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The New Zealand Railways Magazine is on sale through the principal booksellers, 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.
In all cases where the Administration makes announcements through the medium of this Journal the fact will be clearly indicated.
The Department does not identify itself with any opinions which may be expressed in other portions of the publication, whether appearing over the author's name or under a nom de plume.
Short stories, poetry, pen-and-ink sketches, etc., are invited from the general public, upon New Zealand subjects.
Payment for short paragraphs will be made at 2d. a line. Successful contributors will be expected to send in clippings from the Magazine for assessment of the payment due to them.
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All communcations should be addressed to The Editor, New Zealand Railways Magazine, Wellington.
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.
“Peace, and spark ling stillness, subtle sweet, Where fancy murmurs elfin councils meet.”
“Aladdin's Cave”—the crowning glory of the Orakei-Korako thermal wonderland, North Island, New Zealand.
(See article on p. 32).
In all parts of this Dominion to-day, thoughts are turning increasingly towards 1940, the year of New Zealand's Centennial Exhibition.
Celebrations of the kind are becoming increasingly popular the world over, and Exhibitions are gaining a place in public esteem similar to that held by the fairs and circuses of older times. The art of combining entertainment and education has been seen in its highest development in the successful Exhibitions of recent years, and it is expected that the experience gained in the great European and American efforts of this kind will be applied to New Zealand's Centennial display.
Certainly the colourful romance of this Dominion's century of progress from the days of the earliest white settlers, and from the long period of highly developed native culture which preceded it, provides a background of unique interest for the display of steps along the forward march of development in primary and secondary production and in transport and commercial relations for which no other country can provide a counterpart.
The astounding uses to which electricity and other power-producing agencies have been put by the inventive genius, art and technical skill of those engaged in manufacturing and commercial pursuits have helped to change the whole tenor of life and will apparently continue to do so with increasing momentum.
How to keep pace with the latest artifices for ease and enjoyment in this good life is a problem which finds its answer in the modern Exhibition. And as there is no end of news in the world of applied invention, so the latest Exhibition should always be the best.
There was a time when public interest in this kind of display waned because the people came to feel about standardised shows as Kipling's soldier felt about route-marching in India, that
“Every blooming camping-ground's exactly like the last.”
But that phase has gone by, for besides the improvements in showmanship which distinguish the modern Exhibition from those which preceded it, there is an understanding of mechanical matters and an interest in seeing “the works,” particularly amongst the younger generation, which is much more widespread than in the past.
So New Zealand goes on to 1940 with confidence in her capacity to interest the world in the display of her Century's progress and to make that display outstanding among efforts of the kind.
Correspondence plays so important a part in business affairs that it has always received special attention from progressive business executives.
The attention devoted to the subject has been intensified of recent years until it has become practically a business science.
This is not surprising in view of the wide range covered by correspondence and its influence in the development of pleasant relationships and the promotion of business.
The President of an American railroad recently said: “Let us have letters that speed the business, win business friends, and stimulate teamwork among ourselves.” This objective could hardly have been better stated and will, I am sure, strike a responsive chord amongst our New Zealand railwaymen. I know it is always a pleasure for controlling officers to receive written communications—memoranda, reports and so on—which are aptly arranged, clearly expressed, and sufficiently comprehensive without being diffuse. Such communications assist in the prompt despatch of business. They often make it possible for decisions to be arrived at immediately, instead of being held up until further enquiries are instituted to elicit fuller information or to clear up possible misconceptions.
Similarly, controlling officers who make their meaning perfectly clear “on paper” are appreciated by those who have to carry out instructions.
Bearing these facts in mind, it is clear that no efforts should be spared in the preparation and despatch of correspondence.
Experience has shown that it pays to always keep in mind the possible effect upon the recipient of any letter you send out. You are known to many only by the correspondence to which you sign your name. Thus your letters are an important ingredient in your personal reputation. Also if you, as a railwayman, are writing officially to a member of the public it is well to remember that the good name of the Department for courtesy, goodwill and helpfulness is in your keeping.
Good correspondence, like genius, demands a capacity for taking pains, and the earlier in life this practice is followed the easier and more successful will it become as one advances in the service. Given this, and a proper appreciation of the recipient's viewpoint, the objective of letters to help further in the smooth-working of interdepartmental affairs and in the extension of pleasant business relationships is reasonably sure of attainment.
General Manager.
(Rly. Publicity photos.)
One feels that if Gladstone had lived long enough to see Woburn in the Hutt Valley he would have said something very bright about it. Gazing from a hill, as the photographer did for the picture at the head of this article, one quickly believes that Woburn will never be woebegone, because—as a pardonable punster might remark—the woe has already gone. Gladly one sees houses set amongst shrubs and trees, a flank of wooded hill, a gleaming river and the laced skirt of the sea by Petone, a racecourse and golf-links.
The great spread of railway workshops by Woburn has not the depressing features of old-time factories with their grim prison-like architecture and ever-smoking chimneys. Electricity is the clean magic servant of man in those well-lighted, well-ventilated buildings where about two thousand men—in different shifts—are busy in various occupations.
The glow of flowers at the main entrance makes no ironical clash with the industrial scheme of things. Indeed the gardens are an appropriate foreground for a model working place, where the right of man to healthy conditions in his toil is fully recognised. At Woburn men can be happy in their work, happy in their play, happy in their homes.
Those big workshops look like strong insurers and protectors of the community's welfare. They are like a benevolent giant trailing gently a host of homes.
The shops have various pleasant surprises for a visitor apart from the marvellous machinery and the well-planned operations. There is a social hall which can seat 200 folk, and a dining-room where 500 can be served comfortably.
There is smooth organisation for all manner of sports and social entertainment. Occasionally the large dining-room is used for dances. Life goes with a bright swing in and about Woburn.
The word amenities has a savour of old-fashioned genteelness—especially the kind known as Victorian—but it remains a good word nevertheless. Some etymologists say that the root of it lies in the Latin for love—a passable opinion, for does not the word mean things lovable, agreeable, pleasant? The
Well, Woburn has a wealth of amenities for body and soul—in the cosy homes which have space for gardens, the clean streets, the playgrounds, the facilities for that allroundness of life which is the ideal sought by reformers in many countries.
Woburn merges into Moera (which must not be pronounced “Mo-ee-ra,” with accent on the “ee”). There is a line of division, but who could pick it? Such a line may be like Euclid's “length without breadth” or Euclid's “position without magnitude.” So Woburn is more or less Moera, and Moera is more or less Woburn.
Yet the streets of Moera have some distinctiveness, due to a town-planner. They curve about, and in and out, in a manner which rather fascinates a stranger, for he may wonder now and then whether he is going or coming. It is a plan which should promote sobriety, for one could well imagine a fuddled and muddled inebriate doddering and dithering for hours in the maze at midnight.
Together, Woburn and Moera have between 6000 and 7000 residents. In that locality the Government built more than 300 houses a dozen years ago. Later on, the Railways Department provided welcome help in home-making. It bought a large area of farmland, which it subdivided for dwellings. To-day the hand of the Government is again busy in the building of many houses in this locality.
Several streets have their wide footpaths planted with pohutukawas, which are already old enough to flash their crimson sprays in mid-summer. What a noble spread they will make as the years go on!
In another part of the Lower Hutt are streets which bear the names of native trees—Kowhai, Ngaio and others —and do not bear them in vain, for each road has its own lines of distinctive trees. Could there be a better way of showing a helpful interest in native trees? Evidently the residents take a pride in those tree-planted streets which are a joy to wayfarers, on foot or in vehicles.
The Waiwetu Stream, which meanders through Woburn and Moera on the way to the Hutt River, is being educated. Of course there are plenty of streams in New Zealand which should be left in their natural wildness, but the Waiwetu is not one of them. This was a
It was delightful to chat with blithe young boys and girls who were frolicking homewards from the modern school of Woburn (or Moera). They had plenty of cheerful advice to offer when the photographer began to look about for subjects. They suggested various papers in which the pictures should be published. They had no shyness about facing the camera; it was all part of the day's fun. One felt that they belonged to the modern age, where miracles are every-day affairs, but they still had the fresh and buoyant spirit of youth, the carefree joy of living which the older folk envy. Well, they are lucky to be living in Woburn (or Moera).
Of course, not all of the Railway Workshops’ huge register live in Woburn. When the new enterprise took over the personnel of the old shops at Petone many of the men had made their homes in that town. Others reside in various parts of the Valley, and some belong to the city of Wellington, but about a thousand are in houses of Woburn and Moera and thereabouts. With the march of time many more will have homes in this area, for the workshops will continue to grow, and the industrial development nearer to the sea will expand.
The mind's eye can easily see very important functions of those well-equipped workshops in the defence of New Zealand. Think of that enormous gold-dredge which was made in sections at the Railway Workshops of Addington, Christchurch. About 3000 tons of steel were used for that dredge—as much as went into the structure of the U.S.S. Company's steamer “Maori.” If such a feat can be achieved at Addington, what about Woburn, which is planned for much bigger things? The Woburn workshops have already a very strong part in the foundation of modern New Zealand from various viewpoints, and the finger of destiny points to a larger place.
So one goes away from Woburn with a thoughtful mind.
Most of us know what to do with the face which Nature in a kindly or malevolent mood has endowed us. If this knowledge is lacking, no doubt some thoughtful and well-disposed person will some time or other give some sound advice as to its best employment—even if it may involve immersion in a useful culinary utensil. A most unfamiliar use for a man's most noble ornament was, however, recently revealed by a West of England paper, which caused consternation in local railway circles by gravely stating that “in our fastest streamlined expresses, touching 100 miles an hour, a passenger who puts his face out of the window increases the strain on the engine by 15 horse power.” Assuming therefore that the Coronation express is travelling at 90 m.p.h., how many faces, or in more scientific terms, how many square feet of face protruding from the windows would be necessary to bring the train to a standstill? Had the L.N.E.R. realised the braking potentialities of the human face—particularly the large wellfed variety possessed by the majority of the business men patronising the streamlined expresses—the safety measure adopted of signalling these trains two sections in advance might well have been dispensed with. Now this fact is generally known, it is fortunate perhaps that that part of the window which opens on the latest coaches affords too small an aperture to enable some overambitious individual to project some more massive portion of his anatomy and thus cause the locomotive to explode in a praiseworthy endeavour to overcome the suddenly increased air resistance.
(”Railway Gazette,” 11th March, 1938).
My name is Eugene Clinkerton-Hythe, and I never dream. That must be clearly understood, because some rather odd things happened yesterday which I really think I ought to tell you about. In fact, altogether it was a most peculiar day.
It began before I woke up—or, rather, when I woke up. You see, I thought it was the alarm clock, but it wasn't. It was the telephone. Why the telephone should ring when I set the alarm clock was a problem I was not prepared to wrestle with at such an early hour in the morning. Because, although it was five minutes past my usual time of waking, there had been no sound or movement from my three and elevenpenny alarm clock; it reposed in the tin bath by my bedside in the exact spot I had placed it the night before. Here I might mention that I find it necessary to place the clock in some sort of tin receptacle so that when it rings the vibration will cause it to dance around the tin and thus add to the general cacophony so that I am sure to wake. In comparison the sound of the telephone was but a mellow tinkle, yet it had been sufficient to arouse me.
As I placed the receiver to my ear a strange voice greeted me. “Good morning,” it said.
“Good morning,” I replied civilly—or at least as civilly as I could. I am never at my best in the morning.
It appeared that the person on the other end of the line was the Postmaster-General. He had heard, he told me, of my inability to wake, and was therefore instituting a new service to telephone subscribers. This was the official opening.
I thanked him, much cheered, and sauntered pleasantly into the bathroom. I turned the tap. Strangely enough the water was hot, and I revelled in the unaccustomed luxury for quite a while.
Returning to my bedroom I found further things to puzzle me. It may seem a trivial thing to you, but to me it was a matter of intense moment; it was more than peculiar—it was positively uncanny. My studs were in the exact place I had left them overnight! And my clothes, which in the morning I invariably find inside out, were neatly folded. It was a simple matter, then, to dress, and this I did, and made my way downstairs, three and a half minutes ahead of schedule for the first Monday morning on record.
There was a somewhat heavy mail on my plate, which in itself was surprising. I opened the first letter; it was from my landlord. It appeared he desired to reduce my rent some fifteen shillings a week, and enclosed a cheque for a hundred and twenty-three pounds since he wished to make the arrangement retrospective from the time I moved in. He added that he had been grossly overcharging me, and if there were any repairs, alterations, or additions I required he would be happy to place himself and his funds at my disposal. For a moment I toyed with the idea of throwing out a couple of new wings, but decided against it. After all, we Clinkerton-Hythes are not an ostentatious family.
I turned to the second letter. It was from the Income Tax Department, pointing out that their assessment of my income did not tally with my own figures. They very generously gave me the benefit of the doubt, remarked that obviously I was the best judge, and returned the sum of fourteen and a penny.
The third letter was from a man with whom I was involved in a motor smash. He wrote from hospital, deploring the unfortunate occurrence, hoping I was quite unhurt, and offering me any reasonable recompense for the inconvenience he had possibly caused me. I made a rapid mental calculation. Fifty pounds should be sufficient. After all, we Clinkerton-Hythes are not a mercenary family.
As I reached for my hat the telephone rang again. It was the manager of the cheese-paring factory where I work, an individual whom I had come to regard, in my kindlier moments, as a direct throwback to the days of the Spanish Inquisition.
“Hello, Clinky old, boy,” he said “have a good week-end?”
I gave a non-committal reply, and we chatted for some time along those lines.
“Well, well,” he said at last, “don't hurry down to the factory. There's very little to do this morning.”
I thanked him, and rang off. A kindly fellow. Maybe my judgment of him had been somewhat at fault. But I was not inclined to accept his friendly offer. My duty, I well knew, lay with a particularly fractious Stiltern, and we Clinkerton-Hythes are not the ones to shirk the stern call of duty. I caught my usual tram.
Now there is a person on my tram who invariably sits next to me. He has what the police, I believe, call a motive. Over my shoulder he reads my morning paper. He reads it avidly, and looks annoyed when, as I sometimes do, I turn over quickly to thwart him. He breathes heavily in my ear, too, which is merely an added discomfort.
Yesterday morning he sat next to me, as usual. I glowered at him. He responded with a smile, and cheery good morning. Out of his little attache case he produced two copies of the morning paper. One of them he handed to me; the other, with a word of apology, he commenced to read himself. A kindly fellow, you would say. Maybe I had misjudged him, too.
The morning frittered itself away pleasantly. The morning tea was hot, and there were cream biscuits instead of the usual water biscuits which I have been told on so many occasions that I can take or leave. Apart from this odd incident nothing of real moment happened until half past eleven, when the telephone rang again.
“Mr. Clinkerton-Hythe?” a voice enquired. I admitted the fact, whereupon the voice informed me that I had overdrawn my account at the bank by twenty-seven pounds eighteen shilling and elevenpence. I expressed my regret.
“Oh, tut tut,” said the voice pleasantly, “it's of no consequence. Not the slightest. We just thought you'd be interested to know. Our reserves are tremendous. We place them entirely at your disposal. Please continue to use them whenever you feel inclined.”
I thanked him. For a Monday morning things were going remarkably well. And then I remembered that I—had arranged to take my aunt to lunch—I do so once a year. We Clinkerton-Hythes stick together. Usually my aunt and I retire to a small vegetarian cafe where my aunt picks at nutty things and flourishes her ear trumpet at me. Usually she lectures me severely about my intemperance, my lack of steady friends, my excessive smoking, and my inordinate capacity for losing large amounts of money on horses that have a great deal of promise but no fulfilment. It is a trying hour. Usually she endeavours to persuade me (unsuccessfully, I admit) to join the Society of Indoor Amusements, Ludo Section.
I met my aunt. She had, I noticed, discarded the button boots and the ostrich feather in her hat, and was wearing a comparatively inconspicuous tailor made costume.
“Eugene,” she said, “I'm tired of nuts. Let's have a slap-up lunch at the Splendide.”
Over a couple of cocktails she told me a few racy stories, and gave me a tip for the fourth race which afterwards proved to be correct.
A kindly old lady.
In my excitement at seeing my aunt I had quite forgotten about my car, which I had left in the main street. After lunch we searched it out. It was just as I feared. The car was parked over a fire plug and a tram stop, opposite a cart entrance, and a full three feet from the kerb. Six traffic officers guarded it. They raised their hats as we approached, and one of them explained that my car was such a menace to navigation that they had hurriedly called out extra men to see that nothing untoward occurred. I thanked him, and asked if there was any charge for such service.
“Oh, no, no,” he replied, “none at all. That's what we're here for.”
By this time, of course, I had ceased to wonder at anything.
The rest of the day passed extremely pleasantly. I won six raffles, a lottery, and a sweepstake. I was very rude to a number of people I dislike intensely, and on each occasion they admitted the justice of my remarks.
In the evening I went to the theatre. Two people behind me commenced to talk rather loudly. On the arm of my chair was a button for such contingencies. I pressed it. Within a moment an attendant was by my side. I explained the position.
“Two muzzles? Certainly, Sir!”
Whereupon the two persons behind me were trussed to their seats unceremoniously. Gags were inserted in their mouths, and over each of their faces was placed a piece of chain mail which kept their features rigid.
From time to time I turned and nodded to them pleasantly. After all, we Clinkerton-Hythes are nothing if not courteous; we observe the manners of our times.
Yes; it was, without doubt, a most peculiar and a most enjoyable day. I could only wish there were more of them.
But that was yesterday. This morning I woke, as usual, to the tune of my dancing alarm clock. It was not until I reached my place of employment that I discovered it was still Monday.
Now, according to all the laws of Time, it should have been Tuesday. I can't understand it—can you?
Memory is the essence of Experience mellowed in the vat of Time. It is not appreciated until the years have given it the zip and zest of age. It is not for the young who choose the rough-edged ale of Actuality. It is for palates sere and serene which sip and savour in the ingle-nook. When the flame of youth has been regulated by discretion; when Time nips at joint and tendon; when the mind begins its stock-taking and Ambition's tyranny is waning, then out comes the bottle of Memory. The cobwebs are brushed aside, the dust is blown off its neck and gently, almost reverently, the cork is eased out. A sip rolled on the tongue, insinuated over the palate, and allowed to trickle down the swallow, and up rise those vignetted visions which are Nature's compensation for bald heads, stiffening joints and a leaning towards upholstery.
The wise keep their visions under their hats but the unwise prattle of the Past and the young say: “Let's go; the old fellow's at it again.” Naturally the visions of departed youth, clarified and brightened by long and gentle fermentation, appear preferable to the unmatured product of the Present. Thinking of yesterday may breed dissatisfaction with to-day. The coloured motley of Retrospect may make the workaday garments of the Present look drab and dull. But, knowing all this, I yet admit that:-
And what do I find in Memory's book that's not in the Turf Guide or at the Squawkies?
I see a hill-meadow on a misty morning and a bunch of horses, shadowy in the haze, standing head to tail and rolling restive eyes at the ominous bridles that swing in our hands. I see Hell's Bells, the rebel of the bunch, lift his tail and twitch a wary hock. I see the white of his walling eye as he pivots on his heels and, with a derisive scream, flings himself over the broken turf. I see him lead the bunch—tossing heads and streaming manes—into the mist of morning; brave, swift shadows, with the grace that makes you hold your breath. I see them next—bitted and saddled—docile yet proud. I see a cavalcade streaming up hill—leather creaking, bits rattling, hoofs pounding like the beating of muffled drums. Music? Symphony of Saddle, hymn of hoofs, march of freedom. Yes—or so it seems in retrospect.
It's sundown and a line of sheep trail over a hill in a moving white chain. Two magpies swoop back and forth over a weeping willow at the edge of the stream. The woolshed is beginning to blur and the old dray with its shafts turned up looks like a cat reaching for a bird. The cook-house looks warm with its square of illumination plastered on its darkening face. Bald-headed Joe stands at the door and bangs a tin plate with a fork. The angelus never sounded sweeter. A bull bellows dispiritedly from behind the homestead. Bald-headed Joe answers with a final tattoo. He is the original pattern from which have been cut all station cooks who ever turned a flap-jack that could be used as a saddle blanket. And when he dies, it will mean that sheep and cattle raising are being conducted from town by beam wireless. Euclid would have said that all Joes are the same Joe. He always comes from Bristol and has invariably been to sea. That is why he takes to the land. He never laces his boots and is ever tripping himself up on the tags. His trousers seem to hang to his hips mainly by accident and a piece of string. By some miracle, defying the laws of gravity and decorum, they never quite get the drop on him. He possesses the only bottle in the world that never becomes empty however much is taken out of it. He never hurries except when his “long-horn” moustaches catch fire over the stove and he dashes to the water barrel to submerge them. He is bald, bulbous and pontificial, and carries with him the autocratic dignity of “the last of the line.” Joe is a memory which will last until memory passes.
Face To Face With Facts
Many of the stout lads who took a hand in our pioneering toil in New Zealand thought nothing of a tramp of two or three hundred miles with swags on their backs. There was no chance of a motor-car lift in the days of the Sixties. There are men still living who can recall walking nearly the whole length of the South Island, in the days before roads existed. And there were hundreds of gold-hunters who swagged it across the Southern Alps even before the Arthur's Pass-Otira Road was made.
This story refers to a period of seventy years ago, soon after the Arthur's Pass road had been made, and when the Golden Coast was at the height of its treasure-hunting. The narrator was my old acquaintance the late James Capper, of Hiropi Street, Wellington; old sailor, soldier, digger, bushman, whale-hunter, bullock-puncher, and half-a-dozen callings besides. He had come out in the late Fifties from London in the ship Rose of Sharon—you can't imagine so sweet a name on the bows of a modern liner, luxury-cruiser, or tanker. Signed on then for the period of a cruise in a British brig-of-war, the Elk, to the South Seas. Next came some service in the Militia in the Maori War. He fought in the battle of Titi Hills, at the Mauku, and later transferred to the Land Transport Corps, in the march into the Waikato, as far as famous Orakau.
Well on to his nineties when he yarned of his early days, the oldtimer's memory was as keen and lively as ever. He took his two tots a day of good Jamaica—the best medicine in the world, he said—one in the forenoon “to steady me hellum,” the other in the afternoon “to keep me on me course.” He was short and stoutly built, sturdy and round, like Dickey Barrett, as described by Edward Jerningham Wakefield, or my old Whakatane acquaintance Ben Biddle, the New Zealand Cross man. When Capper died, his sons fulfilled with filial fidelity his last request to scatter his ashes on the waters of Cook Strait—a proper old sailor's grave.
The veteran's talk one day of our many koreros went back to an adventure of 1869, and the memory of that famous American-built clipper of the seas, the ship Blue Jacket. It began with the great rush to the West Coast diggings.
“When the news came of the rich goldfields at Hokitika in Sixty-five,” he said, “I was in a kauri timber felling camp on the Great Barrier Island, after a lot of soldiering and sailoring. The talk was all of the Coast and buckets of gold dust, and nuggets as big as your fist. So nothing would do me and a lot of other young chaps but we must set off for the diggings. Away we sailed in a cutter, forty of us, the Auckland cutter Eagle, built at Mahurangi. We went north-about, round the North Cape and sailed safely into the crowded river mouth at Hokitika. Very little luck about there for us. All the other fellows were picking up the gold, and it was going into the pubs and dance-halls of the gold town hand over fist. I went on to the Grey, and got a job there — a jolly wet one, too, poling boats with supplies up the river to its tributary, the Arnold, that comes out of Lake Brunner.
“Well, there we were toiling hard in those heavy boats when word came along one day from the other side of the range that two wool ships at Lyttelton were waiting to get crews for London. Most of the sailors cleared out from their ships those days and made for the diggings, just as they did in California and Melbourne. They were so hard up for sailors, those ships, that they were offering £80 a man for the run to London. So I thought: ‘Here's big money offering, and it's years since I was home and saw my mother. I'll be off to Lyttelton and ship.'
“There was another sailor chap, a mate I'd picked up—I've quite forgotten his name—and he, too, had had all the gold-digging he wanted. So we decided to go together and walk across the Southern Alps by the Otira Road and Arthur's Pass and across the Canterbury Plains to Lyttelton.
“Off we started with our blankets and gear and tucker for the big walk. On the way to the Taramakau River (the one that Tom Bracken used to call the ‘Terry McKow') we came up with a Scotsman who was driving two pack-horses. He packed supplies to the road camps along the track— they were finishing the road from Canterbury then. I remember we lived
“At the Taramakau ford we came to grief. I lost my two poor mates, the sailor and the packer. We didn't reckon on any danger; the river was low, though very swift, and running in several streams. It was a dirty white, discoloured from the Alpine glacial ice and silt, you couldn't see the bottom in those snow rivers.
“The packer, Scotty, got on the bigger horse of the two, and took the sailor up behind him, and I followed on the pony. They were a few yards ahead of me, when, to my horror, their horse seemed to sit down—he'd slipped on a boulder. The sailor clutched the other man round the neck, and over both of them went and they were whirled away in a moment. I couldn't help them in the slightest.
“I got out of it safely by giving my wise little horse his head and letting him pick his steps through the swift current. Once over the river, I got to Blake's road-contract camp, and got some men, and we searched for our mates. We found their bodies four miles down the river. The curious thing about it was that their horse got out all right—he was quietly feeding on the river bank a little way down.”
Capper mourned deeply that tragic loss of his good mates. That wild bad river the Taramakau was accursed among the West Coasters. Many a swagger had gone to his death in its icy waters. But it was not often that horsemen came to grief. He continued his narrative:
“Well, I went on alone. At Kelly's camp, the next place, there was a little old foreigner, a Sardinian; he'd been an army bugler and fought in the times of Garibaldi—like my old friend Rowley Hill, of Auckland—and now that I think of it, he was very like Rowley—small, nuggetty and tough, and plucky as they make ’em. They called the little Sardinian ‘Tantara-ra-ra’ at the camp, because he still had his bugle and he kept tootling away on it at all hours. We chummed up and we went on together. We camped near where the Otira township is now, and went on up the Gorge. I remember to this day the freezing chill of the Otira River.
“We tramped through the Gorge and over Arthur's Pass. Then down and across the big river, the Waimakariri. It was running in five streams, about a mile across the streams and shingle altogether. We camped in a bit of the mountain-beech bush near the Bealey, and trudged on down, up and down, down to the plains. We met the gold escort coming up from Christchurch—three or four mounted men, armed, and an express trap; coming over to carry the gold from Hokitika. They didn't keep the escort going very long, I believe. It was easier and quicker to send the gold away by sea.
“Every now and then on that long tramp we'd meet swaggers, sailors most of them, all bound for the diggings. And everyone that we met I'd ask about wool ships at Lyttelton and the pay. Soon the £80 we'd heard about on the Coast dwindled to £20. Well, I thought, even that will do; I want to get home to see my mother that I'd not seen or written to for so long.
“I tramped through Christchurch, very weary; didn't stop, but went right on over the Port hills by the Bridle Track to Lyttelton and straight to the wharf. Well, there a famous big wooden clipper ship was lying, the Blue Jacket, American-built and then under the Liverpool White Star flag. She was ready for sea, loaded with wool for London. I went on board and asked about signing on. But she had shipped all her crew a day or two before, and all they'd signed on for was £4/10/- a month. Well, says I, I wouldn't leave New Zealand for that pay anyhow, so here I stay. I saw the Blue Jacket go to sea. Then I went down to Pigeon Bay, on Banks Peninsula, back at bush work once more, for a sawmill. Later I shipped aboard a coasting ketch, and ran one on shares— and lost her, too, in a terrific gale in Lyttelton Harbour and was all but lost myself.
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“Now, this is the curious part of it—it was jolly lucky for me I'd taken so long on that tramp across the West Coast, and was too late to ship in the Blue Jacket. For why? Because news came from London that she had been burned at sea that very voyage—burned off the Falkland Islands, and nearly all her crew were lost—adrift in boats and never heard of again. The captain's boat was picked up by the barque Pyrmont, after seven days; he had the 35 or 36 passengers with him, but the sailormen in the other boats perished— and I'd have been with them no doubt. Spontaneous combustion was the cause —some damp wool among the cargo. I was well out of that fine clipper, the Blue Jacket.”
With the revival of active railway construction in New Zealand it is of interest to recall that half New Zealand's total mileage of railways was built between the beginning of the ’seventies and the middle ’eighties. It is of interest, too, to look back to that period of intense activity in railway building, remembering that, per head of population, New Zealand had a greater mileage of railways in the ‘eighties than it has to-day.
Railway construction was commenced as early as 1850 in both New South Wales and Victoria.
In New Zealand, a railway to connect Christchurch with Lyttelton was mooted as far back as 1851. A battle of routes, however, occurred; and, when that was settled at long last, the Provincial Government's legislation called for validating General Government legislation, and that in turn had to await the Royal Assent. With all these delays it was 1860 before the Railway was commenced. In the ensuing years the Canterbury Province enjoyed so great a secondary prosperity as a result of the Otago gold rushes—then at their height—that it was able to write £50,000 off the £300,000 loan while the works were still in progress. The first, section from Christchurch to Heathcote (constructed by plant brought up the Heathcote River) was opened on 1st December, 1863, and the final section (including the 129 chain Lyttelton Tunnel) exactly four years later. The Christchurch-Selwyn line (commenced in May 1865) was also completed in 1867.
Many of the other provinces had grandiose schemes for railway construction. As early as 1862 the General Government had found it necessary to point out to the Marlborough Provincial Government that an ordinary revenue of £1,700 and a precarious land revenue of about £28,000 annually, scarcely justified the raising of at least a £60,000 loan for the purpose of building a Picton-Blenheim railway. In 1865 an Act was passed authorising the construction of this railway by private enterprise, but that project lapsed.
Even in Nelson, where the Provincial Government deservedly enjoyed a reputation for caution, the Provincial Council, in 1863, requested the Superintendent to apply for permission to borrow £300,000 for a railway to the South. The Nelson and Cobden Railway Act was passed in 1868, but here, again, it was found impossible to satisfy English capitalists as to the agricultural potentialities of the districts through which the line would pass en route from Nelson to Grey mouth.
In 1863 the necessities of the Maori wars (and in particular the need for prompt access to the Waikato River) led to the projection by the Auckland Provincial Government of the Auckland-Drury Railway (22 miles) with a branch to Onehunga.
As early as 1863 Southland, too, had sanctioned a quarter of a million loan for jetties, a Bluff-Invercargill Railway and an Invercargill-Winton “tramway” (i.e., a railway with wooden rails). After a temporary suspension of construction in 1864 owing to a shortage of funds, the Bluff line was completed on the 5th February, 1867, and the Winton project four years later.
By the end of 1863 provincial debentures had become unsaleable, except at a heavy premium as compared with General Government debentures. The Central Ministry recognised something would have to be done, and announced that any province wishing to borrow for railways and other purposes should first set aside portion of its waste lands sufficient for the ultimate paying off of the loan.
(Photo., W. W. Stewart collection). The old station at Auckland. (From a photograph about 1894.
Eventually the Consolidated Loan Act, 1867, was passed; which required all future loans for provincial purposes to be raised through the General Government and charged on the Consolidated Fund. As far as possible General Government loans were to be substituted for existing provincial loans; and in the future no loans at all were to be raised by Provincial Governments.
General Government action was certainly called for, as the organisation of the provinces was showing itself incapable of dealing with the railway construction problem. The failure of Otago to secure the co-operation of Canterbury in constructing a road bridge over the Waitaki River showed how difficult it was to carry out necessary work when more than one province was affected. There was also no comprehensive plan for the whole Colony on major issues; and Canterbury had adopted a 5 ft. 3 ins. gauge for its railway, while Auckland, Nelson and Otago were working on a 4 ft. 81/2 ins. gauge.
In 1870 New Zealand had a European population of just under 250,000, and there were only 46 miles of railway operating in the Colony. Then, on the 28th June, Mr. (later Sir) Julius Vogel proposed (and the House later embodied in the Public Works Act of that year) the construction over a period of about ten years of some 1,500 or 1,600 miles of railway at a cost of not more than £7,500,000, plus grants
Mr. Vogel suggested that a “betterment tax” should be levied on private properties benefitting by railway construction; but this idea, though it was revived from time to time, has always proved too unconventional for the Governments of the day. He also suggested—with almost equal lack of success—that the Crown Lands should be so administered (by lease or sale) as to pay a large part of the cost of the roads and railways.
The earlier railway authorisation Acts fixed a maximum cost per mile for most of the projected lines. The figure of £3,500 to £4,000 per mile (including rolling stock) appears to have been based on an estimate made for the New Zealand Government in 1870 by the London engineering firm of Sir Charles Fox & Sons; this covering the use of native materials for sleepers, bridges and buildings, 30-lb. per lineal yard iron rails, 350 ft. radius curves, 1 in 40 grades, six-wheeled locomotives with not more than six ton axle loads, 31 ft. long six-wheeled passenger carriages 8 ft. wide, four-wheeled 15 ft. long goods wagons 8 ft. wide, and a service speed of some 15 m.p.h. Actually, four-wheeled carriages 7 ft. wide, however, were constructed at first, and the first trucks were only 61/2 ft. wide.
The wisdom of this provision of a maximum cost per mile is highly debatable. Certainly on some routes it encouraged the engineers to find the most economical alignment. In other cases, however, it brought down the initial cost at some prejudice to subsequent quick and economical working: and on many routes carrying heavy traffic the capital sunk in these “surface” lines has had to be almost completely scrapped. The one in forty grades and the five chain radius curves due to the fewness of cuttings and embankments on the Auckland-Mercer line were levying so heavy a toll in operating costs that some of these curves had to be straightened and grades eased as early as 1885, while the question of improving the alignment and easing the grades throughout the whole of this route had to be faced up to in 1911. Similarly, the one in fifty grades on the Dunedin-Mosgiel portion of the Dunedin-Clutha Railway had, in the interests of quick and economical working, to be eased before 1914; and the narrow Otepopo tunnel, south of Oamaru, limits the width of rolling stock on the South Island Main Trunk Railway to this day. Official reports of 1871 and 1873 show that a governing gradient of one in forty— instead of one in fifteen (with operation by expensive Fell equipment) actually adopted—could have been used for the Wellington-Wairarapa line if it had not been necessary to keep down the cost within the limits set by the Act. Finally, an easing of the grades on the Auckland-Kaipara line (1 in 33) was undertaken in 1885, and a more complete easing in 1937, while a commencement of grade easements between Wanganui and Marton was made in 1936.
Under the Railways Act of 1870, the cost of the Auckland-Tuakau Railway (36 miles)—with a ruling gradient of one in forty—was fixed at £4,000 per mile; that of the Dunedin-Clutha Railway (52 miles)—with a ruling gradient of one in fifty, but with two lengthy tunnels—at £5,000 per mile; and that of the Picton-Blenheim Railway (19 miles)—also on severe grades —at £3,500 per mile. At the same time the almost flat lines in Canterbury were authorised on a total appropriation basis and not a maximum cost per mile: viz., Addington-Rangiora (18 miles—£92,000); Selwyn-Rakaia (13 miles—£48,000); Timaru-Temuka (11 miles—£67,000). It is by no means clear why rather higher rates per mile should have been allowed in the comparatively easy Canterbury country than in the more difficult country already mentioned.
The following authorisations were made by the First Schedule of the historic Railways Act, 1871:—
(1) Under Section 16 of the Railways Act, 1872, construction was not to be commenced on any new line until the Chief Engineer had reported that it was likely to pay working expenses from the date of completion. As the result of an adverse report under this section construction of the Auckland-Helensville line was discontinued from 1873 to 1876. The Helensville-River-head line—giving rail portage between the Kaipara and Waitemata Harbours— was completed in 1875, but the Helensville-Auckland line not till 1881, the Riverhead-Kumeu Section being closed in the same year.
(2) This had been substituted for the Auckland-Tuakau project of the previous year as giving better through transport to the Waikato—in its avoidance of certain navigation difficulties south of Tuakau and in providing a terminus at a point tapped by the main road.
(3) Originally a tramway with wooden rails was contemplated. The estimate allowed an insufficient amount for the crossing of the Oroua and Rangitikei Rivers—even with the wooden rails.
(4) High cost accounted for by heavy tunnelling in difficult country. The line was commenced just subsequent to the heyday of the Tuapeka gold rushes.
(5) Construction delayed till 1875. Additional lines commenced in 1871 under the authority of the Third Schedule of the 1871 Railways Act were:—
Rangiora and Kaiapoi to Oxford (31 miles)—to tap the only accessible timber in Canterbury.
Rolleston to Malvern (35 miles). Waimate Branch (4 miles). Racecourse-Southbridge (19 miles).
Under Section 11 of the Railway Act, 1872, the purchase of the Dunedin and Port Chalmers Railway from the Otago Provincial Government was authorised. This was carried out in 1873 at a price of £210,000 for eight miles of line. The line (which had originally been built by private enterprise) was then already in operation.
In the 1873 Railway Act there were authorised in addition to the lines already mentioned, the Mercer-Newcastle and southwards line; the Waitaki-Timaru line (42 miles) (£220,000); the Gore-Clutha (48 miles) (£260,000); and the Dunedin-Moeraki line (55 miles) (£430,000). Construction of the last mentioned line was held up till 1874 on account of the difficulty of finding, a suitable route out of Dunedin. At length a practicable route (with 71/2 chain curves as against 9 chains between Palmerston and Oamaru, and mostly 15 chains between Dunedin and Clinton) was found involving a 1,400 yard long tunnel at Mihiwaka, not to mention several other tunnels, one in fifty grades, and a difficult piece of sea-cliff excavation.
The policy of fixing a maximum cost per mile also encouraged the use of very light rails (mostly 40 lbs. to the yard), very light bridges, four-wheeled trucks and carriages, and very light locomotives (mostly with an axle load of six tons or less—or only about two-fifths the present-day main line standar—with correspondingly low speeds.
The Railway Acts of the early ‘seventies also contained power for the letting of contracts for the construction and/or operation of Marlborough, Auckland and Otago provincial railways (with an interest guarantee of 51/2 per cent, per annum).
The Railway Act of 1871 (with its 1873 amendment) charged the costs of railway construction against the Provincial Lands Funds. In 1876 (when there were 718 miles open for traffic) the abolition of the provinces placed all the earlier constructed railways in the hands of the General Government
(To be continued.)
New Zealand's Wonderland At Orakei-Korako
(Rly. Publicity phots.)
The illustrations show some of the notable sights at Orakei-Korako. (1) The Atiamuri Bridge across the Walkato River. (2) The Aniwhaniwha Falls, Waikato River. (3) The approach to the sights by pontoon. (4) and (5) Two views of Inspiration Point. (6) A Boiling Pool. (See article on p. 32.)
Electrification of mainline railways is not proceeding very rapidly in Britain. For suburban operation, however, electricity is, by degrees, replacing steam. We were, by the way, privileged the other day to inspect new equipment intended for the Wellington-Paekakariki and Wellington - Johnsonville electrifications. This consisted of a complete electric locomotive, and seven sets of electrical equipment and material for the mechanical parts of similar locomotives to be built and erected in New Zealand; and (for the Johnsonville route) six two-coach electric trains. The English Electric Company is supplying the electrical equipment, and Robert Stephenson and Hawthorns Ltd. the mechanical parts of the locomotives. The High Commissioner for New Zealand recently travelled from London to Preston to inspect the work. The locomotives are designed to haul 250-ton passenger trains at speeds up to 55 m.p.h., and 500 ton freight trains up to a speed of 45 m.p.h. They are of 2-8-4 wheel arrangement, and, like the electric coaches, present a remarkably spick-and-span appearance.
Britain's latest electrification is that of the Newcastle and South Shields tracks of the London and North Eastern Railway, on the D.C. third-rail system, with eight-car electric trains worked on the multiple-unit principle. The Tyneside zone is one of our busiest industrial areas, and to facilitate traffic working, the routes lying alongside the River Tyne, on its northern bank, were electrified some years ago. Opportunity has now been taken to modernise the whole of the track equipment on these lines, and 132 new passenger cars have been provided. Train services, too, have been accelerated. In consequence of these efforts, the electrified tracks centred on Newcastle, rank as the most up-to-date in Britain. The new cars, of steel construction, set an entirely new standard of comfort for suburban travellers. They have a gay exterior finish in red and cream.
Permanent-way renewals on a huge scale are being undertaken by the Home lines. On the London, Midland and Scottish Railway, for example, £2,500,000 is being spent on track renewals, and, 96,000 tons of new steel rails are being purchased. Altogether, about 600 miles of track (including points and crossings) are being completely relaid. L. M. & S. engineers are studying amended designs of track components, and the use of mechanical appliances to facilitate the handling of the heavy material involved. They are also experimenting with new devices making for travel smoothness and quietness, one invention being a rail having a patent joint, with the ends of the rails fitting in each other and not abutting as in the standard type of track. Extended use is also being made of short two-hole fishplates, instead of the standard four-hole plate. By using the short plate, it is possible to place the sleepers supporting the rails much nearer to the rail ends, and by so doing obtain a shorter bearing at the joints.
Great improvements have been made in recent years in automatic train control systems. In this effort, the Great Western is a pioneer among Home railways. Automatic control is already in operation on some 2,600 miles of track between London and Plymouth, and London and the Midlands, and extensions of the system are now in hand. On completion of these works, the whole of the company's 2,840 miles of trunk routes between London, Penzance, Fishguard and Chester will be equipped. So, too, will the 2,900 locomotives running over these routes. The G. W. automatic train control system was invented by members of the company's staff. The arrangement enables an engine-driver to receive an audible warning in his cab as to the position of each “caution” signal. If the line is clear, a bell rings by the driver's side. If not clear, and the signal is at “caution,” a siren blows and the brakes are automatically applied throughout the train. The device is operated by the signalman, who sends his sound message to the engineer via an electric wire connected to an iron ramp placed between the running lines near each “caution” signal; and an iron shoe, shaped like an inverted “T,” fitted under the engine so as to make contact with every ramp.
Clean and bright passenger stations can do a great deal to popularise rail-way travel. One way of adding to the attractiveness of stations consists in the cultivation of pleasing flower gardens, and the placing of flower boxes and hanging baskets full of gay plants on platforms and in other suitable positions. The Home railways encourage this activity by promoting each year prize contests for the best-kept stations, and with spring in the air the railroadmen's gardening activities are now in full swing. Another way in which the Home lines are popularising rail travel takes the form of providing special motor car parks at the principal city and suburban station. The daily charge for parking at stations in or near large towns or industrial areas in normally one shilling for motor cars and sixpence for motor cycles. In rural areas, Where space is usually less valuable, these charges are halved. The station car park has proved a great boon to the regular passenger, who drives to the station in the morning, leaves his car in the railway “park” all day, and picks it up again in the evening on his return. Seasn tickets are issued for this purpose at reduced rates.
We live in an age of competitions. A somewhat different contest from the station gardens effort is the “Sales Contest” recently introduced by the Southern Railway. With the idea of increasing passenger and freight revenues the various stations on the system have been grouped into leagues, and each station has been advised what revenue it will be expected to earn during the year so as to produce a total increase in railway earnings for 1938 of about £250,000. The scoring is based on percentage of increase, and silver cups and shields are to be presented to the winners in each of the company's six divisions. In addition, there are cash awards for the best sales efforts by individual members of the staff. An interesting feature is that each station displays a special calendar showing the progress made week by week.
The largest Home railway—the L.M. & S.—is this year to celebrate the one hundredth anniversary of the opening of one of its most important sections, between London and Birmingham. The earliest length of the London and Birmingham Railway — the first trunk line out of London — was opened from Euston to Boxmoor (242 miles) in July, 1837, but the line was not opened throughout to Birmingham until September 17, 1838. Another important centenary which falls this year is that of the opening of the North Union Railway, from Wigan (of music - hall fame) to Preston, in October, 1838. This opening established continuous railway communication between Euston Station, London, and Preston, in Lanca-shire, a distance of 216 1/2 miles. In May this year, also, there occurs the centenary of the opening of the Manchester and Bolton Railway, the first completed section of what later became the Lancashire and Yorkshire system, itself eventually swallowed up in the L. M. & S. group; while October will see the one-hundredth anniversary of the opening of the Sheffield & Rotherham Railway.
Unsettled conditions to-day affect the running of that unique passenger train, the “Trans-Siberian Express,” although the through working is regularly set out in the official time-tables. This train, scheduled to travel halfway round the world, and occupying about a fortnight on the journey, actually affords the longest rail trip possible anywhere. With rail connections between London and Moscow, the throughout ride from the metropolis to Vladivostock is one of 7,719 miles. The ponderous locomotives mostly burn wood fuel. If you can afford it, you may secure really comfortable accommodation on the train. A restaurant car is carried, offering a light continental breakfast of coffee and rolls, and substantial mid-day and evening meals. Certainly, this must be the most novel, as well as the longest, of all railway rides!
Stories in stones
(Photo., M. B. King.)
The Memorial to Tamati Waka None.
Of all the historic spots in New Zealand, the Bay of Islands must, I think, take first place-especially Koro-rareka, or Russell, as it is now called. Here it was that the first Dominion capital was established; the notorious whaling station mentioned in so many of the old books-“The Cruise of the Cachalot,” for instance-and here were enacted so many of the events that live in New Zealand history. Old Russell does not forget its early life. The old bullet-riddled church, which has seen so much bloodshed and strife, and which claims to be the oldest church in New Zealand, lies sleeping tranquilly in the hot northern sunshine, surrounded by cool trees, flowery borders, grassy mounds and white headstones.
Death by drowning seems to have been the fate of many a brave seaman, for several places are indicated merely by the name of the victim, his ship, and the inscription, “The Sea Gave Up Her Dead.”
In another place a different story is told-that of the courage and patience of the pioneers who first came to the new colony. Here sleeps Hannah King Letheridge, the first white woman to be born in New Zealand. Through what experiences did she pass before reaching the ripe age of ninety-one? Little or no comfort was her lot, inadequate protection, and always the fear of the savage natives who might spring from the bush surrounding her home at Oihi Bay with the intent of murdering any white person in sight. Yet there is evidence of friendly natives here, too, in the big monument erected to Tamati Waka Nene, Maori chief, friend of the white man, who with his aid, greatly assisted in bringing the natives to regard the European people not as foes, but as friends. This stone towers above the smaller ones and bears the praise which he so justly deserves. Round about him lie other members of the Ngapuhi tribe, whose children's children inhabit the Bay to-day.
Children's graves there are in plenty-happily mostly old ones. One tells of a little Maori six-year-old, himself unable to swim, leaping into the tide to rescue his tiny white brother, and both perishing; another of an adventurous kiddy who met his death on the storm-beaten cliffs of Cape Brett, while chasing wild goats which were, alas! surer footed than he was; and yet another of the beloved daughter of a Maori chief whom Atua had called ere she had learned to toss her poi balls.
One finds a more recent date on the stone of Judge Martin, one of the greatest judges New Zealand has ever known, and at one time the youngest Crown Prosecutor in the British Dominions. I remember him well as one of the kindest and most understanding friends that a child, especially a boy fond of the sea, could ever wish for. Close by rests Captain Bert Cook, the last of the whalers, the tale of whose adventures on all the Seven Seas would fill more than one volume.
The oldest stone there-its date, 1836, just discernible-and some few others are made of soft sand stone; the lettering has been blurred, beaten off, and with the lettering has gone the stories. Men of the law, a naturalist, a United States Consul, fishermen, soldiers, sailors, and natives, lie side by side, their ranks all made equal in death.
Photo., M. B. Kins.) The peaceful old church at Russell, Bay of Islands, New Zealand.
Near the gate the gallant sailors and marines of H.M.S. “Hazard” lie in their last sleep-the sailors who fought and died to protect the people of Korora-reka when the Maoris sacked and burned the little village on 11th March, 1845. Although the graves of these brave men are amongst the oldest in the churchyard, and little is written of them, they are not forgotten. Theirs is not one of those whose headstone let-tering has been smudged with the wind and rain of the passing years. Each time their annual cruise brings the ships of the New Zealand Division of the Royal Navy into port, seamen'are told off to go ashore and paint the simple white wooden slab and railing which mark the spot in the corner of the old churchyard where they all lie buried. A short distance away lies their commander, on the spot where he fell fighting half a dozen natives single-handed.
One passes out through the gate again with the verses on the “Hazard” memorial still running through one's mind:
Rly. Publicity photes.)
Multicoloured Terraces across the Waikato River.
In the morning of the world the gay gods of the Polynesian pantheon had a high old time. After mighty Tane had rent apart Rangi and Papa-the Sea and the Sky, and laughing Maui had fished New Zealand up from the sea, these care-free titans set about making a pocket world of the new land. They modelled huge mountain masses, gouged out deep ravines and valleys, filled lakes with clear water and laid out courses for rushing rivers, made glaciers and snowy caps for towering peaks and packed them all close together. But when it came to the thermal regions they gave their wildest fancies full play. They left the primal engines that forge a world in throbbing action. They left a litter of boiling springs, spouting geysers, smoking terraces, and the whole blazing profusion of Nature's fireworks. But one of them was an artist, dreaming of colour-the first of the Impressionists. He was satisfied with the crazy quilt of steam and fire and eeriness the others had worked and he was delighted with the sylvan beauty of lake and forest in which they had set their fantastic handiwork. Still, he wanted a more scintillating display. He wanted a prodigal show of hues and tints, a riot of rich colour, a chromatic orgy. In this mood, he took a rainbow, broke it into its thousand colour-gems, splashed them all over a steaming valley of the green Waikato River and the place became Orakei-Korako.
A Trace of weariness, of the boredom of riches often enters the minds of tourists and holidaymakers. There is the good story of the little miss who was having her first joy-cruise in a pretty harbour. Soon she said: “I think we'll go back now, Mr. Boatman, after all, when you've seen one wave, you've seen them all.” I can imagine this feeling overtaking folks who are “doing” the Rotorua thermal wonderland; but I can promise a speedy cure. A visit to Orakei-Korako is a specific for sight-seeing repletion.
The two main ingredients in the magic philter of Orakei-Korako are these: first, the riot of colour; second, the ever-present soft-green waters of the bordering Waikato River. In no similar area on the whole surface of the earth can there exist such a comprehensive range of all the hues known to the eye of man. It is this prodigal display of colour riches that distinguishes newly opened up Orakei-Korako from all other thermal show places.
I always think that in much of the official publicity about the Rotorua region, too much stress is laid on geyser and fumerole and not enough on the woodland beauty of lake, road and mountain. The journey to Orakei-Korako is a panorama with cinematographic qualities. We had continual trouble with my trusty friend of the camera. It was difficult to keep him in
However, at the turn-off of the road one begins to see life in earnest. There is a long and gradual ascent of a hill to a place which really deserves its name of Inspiration Point. In our land of lovely prospects, this takes a high place.
Hundreds of feet below the road is the Waikato River, seen as a narrow-ribbon of changing greens, lightening from beryl to chrysolite, darkening from emerald to jade. To describe the vista is beyond the reach of any expert in adjectives. It has the values of an aerial “shot,” and distance is lost in the sweep of valley and hill and the endless rounded downs which are distinctive in regions of volcanic origin.
The next piece of excitement was the roadside pause at the Whakaheke rapids and the Aniwhaniwha Falls. This is a dress circle view of an exquisite rainbow cascade and tremendous and tumultuous rapids which are awe-inspiring in their majestic display of the force of foaming waters.
We pass close by many more spectacular cataracts and each the picturesquely situated tea-house at Orakei-Korako. We have arrived.
It was necessary for my friend of the camera to change plates as he had taken so many pictures already, and we went for a stroll on the near side of the river towards the house of the old chief Rameka whose native-built canoe was aforetime the only means of transit to the new wonderland. Since my return I have looked up Hochstetter and here is a brief excerpt from the words of that great old explorer:
“In swift course, forming rapid after rapid, the Waikato plunges through a deep valley between steep-rising mountains … Along its banks white clouds of steam ascend from hot cascades falling into the river, and from basins full of boiling water shut in by white masses of stone.” He was only able to examine Orakei-Korako from one side, however, and the major wizardry of the place he never saw.
It is fitting though that the greatest hot pool of the place should be named after him. Its ultramarine waters are-enclosed in a formation which is a geometrically correct rectangle. Sceptics, will swear that tools have been used. I would like that great old man to come back now and go over on the roomy pontoon with its powerful cables which effortlessly carries a small army of sightseers across the swift waters. The-tea-house is backed by a grove of tall Lombardy poplars and a walk along the road here is recommended to see the coruscating display across the river.
Orakei-Korako is a blaze of colour, as I have said, and great terraced slopes of orange and blue, pink and mauve go-down to the water's edge. In some places they form gargantuan eaves where the multi-coloured hot deposits have reached the cold green torrent. The river provides a special magic. It is ever present. When the eye turns from some dazzling jewel of coloured sinter, its quiet green gives rest and: (Continued on p. 35).
We did the sights methodically and the tour is a revelation. There is no monotony and replicas of other attractions are few and far between.
After an easy dozen or so steps the orchestra strikes up. The first item on the programme is Te Koro Koro o-te Taipo-“The Devil's Throat.” This is a forbidding crater with an underground geyser which ejects regularly. You can gaze down its horrible throat about thirty feet and the sinter deposit is of a reddish colour to add grimness to the scene. As you watch, the boiling flood rushes out, going on with its work of assembling the most amazing flesh-coloured terrace.
Then in quick succession come marvels in clusters all within half minutes of each other; the Royal Mint terraces; Cupid's Bath; a hot pool neatly christened “Man Friday Foot,” for its outline is exactly that of the chart of a chiropodist's advertisement; the Emerakl Isle Terraces, one part green, and the other orange, and as might be expected, fierce heat between; the Emerald Pool which deserves its pretty name, and for good measure there is a pool whose shape is a perfect heart.
Now we reach a flat piazza which makes an auditorium for the Diamond Geyser. This is situated half way up a cliff and shoots to the top a fountain whose waters are clear with a gem-like sparkle. Next door to it along the same ledge is the graceful geyser known as “My Lady's Lace,” which plays regularly and is forming a dropping veil of white and delicate Valenciennes of finest quality.
I should observe that part of the explanation of the reds and blues, the pinks and yellows, creams and purples, of these varying terraces is simply due to the reaction of the temperature on the mineral laden waters. The effect is bewildering because of the multitudinous variety of tint. The next surprise is the monotonous thudding, underground but woefully close, of “Queen Mary's Turbines,” but everything seen so far fades into the background of memory as a turn of the path brings the first glimpse of the greatest white silica terrace in the world.
A thousand similes occur to the mind. It is 200 feet long and 25 feet high and is fronted by a broad terrace, white also, but variegated with opaline pools and iridescent patches. The white of the big terrace is crystalline; it has the appearance of a frozen waterfall; a snow Niagara, but the fretted alabaster of its downfall, and the grace of festooned stalactites, the complex traceries of ivory and silver fretwork, invest this miracle of nature with its own loveliness; it is unique; it has no peer.
Out on the flat are two perpetually bubbling geyser pools neatly named Anthony and Cleopatra. A walk takes us to a look-out where both terraces can be seen in all their glory. The far one is called the “Artist's Palette,” and is a world sight.
A day could be spent gazing from here, for such a prodigious turmoil of colours, such a blazonry of brilliant hues has never before been assembled in one corner of the earth's surface. On the hillsides are Joseph's Coats, Harlequin costumes, gleaming slopes with purple backgrounds, greys, vermillions, and a main theme of white and yellow. The spangled mosaic of these silica floors would give Cezanne or Picasso a feeling or despair.
Put baldly, the scene makes one colour drunk and you take in your stride such strange curiosities as the Mushroom Pool, a veritable gigantic molten mushroom; the Meringue Pool producing faithful replicas of meringues in stone; The Wine Cup, a carven beaker of Grecian design; the perfect petrified Elephant; the Old Wahine; the Juliet Pool; the Mystery Pool (which has just arrived); and the homely hissing of the Henry Lawson Pool (While the Billy Boils). By way of colour contrasts you should see the Cardinal Pool which is apparently of red wine, and an unnamed terrace which is the exact colour of polished Aberdeen granite. Be reminded that the prevailing green of the pools chimes in with the river which, as the paths turn, you see below you now and again. Just as a gesture of riches to spare, there is here and there a flash of lapis lazuli, a blue as bright as the posters of the Mediterranean. That is the final effect of Orakei-Korako, the colours are those of the artist's tube and the lithograph; the brilliance is so dazzling that the result seems almost overdone, as if the stippling carried too much polychromatic pomp.
But, remember, there is always the quiet green of the river.
I have reserved for the last, the sight rather tritely called “Aladdin's Cave.” This is the crowning glory of Orakei-Korako. The entrance to this enormous wound in the surface of Mother Earth
From the entrance the dimensions of this enormous cavern cannot be realised; but it is 160 feet from edge to floor, and rather more than 160 feet from floor to the great arching roof. An audience of a thousand could be comfortably housed and I can visualise this as the ideal temple-a natural Grand Opera House for the real music of the Maori race. From the top step of the first stairway, a figure at the bottom looks pigmy-like. But the descent does not seem long. Here in the depths lies the veritable “Place of Adorning,” a little lake of hot, clear green water. An annex leads to a vale of steam and dark mystery.
But the splendour of this great cave is in its walls and its enormous vaulted roof. Dark blues, grave purples, dazzling reds, yellows and greens, are patterned everywhere. Strangely tinted rocks and blocks of alum lie about the floor. No picture theatre architect in the States, or temple builder in the East ever conceived such extravagance of design or such peacock magnificence of ornamentation. Yet, in spite of the gorgeous decoration of this underground palace, its vast size and the remoteness of that lofty roof, give it dignity and regal spendour. “Aladdin's Cave” will not do as a name, the gems in the Ara bian legend were inferior.
We cross to the comfortable teahouse, and my friend of the camera starts changing plates again. There is some daylight still, and certain views that he remembers simply must be got on the way home.
One rather pleasant phenomenon is recalled as we near Rotorua. There was none of the familiar sulphur odour at Orakei-Korako. The explanation is that it is much the oldest geological formation in the whole district and has entered upon a phase in which the yellow element has practically disappeared. As is a habit with facts, this rather spoils the plot of my legend with which this article begins, but it does not matter.
The chorus of the Rotorua Thermal Revue is a bevy of transcendent beauties, and Orakei-Korako is the red-haired girl of them all.
Mrs. Hills, an Auckland lady who not so long since celebrated her hundred and second birthday, doesn't seem to have much time for the modern girl. Interviewed by a pressman and asked what she thought of the cigarette habit for young ladies she replied: “The hussies! We didn't smoke when I was a girl- ’ cur mothers saw to that!” But girls didn't do lots of things when Mrs. Hills was young which they do now and think nothing of. As for cigarettes, the safe way is to follow the fashion and smoke either Riverhead Gold or Desert Gold, the two most popular brands with the “Roll-your-own” brigade. They are toasted, which remarkable process purges them effectually of excess nicotine, and at the same time greatly enhances their flavour and aroma. For men smokers who prefer the pipe to the cigarette there are three toasted blends of superlative excellence-Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Cavendish and Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog). Smokers ar