiling vacantly. In my opinion accused was not drunk—that is, in the ordinary sense of the word. He had not partaken of alcoholic stimulant. He had been listening to crooners, until he was intoxicated with spurious emotion.”
“Is he often like this?” asked Gillespie.
“Occasionally,” replied the doctor. “He and Bury have regular orgies. Bury has 150 gramophone records, all crooners. He's been there tonight. I generally prescribe a couple of hours of listening to Elgar and Stravinsky numbers. That sobers him up.”
“Come on,” said Gillespie, “We've got to find Impskill.”
These incidents are complete in themselves, but the characters are all related.
But they didn't find him. The footprints led to a dark, back road, and there the trail stopped. The side of the lock-up had completely disappeared. Only a large lorry could have taken it, but road enquiries brought no news of one. What had happened, so they found out later, was that Lloyd and his gang had carried the side of the house down to the river and set it afloat. Lloyd had then stepped on board, drifted down the river a mile or two, and swung himself ashore by a willow brach. The timber was found miles further down by a builder and incorporated in a “desirable seaside bungalow.”
Though it was forty years old it was destined to outlive the rest of the material in the building.
Meanwhile Impskill Lloyd had vanished completely. They tried the police, the A.A. patrols, the radio, the Hairdressers ‘Union, and the National Association of Bookmakers (Inc.), but not a sign. The sensation grew cold. P.C. Fanning moped. Gillespie was bored as sjpgf as a Remuera hostess accused of living in Ponsonby. He knew every bottle in the town by name, down to the 39 Heinz in the grocers’ windows. He had read all the “Free Lances” in the barbers' shops, and was driven to taking the Post Office Directory to bed with him. Thus it was that one day when he saw the secretary of the Rotary Club bearing down on him, he did not bolt. Gillespie was wont to shun Rotary lunches as orgies of aerated platitudes, but now his manhood was sapped.
“Not gone yet?” asked the secretary. “How are they treating you?”
“Very seldom,” replied Gillespie. “You must come to our luncheon to-morrow,” said the secretary. “You know, self before service—I mean service before self. One o'clock at Ye Olde Maorie Tea-shoppe. We've got a big gun for to-morrow. Dr. Derk P. Yonkers, from Chicago. Just blew in from Rotorua. Famous physician, Mayo clinic and all that. I've told the president to bill him as a great surgeon. There's no interest in physicians. He's going to talk about diet. By the way, do you know that your poor friend Lauder was on a freak diet when he died?”
“You don't say so!” exclaimed Gillespie.
“Yes, bran and canary seed and thistles, and all that sort of thing. And he'd knocked off smoking and drinking.”
“Good God, what did he want to live for.”
The room that the Rotary Club used at Ye Olde Maorie Tea-shoppe was in its furnishing an elegant mixture of English aspidistrial and new colonial. In the eyes of many Mata-mataians the bright arjpgicial flowers were prettier than real ones. The festoons of coloured paper that met
“He was driven to taking the Post Office Directory to bed with him.”
A Union Jack hung over the door leading into the kitchen. When the time came to sing “God Save the King” the proprietress, standing out of sight, would blow it into action with a bellows.
Come, come, come to Matamata, Come where the land is fatter, Come, where the cheer germs scatter.
After the singing of this special local song, the president, in the manner of so many chairmen, referred to the short time at their disposal— they were all busy men and had to be back at work at two o'clock—and then proceeded to take up ten minutes himself by saying what could have been comfortably said in two. The editor of the Matamata Re-Echo, with which is incorporated the Piako Sentinel, the Putaruru War-cry, and the Tirau Blade, was fined five shillings for stating in print of Pat Lauder's death that Dr. Brannigan had said he was dead instead of “pronounced life extinct,” and the leading local solicitor half a crown for having suggested that there might be attractions in neighbouring Te Aroha. As sergeant-at-arms, Fanning took the fines. Perhaps that was the only sergeant he would ever be.
The visiting investigators into the mystery of the signal box were supported by Mr. Furnace Skurry, who had come up from Wellington to track down an Order-in-Council regulation that had broken gaol. Mr. Skurry surveyed the scene with something of the expression of a present-day Bloomsbury poet contemplating the collected works of Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
All eyes were on the guest of the day. He was a tall man who had been spare but was now inclining to stoutness, with a long aquiline face and a fair beard cut to a point. Tinted glasses did not altogether hide the penetrating power of his eyes. Speaking with a very strong American accent, he plunged straight into his subject. Nearly everybody was being poisoned by wrong food. Far too much meat was eaten. (This, in a district which depended on cattle and sheep, was considered slightly tactless.) Then followed a long and technical exposition of proteins and carbohydrates, of foods that should go together and foods that should not. It seemed that everybody present had for years eaten under the grave error of combining meat and potatoes. As for breakfast, a sandwich of rye bread and thistles was quite sufficient.
Teaswell slipped into the vacant seat beside Gillespie.
“Notice anything queer about this chap?” he asked.
“Any amount,” replied Gillespie.
“Seriously though. I don't believe he's a doctor.”
“Why not?”
“Because he knows so much about diet. Doctors don't as a rule.”
Gillespie studied the speaker as the easy flow of physiological detail went on.
“You may be right, Teaswell,” he said, “though as a toffee maker you're prejudiced. I don't like the look of him myself. He reminds me of the man in one of Ngaio Marsh's detective tales—he's a little too American to be genuine. We'll see.”
Gillespie rose.
“May I interrupt? I would like to ask the speaker what are his qualifications?”
The scandalised president rose to protest, but Dr. Yonkers waved him aside and turned to Gillespie. The flow became a torrent.
“I'll tell that fresh guy over there that he's suffering from an excoriated extravasation of the medulla oblongata, complicated by schlerosis of the digital duodenum.”
“Nux vomica to you,” retorted Gillespie unperturbed. “Likewise cascara sagrada and Epsom salts. But what's your standing as a doctor?”
“You saphead, I'm M.D. of Chicago, Petersen medallist, Rockefeller foundation scholar, Carnegie research …”
Petersen! Gillespie felt a shock of memory. Petersen—Bulldog Drum-mond! Petersen had a little trick of the body that Drummond recognised through disguise. Watching Dr. Yonkers, Gillespie noticed his eyebrows. They went up, just as Lloyd's did when he was excited. And Yonkers was excited, and the more excited he got the less American he was.
“You're not a doctor at all!” shouted Gillespie. “You're Impskill Lloyd! And I know now what killed Pat Lauder! Starvation! You killed him! You put him on to a diet that finished him—encouraged him to live on watercress and thistles when he should have been filling himself with good steak and eggs! Fanning, arrest this man!”
The place was in an uproar. Everybody stood up and shouted. No one noticed that Lloyd's hands were busy over the table. Suddenly he spread out his arms, and the contents of four pepper pots were scattered about him. In the resultant eruption of coughing and sneezing Lloyd dived through the door, and before anyone could reach the landing after him there was the sound of a powerful car starting. When the first of his pursuers reached the street the car was disappearing over the horizon. (Cont. on page 40
.)
“The Proprietress … standing out of sight, would blow it into action.”
By)
Hori Makaire .“‘Paraparaumu; pakeha? You ask me how it came by its name? Well, there are many versions, most of which I have heard; but the true story? It concerns an insult of far-reaching effects, followed by a raid that was bloodless and—laugh if you must, my good friend—an ill-gottes pakeha shirt.”
Tamati and I sat on the beach at Paraparaumu contentedly smoking, as we watched the moonlight etching historic Kapiti Island in black and silver.
“With the older people,” went on my companion, “the significance of the name ever remains; for, as you must know, the custom of days gone by was to call a place in commemoration of some momentous event. Sadly enough, the younger generation find the age of forgetfulness a convenient thing indeed. To-day, it is ‘P'ram and ‘Paraparam—seldom if ever the title that should mean so much to the descendants of those who created it. However, it seems to have become the custom with most place names of the Maori, and no protest on our part can alter it … But the story? Very well, then.
“Kapiti is before you there … We must go back to the days of Te Rauparaha, when he had first become established on the Island, and before it became his manner to periodically issue forth on the raids that so completely drenched with blood the lower portion of Te Ika a Maui. Behind the sandhills to the right of you was the main pa of a people distantly related to the great rangatira, who had followed him in his successful migration from the North. They were not a very warlike tribe, and their main safety lay in the protection which the Kapiti warriors afforded them; so that raiding parties seldom, if ever, came near. At the same time, the mainland people were ever careful to avoid any overt act that might displease their powerful and bloodthirsty neighbours on the Island stronghold.
“At a time when both tribes were living in peace and plenty, came the whale ships, with their wild and lawless men, their goods for trade, and their rum. The big fish abounded, and Kapiti was soon made the headquarters of the fishing fleets. How Te Rauparaha turned their visits to advantage by the purchase of many muskets, with which he conquered all that opposed him, is well known to everyone who has studied Maori history.
“The beaches at the Island were regularly used by the pakehas when boiling down the whale flesh. After the men were paid for their labours always, mark you, in gold, there were nights of high revelry. There would be much singing and dancing, much gambling and mild quarrelling, and much rum passed about. Surprising though it may seem to you, there was never trouble between the two races. With what you would term his eye to the main chance, Te Rauparaha had ordered that the pakehas were to be treated as honoured guests, and not molested in the least manner, however provoking their actions towards the dark people. As I have indicated, the chief's mana was all-powerful, and none dare disobey him.
“Following a period of successful whaling, when several ships had returned with their holds full, a big feast was arranged. The main beach
A sketch of a New Zealand Railways “K” class locomotive, drawn by Mr. T. Hope, of the Department's Car and Wagon staff, Wellington.
“From the ensuing wild scramble, a young man named Tawhine, a visitor from the mainland, emerged triumphant, holding the shirt intact. But immediately, there was an angry shout from the assembled warriors. There, senseless on the ground, with much blood streaming from his face, lay the Chief's son. It was all an accident of course, but blood had been spilled, and utu must be obtained in like fashion. The tohunga advanced on Tawhine, who cowered before him. The pakehas paused in the game. One of them
“The tohunga raised his mere to strike, but lowered it as he noted in which direction the sympathy of the card players lay. He seized the trembling man, and thrust him towards the beach edge.
“‘Spawn of lowest slavery,’ he shouted, ‘we cannot insult our well-beloved pakeha guests by killing you where you stand. Take your canoe there, and get you gone at once. But, remember this: blood must be given for blood. To-morrow, we raid you in force. Away!’
“And young Tawhine paddled shore-wards, the shirt in the canoe at his feet, while the young chief was forcibly (and pleasantly) revived, and the card game resumed.
“Early next day, twelve big war canoes left the Island, and beached through the flying spray at the spit just below us. There was no one to dispute their landing. Cautiously, they approached the offending pa and then, as the position became clear to them, rushed it in force. The place was deserted. It subsequently transpired that, fearing the wrath of Te Rauparaha, the whole tribe had migrated farther up the coast. The ovens were still warm, showing evidence of a hurried meal some hours before. To the raiding party, it was one great joke, and Te Rauparaha laughed long and loud with his men as he pointed to the cooking stones, saying that the people of the land had undoubtedly fled, but that they had certainly left some token of their late habitation in the form of oven refuse.
“From this, pakeha, you will see the meaning of ‘Paraparaumu'—‘The Refuse from the Oven.’ You have noticed porridge adhering to a pot, well, there you have the idea.
“The shirt? It was found tied to one of the food houses, having perhaps been left there to soften the anger of the Kapiti men. It was now seized by the tohunga. Later on, it proved to have a curse still upon it, for one day the priest was forced to kill two of his favourite women slaves.”
“What, with the shirt?” I enquired.
“No,” replied Tamiti, glancing at me suspiciously. “It seems that the cook from one of the ships had taught these women how to make a plum pudding. The tohunga discovered them using the much-prized shirt for their first experiment.”
An Appreciation.
From Messrs. The Standard Optical Company of Australasia Ltd., Christchurch, to the Minister of Railways, the Hon. D. G. Sullivan:—
“I just wish to drop you a line to express the appreciation of the manner in which your officers in Auckland went out of their way to save our Auckland Manager a lot of trouble on a recent trip to Christ church.
“It seems that he purchased the ticket the day before his departure from Auckland, and lost it in the Booking Office.
“It was only when he was on the train that he found he did not have the travelling ticket, but had the reserve seat ticket.
Some interesting scenes in the world of railways, reproduced by courtesy of “Railroad Stories.”
“The guard of the Limited allowed our Manager to travel to Frankton, but advised him to get in touch with the Booking Office at Auckland. On the arrival of the train at Frankton, your officials in Auckland had already sent a telegram to the guard of the Limited, advising that the ticket had been picked up in the Booking Office, asking for our Manager's address, so that it could be forwarded on to him.
“This act, coupled with the fact that they then allowed our Manager to travel to Christchurch and use the telegram as the ticket in the meantime, we very highly appreciate, and, as your Department no doubt gets many ‘kicks’ we think it is only right that we should acknowledge the courtesy and the service rendered.”
By)
Arnold Gozar
“Alpheim had crept back to the door without my hearing him. He stood looking down at me and his eyes blazed.”
McKinley cut the end off a cigar.
“What would you do if your daughter ran away with a Kanaka?” “Shoot him,” Schiska said.
McKinley took a look at the cigar.
Well, he began, there was a trader in Samoa once, named Alpheim, and he had a daughter—Elsa was her name. I used to be in the Constabulary then. Our O.C. was an Englishman. He spoke Chinese, and was the best revolver-shot I ever saw.
“The same again,” said Crosby, to the steward.
One day a bunch of us were yarning at the kava-bowl behind the station, when a native corporal came up to me and said, “Please sir, the Inspector want to see you, sir.”
“What's happened now?” I thought.
And as I walked away the boys called after me, “You're on the mat!”
I put on a tunic, and a cap, and went in to the office.
The Old Man was writing at his desk. He had a cigarette glued to his lip, and one eye nearly closed—to keep the smoke out—and when he looked at me, about an inch of ash dropped off on his white coat.
I tore off a salute.
“Oh yes,” he says.
“It's you, McKinley. Take a seat.”
I knew then that I wasn't on the mat.
The Old Man kept on writing for a while; I listened to him. He was using a red fountain-pen as bulky as the handle of a broom, and wrote so big that you could read it upside down.
“I have a job for you,” he says at last. “In Fangaloa Bay. There's been a bit of trouble there.”
I waited. I had come in to Apia from an outpost, and there was a party on that night.
The Old Man gets up and begins to walk about the office.
“You have been to Fangaloa, of course?” he asks me.
“No sir,” I said (and it was true), but there was nothing doing.
“Well,” he tells me, “there's a trader over there named Alpheim. He has been threatening the natives with a shotgun, and they're scared of him.”
I waited while he lit another cigarette.
“And what am I supposed to do?” I asked. “Arrest him?”
“No,” says the Old Man.
“We'd better get the shotgun, though.”
I eyed him for a moment, and he looked away.
“I don't believe it's licensed,” he goes on (as if that made a difference). So I said, “Suppose I ask him for it and he pays the license. Where would we be then?”
But the Old Man had thought of everything.
There was a section in the Ordinance empowering him to call in firearms for inspection.
“Show him this,” he says.
He handed me an order, ready signed. But when I took it from him, he was looking out the window.
I had heard of Alpheim, but that's all.
Apia is a peculiar place: there's only one real street, but even after you have lived there for a year or so you're always running into men you've never seen before. And there are fellows in the stores along the Beach who seem to disappear as soon
It makes you feel a stranger there.
I knew that Alpheim lived at Fangaloa, and that he hadn't been to Apia for years; but when it comes to calling on a man whose habits run to loaded guns, you wish that he had known you all your life.
I looked at the Old Man and asked, “What is this fellow Alpheim?—German?”
“No,” he says. “A Pole. Queer fellow. Saw him last in 1929. He played me highbrow music on a gramophone—the New World Symphony or something; anyway, give me a military band. He talks a lot, he reads a lot; he likes a good cigar. You ought to keep him up all night.”
I thought of Alpheim, living there alone. I thought about the party.
They know how to put on a party in Samoa.
As I was going out the door the Old Man said, “You'd better put these in your bag.”
He handed me an old pair of binoculars.
“And don't forget the shotgun,” he called after me. “It's a cheap single-barrel, with a small piece broken off the butt-plate.”
That man knew and remembered guns like other men know horses, the pedigree thereof, and their performances.
I dug up a few books, a tin of Dutch cigars, some needles for the gramophone, and two bottles of square gin that I'd been saving for the party.
And I went to Fangaloa.
They welcomed me as if I were the leader of an army that had saved a town. An old chief took me to his house. Some girls spread mats for us, and we sat down.
“The day is decorated by Your Excellency's presence,” says the old chief, “but you should have brought a gun.”
“What for?” I asked him.
But the only answer he would give me was a diplomatic smile.
He knew that I would side with Alpheim.
When another white man goes wrong, in the tropics, you will help him if you can; but if you have to make excuses for him to the natives—well, it hurts your pride.
I wanted to believe that Alpheim wasn't half as bad as they'd made out. Just then, we heard a gun go off across the bay. I reached for the binoculars and ran outside.
At Fangaloa the bay comes in so sharply that the villages on one shore face those on the other; Alpheim lived at Lona, on the far side of the bay. I could see ten or fifteen thatched huts in amongst the coconuts and breadfruit-trees; they were about three-quarters of a mile away.
I got the glasses focussed on the only iron roof there was; and it looked hot enough to fry an egg on.
“Bring me a canoe,” I said.
The old chief sent a boy to paddle me. We had about an inch of freeboard, and the bay was choppy.
All the way across I watched the store.
The boy was all right till I'd stepped ashore. He then said “Ia, ua lava,” “That's enough,” and backed out the canoe. The old chief was still standing on the beach, with a small crowd behind him; they were as wooden as the figures in an old-time wedding-group, but I could feel their eyes on me.
I wondered what was wrong.
“Aiii,” says the boy, “the white man over there is mad.”
I picked up my valise and started for the store.
It was a wooden building with barred windows, heavy shutters, and a small verandah; and it faced the sea. The front door was open, but the windows closed. This gave me the idea there was someone watching me.
I took care not to hesitate as I approached the door. I glanced down at the front steps—there were three of them.
When I looked up again, the first thing I set eyes on was the barrel of a gun.
I was as nervous as a young horse in the middle of a bridge.
There was a brass sight on the gun, and I died several deaths before I noticed it was on the left side of the muzzle, not on top.
The gun was on a table, not ten feet away; I had the Old Man's order in my pocket, and the door was open wide.
I listened for some movement; there was none. So I lowered my valise and stole up to that door.
A voice roared, “So they send for a policeman, did they?”
And I damn near dropped the gin on the verandah.
Alpheim had been lying on a couch behind the door.
He started to get up as I came in. I noticed that he had dark eyes with a peculiar look in them, and was a bigger man than me.
I just said, “Mr. Alpheim, I presume?”
“There is no other white man here.”
We eyed each other like two animals.
Alpheim was over six feet tall, with gray hair that stood up from his forehead like a brush and a huge white moustache discoloured by tobacco stains; this gave him the appearance of a grand-duke, or an exiled emperor. He would have been a knockout in a uniform.
He was wearing a red lava-lava with white flowers on it, and was naked to the waist. His flesh was so white and puffy that it looked obscene, and he had elephantiasis on the left arm; the hand had swollen so much that it was deformed.
His feet were bare.
The British in Samoa do not like a man who goes about barefooted; and you can sleep in a lava-lava, or go bathing in one, but that's all.
“What are you looking at?” asked Alpheim.
He spoke with a foreign accent, and it made his voice sound harsh.
Behind him, on the floor, was a thick tumbler with a dead cockroach in it. But there was no sign of a bottle. Then I remembered Alpheim was supposed to run a still.
I asked him if he'd like a gin.
He watched through narrowed eyelids while I unfastened the valise.
As soon as he saw the bottle in my hand he mumbled, “You're the only white man I have seen this year. I wondered who it was with boots on. What's your name?”
I told him.
“What?” he shouted. “You're not the gentleman they all call ‘Red’ McKinley?”
“Yes,” I said.
And his whole manner changed.
He suddenly became mysterious, and confidential. He grabbed me by the hand.
“Why,” he exclaimed, “I've heard my daughter speak about you!”
His voice dropped, and he peered about the room.
“You are her Fairy Prince,” he whispered. “But you should have come before.”
I stared at him.
He was dead serious.
I felt the bottle slipping through my fingers, so I shoved it on the table.
“Wait,” he said. “I get a corkscrew and some glasses.”
Before he'd finished speaking he dived through a reed curtain into the next room. The curtain rustled for a moment, like tall grass when there's something moving through it, and was still.
Alpheim.
I sat down without knowing it.
It was a square room with four doorways. The door leading to the store was closed. A row of bookshelves ran along one wall. The gramophone stood on a home-made cabinet. There was a dresser with blue china, a decanter and a coffeepot on it; two easy-chairs with seats of undressed hide; some cane chairs painted in bright colours; and a kava-bowl on a low stand. The inside of the bowl was coated with a green deposit like enamel; it takes years to get a bowl like that.
The floor was covered with the mats they make up in the Tokelaus. On one wall was a fine-mat, handwoven, with a border of red parrot feathers at each end. Above the doorway Alpheim had gone through, were head-knives, with a sharp hook on the blade. There were a few Niue Island fans, old calendars, model canoes, and necklaces of seeds and shells draped over little nails, so that they formed a pattern on the wall.
An ornamental lamp without a glass hung from the ceiling. Beyond this I could see a coloured portrait of a girl, almost life-size, in an oval frame. I got up and went over to it.
She was a half-caste with black hair that had blue light in it, and an hibiscus flower behind her ear. She had the same complexion as a senorita, and her eyes looked real. There was the shadow of a smile around her mouth. She was about eighteen. When I heard Alpheim coming I sat down again.
I saw him through the curtain just before he stepped into the room.
He had dressed up a bit. He wore a white shirt with wide sleeves, and a pair of those duck trousers with bell-bottoms that they sell in Pago-Pago. His feet were thrust into a pair of Chinese slippers without heels. He held a corkscrew in one hand and glasses in the other.
“Well,” he said. “You like my daughter?”
I was so embarrassed that he laughed.
“I think she's very pretty,” I commented.
He waited for a moment while he drew the cork.
“There is no other like her in the South Seas,” he said proudly. “If any man lay hands on her, I blow his brains out.”
He glanced at me very quickly and then looked away.
I suddenly felt sorry for him. If you'd lived in the Islands you'd know why; the girls ripen very quickly there.
He waited till I'd poured myself a drink, and then took one that would have made me choke.
I hesitated.
“Oh,” he said. “You like water with it, eh?”
He took the decanter from the dresser and walked to the back door; but before he went outside he turned slowly and regarded me with such a queer look that I felt uncomfortable.
As soon as he had gone I reached over for the gun. It had been reloaded with one of those brass shells they use for buckshot. I squinted through the barrel; it was dirty.
“You leave that gun alone!”
Alpheim had crept back to the door without my hearing him. He stood there looking down at me, and his eyes blazed.
“You think I don't know why you come here? Pouf!”
I felt as guilty as a small boy in a pantry. I couldn't think of anything to say; but he had forced me to remember I was on official business.
So I produced the Old Man's order.
McKinley.
Alpheim took it with the first and second fingers of his good hand and held it some distance from him, like a connoisseur examining some object of great rarity. He read it with raised eyebrows, frowned, pursed his lips, and waved the order gently to and fro.
I was reminded of a tiger making slow sweeps with his tail.
“You listen,” he began. “You can tell Captain Arthur I see through this trick. If there is any law that say someone must inspect my gun, then you inspected it just now. You think it won't go off, huh? My gun shoots very well.”
“I don't doubt it,” I replied. “We heard the shot you fired this afternoon.”
Alpheim took a quick step towards me.
With that misshapen hand of his, he brought the decanter down on to the table with a crash; he then leaned on it heavily, crushed the Old Man's order up into a ball, pushed one finger at me like a pistol barrel, got up on tip-toe, and shouted:
“To-mor-row, when you go, I pay the li-cense money. Yes! I ren-der unto King George what is his. The gun is mine. I keep it! Now I have a drink with you. Manuia!”
“Here's mud in your eye,” I murmured.
Alpheim let go the decanter as if it were red-hot, and collapsed into a chair.
“Ho, ho,” he howled. “But there is no mud in my eye. I can see very well.”
He laughed until he choked for breath. Tears trickled down his cheeks and vanished into his moustache. I wondered what the devil I could do with him.
I dipped one hand into my valise and brought out the cigars; I did it with a flourish, like a conjuror producing a white rabbit from a hat.
Alpheim stopped laughing as it were in mid-air, as a child stops crying when you bring out an apple from behind your back.
“Cigars,” he murmured dreamily, “cigars! Most of the time I'm smoking this Samoan tobacco.”
I handed him the tin.
He took one, closed his eyes, and gently drew it lengthwise like a feather underneath his nose.
At that moment Alpheim was the most engaging rascal I had ever seen.
“Not now,” he sighed, “not now. I smoke it after dinner.”
He uttered the word dinner in a way that made me think of coffee and liqueurs, and slow music, and women in the arms of men in evening-clothes.
I wondered if he'd ever been an actor.
“Ah,” he said. “You must forgive me. I was a long way off then. Maybe you like a bath before your dinner? It is late already.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I am feeling a bit grubby, and if I don't get into a pair of slacks it won't be long before the mosquitoes are eating me alive.”
Alpheim laughed and held out his disfigured arm.
“It is because of the mosquitoes I get this; those are the ones that bite you in the daytime, though.”
I followed him in silence to the back door.
“There,” he said. “You see that track? It goes right to the bathingpool. I do not use the water in my tanks to bath in. Do you like coffee with your dinner? Or are you one of those New Zealanders who drink tea you can stand the spoon up in?”
“Coffee for me,” I told him. “And if you look in my valise you'll find some books I brought you.”
“Indeed,” he exclaimed. “You are like Santa Claus. There is no bottom to that bag of yours.”
I watched him as he went back to the house; and he was talking to himself. He had forgotten me.
Behind the house there was a little garden, fenced with stakes; the track disappeared around one corner of it. I saw a few pumpkins, water-melons, and a papaia-tree. Before I turned the corner I looked back.
Alpheim was lolling against a doorpost, twirling his moustache.
A man who lives alone too much is dangerous; there is a brittle surface to his mind—like ice above a frozen pond—and you have no way of knowing how much of your weight that “ice” will bear, or what lies under it.
I went down to the pool.
In all Samoan villages there is a bathing-pool. On washing days the women gossip while they beat their clothes clean on flat stones. Girls often bathe there in the evening, naked. They will sit down in the water and call out “Talofa” to you as you pass; and if you are embarrassed they all laugh.
But you couldn't get one of those girls to wear a one-piece bathing costume for a hundred pounds. She would think it was indecent; she would be ashamed.
Elsa.
The pool lay at the bottom of a little fall. There was a kapok-tree above it, and it was hidden from the village by a clump of guava scrub.
I undressed and slid into the water.
It was dusk. The air was heavy with the scent of wood-smoke, foliage, and frangipanni. There were crickets
As I began to soap myself I heard low voices, and sat on the bottom of the pool.
An old woman and a girl had come with buckets, to get water from the stream. They both called out, “Talofa,” and the girl went on; but the old woman paused to chat to me.
“When did you come?” she asked.
“To-day,” I answered, hoping to get rid of her.
But the old girl had me where she wanted me. She calmly squatted on the bank.
“And what about the Mad One?”
She glanced toward the store.
“Well,” I answered. “What about him?”
“He has a very pretty daughter,” said the woman, looking at me sideways.
I noticed an unusual inflection in her voice.
“I haven't seen her,” I replied.
The woman started to her feet. “Aue, it's true. He's killed her!”
“Suga,” she called loudly. “Sug-a e.”
The girl came on the run.
“Throw me my towel,” I said.
I scrambled to the bank.
They told me Alpheim had quarelled with his native wife and kicked her out. Some of her relatives had come to remonstrate with him. He chased them with the shotgun.
“When was this?” I asked, pulling on my trousers over the damp towel.
“Three days ago. And then he killed the girl.”
“How do you know?” I went on talking through my shirt.
The girl took up the story.
“Yesterday, when I was coming down from the plantation, I heard screaming. The Lady Elsa ran out of the store. The old man was running after her; and he was very angry. He threw something, and she fell down on the ground. Aue, he is a cruel man!”
“Go on,” I said, “go on.”
“And then he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back into the store just like a fowl. Aue! And then there was more screaming, and a light inside the store. No one has seen the Lady Elsa since.
“To-day my brother and some other boys went to the store to look; they had no money to buy anything, so they pretended that they had a fish to sell. The old man rushed out, and he fired a gun at them. They were so frightened that they dropped the fish and ran away. And that is all I know.”
I knew that this was true, as I had seen the three boys through my glasses from across the bay.
(To be continued.)
By “)
Shibli Bagarag
Only a few years ago New Zealand literary critics freely used the word “urigrammatical” as descriptive of the prose of one of our own writers. To-day the same critics write of the same writer's “masterly prose.” Recently in a page review of a novel by C. J. Powys, whose books are accounted as having sufficient enduring quality to be quoted in the first edition catalogues of leading booksellers, Richard Church wrote as follows:—
“It is no wonder that such an over-simulated nervous literary picture should result in a prose style guilty of every possible fault. It is ungram-matical, swollen and incongruous, a distorting medium that multiplies the ineptitudes of a distorted fancy.” I hold no brief for Powys. I do not like his work. I offer my introductory observations and later quotation as a measure of consolation to those writers who may feel hurt over criticisms hurled at their heads over alleged grammatical errors or lack of style. Literary criticism is often a one man opinion. Old Bancroft has it that “the public is wiser than the wisest critic.” Look to your public therefore for judgment.
* * *
In the pages of a very old book I purchased the other day I found a few sheets of paper ornamented with that glorious flowing copperplate that our grandfathers and great grandfathers used to write. The context of the message, which is as follows, should be of value to book and print collectors, for it is headed “Process for Removing Spots from Books and Prints”:—
“After having gently warmed the paper stained with grease, wax oil, or any fat body whatever, take out as much as possible by means of blotting paper, having first scraped off with a blunt knife what was not sunk in and gently warm the stained part. Then dip a small brush in well recjpgied spirits of turpentine, heated almost to ebullition (for when cold it acts very weakly) and draw it gently over both sides of the paper, which must be carefully kept warm. This operation must be repeated as many times as the quantity of the fat body imbibed by the paper, or the thickness of the paper may render it necessary. When the grease is entirely removed, recourse may be had to the following method to restore the paper to its former whiteness, which is not completely restored by the first process. Dip another brush in alcohol, and draw it, in like manner, over the place which was stained, and particularly round the edges, to remove the border that would still present a stain. By employing these means with proper caution, the spot will totally disappear, and the paper assumes its original whiteness if the process has been employed upon a part written on with common ink, it will experience no alteration.”
The page also contained another interesting process of value to bibliophiles. This I will include on this page next issue.
* * *
I met a book collector the other day who is surely in the final stages of bibliomania. He was showing me a beaujpgul Noel Douglas replica of Keats' first volume of verse.
“Why, you have not even cut the pages!” I exclaimed as I seized a knife to examine the title page.
My friend rushed at me with a hoarse cry of anguish and snatched the paper knife from my hand.
“For heaven's sake,” he cried, “do not spoil the book.”
“But,” I replied, “you can't read the book with its pages uncut.”
“Man! don't you understand,” he said, “if you cut the pages the book loses some of its value as a collectors' item.”
Regarding him more in sorrow than in anger, I did not pursue the subject further.
* * *
At least a few New Zealand printers have displayed in their typography and format an artistic appreciation of the prose and poetry of our best writers. A recent example of sympathetic association between printer and poet is to be found in Johannes C. Andersen's “Tura And the Fairies,” and “The Overworlds and Tu.” These two lengthy poems, which are based on Maori legendry lore, are sung in music of stately measure. The printer, Harry Tombs, of Wellington, has been imbued as it were with the lordly language of the poet and has given the verse a truly artistic typographical setting.
* * *
We were talking about printers' errors. An old “Post” scribe told us of one in his paper a quarter of a century ago. A mighty gale struck Wellington and the big black heading over the vivid story ran:
Wild Dogs In The City.
Of course, the writer of the article was referring to days and not dogs.
* * *
Coming so close on the sensational disclosures in Robert Sherard's book on Oscar Wilde and his denunciation of Frank Harris, the following letter written to a Dunedin resident by G.B.S. re Harris's biography of Shaw, makes particularly interesting reading:
“The truth is that F.H. was very badly qualified to write a life of me. He did not want to do it…. but the publishers demanded a book on Shaw. He being at the end of his resources, had to comply; but, as he had read nothing of mine since he edited the Saturday Review in the ‘nineties, and never to the end of his life understood why such a fuss was made about me and was besides so ignorant of the circumstances of my life that he had to invent them with all the wildest unsuccess, he made such a hopeless mess of the job that publication was impossible until I took it in hand myself. He never read the
* * *
Reviews.
“Harvest of the Moor,” by Margaret Leigh (G. Bell & Sons Ltd., London; Whitcombe & Tombs, New Zealand agents) might have been written by a practical, less poetical, Mary Webb. There is a nice easy style about this book, telling of the triumphs and the tribulations of those who work the soil and tend the flocks with such faithful perseverance. The location is Cornwall, and the verbal pictures impress themselves on the mind as clearly as a series of perfect photographs. A most refreshing break from the cluttering swarm of sex and sensation novels.
* * *
“Dig,” by Frank Clune (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) is the epic story of those two superlatively brave explorers, Burke and Wills, who, some seventy-seven years ago, crossed the great Australian continent from Melbourne to the Gulf of Carpentaria. What an appropriate title for such a story; the word “Dig” so frequently carved or scrawled on a tree or perhaps a rock and carrying in its three letters a message of hope or despair. For Frank Clune, however, it was a word of triumph, for he had to dig into many a memory or musty document to build up his grand but tragic story of Robert O'Hara Burke, the gallant Irishman, and William John Wills, the young Englishman, and their terrible journey of exploration. So great has been the demand for the book that the first edition was sold out before it was off the press.
* * *
“Old Amos,” by Arnold Edmondson (Arthur Barker, London; Whitcombe & Tombs Ltd., New Zealand agents) introduces us to a new humorist—a garrulous centenarian who tells us in his inimitable fashion tales of the Lake Country. The humour is in a way reminiscent of Pett Ridge and W. W. Jacobs. Good, wholesome books of humour are rare these days, and for that reason I feel sure that the creation of “Old Amos” will be as welcome as the flowers of the spring. The author is fortunate in having such an able illustrator as Thomas Henry. This well-known artist has combined almost perfectly with the author in his character delineations.
* * *
“Cheerful Rhymes,” by D. J. Donald (Harry H. Tombs Ltd., Wellington) is a collection of light verse some of which is distinctly clever. Humorous writers are rare in this country, and, as for a humorous poet, I did not imagine that one existed in our midst. This booklet proves otherwise. The author displays a nice subtle sense of humour.
* * *
“Grubstake Gold,” by J. B. Hendryx (Jarrold's, London; Whitcombe & Tombs Ltd., New Zealand agents) is a fast moving story of “The Trail of 98.” It is not just one of those average thrillers and it is not literary; it is just the book for the crowd who look for a thrill, a laugh and perhaps a cry. The hero is a newspaper man, who, being sacked because he wrote the truth, joins in the big gold rush. His companions are a likeable old “bruiser” and a dancing girl. They find adventure in plenty.
Continued from page 27).
“Nojpgy the police stations!” cried one.
“Telegraph Mr. Semple!” advised another.
A Rotarian garage proprietor sighed.
“I wish I had the agency for those blinking Disapontiacs. They accelerate like hell.”
Up in the tea room a group bent over a prostrate form. It was Furnace Skurry, lying in a faint, his eyeglass still in position. Gillespie opened a bottle of pink mineral water, and, saying to himself that the stuff had never been put to so good a purpose, dashed some of it over Skurry's face. Skurry got up slowly with apologies.
“Sorry to make such an exhibition of myself, but O my God, that cliché!”
“What cliché?” asked Gillespie.
“The last infirmity of ignoble detective story minds,” replied Skurry. “Use of pepper. The oldest and commonest trick in the box of crime and frustration.”
The president of Rotary looked puzzled.
“What does he mean? What's a cleeshay?”
“C-l-i-c-h-é,” Gillespie spelt.
“O, you mean clitsh,” said the president.
Skurry fainted again.
(To be continued.)
“Shibli” Listens In.
In connection with the New Zealand Centennial a committee composed of our leading historians is now busy gathering material for a suitable commemoration in book form of past events.
Mr. Johannes C. Andersen proposes to publish a series of chastely printed books containing the verse of leading New Zealand poets.
Beau Shiel, advertising manager for the Commercial Broadcasting Station, has written a book on “Smithy.” It will be published shortly in London.
Miss Marie Ney, formerly of Wellington, was a guest of honour at the Swinburne Centenary Dinner of the P.E.N. in London on May 4th last. She read to those present some of Swinburne's more famous poems.
Travel Made Him Constipated
Salesman Says Kruschen the Only Thing
To Keep Him “On His Toes”
“I am a commercial traveller,” writes a correspondent, “and due to endless travelling by train, I find that I become constipated if I do not keep myself well purged. Kruschen Salts is the only thing that will do this effectively and not interfere with my work. I take a large dose of Kruschen every Saturday night and on Sunday, when I have no work to do, the Salts act on me. On weekdays I take a small dose the first thing on rising. It is necessary that I be on ‘my toes’ all through the day, and this is the only way that it possibly can be done. I have tried other laxatives and they have proven to be either unreliable or harsh in their action.“—V.L.
Half the ills which afflict humanity can be traced to one root cause. That cause is internal sluggishness: failure to keep the inside free from poisonous waste matter. Auto-toxemia, or self-poisoning, is the inevitable penalty.
Kruschen Salts is Nature's recipe for maintaining a condition of internal cleanliness. The six salts in Kruschen stimulate your internal organs to smooth, regular action. Your inside is thus kept clear of those impurities which, allowed to accumulate, lower the whole tone of the system.
But Kruschen has more than this necessary aperient effect upon you: it works directly upon your blood-stream, too, invigorating it so that it floods every fibre of you with tingling energy.
Kruschen Salts is obtainable at all Chemists and Stores at 2/6 per bottle.
By “)
Robin Hyde
(
Rly. Publicity photo.)
The Cathedral, Nelson, New Zealand.
The place was called Still-water Junction. Outside the little station stretched long morasses, large enough for the plying of miniature gondolas, and on these leapt up and down the largest raindrops I have yet seen; raindrops like rafts of frogs' eggs, like large white bouncing bubbles of tapioca. Little birch trees came crowding down the hillside to stare with all their round sovereign-coloured leaves, at the long pink planks of hewn timber, streaming rain. And beyond that there was nothing, except a hospitable little girl with pink cheeks (who helped me lug suitcases over to the side of the station where the service car would come in), and a ham sandwich.
Yes, the wet West Coast. I know it doesn't always act up to its cloudburst of a reputation, but on this occasion it evidently felt called upon to do nothing but drip, stream and steam. And in Reefton (the ghost-town about which somebody should have written the great New Zealand novel, but hasn't) there were uncountable pubs, all quite happy and prosperous, and little groups of seasoned West Coasters standing about outside each, dripping like beavers. Also good venison for dinner: after that, deciding that there was only one way to become acclimatized, I went into the bar and drank port, port and port.
But the morning's run through to Nelson was glorious. The service car had a driver who took fatherly pride in his Coast and its unparalleled scenery. All the way up the Buller Gorge, he knew where to point out the best trees and frothiest glimpses of silt-heavy tossing river. Where the Gorge was at its most majestic and stormy, we had a little visiting card from the gods of the mountain-tops. Down on the road before us rolled, in a series of giant bounces and skips, a boulder of no mean bulk. We pulled up with a snort, quivering from stem to stern. There were only three passengers—the other two men—and they leapt out as one, and started to heave at the boulder, which took their united efforts to roll it over into the river beneath. When they came back to the car, mopping their brows, we were all pleased and excited, because the boulder was a sizeable Might-Have-Been … you know, one of those cost-free, pain-free, adventure - withouttears incidents of which you can talk with pride. “If we hadn't pulled up in ten seconds,” said one passenger, a goldminer from the Howard River, “that one would have been through the roof of the ‘bus.” “Ah! And us down in the river.” “Not a chance in the wide world. Would have smashed us to matchwood.” “Bad slip country, this. Look at the raw soil up there.” We all looked affectionately up at the red raw landslips, and down at the Buller, now the stouter and frothier for our boulder.
We drove into sunshine, which is, I think, one of the most heartening things that can happen to a damp, disconsolate traveller. (Nevertheless, one day I'm going back to the wet, wild West Coast, to see the Blowhole, and try to pick up traces of the Greenstone People who lived there less than eighty years ago, quarrying and polishing greenstone weapons and ornaments for all New Zealand, under the protection of Poutini, the Fish God.) Nelson from afar was grape-blue and champagne-colour, pale shades stretched out in that extra-special sunshine. As the Buller Gorge bush has been taken over by the Government and preserved, so in this more northern locality the Forestry Department has been sensible, and nuggety little plantations of pines go marching on, shedding their brown and green pollen on the air. Coastline then, a lighthouse, a curve of foam, extremely pink geraniums, looking as if they had been dipped in aniline dye; and following these, what is, weight for age, the very prettiest little city in New Zealand.
On the following morning I saw it from New Zealand's geographical centre—the flat stone, sheltered by grass and wild flowers, which was set by survey to mark the exact middle of the two islands. You get a crystal edge of snow-peaks on the far horizon; under these the hills, golden-brown, blue and clean-limbed, hills of grass and young pines, but of little native bush; and directly beneath you, curled around its small green river, sleeps Nelson in a comfortable summer doze. You know that in one direction lie the Applelands, miles and miles of decorous country arranged with stout-hearted little orchards, a glory of blossom come springtime, and a great business of Pippins, Jonathans and Delicious in the season of heavy boughs. But nearer town the world still wears a pretty face. The bowl in which Nelson's rich plain country is held has mostly given itself up to agricultural farming, and that's an attractive sight to see. Oats were light green in some fields, in others already sallowed to pale gold. The big strawberry gardens were doing traffic, and the rule was, “Come in and pick your own for sixpence, we're too busy.” Up long strings and stakes swarmed the young hops, delicate green, getting ready to make the vine-canopies which would provide hoppickers with a living later in the year.
That Nelson's river could misbehave itself seems incredible at sight. It takes its course with a bubble of amusement, but quietly enough, in between deep grass banks planted and arched over with trees. Yet one lady.
(
Photo, Thelma R. Kent.)
effections in the upper reaches of the Rees River, South Island, New Zealand.
Nelson hospitality is worthy of anyone's honourable mention. Take this, for instance; the way was long, the wind was decidedly hot and dusty, and our driver remembered a glad night when he had halted at a cider manufacturing place, and subsequently returned to his lodgings singing several completely new and inspired verses of “Mademoiselle From Armentieres.” We pulled up; yes, the cider was there, by the splendid bottled gallon, but couldn't be sold unless one took a case of it. At this we were dismayed. A case of cider is an elegant and inspiring thing, but if we drank it all in one night, would it create a bad impression among the townspeople? And if we didn't, would we have the heart to abandon it? We were flying on to Wellington next day, and by air one travels light. The old cider-brewer, hearing our difficulties, shook his head and stroked his white moustache. He couldn't break the law, but it went to his heart to turn away strangers without a taste of Nelson's bottled sunshine. Finally, he seized two bottles, and thrust them into my arms. “Take them as a present,” said he, “They'll be a good advertisement.” And so they were. I have religiously recommended Nelson cider ever since, not only because of our benefactor's generosity, but because it really does have a ripe, smooth and glowing flavour which combines remarkably well with the fat little strawberries you pick from the growers' gardens.
Besides strawberries and cider in Nelson—orange-blossom. The mock variety grows freely enough elsewhere in New Zealand; but there was a queer, highly-flavoured sweetness on the air, our first Nelson night, a persistence of perfume which insisted one should get up, shuffle into slippers and dressing-gown, and explore the garden. The orange-blossom trees made great caves of green leafage, white petals, in the moonshine, and the scent was a whipped-up sundae of mythical honeymoons and old Spain. Try it some time, when in disillusioned mood….
Flying across Cook Strait is one of the little treats this age can give you, to make up for the loss of Cobbs' coaches and the maypole on the village green. And even if the idea of putting cotton-wool in your ears, chewing-gum (to combat nausea) between your jaws, and your faith in the pilot, at first makes you wobble a little, you should try it. For one thing, the world is so queerly and quaintly pretty from the skyways; and Nelson, with its patterned agricultural terrain, must be almost the ideal country to smile down at (if you can still smile) when you're flying over.
I am going to be truthful about this. I flew in company with a lady of sixty, who had stepped out of the Wellington-to-Nelson aeroplane without a hair out of place, and couldn't understand why any knee should quiver at such a simple little trip. And the pilot and his confreres at the ‘drome accepted everything with beaujpgul nonchalance. And the scales were situated, with great tact, so that only the recording angel behind the desk could see each passenger's weight, and no companion could rudely remark, “There, dear, I told you you'd been putting on a lot of condition lately.” But in spite of all these advantages, I felt that my hour had come.
You scale a little ladder, which is then removed, leaving you sitting at a slant inside the silver-shining hornet. And though there are leather straps to hold you in position, you know (as if by revelation) that somehow, somewhere, you will fall, and wonder if the first ten thousand feet will be the worst. The pilot saunters across from the ‘drome, shows no consciousness of your acute misery, waves his hand, and waggles a lever. You are moving. All further argument is out of the question. There is air beneath you, and nothing else but ….
But then the pretty little world; the ploughed fields are exactly like grey corduroy, softly, smoothly ridged. A toy horse draws along his toy plough, against the patterned hedges. The haystacks are such quaint cottage loaves
You are sitting at an upward slant, feeling kindlier towards the machine because it runs smooth instead of joggling, but still putting no trust in anyone, and wondering if, when your time comes, you will die nobly or throw your arms around the neck of the fat passenger in front. Your sixty - year - old travelling companion grins happily and chews gum. These modern parents! … Then, with a sensation of relief, you observe that you are over the blue shirred silk of the sea, and that Cook Strait waves are so little. Their white crests are like that narrow lace we used for edging petticoats, in the long ago. I don't know why, but flying over sea is less trying to the complete novice (this novice, anyhow) than flying over land. In your inmost heart you know that falling into the sea (if fall you must) would probably prove just as discomfortable as landing on a rock. But the sea looks so billowy, blue and soft. Against all the evidence of reason, you put your trust in it…
And you can see great rafts of rosered seaweed tossing by; and a ship like a cigar, and clear in the waves, something that is either a shark or a dolphin.
Then the machine tilts sharply, and you think, “My hour has come.” Wellington hills look all teeth—rocky, sinister and unfed teeth. You have always admired the hills, but now (as the ‘plane joggles) you think angrily, “Why couldn't somebody have ironed those things out?” And the pilot heads for a ridiculously small patch of green, into which, obviously, he can never fit an aeroplane. The wing tilts more sharply. You gaze at your travelling companion, between reluctant admiration and distaste, for she is still grinning and chewing gum…
Just a little bump, and it's all over: a perfect trip, a beaujpgul landing.
That's for the first time. You feel so relieved that, standing in the ‘drome shed, you want to be nearly honest with somebody. You say to unhearing
(
Thelma R. kent, photo.)
The junction of the Almer and Franz Josef Glaciers, South Island, New Zealand.
You look back at the silvery hornet, up-ended there on the grass, so placid and innocent. “One day I'll come back and get the better of you,” you think, “One day I'll pay you out for this. Wonder if Jean Batten turned a hair, first time up?”
In “smart” circles in London now dainty little cigarettes are often served with afternoon tea and between the courses at dinner. Thus what would have been regarded as an exhibition of depraved taste in Victorian days is now considered quite the thing! But other times other manners. In days long past and gone no man with any pretensions to style would have dreamt of smoking in the street. It wasn't done. To-day, to quote the old music hall song, “Everybody's Doing It.” Here in Maoriland pipes are more often than not filled with fragrant” toasted,” smokers having long since discovered that this beaujpgul tobacco is not only unrivalled for flavour and aroma but—thanks to toasting—is perfectly safe. There's no “bite” in toasted. You can puff Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cavendish, River-head Gold and Desert Gold till the cows come home. They can't harm you. Of course, there are imitations. Ever know anything really good that wasn't imitated? Buy any of the brands named and you'll be right.
A Notable Beaujpgying Work.
Some Striking Examples.
The corner of Davis Street and Thorndon Quay, Wellington, before the erection of Railway Advertising panels. (Compare with picture below).
From time to time during the past few years, various Beaujpgying Societies and local bodies in New Zealand have considered the question of the utility of advertising hoardings and put forward certain principles regarding the choice of localities for their display. In other countries, too, similar organisations have been actuated by such motives and, as embodying the consensus of ideals aimed at, there may be quoted the standards of practice and code of ethics which govern the operations of the Outdoor Advertising Association of America (Inc.); probably the largest organisation of its kind in the world. These principles provide that hoardings shall not be placed so as to create a hazard to traffic; on rocks, posts, trees or barricades; on streets and/or those portion of streets which are purely residential in their nature, or in other locations where the resentment of reasonably-minded persons would be jusjpgied; on streets facing public parks where the streets surrounding the parks are residential; in locations which would mar natural scenic beauty spots. There also is a prohibition from tacking, pasting, tying or erecting cards, posters or signs of any description, except on standardised hoarding structures.
These principles agree so closely with the practice followed by the New Zealand Railways Department that their reproduction at the present time is both interesting and opportune in view of the press prominence given to recent criticism of this form of advertising on railway frontages.
To-day, Outdoor Advertising is recognised and used by advertisers as an efficient, economical and convenient means of creating sales. It is an important element in the business life of the community and is regarded, by right of economic necessity, as a substantial and permanent industry. Outdoor Advertising has reached such a stage of development that it contributes materially to the reduction of selling and distribution costs, through mass selling. This economical distribution and sustained consumption of commodities is of utmost importance to the prosperity of the country. For, just as the failure to create a satisfactory demand for the commodities produced in a community results in periodic depressions in that community, so does a proper distribution of the commodities, coupled with sufficient demand through effective advertising,
The same corner after the erection of Railway Advertising panels. (Compare with picture above.)
No advertiser of commodities or services dependent, as he must be, upon the favour and goodwill of the public, would purposely place advertising where it could be more damaging than helpful to himself, hence every successful advertiser exercises very great care in the selection of the positions for his advertising panels. As railway yards, from the very nature of the work for which they are used, have not any aesthetic value, railway frontages
If the Railway Department were to refrain from accepting these advertising panels—from which, of course, a very substantial annual revenue is derived—it would not reduce the total volume of outdoor advertising. The value of this form of advertising is too firmly established. Advertisers would simply be compelled to look elsewhere for places to put their outdoor displays and, as the supply of ideal locations would be reduced through the elimination of railway frontage spaces, other positions would be used which were less favourable for the advertisers' immediate purposes and more likely to be harmful to aesthetic considerations in their new surroundings.
The national aspect would also be changed for the worse, as the present revenue derived by the Railways from advertising would have to be met out of general taxation, while the amount would be transferred to the profits of private advertising companies.
Whenever the Railway Department proposes to erect hoardings to carry advertising panels, the position is carefully selected to see that the aesthetics of the locality will be improved rather than injured by such;panels. The position is photographed before and after the erection of the hoardings, and subsequent inspection in every case indicates a definite aesthetic improvement through the introduction of these panels—many of which, indeed, form an attractive addition to what has been described by high authority as “the people's picture gallery.”
Petone railway crossing (near Wellington) before the erection of Railway Advertising panels.
Petone railway crossing showing the improvement effected by the advertising panels. (Compare with picture above.)
Thorndon station approach (Wellington) before the erection of advertising panels.
Thorndon station approach after the erection of advertising penels (Compare with picture above.)
ByO. N. .)
Gillespie
Horse-racing has as many enemies as friends. In the environment of modern capitalism, it is surrounded with practices which are distasteful and unlovely. Yet it is as old as England. The Venerable Bede reports that the Saxons of his time regarded equine contests as the best of all sports. In the opinion of many observers, the greatest contribution to world civilisation, is the British conception of sport. So entirely racial is the idea, that the word is not capable of translation into many languages and has been incorporated as a single English syllable “sport.” The Derby transcends all racing; it has the significance of a world event; it epitomises and symbolises the British genius for infusing a sporting contest with spiritual qualities of courage and gaiety. Lastly and most importantly, it is, in itself, a proof that money cannot buy success, nor, in fact, anything which is the dearest heart's desire.
The Twelfth Earl of Derby.
The scene is a London Court of Justice.
The hall is impressive in its vaulted splendour. The crowd has been listening to the subtle and superb address of one of England's great counsel. Suavely clever faces beneath dignified horsehair wigs are watching every gesture, appreciating every expert turn of phrase. There is a hush of expectancy as another great figure arises, settles his gown with an accustomed shrug, and turns toward the revered dignitary upon the Bench. There is a slight bustle at the back of the court and an usher slips respectfully through the crowd. The great barrister turns, peeps at the slip of paper, and nods to the usher. He signals quietly and the small note is handed up to His Honour. He nods austerely, smiles, and the great barrister commences his argument …
The note contained one word only, “Mahmoud”—winner of the Derby.
The Club in Shanghai is full. The crowd is exceptional and “stingers” are in demand. There is only one topic, and it is confined to an epic struggle that is taking place thousands of miles away.
Suddenly there is a hush … A steward calls out “Mahmoud,” and the hubbub recommences … “I told you so.” “Bred the right way.” “Always was a great horse,” and so on…
It is not longer than two minutes since those bright colours flashed passed the post before a quarter of a million English folk, gathered on the Epsom Downs. Those English exiles in China knew the result before the majority of that enormous crowd actually present at the race.
It is the outback in Alberta.
The party line telephone is engaged and the furious machinery salesman makes out just the one word “Mahmoud.” He does not know what it means, but those settlers in faraway Canada listen happily…
A dance is in progress in an imposing mansion in Toorak. The cream of Melbourne's younger set is finishing the last slow fox-trot. There is a silence and a rush to the billiard room … “The Derby” … “The Derby.” Clustered round the radio, bright young faces are intent… every incident is appreciated… and the result, “Mahmoud, by three lengths,” provokes a buzz of chatter….
It is 7 a.m. and the milk cans are being hoisted in an endless procession on to the platform of the dairy factory at Awahuri…
Suddenly someone calls out “Mahmoud Won.” … Pakeha and Maori understand and exchange horse wisdom in the morning light.
The steamer is plugging through a Pacific half-gale … the steward calls with the morning tea … steamer tea, thick but satisfying …” Mahmoud won, Sir,” he says … “three lengths.”
In all history, no event has been able to produce such a world shaking interest. It must be conceded that this contest, this mile and a half struggle between horses, is unique, that it has something in its essence that is of epic greatness.
Historians tell us that the idea of contests between men mounted on running horses originated about 1,000 B.C., but that for centuries it was superseded by races between vehicles, culminating in the mighty chariot races of Roman times, best known through that epic novel “Ben Hur.”
But it is to England that the world owes, not only the idea of horse racing, but the thoroughbred horse as a type.
There are constant references in the history of the Saxon kingdoms to races, and Londinium was the scene of a well attended fixture in the reign of the Emperor Severus.
The age of chivalry naturally led to the improvement and care of breeding of the cavalry horse, and in the Middle Ages, English horses were esteemed for their stoutness, speed and courage.
The Norman kings imported horses from the East to improve the. local strains; King John was not exclusively engaged in a long struggle with his nobles, for he established and ran with
The first properly documented account of a horse race in the kingdom of England was in the reign of Edward III. Many kings were interested in the sport in successive reigns the most notable of whom was James I.
However, racing as a means of relaxation, rivalry and emulation, came to full flower first in the reign of Charles II. Newmarket was established as an arena of manly sport for the nobility and matches between horses were part of the round of doings.
However, in the middle and latter part of the eighteenth century, a development took place which altered the whole conception of horse racing, and placed England for ever at the head of the equine world republic.
To-day, no thoroughbred horse races from Chicago to Monte Video, from Moscow to Bordeaux, from Perth to Taumarunui, unless he is descended in direct line from one of three horses dwelling in England at that time.
Many countries had fought to establish lines of horses with speed and staying power. England alone succeeded. It was the combination of a suitable climate, rich pastures, and a background of centuries of care and skill in the improvement of the standard of local horses. There was also the extraordinary love of the horse in Englishmen, commented on later with such rich humour by Washington Irving.
Three horses over a period of years were brought to England, the Byerly Turk, the Godolphin Arabian, and the Darley Arabian. These three founded the three imperial lines of horse aristocracy, sometimes called the Matchem, Herod and Eclipse lines.
Their descendants at once surpassed all the running horses of the world for speed, endurance and courage.
In a quarter of a century, a new equine race was established, whose home was England. To this day every country in the world has still to return to England for horses to re-establish winning strains, and to revitalise their lines.
One of the quaint features of modern progress is that it takes unexpected directions. When re-inforced concrete arrived as a building material, according to many prophets, it spelled the doom of the use of timber. Yet a modern building absorbs more timber than ever before.
Mechanical traction would seem to for ever dispose of the use of the horse for practical purposes. Yet more horses are in use to-day in the modern world then ever before in history. We have the spectacle of the ultra-modern mightily progressive Russian Republic, sending regularly envoys to England to purchase drafts of thoroughbred horses.
In every line of horse endeavour, to use a new phrase, thoroughbred blood is vital. It gives courage and stamina to the commonest family.
Thus, England to-day, has for one of its foremost exporting activities, the sale of the thoroughbred horse.
Just how great an influence on English character has been the love of the management and control of the most courageous, unruly, and yet friendly animal of all quadrupeds, is difficult to estimate. It is inextricably mingled with the English love of outdoors, and an integral part of the development of the distinctive national character.
Let us return to the Derby. Epsom Downs, sandy, windblown, and free of forest, had in the first part of the eighteenth century become a sort of picnic and camping ground, and the characteristics of a spa were developing. Here in 1773 came the famous Colonel John Burgoyne, witty, companionable, with a gift for writing entertaining masques, lampoons and plays.
He bought a little inn, picturesquely situated called “The Oaks,” remodelled it and enlarged it. Later he sold it to the Twelfth Earl of Derby and the place became a centre of revelry and gaiety.
In 1776, Colonel St. Leger had established a race for three-year-old horses, at set weights, the distance being a mile and three-quarters. The young Earl was fired with the idea of doing something to perpetuate his name in
Sketch of Epsom—the world's most famous Racecourse.
Thus Edward Smith Stanley, twelfth Earl of Derby entered the pantheon of the immortals. For every person who remembers a statesman, poet, painter or warrior of his century, ten know the word “Derby.”
The first race was run in 1780, so that the Derby just over, is the 158th event.
Here's the official announcement:—
“Thursday, May 4, 1780. The Derby Stakes of 50 guineas each, half forfeit, for three-year-old colts 8.0 and fillies 7.11 (one mile) (36 subscribers).”
It was won by the favourite Diomed in a field of nine, and he went subsequently to the United States to become the founder of the American racehorse peerage.
Naturally, a race such as this, which immediately caught the public fancy, and fired the imagination of every horse owner in England, has become the centre of a host of stones, a literature of fact and fancy almost equal to the “Thousand and One Nights.”
It is the ambition of every owner of a thoroughbred horse to win this race. Millionaires and noblemen, magnates and rulers of every land, have poured out money like water, to gain this coveted honour.
Yet, as I have observed above, the Derby is a convincing proof that money cannot buy everything.
For instance, it was a natural wish of the enormously wealthy Stanley family, to win the race which bore the
Another day of weather accounted for a weird series of happenings This was the year in which John o1 Gaunt was deservedly favourite. The race was run in a blinding thunderstorm, with a deluge of hail, and terrific lightning.
St. Amant, a horse of great speed but of the most freakish temperament, ran faster than ever before or after in his career, and beat the doughty favourite easily. It was the confident belief of the vast crowd that he had been narrowly missed by a lightning flash and bolted home. By the way, at the end of this race, the jockeys weighed in two pounds overweight, made up of hailstones accumulated on the trip.
The only reigning monarch to win the Race was Edward VII who gained the coveted distinction with Minoru. He had, though, twice won the race as Prince of Wales with the wonderful Persimmon, and the bad tempered Diamond Jubilee. One of the strangest victories was that of the Italian filly Signorinetta. She was home-trained by her owner, the Chevalier GinistrelH, and she started as the wildest outsider of the field.
When it was all over, the dazed little gentleman felt himself in a dream. He received the congratulations of Royalty in a haze of pink cloud, and, according to one Cockney comment “seemed to be walkin ‘in his blinkin’ sleep.”
Another owner trainer who sprang a surprise on the world of racing was Tom Walls. He was principally famous as Peter Doody, the jockey in “The Arcadians” and his entry, April Fifth, was not taken too seriously. However, the applause with which his win was received was of a volume and vigour that he had never earned as an actor, and it was a popular victory with rich and poor.
The easiest victory was gained by Manna in 1925, but there have been a score or more of head to head tussles in which the verdict was in doubt until the judge's signal. Strangely enough, especially when we consider racing in our own part of the world, there has been only one disqualification for rough riding in the long history of this race. That was in 1913 when Craga-nour was disqualified, a verdict that is still discussed on Derby Day.
Naturally, a history as extended as this, contains its element of tragedies, and down the vista of the years, there stalk many spectres of broken gamblers, profligate spendthrifts, and gallant but dissolute wastrels.
Lord George Bentinck, who won £100,000 in a year, ran away with another man's wife, lost the whole of his fortune and was found dead in a field on his father's estate, is one of the most pijpgul figures. However, to him is to be ascribed the credit of exposing one of the corrupt practices that had crept in. This was the substitution of four-year-old horses who naturally had almost a mortgage on victory.
Lord George recognised the 1844 winner, Running Reign, as a horse of his, “Surplice,” an undoubted four-year-old. His persistence eventually uncovered the whole plot. Lord Egre-mont, the only owner to win the race five times, undoubtedly won it twice with four-year-olds. It was all unknowing as far as the noble lord was concerned, but it came to light as the result of the dying confession of his famous trainer “Old Bird.”
All will remember, too, when Miss Davidson, rushed out at Tattenham Corner, bumped into the King's horse, Anmer, so registering her suffragette protest at the brutality of man. The horse had to be destroyed, the royal jockey, Jones, was badly hurt, but both he and Miss Davidson survived.
The Derby Course is interesting to New Zealand readers. First of all, it is of varying width, and of steeply altering gradients. The run down to Tattenham Corner is a grade of one in twenty-five and there is quite a
(
Rly. Publicity photo.)
The Auckland Railway Station, North Island, New Zealand, seen under flood-light.
Sir Walter Gilbey has seen 58 Derbies, and he says that in all that time, no poor quality horse ever won it, and that, only a few times, did the winner not deserve his victory.
However, the great phenomenon of this race is its ascension from the dusty ranks of ordinary horse carnivals. The attendance ranges from a quarter of a million to three hundred thousand. These folks are not followers of horse racing for gain; their betting is incidental to the holiday feeling of being at the world's greatest equine contest.
The great Austrian writer Cohen-Portheim in his subtle and pungent study of the English race, points out that “to-day, the world's culture is English; English manners, outlook, and social customs dominate Europe as the French did a century ago.”
He details plus fours, afternoon teas, athletic sports, horse racing, and a thousand and one other activities, once exclusively English, now world possessions.
He estimates, with precision and admiration, that the British idea of fair-play, the central aesthetic pillar of the whole conception of “sport,” is a world-shaking notion, working wholly for good.
It is my view that such an event as the Derby stands as a standard bearer of this quite illogical but wholly human and wholesome outlook upon life.
In New Zealand, we may claim to have cherished this part of our British heritage with perhaps rather more than ordinary care, but we will take no harm.
Leading New Zealand Newspapers.
Perpetrated and Illustrated by).
Ken Alexander
There it is, sirs, artistically Acropolistic, soaringly sublime, impressively imperial as befits the home of the Monarch of Transport. In pillared passivity, in colonnaded contemplation, in symbolic simplicity, it stands to serve. With dignified demeanour, with an air of aristocratic assurance it combines asceticism with realism, sublimity with utility—Our Station!
Wellington has waited and the waiting has been long but—bless our bodies and bogeys!—this palatial pile transcends Hope, confounds Anticipation and proves the point that “Everything comes to him who waits”—and how! Here are the glamorous portals to Romance—the romance of the rail. All ye who enter here are transported, first to the anteroom of Anticipation, then on the road to Romance.
This monument to Motion is both a station and an inspiration. No longer will we speed the parting guest with an air of apologetic affection for our old and trusty wooden termini. Instead we will strut and bear ourselves with pardonable pride in the edifying edifice that stands as a symbol to the iron wheel. Progress, yes, is its sponsor, but where would Progress be without the wheel?
Wheels are the foundation of our station; wheels provide Progress with the means of moving. First came heels, then came wheels to convert the march of Progress to a gallop. Train wheels, motor whee1s, fly-wheels, pulley wheels, cog-wheels, wheels on wheels, wheels within wheels! Wheels are whirling life on to its ultimate jusjpgication—where and whatever that may be. The wheel was as inevitable as death. It is a natural phenomenon rather than an invention. It is probable that it never was “discovered” but just came into being as naturally as a mountain or a chilblain. There are some who attribute its existence to ancient Oriental ingenuity; but too much has already been credited to China's inscrutability. Indubitably, a people ingenious enough to conceive a bird's nest pie, a language that is more like a cry of anguish than a means of communication, and an alphabet that looks like a teething rash, is capable of anything. Compared with China's devious divinations the wheel would be simple, far too simple. No, sir, the Chinese mentality was too intrinsically intricate to get down to such a basic whirligig as the wheel. China's wheel would have been shaped
The Modern Mercury
Come to think of it, what a queer, silent, slothful place would be a wheel-less world. Everything would move in a “scissors” or “pendulum” fashion instead of on celeritous circles. Everything would bump and bound instead of slide with oleaginous ease. There would be no wheelbarrows to push, no watches to wind, no motors to dodge, no trams, no trains, and—this is a thought for married men—no lawn-mowers or garden rollers to bullock over the greensward o’ Saturd'ys. From the material viewpoint the wheel probably has been the most significant fact in Man's sorry scheme since the
him? We wonder!
And so we say that our new railway station stands as a splendid monument to the might and glory of The Wheel. It might, with justice, be dedicated to the power of the flanged winged wheel. It is fitting here to quote the words of Bill E. Spokeshave, the wheel-right rhymster.
“Stepping On It.”
Its home may be new but it will still sing the old old song. And here a word for old friends! We doff the bowler to our new glamorous station but we cannot forget our old associates, the brothers Lambton and Thorndon. Soon they will be gone but, for nearly half a century, they have been friendly old scouts. When we were young their smoky facades spelled romance, freedom, glamour. Their walls shook with our clamour when we gathered under the eagle eye of a whiskered Sunday school superintendent to frisk in sylvan glades, to speed the parting bun and drink deep of debilitated lemonade. The old walls smiled benignly when we poured back, dishevelled, begrimed, bedevilled with a surfeit of bun, and divinely out-of-hand.
Later on, as we grew to the age of disillusion the same old walls received us in sorrow and in joy, in meetings and in partings. They were still benign, they were always friendly, and somewhow they always spelled Escape.
In years to come we will sit in the inglenook and try to tell our greatgrandchildren all about it. But nobody will ever listen to us. Still, we can remember old friends.
A Bold Cut In Fares.
Less than Half-penny a Mile.
By A bold stroke of railway fares policy, second class passenger travel on the suburban sections of the New Zealand railways is being greatly cheapened. Hitherto the worker, if he reaches the city (Wellington, Auckland, Christchurch or Dunedin) before 8 a.m., has enjoyed cheap travelling; under the new tariff, the rest of the second class passengers are to have some of it, while the worker will be benefited in another way, in that the 8 o'clock restriction will be removed. The distinction between the 8 o'clock worker and the 9 o'clock worker will disappear. The suburban worker who reaches the city before 8 o'clock will under the new scale pay weekly 3d. more (a farthing a day on six days' travel) but the departmental statement adds that, as his sons and daughters who are 9 o'clock workers will pay less, the weekly family travel cost will be much reduced.
As an example, the case of three members of a family travelling ten miles to work on both types of existing weekly tickets may be taken. Assuming that one member went to work at 8 o'clock and the other two at 9 o'clock, they would in the aggregate pay 16s. under the present scales but only 12s. 9d. under the new one.
The worker will see that some of the cheapness which he himself has enjoyed on trains is now extended to his children, and he himself will not be in an 8 o'clock category distinct from the 9 o'clock class. Disappearance of distinctions may go even farther than the abolition of the clock-time discrimination. The Minister of Railways also anticipates that, except between Christchurch and Lyttelton, first class passengers will so take advantage of the new unrestricted
Passing from the case of the daily traveller on suburban railways to that of the occasional traveller, the cheapening effect of the new suburban fares is almost startling. Occasional traveller, used in this sense, includes all that vast suburban population that goes to the city, but does not go every day, and any traveller (urban, suburban, or rural) who makes occasional use of suburban railways. Full details of the cut in fares appear in the departmental statement; it will be sufficient here to take the figure for Upper Hutt (twenty miles out, suburban limit) and quote the new six-trip “bearer” ticket (transferable, but not admitting break of journey) as giving six trips to Upper Hutt for 4s. 6d., or 9d. for a trip of twenty miles, which is less than a halfpenny a mile. Six trips equal three return trips; so for an outlay of 4s. 6d. on a ticket lasting a month, a city dweller who would like a run to Upper Hutt on any day of the week
As the railway fare always adds itself to the suburban rent, these suburban concessions are a big factor in the housing campaigns as well as the general expansion of New Zealand metropolitan centres. Electrification is a local blessing, but this fares boon is general over all suburban sections. In the past the Railway Department has said to the outer suburbs: “We will give you lower fares when you collect a larger population.” And the suburbs have answered: “We will collect the population when you give us the lower fares.” That impasse lasted for years. The Minister of Railways has now made a remarkable attempt to end it.
(From the “Evening Post,” Wellington.)
Our Womens Section
Timely Notes and Useful Hints.
By
Helen
Any little hint which points the way to labour-saving is worth taking note of. So I thought as I looked rather closely at the window ledge in Mirabelle's mother's kitchen. Yes, I admit that I'm not keen on Mirabelle's mother, but I can put up with a little of her society for the sake of Mirabelle. Mirabelle is a sweet child. Some day some strong-minded friend (I'm afraid it won't be me), or more likely a young man, is going to get her right out from under her mother's thumb. And then Mirabelle won't be a “sweet child” any longer, but a “personality.”
However, about the kitchen. Mirabelle either inherits, or slavishly imitates, her mother's house-keeping abilities. One foible of the household is the application of paint or varnish to any surface that seems to be needing it. I didn't know woodwork deteriorated so rapidly, but, judging by the frequent “wet paint” smell in that house, it does. Incidentally, I don't blame Mirabelle's father for disappearing when the paint-brush starts.
On my last visit, Mirabelle had been putting yet another coat of enamel on the window-ledge above the kitchen sink. (“Water will splash, no matter how careful you are.“) Now she was busy with American cloth. I'll tell you her idea. The cloth is carefully cut to fit the ledge with an overhang on the outside and sufficient on the inside to turn under the ledge. Instead of using tacks or drawing pins, which rust, Mirabelle was fixing the cloth in position with small strips of sticking-plaster here and there.
Quite a good idea, I think. If I hadn't glass on the window-ledge in my, bathroom, I would certainly have American cloth. I have it in all my kitchen cupboards, and I think I'll use Mirabelle's idea of sticking-plaster to prevent it shifting position.
Youth Hostels.
In view of the fact that some of our young New Zealanders visiting England have joined up with the Youth Hostel Association, thus being enabled to see more of the country more cheaply than they could otherwise have done, it is interesting to note a few facts given in a recent B.B.C. talk.
The Youth Hostels Association, established in 1930, has grown amazingly, both in membership (now over sixty thousand) and in number of hostels (almost three hundred). Young people who are having a tramping or cycling holiday, may plan their tour to arrive each night at a Youth Hostel, where the charge is only one shilling. The time limit at any one hostel is three nights.
What do the hostels provide? There are washing and cooking facilities, and accommodation for men and boys, women and girls, in separate dormitories. Most “hostellers” don't mind helping with the chores—bed-making, potato peeling, etc. Some of the larger hostels provide good two-course meals for a shilling.
An additional advantage, especially for New Zealanders who naturally want to see as much as they can during their trip, is that the Y.H.A. is linked up with hostel associations in other countries. There are four thousand hostels on the Continent, so it should be easy to plan a tour to include just those places one has always longed to visit.
Besides the material benefits of the Youth Hostel movement, are the social benefits. In any one hostel, a New Zealander may meet people from practically any country. Surely, in the
We Have Plenty Of Time.
I wonder whether the “fork luncheon” will become popular in New Zealand? Two items on the menu, grilled bacon on fried bread, spread with peanut butter, and sweet corn and tiny sausages served in buttered rice, give an idea of the snack nature of the meal.
“If you absolutely can't fit in my cocktail party on Wednesday, my dear, do drop in to a fork luncheon on Monday of next week. Everybody'll be there. As busy as that? But I'm sure, just for twenty minutes on your way to the dressmaker!”
Can't you imagine it? What a life! No, I don't think fork luncheons will become popular here, except as a novelty—we're all too fond of a sensible, sit-down meal. Anyway, highly-flavoured tit-bits haven't the approval of our doctor.
Changing Fashions.
After a morning round the shops I have spent the after-lunch respite in glancing through some old periodicals-1916. They're really laughable, especially the fashion plates. Ideas too!—solemn articles on outside employment versus domesticity for girls with special reference as to whether the meeting of more men in an office
Although I smiled at 1916 fashions, I don't think we have advanced so much in that line. Probably in clothes there is less scope for advancement. The little tricks of adornment repeat themselves over and over again. 1916 liked a feather in the hat, but bunchy rather than slim and long. The small hats rather resembled those of to-day except in height, but the large ones have no counterpart in 1937 winter fashions. I saw an illustration of one striped-silk frock, with raglan sleeves, and a peplum and inset vest in plain material, which could be worn to-day without remark. Both peplum and tunic styles were popular then, frequently in combination, which gave the wearer the appearance of a wedding-cake in three tiers.
A full bodice attached to a fitting yoke was as popular as it is to-day. Skirts were gored and flared, but long and with over-decorative pockets. Blouses were then, as now, tempting additions to the wardrobe. Eton collar and cuff sets lent the same air of smartness, and buttons were used in slanting lines as on some of the latest models.
My brief study of 1916 was amusing and profitable. It made me realise what is important in the present mode. I list the following:—
Wide shoulders.
High necklines, frequently draped.
Flaring skirts (one new model has a surprising amount of fullness in the back breadth).
Bordered hemlines (of flat fur or astrakan on woollens, of embroidery or self ruching on
Evening frocks with empire lines, swirling skirts, looped draperies over the shoulders.
Unusual, a woollen frock in a huge plaid design in beige, brown, and a suspicion of yellow; tucked raglan shoulders; at the neckline a deep brown velvet bow to flatter brown eyes.
Health Notes.
Diet.
Many people have now awakened to the fact that the food they have been eating did not supply their systems with the proper amount of calories, vitamins, minerals and roughage—substances which are indispensable in maintaining normal nutrition. The proper selection of foods should include all these properties, and if intelligently chosen will be found tasty and inviting.
The craze for discussion of the various diets has more or less vanished and it is becoming quite the orthodox custom for the people who are inclined to plumpness to avoid rich concoctions—pies, heavy sauces, fat meats, etc. It is easy to plan menus which supply proteins, mineral elements and
A certain amount of starches and fats is necessary to avoid injury to the sugar utilising mechanism of the body, and to prevent fatigue and that uncomfortable feeling of hollowness. Therefore bread (with butter) and potatoes should not be altogether excluded from the diet.
Here are a few simple rules of healthful eating:
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Don't bore your stomach with a monotonous diet.
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Buy fresh vegetables when they are plenjpgul.
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Allow a quart of milk for each child and a pint for each adult.
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Don't be afraid to try new dishes.
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Adopt a cosmopolitan menu.
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Don't eat too many sweets.
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Drink several glasses of water daily.
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Do real cooking. Good health will not last with last-minute meals.
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Let absence or presence of appetite be the guide to all eating.
Recipes.
Blanch the almonds in very hot water drawing off the brown skins; dry them in a clean towel and lay them on a baking tin with a lump of butter—about a teaspoon to half pound of almonds. Set the butter and the almonds in the oven, occasionally shaking them about till they brown. The almonds will now have absorbed the butter. Dredge them with fine salt, stirring them about, then let them cool off on a plate.
Have the almonds ready a few hours before needed in order to have the full salty flavour.
Here is an easy way of saving ten shillings on every 20lbs. of soap that you use. The only ingredients required are 5lbs. fat and a two-shilling packet of “Soapsave” — the wonder soapmaker. Add to one gallon water as directed on packet and you have approximately 20lbs. of the finest household soap. It not only lathers easily, but has a special advantage in that it does not harm delicate colours and fabrics in the washing of clothes. It is also pleasantly perfumed. If unable to obtain Soapsave from your local store, send postal note and grocer's name to A. Murdoch & Co., Manufacturing Chemists, Dunedin.
Two breakfast cups sugar, one tablespoon cocoa, half cup milk, two ounces butter, essence Vanilla to taste; walnuts.
Put sugar, cocoa, butter and milk into a saucepan and bring to boil, stirring occasionally. Boil for about ten minutes without stirring; add Vanilla and walnuts. Take off the fire and beat the mixture until it begins to settle, and pour on to greased plate. Mark cubes with a knife and cut up when cold.
One tablespoon each water and vinegar, two tablespoons butter, two small cups sugar.
Boil quickly for twenty minutes, stirring frequently till nicely brown. Place walnuts on greased dish and pour toffee over.
Two cups brown sugar, half cup milk, one dessertspoon butter.
Boil about fifteen minutes till thick and creamy. Pour into a basin with chopped walnuts, beat till it hardens and spread on to a buttered plate.
One tin condensed milk, one and a-half pounds sugar, two ounces butter, one breakfast cup milk, essence of Vanilla.
Boil hard for half an hour and pour on to wetted plates.
(Specially Written for “N.Z. Railways Magazine,” byW. F. .)
Ingram
For The next few months the principal topic of conversation in New Zealand is going to be Rugby Football! The Springbok footballers have been going great guns in Australia and should arrive in New Zealand in tip-top condition to try conclusions with the pick of this land. It is sixteen years since a Springbok combination played in New Zealand and a new generation of players and public will give the visitors a hearty welcome.
Sixteen years! What a change has taken place at Athletic Park since that wet day of September 17, 1921. It is a day which has been set aside as a gauge for other wet days. “Reminds me of the day New Zealand played the Springboks” declares a passenger on the platform as a howling gale and torrential rain sweeps the countryside. “No, it's not as bad as that,” replies another.
Athletic Park has been improved beyond recognition since that memorable scoreless game, but it will not be too large to hold the crowd of enthusiasts. Despite the radio descriptions which will be given it is not likely that a repetition of the vile weather conditions will materially affect the attendance. A true New Zealander, living within one hundred miles of Wellington, would be everlastingly shamed had he to admit that he did not see the Springboks play against New Zealand!
Adequate accommodation will be available for fifty thousand spectators of which five thousand will be housed in the main stand. In 1921 the accommodation in the stand was limited to less than two thousand! Subsequent to that great game the bank was terraced and spectators on the side facing the stand have a wonderful uninterrupted view of the game. Eden Park, Auckland, will hold sixty thousand spectators!
The transport of the many thousands of visitors to the test matches will be in the capable hands of the Railways, and with many fine performances to its credit, the Railways will not be found wanting in carrying out its share of the task of bringing the football matches close to the public! Distance is devoured and Athletic Park is only a few hours away from Auckland when the train starts puffing by.
For the benefit of readers, the New Zealand team for the “scoreless” test of 1921 is reprinted. What a galaxy of talent.
Full-back: C. N. Kingston (Taranaki): Threequarters, S. K. Siddells (Wellington), M. F. Nicholls (Wellington), J. Steel (West Coast); Five eighths: W. R. Fea (Otago), K. Ifwersen (Auckland); Half-back: E. J. Roberts (Wellington) captain; Wingforward: E. A. Bellis (Wanganui); Forwards: W. D. Duncan (Otago), R. Fogarty (Taranaki), J. E. Moffitt (Wellington), J. Richardson (Otago), A. H. West (Taranaki), C. Fletcher (Auckland), A. L. McLean (Bay of Plenty).
Maurice Strickland, former heavyweight boxing champion of New Zealand, is getting columns of publicity in the New York Press and it is publicity of the right kind—even if they make him talk with the mannerisms of a Cockney. His skill as a boxer, as distinct from his ability as a fighter, has been paraded as a virtue which American boxers might well assimilate. He has brought back into the limelight the effectiveness of the straight left—a punch that is traditional to British boxers. His ability to take it without going down has resulted in Strickland's name becoming associated with that of Tom Heeney, the “Hard Rock from Down Under.” Thanks to Heeney, Lovelock, and now Strickland, New Zealand has a high sporting reputation in America. “Why don't they
(
Photo., Hugh Bennett.)
The Auckland-Opua express near Morningside, North Island, New Zealand.
The English Soccer team has been having more or less a picnic tour through New Zealand, but it is a tour which must result in some good, not to be noticed perhaps for a season or two. New Zealanders are quick to learn and the young New Zealand players, having seen some of England's best exponents in play, will soon be putting into action all the “headwork” and footwork so ably demonstrated by the visitors. It was never claimed that the standard of Soccer football in New Zealand was high and the results of the various matches have not come as a surprise. But if the New Zealand standard does not improve during the next two seasons that will be a surprise!
The problem of the reinstated athlete is one full of bother for the administrators of amateur sport in New Zealand. For some reason or another the rules of the British Empire Games Association provide for an absolute ban on athletes who have formerly competed for cash prizes and in a country such as New Zealand, where amateur clubs were few and far between until recent years, the rules inflict an unnecessary hardship. Steps have been taken to have the case of the “reinstated” men presented at the conference to be held during the progress of the Empire Games in Sydney next year but, at the time of writing, no finality had been reached. A large percentage of New Zealand's track and field champions for the present year had previously competed for cash and in every instance the
The Australian Women's Cricket team continues to win with regularity in England where a tour is being conducted through most of the counties. Members of the touring team were asked to pay most of the travelling expenses but will be partly reimbursed by the profits from the various matches. Considerable interest is being shown in England and Press reports give as much space to the doings of the team as to the activities of the New Zealand Cricket team. The tour is taken seriously by the players who see in it possibilities rivalling that of the men's matches.
Within the short space of twelve months New Zealand is to receive a tour by an English Women's Hockey team. Not since 1913–14 has New Zealand been honoured by such a visit and those who saw the tourist in action in the days immediately prior to the outbreak of the Great War will have happy recollections. That tour did much to establish the stick game in New Zealand. Perhaps it was because the tourists gave such a bright display, perhaps it was because the team did not go through without defeat; whatever it was, it brought about the desired result and women's hockey flourished. The game to-day, is recovering from the setback it received when basketball swept into popularity but there is room for both games; and sufficient players, too. New Zealand sent a team to Australia last year and the performances of that team lend credence to the belief that our women hockey players are second to none.
Wellington—Suprema a Situ—is to receive the benefit of its central position in New Zealand by securing the presence of a large number of young
Variety In Brief
Puzzling Sea Mystery.
Of all the mysteries of the sea, none has been more peculiar or puzzling than that of the Scottish sailing ship Marlborough, which left Lyttelton for England on January 11, 1890, with a cargo of frozen meat and wool and went missing. The actual fate of the vessel will probably never be known, although two remarkable stories, both reputed to be true, have been recorded about her.
Interest in the Marlborough has been revived in America where the allegedly true story of the fate of the vessel is being told.
When the Marlborough set out on her last voyage she had a crew of 29 and one passenger. She was a handsome ship of 1124 tons, and when she went missing she was under the command of Captain W. Herd. Two days after leaving port the Marlborough was spoken by a passing vessel and she then disappeared. The ship was subsequently posted missing at Lloyds.
The story which is arousing keen interest in America (perhaps with a view to adapting it for motion picture purposes), is that in November, 1913, the British sailing ship Johnston, homeward bound from New Zealand, sighted what appeared to be a schooner, with its sails floating in the wind, off the coast of Chile, near Punta Arenas. The captain of the Johnston signalled the strange craft, and when he received no response he ordered his ship put about and approached the vessel.
As the two ships neared each other the men on the Johnston observed that the masts and the sails of the other craft were covered with some kind of green moss, and the vessel appeared to have been abandoned by her crew. Upon boarding it, the skeleton of a man was found beneath the helm. The deck was decayed to such an extent that it gave way under the weight of the searchers. Three more skeletons were discovered near the hatchway; there were ten skeletons in the crew's quarters and six more on the bridge. There was an uncanny stillness around and a dank smell of mould which made the flesh creep. Upon the battered prow of the vessel the words “Marlborough, Glasgow,” could still be made out.
If this story is authentic the Marlborough must have been cruising about the seas for 23 years guided by skeleton hands. There is, however, no record of such a vessel having ever been salvaged or washed ashore in the vicinity of Punta Arenas.
Another story, which came to light many years after the happening was told by an American pilot. He said that in his youth he was wrecked off Staten Island, and while searching for a whaling station he and the only other survivor came across in a cove, “a large ship with painted ports.” Nearby were the skeletons of 25 men, and large heaps of shellfish and animal bones (presumably part of the frozen meat in the holds) provided mute evidence of the crew's vain attempt to fight off the starvation which apparently overtook them. The pilot said he distinctly saw the name “Marlborough” on the wreck.
It will probably never be known which, if either, of these stories is correct.
* * *
It will have been seen that the Government has set up the New Zealand Historical Committee to gather information for various publications to be issued for the centenary celebrations of 1940. These publications will entail a large amount of research among various publications, not the least useful of which will be the New Zealand Railways Magazine. For years past this publication has been supplying the most interesting historical and biographical matter, which, culled as it has been, from eye witnesses, many of whom have since died, will be of inestimable worth to historians of the future. Historical and current surveys of most of the main cities and towns and write-ups of prominent men and women of the past and the present, Maori and Pakeha, have been of high informative and literary standard. “The Wisdom of the Maori,” and “Pictures of New Zealand Life,” are two more features supplying information published nowhere else. Many other items of interest and of great historical value are constantly appearing in the “Railways Magazine.”—Katiti.
Wit And Humour
“Maggie,” said Angus to his wife, “here's a ticket for to-night's conjuring show, and when the conjurer comes to that part where he takes a teaspoonful o'flour and one egg and makes twenty omelettes, watch verra, verra close.”
* * *
Officer (of territorials in camp): Didn't I tell you to wake me at six? And now it is half-past.
Batman: Beg pardon, captain; when I came to your tent at six o'clock to wake you up, you called out in your sleep “Waiter, another bottle of champagne!” So I thought what a pity it would be to wake you up before you had finished the bottle.
* * *
Old Lady (giving tramp a penny): Here you are, but I am not giving you this because I think you need it. I do it simply because it pleases me to do so.
Tramp: Then why don't you make it a bob, ma'am, and have the time of yer life?
* * *
“Willie! Willie!”
“Huh, Ma.”
“Are you spitting in the fishbowl again?”
“No, but I been coming pretty close.”
* * *
A youngster asked his father how wars began. “Well,” said his father, “suppose America quarrelled with England, and—“ “But,” interrupted the mother, “America must not quarrel with England.” “I know,” he answered, “but I am taking a hypothetical instance.” “You are misleading the child,” said the mother. “No I am not,” he answered. “Yes, you are.” “I tell you I am not! It's outrageous—.” “All right, Dad,” said the boy. “Don't get excited. I think I know how wars begin.”
He was an actor of the old school inspecting his provincial “diggings.” With regal air he surveyed the bedroom, and noted the absence of a washstand. In dignified tones he enquired of the landlady:
“And where do I perform my ablutions?”
“If it's a new trick,” replied the lady, sharply, “you'll do it at the theatre, and not here. I had two chairs busted by a blooming acrobat last week!”
* * *
He was a seedy-looking tramp, and he was working the “pity-the-old-sailor” dodge.
He called at a likely house along the road.
“Could you do something for a poor old sailor, mum?” he asked, as a scurfaced woman opened the door.
The woman eyed him suspiciously. “Poor old sailor?” she echoed.
“Yes, mum,” replied the tramp.
“Nigh on 40 years I followed the water.”
“Well,” replied the sour-faced female, as she slammed the door in his face, “it's a pity you didn't overtake it!”
(
Courtesy Great Western Railway.)
The Railways solve the flood problem.
And there was the Scotsman who bought only one spur. He figured that if one side of the horse went the other was sure to follow.
* * *
Lady to window-cleaner: “Will you have a cup of tea or a glass of beer?”
Window-cleaner: “Beer's best, mum. I finds it gives a better polish when I breathes on the glass.”
* * *
Prison Governor: “C26 troublesome again, Padre? What ails him now?”
The Padre: He complains about the choir's singing. Says that wasn't included in his sentence.”
* * *
A small boy called on the doctor and said: “I've got the measles, doctor, but I can keep it quiet.”
The doctor locked up, puzzled, and asked the boy what he meant.
“Oh!” suggested the boy, “what'll you give me to go to school and scatter it among all the kids.”
* * *
Teacher: “I should like you all to take more pride in your personal appearance. Now, you, Jimmy! How many collars do you wear a week?”
Jimmy: “Please, miss, do you mean how many weeks do I wear a collar?”
* * *
Abie (finishing a letter): “And I would send you that five I owe you, but I've already sealed the letter.”
* * *
Molly: You may not believe it, my dear, but during the past month I have said “No!” to about a dozen men.
Polly: Really? Those hawkers are a nuisance, aren't they?.