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The New Zealand Railways Magazine is on sale through the principal book-sellers, or may be obtained post-free for 6/- per annum.
Employees of the Railway Department are invited to forward news items or articles bearing on railway affairs. The aim of contributors should be to supply interesting topical material tending generally towards the betterment of the service.
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I hereby certify that the publisher's lists and other records disclose that the circulation of the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” has not been less than 23,000 copies each issue since August, 1937.
Controller and Auditor-General.
2/12/37.
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
A recent view of Wellington, New Zealand's Capital City.
Clear and cool, clear and cool, By laughing shallow and dreaming pool.
—Charles Kingsley.
Ascene in the Akatarawa Gorge, within easy reach of Wellington, North Island, New Zealand.
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
Few visitors to New Zealand have realised the colourful charm of the country more vividly than has Mr. P. Bousfield, the English artist, whose exhibition of water-colours, prepared during a ten-months’ visit to this country, has given the public of Wellington and visitors to the Capital City a new insight regarding the colour contrasts and variations found throughout the Dominion.
More frequently do overseas travellers observe what a correspondent describes as “the marvellous visibility “of this land, and in regard to photographs the clear delineation of details, which the clean, bright quality of the atmosphere assists, has frequently been favourably commented upon.
But Mr. Bousfield has done a singularly important service to the country in the rather daring departure from convention he has shown by painting the colour effects with all the vividness they deserve rather than following the customary plan of letting the more sombre tones take charge of the canvas.
He has delighted, too, in the juxtapositions, found throughout the country, of English trees and shrubs in a purely New Zealand setting of mountains, lakes and rivers. This has enabled him to show in his pictures seasonal changes in appearance and tints not provided by our evergreen native flora.
To the average New Zealander, born to the sunshine and the varied colour tones of his country, the natural richness of colouring to which his birthright makes him heir is in nowise remarkable until he has a chance to compare it with the lower range of tints displayed in other countries he visits. A sidelight on this aspect is provided by the comment of a New Zealander who, on a first voyage away, and with mind buoyed up for startling beauty by the rhapsodies of writers and poets regarding the glories of colour found in tropical vegetation, after a fortnight at sea approached Panama, only to discover that the greens of the hills and forests were “just like those of New Zealand.”
Here the whole range of prismatic colours are found in infinite variety, and any artist might “work for an age at a sitting, and never grow tired at all” in the endless attempt to do justice to one of New Zealand's greatest charms—its richness of colouring.
The past month has seen evidence of railway expansion in many directions, among the signs being the record week of high railway revenue (week ended February 5th) when, without any special cause other than the natural increase in business, the gross revenue reached a point higher than in any previous week in the history of our Railways, not excepting Christmas and other special occasions. A further sign was in the running of the first ordinary passenger train on the newly constructed East Coast Railway between Napier and Wairoa (5th February).
Additional evidence came directly under my personal notice in a daylight rail-car trip from Auckland to Wellington. On this line, so many necessary track improvements are under way at present that, like all work of a similar kind where active operations must be maintained, they inevitably cause some temporary slowing up of traffic movement until such time as the major and permanent improvements they bring about are effected.
Amongst those causes which have imposed some temporary slowing up of speed in train movement until the works which are spread over the 426 miles between Wellington and Auckland are completed, are the construction of overbridges and subways which are to replace level crossings at several points on the Main Trunk, repairs to structures, and track improvements at several points. All of these works are reduced to an absolute minimum, and they must be proceeded with according to programme.
Although the rail-car, “Arai-Te-Uru,” on the occasion I refer to did the through journey of 426 miles in 9 hours 25 minutes, there were actually 19 points on the line at which speed restrictions ranging down to 6 miles per hour were in force, slowing up the normal speed over a total distance of 10 miles.
The cumulative effect of this series of speed checks, averaging about one in every 20 miles, on fast express trains will be readily understood by any motorist who has experienced similar speed checks when a main highway is under repair or reconstruction. With the completion of the work the temporary disability, which is quite unavoidable, is soon forgotten in the light of the lasting benefits obtained.
Hence, despite adverse comment on the occasional late running of some trains, I consider that the staff concerned, in endeavouring to maintain time-table schedules, has done very well in the circumstances which also included a record expansion of traffic coincident with the temporary checks imposed by track and road improvements of greater dimensions than usual.
When, however, the major works referred to are completed, the working of traffic will be greatly expedited, which will certainly give relief to the operating staff and considerably improve the position from the passengers’ point of view. The completion of the biggest work, the duplication of the main line on the Papakura-Ngaruawahia portion of the Auckland—Frankton run, has become particularly pressing, as this 87 mile section now carries a density of traffic amounting to over 4 million gross tons per mile of track per annum—actually 33 per cent, more than the average carried in the years 1931 to 1934, and 700,000 gross tons per mile more than in the previous record year 1929/30.
Then there are the Plimmerton-Paekakariki duplication and Kakariki-Greatford deviation which will bring about considerable operating benefits when completed.
This brief summary of conditions at present affecting train operations on the North Island Main Trunk line provides an explanation of what is being done to remove the difficulties created by operating trains over a single line of track with grades and curves probably without parallel in the world so far as a main line system is concerned.
General Manager.
I First saw Kehu at the home of the pioneer Pakeha-Maori of Taumarunui, in the heart of the King Country, a good many years ago. She was nearly fifty, with more than the remains of much youthful beauty. She was tall and straight, with a generous depth of bosom. I could easily believe what her old friends had told me, that twenty-five years back, or thirty, she had been the beauty of Taumarunui.
Kehu's greatest beauty was her hair. It was long and shone gloriously in the sun, for it was fair, almost golden, a coppery golden. In Kehu you saw the ancient fair-haired type that persists in the Maori race, a relic of the ancient lighter-skinned people that the Maoris of the Tainui and Arawa and Aotea historic migration found living in New Zealand when they arrived here. The ancient people were called in these parts the Whanau-a-Rangi—the Children of Heaven. Her name described her. Kehu is short for Uru-Kehu, which means Fair-Hair. There were several other uru-kehu women at Taumarunui; one of them was Kehu's cousin, and wife to my old friend, the Pakeha-Maori. But Kehu was the handsomest and fairest of them all, and so her name. She was of the Whanau-a-Rangi.
I was sitting one night with the greybeard Pakeha-Maori and his family in their comfortable little house of pitsawn timber which stood on the banks of the swirling Ongarue just above the meeting of the waters, the junction where the Upper Whanganui came snoring in over its gravels from the far-off gullies of Tongariro and the snows of Ruapehu.
Taumarunui then wore a very different face from what it does to-day. There were no railway trains, no motorcars, no wheel roads, no bustle of traffic, no shops, commercial travellers, boarding-houses, schools, policemen, and other blessings of civilisation. It was a purely Maori kainga, very quiet and peaceful, far removed from the world. The Pakeha-Maori was the one white inhabitant; he had lived there since the middle Seventies with his Maori wife. He had been a soldier and fought in the wars. Now he had taken to the blanket, and was content with his dozen or so of pretty half-caste children around him. A happy valley, too, this green basin of Taumarunui. The crystal rivers that met here made murmurous music all day and all night long, and added to that music was the song of many birds. The hills and the dark rimu forest shadowed the valley, and the tui and the bellbird rang the angelus of the bush. But now they have flown to other retreats, the bush is ruined, and the place is full of the honk, screech and clatter of the busy pakeha.
As we were sitting there, in walked Kehu. She shook hands with me, the stranger. She looked frankly out of her deep, shining eyes, and said in Maori, “Welcome, welcome to the nest of the bush-owls.” Kehu sat down on a mat by the fire. In repose her face settled into an expression of sadness. She sat for a long time, gazing into the fire, speaking no word. At last she rose, and with her cousin went into an adjoining whare, which was used as a storeroom and larder. She presently returned with a large and bulging flax basket, strapped with flax leaves. She bound a handkerchief about her head, drew her long shawl around her and said, “Now I am going. Remain you here, friends.”
“Won't you stay till the morning, Kehu?” asked the Pakeha-Maori.
“No,” said the woman, “I must go. I am not afraid of ghosts. Besides, it is moonlight.”
“We'll see you off,” said the old soldier, and he beckoned to me to come with him. Kehu gave me a quick, half-frightened, half-appealing glance.
“It's all right, Kehu, he's a friend of mine,” he said.
Kehu's manner puzzled me. I followed her out to the bank of the river with the Pakeha-Maori and his wife.
She descended the bank, cast loose a small canoe tied up to a stake, and placing her kit of stores carefully amidships, she seated herself in the stern and pushed off from the bank.
“Haere ra, haere ra!” we called to her: “Depart, depart, O Kehu!”
“E noho ra koutou, e noho!“ cried Kehu, without looking back. “Remain there.” she bade us. Her paddle dipped and rose and dipped again, making silver splashes in the moonlit water. Her strong strokes soon took the light canoe across the river.
I thought I saw a figure come down to meet Kehu on the opposite bank, but the shadows and half-lights were deceptive.. Next moment Kehu had melted into the blackness of the bush.
“Was there some one waiting for her?” I asked the Pakeha-Maori's wife.
“Waiting for her? It must have been her shadow you saw. This person, Atarau, the moonlight, plays tricks with one's eyes sometimes.”
Later I learned something of Kehu's history. And as her story struck me as a remarkable and romantic one I now set it down here much as I heard it from the lips of the Pakeha-Maori and his wife; and bear in mind, please, that this is not fiction. Kehu is no creature of the imagination.
* * *
Kehu, being a beauty as well as a rangatira girl, was made a great deal of by the people of Taumarunui, and as she grew up and her charm developed she won many young Maori hearts by her deftness and grace in
poi action song and in the lively dance of the kanikani. Many a young Maori longed to take her to his whare, but she was not for them. She was destined to become the wife of a chief of the Maniapoto, the warrior tribe of the King Country. The couple had been betrothed while they were yet children. It was to be a state marriage, arranged by the parents of the girl and boy. Kehu's consent was taken as a matter of course.
But to the surprise of the tribe—the two tribes, in fact—Kehu displayed not the slightest interest in her aristocratic betrothed. When he came to visit Taumarunui with a cavalcade of friends and followers and a string of pack horses, bearing loads of presents for the Wanganui people, seventeen-year-old Kehu would hardly look at him. She said she did not want to marry any one yet, she'd wait a year, or perhaps two, perhaps three. What did it matter?
When the fair free-hearted Kehu was eighteen or so, it befell momentously that her parents took her with them to Lake Taupo, on a ceremonial visit of condolence to the Heuheu family, the great people at the south end of Taupo, who were holding a wake over one of their dead. It was a glorious wake, a very great tangi, for there were hundreds of Maoris there, from east, west, north and south, and there was much wailing and wardancing, and, above all, much feasting, for the Tokaanu tribespeople had piles of kumara and potatoes and pakeha flour and sugar, and storehouses full of bark baskets of preserved birds—tui, pigeon, kiwi, weka—and scores of fat pigs, and many calabashes of preserved whitebait, and long strings of koura, crayfish. It was at that tangi that Kehu first set eyes on Jack Hard-wick, the big, fair Englishman.
Hardwick could almost have been called a giant of a fellow. He stood some inches over six feet, he was broad, and thick through of chest, and strong as a bullock. He had blue Saxon eyes, and hair and beard that were nearly golden in colour, like some of those big blonde Scandinavian sailor-men we used to see in Norwegian and Swedish sailing ships. Hardwick was a wanderer. He had carried a carbine awhile in the Armed Constabulary; now he was pit-sawing in the bush for a European who intended to put up a weatherboard public-house in Tokaanu.
Kehu and Jack Hardwick soon came to an understanding. The white man who had kept aloof from Maori girls lost his heart to Kehu the lissom and full-breasted, the maid of the Shining Hair. And Kehu—she couldn't help admiring the tall, straight, fearless-looking pakeha, with the beard that was nearly the colour of the kowhai flower, and the eyes that were like the blue of Taupo Moana. They met in the whare-puni, and sat side by side listening to the speeches and watching the dancing. Hardwick didn't know much Maori, and the girl hadn't a word of English, except one or two swear words, which she used quite innocently, until Hardwick laughed. Then he was sorry for her, and began to teach her English.
Hardwick taught Kehu well, and she in her turn schooled him in Maori so quickly that the pair of them were missing from the village one morning. So was Hardwick's horse, also a packhorse he had borrowed from the other white man in Tokaanu.
* * *
In a valley deep in the forest to the west of Mount Tongariro there was a well-hidden bush camp. Through the gully a stream rippled to join the Whanganui headwaters. High rocks, shrub-grown, rose on each side, and behind the little level ground the grey volcanic cliff leaned outward, overhanging. At its base was the little bush bower, a wharau, as the Maoris call it, of saplings and ponga fern-fronds. Beneath the shelter the ground was covered with layers of great fern-leaves, and on this sweet-smelling couch were spread blankets. Against the rocky wall outside stood a double-barrelled gun and an axe. In front of the wharau burned a camp-fire, with a tin billy swinging above it, and there sat the two lovers, Kehu and her white man.
Kehu was happy. Now she knew what love was, and she sang softly to herself a little song about a bird—not the tui that gurgled and fluted above her in the trees, but the bird of spring, the ocean-crossing shining-cuckoo, the pipi-wharauroa; and she mimicked its summer cry of gladness and rejoicing—“Kui, ku-ui! Whitiwhiti ora!”
And when their evening meal was over, and the shadows deepened in the bush, and the tui rang its good-night bell, and the melancholy morepork cried its “Kou-kou” to the moon, the lovers sat by the fire with their arms around each other, and Kehu spoke English to Tiaki and Tiaki talked Maori to Kehu, and they laughed and were altogether insanely happy. They entered their fern-frond bower. Such was the honey-moon of Kehu and her white man. Their marriage was Edenic in its simplicity. Kehu would have summed it up in three words, in the direct fashion of the Maori: “Kua moea taua.”
That night was the seventh after the elopement, and so far the lovers had been unmolested. They knew the people must be out searching for them, and that there would be trouble when they were discovered. Hardwick had designed to work out quietly to the Hawke's Bay side, but this would be a weary journey, for long detours would be necessary to avoid the Maori settlements. For the present this bush retreat was safe enough, and would do as long as there were birds in the bush to be shot or snared. That day the white man had shot a brace of pigeons. It was imprudent, because the sound of a gun might bring prowling Maoris down on the camp. But the risk didn't trouble him.
* * *
The fire in front of the wharau had burned nearly out. The lovers lay asleep. And softly, as if stalking an enemy on the war-trail, a band of Maoris, ten or twelve of them, crept out from the bushes, keeping in the shadow of the cliff, creeping towards the camp. They had been making quietly towards the fire all the evening from their look-out on the opposite spur.
The foremost Maori, creeping along on hands and knees, laid a hand on the
The Maori ripped out a yell, and the party sprang from the ground and dashed into the wharau. The frightened girl was dragged out into the open, naked, just as she sprang from the blankets and her lover's arms. Hard-wick was hauled out too, punching and kicking in a Baresark rage. He was literally a Baresark as he struggled there, with half a dozen yelling Maoris on top of him. They soon mastered him, tied his hands and feet, none too gently, with their flax belts, called him a lot of hard Maori names, and all the pakefya bad words they knew—and then set to work to build up the fire again and look for something to eat.
Poor Kehu sat there, covered with a blanket now, a captor on each side of her holding her by the arms. She wept, not for herself, but for Tiaki, for she feared they would kill him there in the forest.
The Maoris had been sent out by Kehu's father with orders to continue the hunt until they had found the couple. They were not to harm the white man, so they were enjoined, because it might result in inconvenient enquiries from the Government, and even in a visit from a force of Constabulary. But they were to bring Kehu home.
This was done. The girl was taken to Tokaanu, thence through the great forest to Taumarunui. As for the white man, they suffered him to return to Tokaanu with them. He went to his camp at the sawpit, feeling that he would see Kehu no more.
The poor girl was shockingly berated by her father when she made her home-coming. She was forced to appear before the tribe in the wharepuni and listen to many abusive speeches. She sat there with bowed head, her shawl gathered about her shrinking shoulders. The speakers reviled her lover as a tutua, a low-born fellow who stole other men's property. And she—she had put the tribe to shame. What would those Ngati-Maniapoto people have to say now? The name of Kehu of Taumarunui would be a by-word throughout the land.
At last Kehu turned. She rose and faced them, furious. She was of noble blood, so was her lover, Tiaki, the white man, and she would never give him up. She would never marry that pig of a fellow in the Maniapoto country, never.
Kehu's stubbornness did not pass from her. She refused to listen to anything more. “I have told you,” she said, “I love Tiaki and I shall marry him and no one else.”
Kehu's father shut her up in a small raupo hut next to his own. The door was securely fastened on the outside; only the tiny window was allowed to he opened for water and food to be passed in to the prisoner. The hut was guarded day and night.
Kehu refused all food; she took only the calabash of water from her attendant. Day after day passed, and not a morsel of food would she take. In the depth of pouritanga, the soul of darkness, she was starving herself to death.
The old chief went to the hut each morning, pushed back the sliding window and cried gruffly, “E Kehu, are you there?”
“Ae,” the girl answered from the gloom of the whare.
“Will you give up the white man?”
“No, never! I will die sooner than take any other man!”
Bang! The sliding window was slammed to again.
This went on until the fifth morning, when Kehu did not reply to the usual call. The old man, alarmed, pushed the door open and entered the hut. Kehu was lying motionless on the mats. He carried her out and laid her on the grass. She was seemingly without life. The old man with a cry of grief bent down and pressed his nose to his daughter's and wept over her. He greatly feared that she was passing to the Reinga.
The girl opened her sad dark eyes. “I want Tiaki,” she said.
Her father, weeping, bent down again and said, “I shall bring your white man to you.”
Kehu sighed and smiled a pitiful smile and whispered, “That is well, but make haste.”
Messengers were sent off to Tokaanu, with orders to bring Tiaki the white man to Taumarunui at once, and if he would not come willingly to tie him up and carry him.
But Hardwick needed no compulsion. He was soon at Taumarunui, and Kehu was weeping over him and tangi-ing to him, and there was a ceremonious talk in the council-house, and long speeches from everyone of consequence, and with songs of jollity and the merry poi dance, the happy Kehu was handed over to the white man, together with many other gifts. And Tiaki made quite a good speech himself, and so completely won the hearts of the Taumarunui folk that he could have had half a dozen other wives had he wanted them. But he had Kehu. So matters were agree-ably adjusted, tribal etiquette was observed, and tribal honour satisfied. Everything was “tino tika”—shipshape, and altogether correct.
Now had this been an imaginary affair of hearts, all the canons of orthodox romantic literature would have been satisfied by the valedictory announcement that the lovers loved exceedingly and lived serene untroubled lives. Unfortunately, however, this is a true story, so the action must go on to the end that the Fates mercifully conceal from puppet mortals.
(To be continued.)
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
A whaling picture in Cook Strait: Forcing air into a whale.
At first glance the small Maori village near Mangaroa, on the shores of the Bay of Plenty, New Zealand, has nothing to distinguish it from the typical native settlement. Everything appears normal about the nikau whares, with their corrugated iron chimneys, as the wahines engage in the purely feminine pursuits of washing clothes, cooking and gossiping. Everywhere roam sturdy brown children and innumerable dogs. The men are busy about their tasks—some ploughing the fertile loam of the rich Bay of Plenty lands, others, perhaps, in a small group discussing the merits of the outlaw horse which one of their number is in process of breaking in.
Suddenly the quiet, almost sleepy, appearance of the village is changed as if by the stroke of a magic wand, and somnolent figures are galvanised into action. “Coo-ee, coo-ee,” a call finding its origin perhaps in the hardy Australian whalers of a century ago, comes faintly down the wind. Every eye turns toward the headland from which the cry originated and where a long manuka pole with flag attached is now waving vigorously. Every tongue repeats the call, which is bandied around and about the settlement, mingling with the yelping of startled dogs and the squealing of pigs in a startling cacophony of sound.
Horses harnessed to ploughs and mustered sheep are left to fend for themselves. Cows being bailed for milking must await the ministrations of others’ hands. The everyday tasks of the native are forgotten, and, animated with a single thought, young and old, strong and infirm, rush to the beach. That stirring coo-ee can have but one meaning—whales in the bay!
On the beach lies a sturdy whaleboat, some 20 ft. long, similar to a ship's boat. When the crew of nine, the strongest men of the settlement, already long picked in anticipation of the incident, have mustered, men, women and children lend a hand at the launching. Down the white, sandy beach she is rolled and into the gently breaking Pacific swell. Erect at the stern stands an old chieftain whose ancestors before him have hunted whales in similar fashion. He, of all the crew, is the only man with wrinkled, tattooed face. The rowers, all magnificent specimens of their race, bend to their task willingly. Through the narrow opening in the reef the boat flies, on toward the spot where the whale was seen spouting, the old helmsman shouting advice and encouragement as the muscles of the oarsmen ripple on naked brown torsos.
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
A whale sounding after being struck with the harpoon.
Whales at that time of the year are apparently content to laze and play through these waters, delayed perhaps by the slowness of their calves, but the crew must not dawdle if a kill is to be made. Eager eyes scan the sea for a glimpse of the quarry. Frantic cries from the wahines at the lookout station seem to indicate that the boat has gone too far. It is put about and presently the whale spouts again. “There she blows,” cries every excited member of the crew. Getting into their swing, every brown, perspiring body moving in a symphony of perfect rhythm, the old boat shoots forward. All the excitement and frenzy of the haka is written on the grimacing face of the chieftain. The order, “stand up ready,” is given to the harpooner in the bow, and at the right moment the barbed steel is driven home with all the force at the command of the most powerful man in the pa.
Then the fun begins. With the rope whizzing over the gunwale the whale sounds deeply. Then, returning to the surface, it makes off at great speed. Now the rope is made fast and the intrepid whalers, preparing for a war of attrition, are towed
The sport over, the arduous task of towing home the catch begins. In its run, the whale may have dragged the boat many miles from the shore, and sometimes two days are occupied in the slow return journey.
Many and varied have been the tactics employed in the hunting and killing of whales since the days when it was first realised what profit could be made by the capture of these huge mammals. The Maoris use methods which have survived unchanged for a century, but in other parts of New Zealand, all the modern refinements of the industry are employed. The Perano brothers, of Picton, whose whaling ground is Tory Channel, were the first in the Dominion, if not in the world, to abandon rowing boats and hand harpooning. Sometimes a whole day was required to make a kill, the victim eventually dying probably from loss of blood flowing from many gashes in its body. The Peranos conceived the idea of employing fast launches, armed with harpoon guns, to pursue the quarry.
When the geyser of water that betrays the spouting whale is sighted, the speedboat, manned by engineer and gunner, dashes in pursuit, cutting through the water at a speed of 30 knots. Hump-back whales generally come to the surface to spout three times at intervals of two minutes; their next submersion continues for nine minutes, and when they reappear they may be miles distant from the spot where they dived. The whalers shoot the mammals usually between the second and third blowings, but they do not shoot to kill. Eighty-five per cent. of whales sink when killed outright. The procedure therefore is to incapacitate them with the first shot of the harpoon bomb and then to force air into their bodies through a tube. When sufficiently inflated to ensure floating they are killed with a charge of shot behind the head.
Whaling under such circumstances has all the thrills of the earlier, more primitive form of chase. Those who are fortunate enough to witness these launches in action are amazed at the skill of the helmsman, apparently flirting with death as the speedy chaser manoeuvres around the stricken mammal, often in a fairly choppy sea, to allow the gunner to place first the harpoon bomb and then the killing shot. Knowledge of the habits of whales seems to be a sixth sense with these men and the accuracy with which they determine the direction a whale will take after sounding seems to the uninitiated almost uncanny. Once sighted by these craft the quarry seldom escapes.
The Perano brothers are not the only New Zealand farmers who devote themselves to whaling for three months of every year. James Jackson, of Jackson's Bay, is another of a line of farmer-whalers who hunts the waters of Cook's Strait in the winter whaling season. His father and grandfather before him, for over half a century, have engaged in many an exciting hunt, but the open whaleboats and hand harpooning of the earlier years have yielded place to speedy launches and modern guns. Even with these the chase is not without its dangers. On one occasion a cow whale repeatedly charged a launch, smashing in several planks of the hull with terrific blows from its tail. Another whale, charging a launch, fore a hole in the hull 6 1/2 ft. by 2 1/2 ft., pushing its nose into the engine room. Both launches got safely back to Picton for repairs, the special bulkheads with which they are equipped preventing them from sinking.
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
A harpooned whale at close quarters.
If it were not for the migratory habits of the whales, the industry would not exist in New Zealand waters. During the Antarctic winter the mammals move north to the warm tropic waters, and there the cows calve. Coming up the eastern coast of the South Island, many pass through Cook Strait, where they are profitably hunted, and thence up the Australian coast. Others continue their northerly course up the east coast of the North Island. In October and November they are returning to their feeding grounds on the fringe of the ice, and it is then that the Maoris take their toll.
Whereas the Maoris continue to use the methods their forebears learned from the whalers of a century ago, and the Cook Strait farmers lead the world with their speedboat chasers, the old whaling station at Whangamumu, near Cape Brett, has covered the whole gamut of known whaling methods, as well as introducing tactics unique to that area. Founded in 1892 by an oldtime whaler, Captain Cook, who, even in his retirement, found the call of the sea and his ingrained love of the chase too strong to resist, the equipment at first was modest. Open whaleboats, manned by Maori crews, chased the whales in the age-old manner.
With the virtual extinction of whales in the Arctic regions, commercial interests paid increasing attention to the southern feeding grounds, and the intensive methods of the Norwegians, with their factory ships and fleets of chasers, resulted in the slow-breeding whale flock being decimated in a few years. Fewer and fewer whales were caught at Whangamumu. Captain Cook, loath to renounce the
Nets 60 ft. square were fashioned from 2 1/2 inch manila rope, with a 6 ft. mesh, and, floated by 20-gallon casks, a series of nets were spread across the tracks most favoured by the whales. After many trials, and when patience was almost exhausted, a whale was sighted one day acting most peculiarly. It was neither finning, breaching lob-tailing or fighting killers, but apparently doing a bit of each. It was so busy fighting to free itself from the ensnaring meshes of the net that it did not see the approaching whaleboat and was easily despatched. Many whales were secured in this manner, but finally, in 1910, a modern, Norwegian-type steam whaler was introduced.
The tactics of the steam whaler are to get more or less friendly with the whales, so that they come up almost alongside to blow. The lookout in the crow's nest sees the whale rising and the boat is steered toward the spot he indicates, sometimes getting so close that the spout of air sent up may blow over the harpoon stand. Then the gun speaks, harpoon and line hurtle through the air, and the chase is over.
In the last year of his eventful life Captain Cook turned again to the
London's passenger traffic increases by leaps and bounds. The annual report of the London Passenger Transport Board for the twelve months ended June 30, 1937, has recently been issued, and this shows that in the period in question no fewer than 3,636,000,000 passenger journeys were undertaken by patrons of the Board's rail and road services, while taking the combined passenger journeys made in the London Transport area over the Board's own system and the main-line railways, we have the phenomenal figure of 4,231,000,000, an increase of about 16,000,000-over the previous year's record. Gross revenues of the Board for the year were £31,901,760, and working expenses £23,917,085.
The underground and tube railways included in the London Transport group form one of its most important assets. Because of highway congestion, more and more people are taking to using the underground and tube railways in preference to surface transport, this move being especially noticeable during the morning and evening rush hours. Actually, on the Board's railways no less than half of the day's traffic is concentrated within four working hours, the other half being spread over sixteen hours. Employees of the London Passenger Transport Board total 81,765. Extreme care is taken in the selection and education of the staff, and working conditions are good. The whole of the Board's operating staff with one year's service or more receive, annually, a fortnight's holiday with pay. There is a comprehensive superannuation scheme covering both male and female staff and the various social services include 560 employee messrooms, 81 fully staffed canteens, and ten sports grounds.
Record passenger business to and from the principal holiday resorts is anticipated by the four group railways of Britain during the next few months. The big vacation season of the year commences at Easter, and the railways are leaving no stone unturned in their efforts to cater to the holiday-maker's needs. Faster and more frequent passenger services are being arranged. In particular, the train accommodation provided for the holiday-maker is being improved, and numbers of new dining and sleeping-cars are being introduced on all the trunk routes. Buffet cars, which have proved so popular with excursionists, are being placed in service in increasing numbers, while big betterments are in course of progress at all the railway-owned hotels and guesthouses.
Last season, an outstanding success was achieved by the camping car arrangements developed by the four group lines. It will be recalled that this arrangement provides for the letting out to small parties of holiday-makers of discarded passenger coaches, which, while unfit for further active service, make remarkably comfortable holiday homes when suitably furnished and equipped, and anchored on some sidetrack convenient to a popular holiday-haunt. A very modest rent is demanded for the exclusive use of these caravan cars; all furniture, bedding, crockery, etc., is included; and the only stipulation made is that everyone using the car must travel on the outward and return journeys by the rail route. Because of their immense popularity last year, the number of caravan cars is now being largely increased.
(Photo., courtesy French Railway Collection).
Interior, Gare De Lyon Station, Paris.
Selling rail transport is an activity in which every employee of the modern railway—no matter what his job—should take particular interest. In this connection it may be noted that the London, Midland & Scottish Railway has recently issued to its staff ten thousand copies of a new sales booklet, crammed tight with useful hints on the subject of selling transport. The booklet is part of a big sales campaign launched by the company, which includes a “Quota” competition, whereby freight and passenger districts compete in friendly rivalry. All grades of the staff are entering enthusiastically into the scheme, and much new business is thereby being gained. Incidentally, the chief commercial manager of the L. M. & S. sets out in the new sales booklet the qualifications
The railway industry is now well over one hundred years old, and travelling over the Home lines one secures abundant and striking evidence of the thorough manner in which the pioneers tackled the engineering problems of their day. Actually, there are innumerable engineering structures, such as bridges, viaducts and tunnels, which have been serving us for a hundred years or more, and in a recent run over the Great Western system the writer renewed acquaintance with several of these century-old structures.
A most interesting viaduct, constructed exactly one hundred years ago, is the Wharncliffe Viaduct, at Hanwell, near London. This is 896 feet long and 65 feet high. It consists of eight semi-elliptical brick arches of 70 ft. span, springing from piers each composed of twin stone-capped pillars united by a heavy architrave. Originally built for two tracks, the Wharncliffe Viaduct was widened about fifty years ago, to take four tracks. Another ancient structure, not very many miles further west, is Isambard Brunel's famous brick bridge over the Thames at Maidenhead. This consists of two main arches in brickwork, 128 ft. span, with a rise of only 24 ft. 3 in. The design is most unconventional, the flat arches in brickwork being a constant source of wonder and admiration. In Devon and Cornwall, there were, until recently, many century-old timber viaducts in use. Most of these structures, however, have now been replaced by steel and stone.
Goods traffic handled by the Home railways continues to expand, and the fullest use is being made of the elaborate road collection and delivery services, of which the four group lines were world pioneers. At the present moment, the stock of motor vehicles in service on the Home railways stands at about 9,200, while there are also employed—mainly for city collections and deliveries—about 13,000 horse-drawn vehicles. A relatively new development is the country lorry service. This links up railheads with outlying farms and villages. Shippers dispatch in bulk to the country lorry depot their commodities for farmers, and there they are split up for delivery by the railway motor lorries. At many railheads, manufacturers of farm needs hold permanent stocks from which the railways make regular lorry deliveries to order. Country lorry services, operated in conjunction with railway goods trains, also form a coordinated road and rail service of particular value to farmers and others engaged in agriculture, as they facilitate the rapid marketing of produce. In this manner, areas more or less remote from the railway are provided with transport facilities equal to those enjoyed by the industrial centres.
An important responsibility of railways everywhere is the handling of postal mails of all kinds. In Britain, the L. M. & S. Railway carries the heaviest postal mail traffic, and to meet the needs of increasing business there have been constructed recently in this company's shops three new Post Office sorting cars of striking design. The length of the underframe is 60 ft., and length over all 63 ft. 8 1/2 in., the body being 60 ft. I in. long and 8 ft. 8 in. wide. The underframes and bogies are of steel. The latter are four-wheeled, with 9 ft. centres, and of welded construction. Teak framing forms the body, the outer sides being sheeted with steel panelling. The floor timbers are of jarrah, supporting galvanised steel sheeting carrying fireproof composition flooring. Inside, the new coaches are fitted with one registered letter desk, seven letter sets, two newspaper sets, drawers, etc. There is the usual pick-up and delivery apparatus for mail bags while travelling at speed, and the exterior of the new postal cars presents a very attractive appearance.
The world is in itself a dream place, but we are only human and so we dream of dream places that are infinitely more desirable. For many of us the dream place of our hopes is the hereafter—“the eye hath not seen, neither has the ear heard, nor has it entered into the heart of man … .”
Yes, I have dreamed of this hereafter but I have also dreamed of the material heaven upon earth. Surely, this heaven, granting we have the physical perfection to appreciate it to the full, must be found somewhere on earth. Our mind fixes on some coral island and the picture comes back to us from the R. M. Ballantyne of our boyhood days. It is there in clear delight. The green, green tropical isle surrounded by the blue, blue sea. The temperature is always broken down to suit the moment as though it were a bath regulated by some super conscientious steward on an ocean liner. Luscious tropical fruit, turtle's eggs, wild pigs (everyone as tender as a sucking pig), glorious trout in the mountain streams—in short, Nature's larder stocked to capacity with the finest fare for the island table. Yes, it makes a nice picture but a very lonely one. A pleasant week or two and we would be longing for company. Even if we have this companionship, we would, after a few weeks, be yearning for all the comforts of civilisation. We would want an outboard motor boat for fishing in the lake, a 1938 sedan car with a few hundred miles of bitumen thrown in, a ten-valve wireless set, the latest talkies and so on.
No, we must leave aside the coral island as a dream place. Anyhow, it's bound to be infested with mosquitoes and other pests with a score or two of sharks hanging about hungrily in the water.
The dream place must be a peace place, but is it possible to find peace in this world?
To dream is to sleep and sleep is of a few hours’ duration, unless one wishes to go into a trance and that prolonged state of insensibility must have its end—even if that end be death.
And, I am afraid of death. This sleep that is coming on me now may end in death, but I must sleep for I am tired as I was never tired before. Somehow the tiredness seems to come from my heart. There is no pain, simply a dull, peaceful feeling of a heart that is running down. My eyes close slowly, ever so slowly. Even that film of dark that the closed lids envelop me in fades away to nothingness. The tick of the timepiece of life ebbs away faintly, and yet more faintly, and then ceases …..
Peace has come—there is naught but a vast impenetrable silence. Seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing—doing nothing …..
I am in a long narrow box. Voices, and I think the sound of sobbing, come to me from far, far away. My body is cold. I cannot move, but there is still an instinct left—the dim realisation of the vastness of the great eternal peace.
I sense my narrow wood-lined bed being lifted. I am being carried forward. After a long time there is a further murmur of voices. My bed is being lowered—I sense it is into the ground. For a moment I hear vividly. Something, as of lumps of clay and sods of earth, is falling on the roof of my wooden chamber.
I realise at last that I am dead—I am being buried …..
Once more all sense of feeling fades from me except the great peace. So I lay without pain, without pleasure, yet there is a something within me that still endures. Several hours pass and then a strange warmth of ineffable sweetness steals slowly over me. I feel that something within me is leaving that cold, cold body. The feeling grows like the crescendo of a grand burst of music. Then there is one mighty effort and I am free.
I dart upwards through that cold, dark clay. The light of a glorious day envelops me. My eyes almost bewilderingly clear drink in the undreamt of beauties of the world I knew but a few hours before. But what a different world! I look upwards and see the glories above the roof of the sky. I look around me and see Nature's body unclothed. I breathe such sweet savours from plants and flowers glorious scents that I had never known before. The air is soft with the music of movement. I find I have but to wish and what I desire is before me.
So it is that a feeling for companionship brings kindred souls about me. There are familiar faces I knew in life;
And where is the God of it all? Instantly I am in His presence and then my joy is great indeed for He smiles on me, and smiling, speaks a wealth of wonderful words and thoughts. The greater joy of seeing Him endures. I have reached the ultimate pinnacle of peace and happiness, and it is to continue for ever.
Yes, it is the same world, but intensified a thousand fold with rarer beauty.
I wish for the sight of sea and I am there in an instant on the fringe of an illimitable ocean of joyous waters. In it I bathe with effortless content, others by me even as I think of them.
Then I think of our New Zealand bush and our birds and I am there on the green, green grass, drinking in the colour tones of the foliage, of the flowers, and a newer beauty of bird music. I am aloft on the highest branches and I raise myself and am floating in that blue sky.
The snows of Mt. Cook, of Tongariro, even to the highest peak, caress me. I drink of the snow and it is both deliciously cold and warm, and tastes of nectar ineffable.
And then a city appears at my bidding, and it is a city good to look upon and its pleasures are desirable and clean and there is no bitterness anywhere.
Not because I am tired of play but because this world of dreams is seemingly illimitable I think of work, and the work I desire comes to me, and there is a grand harvest to be gathered from it.
But where are my beloved books? Ah, in a trice I am seated in the grandest library of my dreams. Here there is a soft, oh, so peaceful, light filtering through curtains of soothing colours revealing row upon row of all my best loved writers.
R.L.S. in an edition that is an exquisite pleasure to handle. In every volume he has written some new thought greater and more noble than ever he penned in life. And the Dickens set—oh, what a glory it is, and, of course, the original illustrations are in it, so lifelike that they almost move and speak. And the poets—their music sings from the pages as never before. There is one special super de luxe edition of Francis Thompson's “Hound of Heaven,” and every word shines forth like diamonds. Transcending even this edition is my Thomas a Kempis and as I opened the pages he is at my side to read to me in noble tones his inspired lines. I look for lighter, more worldly fare, and sure enough Richard Le Galliene is there and dear old Leonard Merrick. Yes, and there is a shelf of Bernard Shaw, but some of the volumes are missing, and the library seems a better place because of this. Barrie has a shelf to himself and, of course, “Margaret Ogilvie” heads the beautiful line of tomes. I seem to stay among these books for years.
Suddenly I think of food and drink and I am seated at a banquet undreamt of even by Epicurus. And the wines, and the liqueurs and the cigars that stud the banquet table are sublime. I never reach satiety in this feast. All that follows is a sleep full of wondrous dreams.
Yes, everything in this after world is peace and joy. It is the dream place—the dream place of eternity.
In a recent letter to the “Otago Daily Times” a correspondent pays tribute to the Railway Department's Refreshment Rooms at Oamaru, in the following terms:—
To The Editor. Sir,—
One can criticise much in the Government railways, but I would like space to compliment the management and staff of the Oamaru dining rooms. To-day (Saturday) was a very hot and dusty day, and there was a very full train.
For lunch at Oamaru the tables made quite a picture—hothouse tomatoes, beet-root and lettuce salad. The cold lamb, the new potatoes and the vegetables mentioned above made a delightful meal for a hot day. The stewed apricots were perfect. I often think that in Otago we get the best flavoured and the most wholesome food in the world, but railway dining rooms—like many of our eating houses—can make a sad mess of it.
It is a pleasure to give a word of praise when it is due, and Oamaru is certainly to be complimented on its successful management and on the courteous and efficient girls who serve the meals.
This expression of thanks is prompted by overhearing several say: “That was a good meals.
I am etc.,
Constant Traveller.
Such a horror of tobacco-smoke had “Victoria the Good” that those of her guests at any of the Royal palaces who chanced to be smokers were compelled, if they craved a whiff, to indulge in their bedrooms after retiring for the night, with their heads up the chimney—lest perchance the tell-tale fumes should give them away! This seems almost incredible to-day when both sexes smoke and even exalted personages puff away freely and unashamedly, and sometimes even to excess. Excessive smoking, by the way, is not always wise, but it needn't worry Maorilanders because “toasted” is always at their service. It's the tobacco full of nicotine that does the harm. But there's very little nicotine in toasted. It's cut out by the toasting. So you run no risks with these beautiful tobaccos, so sweet, pure, cool and fragrant—and so comparatively harmless. Five brands only of the genuine toasted: Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cavendish, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold. But take care what you buy. Worthless imitations are on the market.*
Mountaineering, says the popular belief, is a form of insanity. Once accept that view and the railway mystery excursions stand condemned. For they are making mountaineers. Inevitably so. Because almost every tramper has in him the stuff of which a mountaineer is made, awaiting such contact with the high hills as the mystery tramps provide.
Trampers who feel the urge to step up to higher things have a glorious opportunity this holiday season. They will not find the step as big as they might fear. True, there are important ways in which mountains differ from the element in which the tramper usually moves. There is a lot more rock; often there is snow and ice. But if the mountaineer has acquired a greater poise and judgment such as only experience can provide, the tramper yields him little in general endurance.
Scores, perhaps hundreds, of trampers have graduated to the climbing class in Canterbury in the last few years. The writer is one instance. He acquired a love of climbing almost by accident, and not very well equipped, made his first ascent under winter conditions at Arthur's Pass. With seven others, several tyros like himself but most of them proficient mountaineers, he climbed Avalanche Peak (6,003 ft.) in two hours—at that time supposed to be a winter record. And although “Avalanche” is one of the most notorious peaks in the National Park, all of the inexperienced trampers were in the first bunch on the summit ridge, apparently as fresh as any members of the party.
Arthur's Pass provides the best and most accessible training ground for the climbing enthusiast in Canterbury; and summer is the best time to make a start there. The lower peaks are then practically free of snow, and the newcomer may scramble almost at will, getting the “feel” of the mountains and the joy of first achievement, while risking few of the dangers with which mountain-climbing is usually associated. Though that does not mean that he should not first ask the advice of some competent climber, and take such precautions as are necessary.
The accessibility of Arthur's Pass is a strong point in its favour; it may be reached in about three and a-half hours from Christchurch, and at the cost of only a few shillings. It is the recognised headquarters of mountaineering in Canterbury, and in holiday season especially there are always experienced men at hand to offer any needed advice or guidance. Then the variety it offers would alone be sufficient to make it popular. There are bush and river trips of all kinds, while the climbs proper range from hills of 3,000 feet or so, to Rolleston, not the highest, but certainly the first big peak which young climbers aspire to conquer. Nor is it necessary for the tramper to buy a lot of expensive equipment for his first summer season. An ice-axe is useful, and it is good to become used to one; but well-nailed boots, and the inevitable pack, are sufficient to see any fit person to the top of “Avalanche.” Any climber will tell him where he may not go unarmed.
Whether the newcomer to the mountains essays such first ascents with others of his class, or with experienced men, they are adventures he will not easily forget. They will be the trips on which his feeling for the mountains will be sharpened. He will remember, and rightly, that 6,000 feet is—well, a long way above sea level, and a good deal higher than most New Zealanders have climbed. And Rolleston, he will console himself, is only 1,450 feet higher, merely in fact the next step to anyone who works hard to acquire climbing experience.
Those moments of realisation will be born, not in shouts of ecstasy, but in the long periods of silence in high up resting places, drenched (one hopes!) in sunshine. Maybe the climber will suck an orange, or he may munch a mouthful of raisins or nibble a cheese sandwich. Each man's thoughts, though unspoken, will be the same; for thus early has the climber's creed been adopted. “Always a little further.”
And that creed? Is it a madman's creed? Is mountaineering only another name for insanity—or suicide? So sober men say. But then they have never climbed mountains.
Smoking was a perfect craze with the great ladies of two hundred years ago. There were no cigarettes in those days so they smoked pipes. Pictures of the period are full of interest. One is of a girl walking along a garden-path followed by a maid bearing a tobacco-pipe. Another depicts a lady of quality smoking her pipe in her bath. A third shows a pretty girl, her trim waist encircled by the arm of her lover. He is evidently devoted but she has eyes only for her pipe at which she is fondly gazing. How these fine ladies and their cavaliers would have revelled in “toasted” with its exquisite purity and delightful aroma. Toasting it is that rids this incomparable tobacco of its nicotine. But that is only one of its charms. The five brands of the genuine toasted, Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cavendish, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold owe their wide popularity to sterling merit. There is no tobacco to compare with them. They are unique!*
(Photo: W. D. Frazer.)
I was admiring the pavilions and buildings at the Solway Show Grounds, in Masterton, when I saw a small procession of happy youngsters making it way to the main gates.
I found that they had been on an instructional visit to the fine piece of native bush which has been reserved by the wise public body which runs this branch of human activity in Masterton. The enthusiast responsible for this instalment of education in the sunshine, said that he had named and described for the children's benefit no less than twenty-eight varieties of native flora in that morning journey.
This seemed to me the most important happening in my visit to Masterton and Carterton. Then there was the bold forward move in the conjunction of technical and arts educational facilities as seen in the new Wairarapa High School, an institution which will have the appearance and the scope of a junior university.
The story of the world is the story of its youth, and perhaps in this pleasant land known as the Wairarapa, there is going to emerge an intelligent and sympathetic treatment of the young. Progress in the future might then make even the achievement of the doughty pioneers of this rich district seem a mundane affair, and show that ideals may become fairer and human happiness richer with each succeeding generation.
The Wairarapa Lake had the colour of washing blue as our rail-car wound into Cross Creek; and the smooth streamlined hills in the background shimmered in the heat. The change had exactly the effect of a fresh drop scene in a well produced stage drama. From Kaitoke, once famous for the best ham sandwiches in New Zealand, the journey is a revealing panorama of the size and difficulty of the mountainous rampart that walls off Wellington from the great, rich plain lying to the north. We got out at Kaitoke; the sandwiches are still fresh and appetising as are all railway sandwiches to-day, and the next hour of the journey takes in the world-famous Rimutaka incline. I could not help wondering what the old settlers would have thought of this easy-going way of sliding through wild scenery. I remember hearing one of the finest of sportsmen and pastoralists of the Wairarapa telling of the task it was to get a birthday present piano up from Wellington to the station homestead only sixteen miles from Masterton.
The mountain pass crossing took three days, and the haul from Master-ton a full day. I rather think that Paderewski himself would have had some difficulty in doing the best with his “Minuet in G” on the instrument when it arrived. However, it was a delicious surprise and was just in time for the birthday. I thought when I was being told the story, not so much of the hardships of those pioneers, but of the fine living fact that in that field of grinding toil and daily tediousness there still grew the flower of the love of beauty. I can imagine how the practical and the parsimonious among the neighbours would regard this exceedingly unpractical domestic gift. It is, however, just that spirit that has made Masterton a harmoniously lovely town. I am afraid, though, that the lawny and leafy loveliness of much of the place owes something to the accumulated wealth which has made possible the profusion of homes like miniature palaces set in small models of public gardens.
Of course, the Wairarapa Plain is a pastoral goldmine. Lord Bledisloe pointed out more than once that the world's wealth is derived in the first place from its grasses. The Wairarapa is a grass golconda, a pastoralist's paradise.
I travelled two long journeys, once with the late J. A. Gilruth, who went from the leadership of the Agricultural Department here to be administrator of the North West Territory of Australia. In his racy and incisive Scotch accent, he emphasized the fact that New Zealand was unique in its extraordinary juxtaposition of hills on which to grow sheep and plains on which to fatten them.
He said that the triangular area of the Manawatu and the long pointed plain of the Wairarapa were the best two instances of this in the world. Is it any wonder that this great plain created by dozens of rivers wearing through the hills and building up flats of rich soil, should carry swarming and apparently innumerable flocks of sheep? Dairying, of course, plays its part, and so we have Masterton, Carterton, Featherston, Greytown and Martinborough, a quintette of substantial centres that serve the needs of this busy land of growers.
There is a note of warning that I must strike before proceeding to tell you of the unqestionable merits of the two largest of this group of towns, Masterton and Carterton. As the Mayor of Masterton, Mr. T. Jordan, has pointed out, there are actually fewer people in these rural areas than there were twenty years ago, and the whole area of this land of promise and prodigal richness only carries two-thirds of the average population density of New Zealand.
The words of this chief magistrate of a handsome town are saddening, and this definite shrinking of country numbers calls for something more than pious wishes.
In the Masterton Council Chambers, hangs a copy of the first written petition for the incorporation of Masterton as a borough. The settlement had just come to the period when a young man throws his party and gets his latch-key; it was twenty-one years of age, and so, in 1877, it assumed a full grown man's part in self government. Already, astonishing changes had taken place from the days when Mr. Masters had his Wellington meeting, and, turning down Sir George Grey's offer of plenteous land at Port Ahuriri, formed the Masterton Small Farm Association. The town acres (title included) cost twenty-five shillings each, but the cannier souls, guided by the principles of sound finance, dodged the sections with two frontages because there was the added expense of fencing two boundaries. That was a famous day at the Crown and Anchor Hotel, and the forty acre blocks were quitted at the risky price of ten shillings per acre. That was in the turbulent early Fifties. The borough was the successor of the Masterton town district, created in 1873, and portioned out from the million acres or so controlled by the Masterton Highways District Board. This body with the ornate title had a small wooden office, and two of a staff, in the bush track even then slowly starting to look like a street—Queen Street. It should be mentioned that the cultured Mr. C. R. Carter, after whom Carterton was named, was of great assistance in the formation of the original settlement of Masterton.
I should like to take Messrs. Masters and Carter now for a stroll along Renall, Cole and Essex Streets. I doubt if any of our cities has a street of houses more impressive and gardens more opulent than Essex Street. Masterton is a city of trees, from the huge Lawsonianas whose 100 foot spires dominate the spacious park, to the ten miles of planted avenues. Orderly, tended, symmetrical trees line both sides of a full quarter of all the streets in Masterton.
In addition to this, the park has twenty acres, most of which is wooded, and the spacious garden areas round the greater proportion of the homes give the whole town the effect of a tree bower. From any surrounding height, the roofs and spires of the buildings seem floating in a lake of dark green foliage.
The business part of the town is solid, clean, and the buildings have a uniform air of costliness and strength. There are no shabby interruptions to the long double line of handsome premises in Queen Street, and there are intersecting streets of commercial premises of imposing proportions.
However, I think the essential charm of Masterton is best realised in our picture “The Crossing.”
This takes its wayward way from Essex Street to Cole Street, and is a thing of beauty unlike any everyday short-cut street.
I pause to say that the town stream is the most obliging rivulet in the world. It wanders between streets as if to oblige dozens of houses with back or front benefits of little bridges, decorative pools, sloping banks and all the rest of the distinctive beauty conferred by running waters.
Masterton's impressive feature is the large proportion of homes which rejoice in large and well-planned gardens. Everyone has a garden in this fortunate town, and dozens are of the proportions and formal beauty of a public pleasaunce. The final touch of arboreal embellishment is added by the double lines of gracious trees. Even a walk to the railway station is an aesthetic pleasure.
A sight-seeing tour really does confirm the first impression that the town is the visible expression of the inner beauty of rural life. There seem to be universal growth and greenery, leaf and blossoms, creeper and tall tree.
Then there are the schools, of which there are a full dozen. We show just one, Solway College, which has its own atmosphere even to the white sheep in the foreground. It is a place of distinction, and has the peace which makes for the best educational environment. There are other fine edifices devoted to education, and there is the vast congeries of buildings standing in noble playing fields and grounds, known as the Wairarapa High School. This has the proportions of a university and represents an experiment of surpassing importance to the culture of our country. We saw three Children's Homes where youngsters who are the victims of economic or family disaster, can grow in conditions that not only fit them for the struggle of life, but give them now something of the joy of youthful life, possibly far more important.
There are eleven churches, and no less than nine public halls.
Masterton's parks are the natural emanations of the town's natural environment. Man here proves what Nature in her richest forms of largesse can do to the minds and hearts of everyday, busy, pre-occupied humans. Mawley Park is an exquisite cross-section of natural scenery, well equipped, cosy and sheltered, and, of course, full of fine trees. But the central park is nothing less than magnificent. New Zealand is a land of parks, and it is difficult to select any particular set of ornamental grounds for notice. Here, the remembered loveliness of rural England has been re-created in hundreds of places from hamlets to cities. However, the sweet, the spaciousness, the planned and varied beauty of this Masterton pleasure ground, make one think that it belongs to a city of half a million. There are twenty acres in all; the famous Oval, sheltered and surfaced like a billiard table, is a spectacle in itself; there are ornamental lakes; large aviaries, walks, gay flower beds in profusion; there is a riot everywhere of every hue of leaf and bloom. Finest of all are the tall trees. One towers 114 feet, and in this park there is ample room for the greatest giant to reach full size and majesty. My friend with the camera was at a loss; he saw a new picture every minute, and would have cheerfully stayed until dusk. In case I am making Masterton appear to be a town of retired garden lovers, I should mention that it has many successful industries. I am in favour of the growth of industries in such towns as Masterton. The work is done by folk whose living conditions cannot be reproduced in crowded cities, and there always exist intimacy and community feeling, matchless except in country centres.
It is obvious that Masterton should have factories devoted to the manufacturing of goods from the wool which comes in thousands of bales from the surrounding terrain. I saw one modern and completely up-to-date plant engaged in the making of hose of all sorts. It should be ten times the size.
This compact provincial capital has, of course, large stock firms and many Government offices. The municipal block is a handsome pile of definite architectural value.
It is a matter of repetition to recount the amenities and modern facilities available to the Masterton citizen. They are equal to those of many famous capitals; gas, electric light, paved roads, five golf courses, two bowling greens, four theatres, up-to-date aerodrome, deep drainage. The administration of the borough is efficient and in every way a model of civic enterprise.
The rail-car trip to Carterton is a matter of pleasant minutes. Settlement is close and continuous. Rich lands with splendid homes springing to the eye lie all the way.
Garterton is a pretty and attractive town named after the studious and enlightened giver of the well-known Carter Collection. I should say that Carterton's main characteristic is modesty. It is a compact, neat, sweet and busy borough. Here again the fortunate citizens rejoice in a standard of municipal comfort which is on a parity with that of a European capital.
The business premises have an air of well doing, and many of them are of imposing dimensions. The head office of the Wairarapa Electric Power Board is here with handsome showrooms. The borough runs its own gas installation, and the gardens everywhere are witnesses to the plentiful water supply. The water metre in the council show-room was recording 125 pounds of pressure when I was there. Here are many fine homes, and the gardens are rich with choice and rare plants, calculated to make an amateur gardener from the city envious and full of despair.
(Photo, Theima, R. Kent.)
Falefa Falls, Apia, Samoa.
The Memorial Square is in the middle of the town. It utilises every natural advantage and could well be given a more decorative name… . Lit at night, it is a fairyland. There are good schools, golf courses, football grounds and other playing fields. Carterton is an example of extremely sound municipal management. The rates can hardly be noticed. I have said before that life in a New Zealand country town is the most pleasant available to man on this earth. In Carterton all the sound methods of recreation and entertainment cost next to nothing, and are available in profusion. Shooting, fishing and other forms of outdoor recreation are thrown in for good measure. There is a splendid municipal library. They are indeed fortunate folk who dwell in Carterton.
In every red-blooded being there lies a latent gipsy or a dormant desperado who would a'wandering go across the mighty main or into the wild and woolly waste.
In the heart of the most mousey man there lurks a bad bold buccaneer with a scarlet bandana bound round his pagan pate and a glistening bean-slicer in his teeth. Few can escape for ever the prankish promptings of this ulterior rascal who has passed from father to son since the good old days. Deep beneath the braces of courteous cavaliers of commerce crouches a morganatic Morgan, a hibernating Hayes or a tentative Turpin awaiting that moment which comes to all men when they rebel against the tyranny of the tie and the servitude of the serviette and say, “To heck with pants, petrol-pumps and plumbers—let's hit the horizon!”
For twenty years they may cock a deaf'un to the wheezy whisperings of their atavistic lodger. They may ignore him when he mutters on Monday mornings, “C'mon! Let's hop it. The world's wide and there's lots to see.” But the day will come when a seagull will give them the raspberry or they will sniff a burst cocoanut while passing the fruit market and for the nonce they will be running up the Jolly Roger off Callao or hunting wild men in Borneo.
Then their vagabond varlet, their nomadic nostalgia will pounce upon them and possess them. The name of their tempestuous termagant is Sir Footloose FitzFreedom, and when he shakes the cobwebs off and blows down the barrel of his trusty rusty blunderbus it's time to pack the old port-sam and say goodbye to home and mother. His answer to each pale protest is “To horse!” or “Yo ho!” which are the ancient equivalents of “Step on it,” “What time does the train go?” or “If you don't stop trying on hats, Annie, we'll miss the boat.”
It's useless to kick and squirm when old Sir Footloose has you in a travelholt. He wheezes in your ear of surf bursting over distant reefs with the primitive abandon of an explosion in an ice-cream factory. He speaks of cocoa-coloured maids with googly eyes, of the husky whispering of cocoa-nut husks in the lonely Cocos, where the tom-tom calls eerily to its paw-paw. He tells of the delights of the doldrums where it's so still that all you can hear is The Hotcha Kids of the Hotel Neurotic, New York, on the saloon radio. He exhorts you to try it once, to sip the cup of derring-do ere the cup goes dry; to rule off the ledger, to dump the overdraft, to shake the gold-dust of civilisation off your Bostocks and run the easting down.
With the result that one evening you return to the connubial roost and say, “Semolena, how about a trip round the world, or—ahem!—as far round as the old brown sock will take us.” There is an “up-boys-and-at-'em” glint in your eye and a roll in your gait. Semolena has seen it before and determines to count your loose coin as soon as you are asleep. She objects that the only round trip you can afford is on a hurdy-gurdy. She has ninety-nine other objections which you trump with
Your friends murmur, “Fancy the MacMildews! How do they do it!” Your office boy says, “Old wire-whiskers is off at last. I hope the ship goes down.” Your creditors go cross-eyed with apprehension, but what do you care? Sir Footloose FitzFreedom reminds you that your great great great grandfather was a merry old sea dog, a jolly old water spaniel, who had a way with creditors until they caught him and suspended his activities from the yard arm. In this manner are most travel decisions born.
The unthinking imagine that you are carried away by enterprise and enthusiasm; the knowing know that you are led away by that submerged old rascal who, ever since your deluded parents said what a lovely baby you were, has been waiting to get you where he wants you.
Working His Passage Home
Once having had your mind made up for you you get down to business.
It is every man's ambition to “travel light,” and every woman's determination to take everything except the grand piano.
Thus Scene 1, entitled “packing,” may be described in the script as follows:
“Room in wild confusion; fifteen trunks and seven hat boxes strewn willy-nilly and all-to-glory. Wife enters, leff, and dumps armful of clothes in trunk. Husband enters, right, and undumps them. Wife explains why they are necessary. Husband explains why they're not. Conversation swiftly moves to topics of a painfully personal nature. Dog walks in, left centre, and goes to sleep on clothes. Scene closes with husband repacking all clothes in all trunks.”
Briefly, that is the story of the packing, but there is more to it, far, far, more. Many a man has resisted the call of the wide open spaces solely because he has dreaded the call of the wide open suit cases. Most men could travel to Tartary and back with nothing more than two pairs of socks, a toothbrush and corkscrew, but when they take their wives—well, you know, brothers, you know!
Packing, like woman's work, is never done. When a man has finished rolling on the floor trying to snap a latch-scissors on a trunk whose lid flies up at every wrench and jolts him under the chin; after he has wrestled mightily with bags that bulge like Willie after the party, when he has jumped on lids that won't close and striven with catches that won't open he naturally thinks the job is done. But he has only begun. His wife says, “You didn't pack my hair crimper!” It appears that he did, but he doesn't know where.
“But I can't, I simply can't do without it,” she wails.
So he unpacks all the bags and asks himself if it wouldn't be easier in the long run if he stayed home and took a job on the wharf. But everything is all right when the crimper is found — on a shelf in the bathroom.
Dear Elizabeth,
As we have travelled about 300 miles since I last wrote, and as the country through which we have passed has been so varied, I'll have to sort out my impressions into some sort of order before I can hope to give you anything like a coherent recital of our wanderings.
First of all, although I'm not going to dwell on it because you know it so well yourself, I must say how much I liked Rotorua and simply must mention one place in particular. You haven't spoken of Te Wairoa so I take it for granted that you haven't been there. Mount Tarawera, as you know, erupted in 1886 and buried Te Wairoa in its ashes and its mud. Recent excavations have revealed the pitiful relics of that tragedy.
We left Rotorua one bright morning, our goal being Opotiki. A twisty road took us past the three famous lakes, Rotoiti, Rotoehu and Rotoma. We couldn't decide which was the most beautiful. There were poplars growing near the water and pohutukawas and ratas just breaking into blossom. On the terraced hills were evidences of older Maori civilisation in the form of ancient pa sites and fortifications. I noticed, by the way, an old Maori meeting house complete with modern windows and typical pakeha lace curtains. Incongruous in one way, but in another typical of the manner in which the Maori, while adopting the white man's manners and customs to a certain extent, still maintains his own individuality and the characteristics and emotions of his own race.
When we finally left the Lakes we were soon climbing towards the summit of the Otitapu Range, some 1,200 feet above sea-level. Then down again to the country where the almost perfect cone of Mt. Edgecumbe soon dominated the landscape. This mountain which rises to a height of 2,946 feet, is an extinct volcano which has played its part in Maori history.
The country around here is inclined to be monotonous after the varied procession of bush, lake and mountain which we had recently passed through, but when we realised that it was once part of a 100,000 acre swamp—the delta of the Rangitaiki River—and that Governments, from 1911 onwards, spent upwards of £555,000 on a drainage scheme, we began to “sit up and take notice.” Now instead of fetid swamp land there are acres and acres of maize fields.
Whakatane was our next port of call. It is a sea port, and is the centre of a rich dairying, stock-fattening and maize growing district, but against all the very modern business of shipping and shops there is an historical background which is well worth investigating. The little town is set between the sea and the hills. On the hills can be found what is left of one of the oldest pas in New Zealand—that of Kapu te Rangi. Skirmishing took place in Whakatane in the Maori Wars, and Te Kooti raided it in 1869. We would have liked to have stayed longer in Whakatane, but our time-table did not permit, and after passing through the beautiful Waimana Gorge we were soon skirting the shores of Ohiwa Harbour where we had a good look at White Isl nd.
We followed the road by the sea for many miles over what is the loveliest marine drive I have yet seen in New Zealand. First there were the hills on our right, then the white road, and then —pohutukawa trees. Mile upon mile of them, gorgeous flaming things, flaunting their scarlet banners between us and the golden sand and the grey-blue, endless sea. The sand they had made crimson with their fallen petals and the tyres of our car were dyed the same hue. Many lands are known by their flowers. When we read of avenues of cherry blossoms, or of dark-eyed maidens with hibiscus blossoms in their hair, we have no need to wonder in what country the story develops, because these flowers have become so much a part of the land they adorn. I have seen neither the hibiscus of the southern seas nor the cherry blossoms of Japan, but I am certain that the long row of pohutukawa trees in bloom on that lovely sea road is just as worthy of becoming a national symbol.
Rly. Publicity photo.)
Fly-flshing in the Tokomaro River, North Island, New Zealand.
We camped the night at Opotiki, after exploring the town. Opotiki, which is bounded by the sea and by the Otara and the Waioeka Rivers, has quite a pretty camping spot close to the small but extremely busy wharf, and here again we passed over ground which has figured largely in New Zealand history. In a side street stands a little wooden church with a tall bronzy-greeny steeple. This was built by the Rev. K. S. Volkner, in 1860. The church is very little changed since that date, although it has witnessed the fury and blood lust of a fanatic, the death of a very brave gentleman, and has withstood seige.
The road from Opotiki to Hicks Bay has been opened very recently, and it is looked upon by tourists in the light of an ogre in a fairy tale—something rather big and angerous and generally to be avoided. Running out of Opotiki we passed over the Waiou River bridge and were soon spinning over a long, straight road which seemed to be heading directly towards the mountains, but which somehow never seemed to get there. Two lupin covered hills now lay
The road (which was so far, very good) bad now climbed above the sea, and we saw the water far away below us on the horizon. We had left the bush miles behind and the land was, if not so pictorially interesting, somehow, more essentially New Zealand. Here was the real, solid backbone of the country, where man watered his stock, milked his herd, grew his grain. Here was the home of the man of the soil, hardy, persevering, deep rooted, wholesome as bread, working out his destiny in a tiny farmhouse so far away from the life that you and I know. We passed through little settlements, mostly native, comprising usually a schoolhouse and a store. The road ran on and on. Now into the hills, now climbing, and then all at once out and down by the sea once more, when again we saw the steam on White Island. The sea was very blue and the beach, log-strewn. We felt like pioneers. Now we were actually on the beach itself, with Cape Runaway in front of us, beckoning us on.
A few miles on, at Maraenui, the road left the sea-front and made for the hills again. At the summit, before turning inland, we stopped and looked back. The coastline stretched far behind us. It was a clear, still summer day and each tiny bay and inlet with its complement of rocky foreshore and fringe of pohutukawas, made a picture we will not quickly fdrget. We still saw White Island, with its plume of steam and its background of deep blue water, and could actually pick out Mt. Edgecumbe, which must have been a good forty to fifty miles away.
All along the route we passed little wooden storehouses for keeping maize, each surrounded by the drying husks of the corn cobs. The road meandered over the hills for a time and then dipped shorewards again. All along the route hereabouts are old pa sites. Te Kaha, the next settlement, was once a whaling station, but all that is left to remind us of the fact is a mouldering whale boat and an old try pot. Then came Te Keru. At one time the Te Keru river was spanned by a massive and substantial bridge. Now, however, although still massive and substantial, it no longer spans the river but lies at the mouth, a veritable lone, lorn, Mrs. Gummidge of a bridge, with the silt of the river bed almost covering it. The rivers on this coast very quickly change from peaceful streams to raging torrents, and if a mere bridge happens to be in the way—hey, presto!—and it isn't!
Our next ford of any consequence was the Raukokore River, after which no river gave us any real trouble, though we could see that wet weather would tell a different tale, and we were soon spinning merrily along towards Hicks Bay. All the way, so far, the road had been excellent, even better in many places than many of the better-known and more frequented routes through which we had passed.
R. T. Wearne photo.).
A scene on the beach at Cape Kidnappers, North Island, New Zealand.
It was just getting dark when we arrived at Hicks Bay. There are two stores at Hicks Bay, and two petrol pumps, also quite a large school. The Bay itself is a perfect semi-circle, where the blue waters of the Pacific roll thunderously onto yellow-grey sands. There is less bush than we expected and the countryside is more rugged than we had anticipated, but it has an appeal and a grandeur which is none-the-less because of this. At the north end of the bay is a tiny wharf which is laden with great bales of wool ready for shipment. We have been here three days and have seen in the time, three busy little coastal steamers plying up and down.
I am writing this at the door of the tent. There is a soft breeze coming across the water and the sun is shining on the sands. All around green high hills frame the bay. Two Maori boys, white of teeth and merry of eye, have just passed on their way to bathe. We leave here to-morrow and I shall be sorry to say good-bye to Hicks Bay and the friendly folk we have met here. However, we are now bound for Gisborne, through Ruatoria, Tokomaru Bay and Tolago Bay, which ought to prove most interesting. A rabid Scot, just before we left Napier, on hearing of our projected tour, told us that the country down the East Coast reminded him, just a bit mind you, of the Scottish Highlands. And if you know a rabid Scot, you'll realise that this isn't damning with faint praise at all, but sheer screaming enthusiasm!
So heerrrre's hoping!
“I Always thoug