Lake Rotoroa, Nelson, South Island, New Zealand.
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A Reliable Travellers Guide
Contents
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2/12/37.
The New Zealand
Railways
Magazine
Magazine
“
For Better Service
Service Copy.Registered for transmission by Post as a Newspaper.
Vol. XIII. No. 7.
Wellington,
New Zealand.
October1, 1938
There is an old saying that “One half of the world doesn't know how the other half lives,” but with the opportunities for travel that now exist, the right answer to that saying is: “Why not?”
This thought comes from the activities of such associations as the Travel Clubs of New Zealand through which visitors from the eastern and western worlds pass, and in passing leave with us graphic word-pictures of what is happening amongst the peoples of the countries they come from. These cross-currents of travel impressions supply an education of the best kind, for whereas most books of reference tend to become out-of-date, besides usually omitting the things in which we would be most interested, the traveller, fresh from his home land, can speak of what he sees and knows and can be questioned on the points that whet our curiosity.
The Wellington Travel Club recently had the honour of entertaining one of the most notable travellers to visit New Zealand in Dr. Kalidas Nag, from the University of Calcutta. Dr. Nag is editor of “India and the World,” and as a leader in the movement for the unification of India, and a world-traveller of wide and varied experience, was expected to bring a message that would deserve attention. In this he exceeded even the highest hopes of his hearers. His speech ranged from the music of the Vedas spoken in the original Sanscrit—the first language in which man could communicate with man—to a comparison between the countries and peoples of the modern world.
Dr. Nag is a missionary of peace and understanding amongst peoples of different races, a thinker thoroughly versed in the history of human progress, and a speaker whose eloquence tells of a mind alive to feel and quick to express the thoughts of one fit to be the friend of all the world. His visit is of more than passing interest to New Zealand. It has already made a deep impression on some of our leading writers, who were fellow guests with Dr. Nag on the occasion mentioned, and may be expected to divert at least a portion of their efforts into even more fertile fields of research and action than those upon which they are at present occupied.
Contacts of this kind serve to stimulate the sense of community of interests between one nation and another upon which it is not too much to say the whole future of civilisation depends.
Visitors like Dr. Nag are an inspiration, and as they invariably carry away happy recollections of what he described as “New Zealand's greenery and scenery,” they are the fore-runners of many more travellers whom this Dominion is only too happy to welcome.
Railway Progress In New Zealand
General Manager's Message.
With the approach of New Zealand's centennial year, I think most people will be looking back over the years within the range of their personal experience to make comparisons between conditions in the earlier parts of the century they know and those existing to-day.
I have been doing this so far as the Railways are concerned, and as forty years is the normal term of a railwayman's direct association with the service, I have taken 1898 as a starting point for a brief review.
The graph pictured on the opposite page gives a visual indication of some of the principal developments referred to.
Commenting on the working features of railway operating depicted on that chart, it should be noted that in the past forty years the passenger traffic has grown from 6,708,725 passenger journeys in the year 1898 to 22,441,212 in 1938, the cost of the coal used in the respective years has increased from £48,820 to £690,029; likewise the cost of stores and material purchased by the Department (apart from coal) has grown from £207,000 to £905,694. Wages paid by the Department have increased from £623,267 to £4,902,226. In the same forty-year period goods tonnage handled in the individual years has grown from 2,628,746 tons to 7,516,049 tons. The capacity of the wagons provided to carry the goods has been increased from 54,398 tons in 1898 to 267,559 tons in 1938, or by nearly five times, whilst the length of our railway lines has been increased only from 2,055 to 3,323 miles.
These figures will, I think, make it plain what we mean when we talk about the “increased density of traffic—particularly when it is realised that the number of wagons has increased from 8,768 to 27,235, the number of passenger vehicles from 543 to 1,481, and that the train miles have increased from 3,666,483 to 12,777,852. In other words, whilst the route miles of track available for the trains to run on have increased in the ratio of about 1½ to 1, train miles have increased in the ratio of 3½ to 1.
There has also been a notable increase in the locomotive tractive effort available. In 1898 it was 1,879,449 lbs. as compared with 10,684,559 in 1938.
The number of staff has increased from 6,051 members in 1898 to 22,963 members in 1938. But how different is the service they have to operate!
In 1898 the largest locomotive running on our Railways (the “U” class) weighed only 63 tons in working trim, as compared with 136 tons of our present “K” class engines.
In 1898 there was no Westinghouse brake, there were no electric headlights, there was no tablet system, no automatic signalling, no electric lighting of cars, no train control system; and of course the many amenities our modern stations provide were unthought of, and multiple-unit electric trains, rail-cars, sleeping-cars, hot and cold water, and steam heating in carriages, as well as many other improvements that the present-day user of the rail enjoys, were still to be realised.
So when the “old-timers” tell of the problems that confronted them in the earlier days of the Railways, those who work and use the services to-day can see the greater scale upon which railway transport is worked, and know that our problems are certainly no less than were theirs.
An examination of the development of traffic in the intervening period of this skeleton forty-year review shows a remarkable consistency in the upward trend. It gives assurance that in the years to come the many improvements now in hand to make possible still higher standards of transport service to the public will be fully appreciated by a practical recognition of the value of the Railway Service to the community as a whole.
General Manager.
Chart Showing Progress
of The
of The
New Zealand Government Railways
(
ByJames Cowan .)[All Rights Reserved.]
Colonel J. M. Roberts, N.Z.C., the last officer of the N.Z. Armed Constabulary. (Died at Rotorua, 1928.)
Redoubts and blockhouses, garrisoned by detachments of New Zealand Armed Constabulary, stood sentry on strategic sites, often a commanding hill or a round mound above a river bend, along our borders of settlement until the early ‘Eighties. There were chains of these posts, guarding communications and protecting outlying settlements. A redoubt was built at Kawhia as late as 1883, long after the Maori wars had ended, for there were inter-racial disagreements and the Kingite national feeling was strong. But there cannot be many survivors of the active-service period, when hundreds of blue uniformed A.C's., though officially styled constables, served through hard-fought campaigns, and performed all the duties of regular soldiers.
An association of old comrades of the Permanent Force, the lineal descendants of the N.Z.A.C., was formed in Wellington about two years ago, but its oldest members' services did not extend back to the founding of the corps in 1867–68. In Auckland and Taranaki and the Bay of Plenty enquiries no doubt can still bring forward some with war service, although sixty-six years have passed since the last shots were fired. Old campaigners sometimes keep the last enemy at bay for a century. There will be Maoris among the long-lived few, for many lads of the Arawa and other tribes enlisted as Constabulary in 1869–70.
It was not until 1884–85 that the Armed Constabulary were finally demobilised as a corps, and most of the members who did not go into the civil police became artillerymen for the new forts constructed at the chief ports of the colony.
It was in 1867–68 that the N.Z.A.C. Field Force was organised for war service under a Government scheme which paradoxically sought to demilitarise the fighting forces. That brilliant idea the Government owed chiefly to Mr. St. John Branigan, a good Irish policeman from the Victoria and Otago diggings, fields which attracted many an excellent officer. The Royal Irish Constabulary were taken as the model, and Mr. Branigan was given wide powers as Commissioner in command. The veterans of the various companies of Rangers and Rifles and military settlers who did all the rough bush work after the Imperial troops had been withdrawn, found themselves under a system of control which was sometimes very distasteful.
First-rate policeman, but no military man, Mr. Commissioner St. John Branigan was totally out of sympathy with the soldierly aspirations of the officers and men who had already seen service. The inspectors and sub-inspectors preferred the military equivalents of their rank, major and captain; and it must have been rather confusing at first to find a company described as a “division.”
The A.C. Redoubt at Opunake, Taranaki, in 1881. (From a drawing.)
Mr. Branigan always tried to impress on his subordinates the fact that they were not soldiers but constabulary, but when these “constables” marched into action under such leaders as Whitmore and McDonnell, Von Tempsky and Roberts, Newland and Northcroft, Goring and Gudgeon, they quickly forgot that they were police, and fought as hard as any Ranger or other rifleman. It is to the Commissioner's credit that he worked hard to provide the force with the most efficient arms procurable; he knew that police must possess up-to-date weapons and equipment.
* * *
There is no need here to recapitulate the bush-warfare services of the Constabulary. That is in the histories. It was at its best, probably, in the Urewera Country campaign of 1869, a very difficult and all but unknown region in which the Maoris had all the natural advantage, for they were defending their native wilds.
After that invasion of the mountain land, Colonel Whitmore wrote of his men that six months of continuous drilling and campaigning had made
The Constabulary Redoubt at Onepoto, Lake Waikaremoana. (From a photo., 1874.)
Then in the period when peace had been restored, but when the various frontiers were still guarded by the A.C. in their earthworks and stockades, the force entered another field of usefulness. Sir Donald Maclean, the Minister of Defence and Native Affairs, remembering the lesson of the military road through the Highlands of his native land after the “Forty-Five” set the force to work at road-making into the interior. He believed that the pick and shovel were as necessary as the rifle in assuring peace, by opening up the country for military movements and for settlement.
So everywhere on the frontier we saw road-making parties at work in the ‘Seventies and early ‘Eighties. Many of the Upper Waikato and West and East Coast roads then laid out and formed by the grey-shirted workers are now the main highways. One is the road from Tauranga to Rotorua, Atiamuri and Taupo; others are the Cambridge-Rotorua road, and the present mountain road from Taupo to Napier.
Thus the soldier-policemen became navvies. The extra pay for this field work did not prevent some grumbling, and the Defence Minister deemed it necessary to issue a memorandum to officers commanding explaining the necessity for this strategic road-making and enjoining upon all members of the Force cheerful and loyal obedience to the new dispensation in frontier control. There are on record, following upon this, reports from numerous officers describing the excellent progress of their roading duties, and the good and willing work done by the various parties.
In my young days in the Upper Waikato the bell tents of the Constabulary road camps and the parties of stalwart whiskered campaigners who laid down the Snider for the pick and spade and shovel were a familiar sight. The Government roading served the needs of travellers and far-out farmers in many places at a time when it was badly needed, and it was not the least of the national duties faithfully discharged for which the old Field Force should be remembered.
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
The Whakaheke Rapids on the Waikato River, North Island, New Zealand.
Naturally the old hands who had served with regular troops in the Wars of the ‘Sixties did not relish the Constabulary organisation at first. One of these veterans was Captain Swindley, afterwards a settler at Te Puapua, near Whakatane. Swindley being a cheerful soul and incorrigible joker, realised the humorous side of it all. Capital soldier, skilled bushman and scout, he was a popular man with his comrades in the field. But his special aversion was his superior officer, Commissioner Branigan.
Swindley amused some of his friends with pen-and-ink drawings depicting himself in the uniform of a London policeman with a lantern at his belt and a baton in his hand. This illustrated the fate he professed to believe would overtake the A.C. Field Force. He had his photograph taken in that costume. The caricatures were circulated from field post to post, and at last the story came to the ears of Mr. Branigan.
The rest of the story is told in a MS. diary of the service period kept by the late Captain G. A. Preece, N.Z.C., who sent me a copy of it.
Swindley, he wrote, was at the Constabulary Depot on Mt. Cook, in Wellington (where the Dominion Museum and Art Gallery now stand), when he was sent for by Mr. Branigan.
“I understand, Captain Swindley,” he said, “that you have been caricaturing the Force by exhibiting some pictures showing what you were and what you expected you would become, the last in
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
The new standard railcar, “Aotea,” which, in a recent trial run from Napier to Wellington (200 miles) covered the distance in 4 hours 36 minutes running time.
Captain Swindley, who was never at a loss, replied: “Oh, no sir. In my various occupations I have had my photograph taken”; and he took a packet of small photo-cards from his pocket.
“Here is one showing me as a digger on the West Coast. Here is another as a surveyor's chainman. The third shows me in A.C. officer's uniform. The fourth is as I found myself in the field, with a shawl around my loins, a carbine over my shoulder, a revolver in my belt, and a haversack on my back. I heard that you were going to demilitarise the Force, so I thought I would make my collection complete. These are very old, so you can see that it was with no intention of bringing the Force into ridicule.”
Mr. Branigan took it in good part, Preece continued, and no more was said about it at the time. Probably the Captain agreeably entertained the Commissioner with some of his funny stories. But Swindley could not leave well alone.
The Commissioner's official life was brought to an unfortunate close about the beginning of 1871; his mind became deranged, the effects of an old sunstroke. Preece wrote in his diary (July 14th, 1871), after recounting the incident just related:—
“I am afraid Swindley must be held partly accountable for poor Branigan's condition. Some time after the Wellington interview, he sent the Commissioner the following extract from Mark Twain's ‘Innocents Abroad’:
“‘But perhaps the most poetical thing Pompeii has yielded to modern research was that grand figure of a Roman soldier, clad in complete armour, who, true to his duty and full of that stern courage which has given to that name its glory, stood to his post by the city gate, erect and unflinching, till the hell that raged around him burned out the dauntless spirit it could not conquer. We never read of Pompeii without the natural impulse to grant to him the mention he so well deserves. Let us remember he was a soldier, not a policeman, and so praise him. Being a soldier, he stayed, because the warrior instinct forbade him to fly. Had he been a policeman he would have stayed also, because he would have been asleep’.”
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
Interior view of the signal cabin at Wellington, New Zealand.
“This quotation,” said Captain Preece, “was sent to Branigan shortly before he went off. Swindley said he thought it might have been this that finally sent him off his head.”
An Appreciation.
On the occasion of his retirement from the Railway Service, Mr. W. A. Williams, Auckland, writes to the General Manager of Railways, Mr. G. H. Mackley, in the following appreciative terms:—
“Having recently retired from the Railway Service on account of ill-health, I take this opportunity to express my deep appreciation of the courtesy and kindness always accorded me by the officers of the Department, particularly the Maintenance Staff of the District Engineer's Office, Christchurch.
“My period of service with the Railway Department was a most happy one, and it is with feelings of sincere regret that I have to terminate such pleasant associations.
“I assure you that I shall continue to do my utmost to further the interests of the Department, and again express my appreciation for the happy years I spent in the Service.”
(By
)O. N. Gillespie .
Railway Publicity photos.
John Ruskin of the magic pen, had a sensitive appreciation of natural and man-made beauty which gave new eyes to mankind.
In our Marlborough Sounds, there is a bewildering array of gleaming waterways between land walls that range from gentle slopes to lofty peaks; there are worlds upon worlds of natural wonders, from bush-clad isles to towering cliffs, from jewelled waterfalls to beaches of yellow sands, from mysterious narrow inlets to opening gleaming bays. Nature has dowered many parts of New Zealand with similar riches; but the Marlborough Sounds would have brought joy to John Ruskin's heart. Here the scene is mantled with the work of humankind, and fragrant with history.
This article will try to explain a little of the distinctive charm of this wondrous New Zealand playground. I should add that the profusion of marvels in the Sounds forbids the covering of them all, and that this story relates to Pelorus Sound and its little sister, Kenepuru only.
Panorama of Marlborough Sounds from the top of Portage Divide, South Island, New Zealand.
The first step in becoming a sheepfarmer in Pelorus Sound is to learn to row a boat, the next to handle a launch. In the area covered by Pelorus and Queen Charlotte Sounds, which, as the crow flies, is not more than twenty-five miles each way, there are five hundred miles of coastline. The roads are waterways, and the front gates of the farms are little piers or landing places.
When we arrived, our host at “The Portage” had arranged for us to make the trip in the “mail boat.” This is a water-borne mixture of delivery lorry, mail van, and pleasure cruiser.
It was loaded with a miscellaneous collection of merchandise, mail-bags, and humans, and it proceeded to wander over the shimmering waters in the most purposeful way.
It is perfectly impossible for any stranger to preserve any sense of direction on such a journey as this. The drop scenes come and go, headlands are rounded and new coves suddenly open out, bewildering turns display sheepyards or a tall headland, and then the launch chug-chugs more slowly and stops. From the bush or hillside, or from the door of a pleasant homestead, someone hails, and appears with a mail bag or a parcel, and the exchange is effected for the mail-boat's
The spacious Tawhitinui reach showing Maud Island in the background.
“The Portage” on a sunlit winter day.
Hour after hour went by, but there was so much incident, the dissolving and changing beauty so ravishing on both sides of us, that we did not notice the time. In fact, in the Sounds, time has a habit of slipping by as swiftly as the smooth green waters seem to be gliding past our craft.
In Kenepuru Sound, pretty and popular accommodation houses of all sizes and kinds dot the shores. We could imagine what these shining seaways must look like in the summer season, with hundreds of happy holiday makers crowding every inlet, beach and hillside. But our trip was made in the winter, and I can conceive of no better winter pleasure resort or rest retreat than this windless, sunlit sea-paradise. It is useless to try to describe the charm in words; as someone has said it “is adjectivally impossible.”
From the broad verandah of “The Portage,” the first impression is of complete and all pervading peace. Effort, struggle, competition, hustle, and the other stern things of the workaday world, are miles and miles away, and somehow they seem safe never to return.
“The Portage” itself is modern in every respect, a many-roomed hostel with all the amenities of a city hotel, electric light, hot and cold water in the rooms, spacious lounges, dance floors, dining halls, bathrooms, and a large sun portico, on which, even on our winter day, sunburn would be easy.
Farmers arrive in launches for the monthly Union meeting at Homewood Bay.
Our picture shows the lay-out of this New Zealand Garden of Eden, and it is certainly an achievement of planned pleasure gardens and open-air playing grounds. I sought, though, for the reason of its purely personal atmosphere, and it might lie in this fact; the young son and daughter of our host are the fourth generation at “The Portage.” As with many others that I met in the Sounds, the memories of Mrs. Lawrence are of the real stuff of history, and behind her own recollections was another generation of stories she had heard about still earlier days.
As its name shows, “The Portage” was the original outlet from Pelorus Sound to Picton and civilisation. In the memory of living settlers, the Maoris rowed their canoes to the Pelorus Sound landing and carried them over The Portage saddle, full of pigs and other produce, voyaging then down Torea Bay to Picton.
When Nydia Bay was putting out daily tens of thousands of feet of timber, the bushfellers and other huskies rowed all the way down to The Portage, clambered over the divide and got to Picton for their sprees. They returned more or less refreshed, and it was natural that after a few years of hospitality The Portage farm owners thought that, in self defence, it was time to make some charge. Thus arose the beginnings of the present resort known not only throughout New Zealand but the wide world over.
It should be said that The Portage road is only one of dozens of these slender dividing land arms between
The beautiful bush-clad hills at the head of Tennyson Inlet.
Looking north from St. Omer, for instance, a four mile walk reaches the wide and handsome Crail Bay which by water would entail half the full journey along Pelorus Sound. At Elaine Bay in Tennyson Inlet, only a small flat needs to be crossed to land in the maze of the Croisilles. By sea, the journey would mean going clean out of the main Sound, rounding Francis Head, making the French Pass, and completing a journey of at least seventy miles.
We saw more of this fantastic handiwork of Mother Earth and the wayward sea, on the Saturday of our stay. We had our journey to the seat of the Farmers' Union monthly meeting, and it was a revelation of pioneer adaptability to unique conditions.
We started off from “The Portage,” and here and there stopped to collect folks who rowed out, or came in their own launches, or were gathered from their own landing places. Later we changed launches and the gathering slowly grew. “Homewood,” where the meeting was held, is a dream place. The homestead is up-to-date and calm, rushing streams go through the ample garden, and there are nikau palms, fruit trees in plenty, and groves of splendid native bush. Fowls are everywhere and the garden is a riot of colour. Our picture shows the scene.
The little dreaming bay was littered with launches, interspersed with row-boats of every description. I shall always remember one of these dingies putting off, rowed by a small lad and carrying half a dozen substantial passengers. There could not have been more than a half inch of freeboard and changing a half crown would, to all appearances, have meant a capsize.
Small boys and girls handle boats in the Sounds as if they were playthings, and they weaved in and out this fleet of launches with ease and confidence.
Of course, this concourse of little vessels was simply the Sounds' version of an assembly of motor cars and taxis at a suburban corner when there is a meeting or a party.
Delivering the mail at the head of Kenepuru Sound.
We left the meeting to carry on our voyage of discovery. We had already passed Nydia Bay whence came in the past tens of millions of feet of timber, we had taken a peep at bush-clad Fairy Bay, and had admired the tree-covered ridges and bluffs of North West Bay. Now the beauties of sight and scene multiplied every mile. We turned into the Tawhitinui Reach. On our left (I mean to port) were long, low hills terminating in the queer looking but aptly named Ram's Head. On our right (I mean on the starboard side) was the quaintly lovely triangle which is the peak of Maud Island, with the fine outline of a dry point etching. Before us there seemed to float islands of fern and tree, the prettiest of which is Tarakaipa. However steep the slopes have been, we have seen sheep looking for all the world like white birds that have just alighted. Now, as if by magic, the grass-covered sides give place to lacy bush and tree feathered headlands. The broad waters slowly narrow and take on utter stillness and the bottle-green smoothness of glass. We reach Godsiff Bay, where trees march down to the water's edge, except for a ribbon of golden beach outlining the curve of the bay.
Here we landed, took a picture or two, and boiled the billy. The stillness was profound, only broken by an occasional tui greeting the sunshine and the tiny twittering of a riro-riro. Several small coloured finches gave us a friendly call, flitted close and looked curiously, one perching cheerily on the camera. We were one million miles from office desks, tram noises, newspaper headlines and crowded footpaths.
We had to go, sadly enough, and so we set off for the head of Tennyson Inlet, the loveliest gem in the
(Continued on page 49.)
(By
Digby Wells
Map of New Zealand, published about 1820.
Aparagraph which appeared recently in the Press in New Zealand dealing with an old atlas owned by a North Island family resulted in many other people claiming to possess maps of the world as old, or even older. This matter of old maps is very interesting in this enlightened age, and although the early cartographers were a little astray, credit must be given them for the manner in which they charted the various countries with the crude means at their disposal.
The distinction of taking possession of New Zealand for the British Empire belongs to Captain Cook, and credit must also be given this great navigator for making the first complete map of the Dominion.
Reproduced on this page are two old maps, one of New Zealand published in 1820, and one of the world dated about the middle of the fifteenth century. The map of New Zealand was originally that of Captain Cook, but after he published it, it was amended and added to by whalers and traders. This map was adopted by the French in 1833, by the Dutch in 1835, and by Spain in 1836.
Cook first visited New Zealand over 100 years after the discoverer of the country, Abel Tasman. His orders after leaving Tahiti were to sail to New Zealand and examine the country of which hardly anything was known. He sailed around it and found that it was two large islands and not part of a great continent as had been supposed. Violent storms were encountered, but Cook was able to chart the coast. Cook first sighted New Zealand on October 6th, 1769, and two days later his ship Endeavour anchored in Poverty Bay. From Poverty Bay he sailed south past Cape Kidnapper as far as Cape Turnagain, but retraced his course and surveyed the coast of the North Island as he went north and west to Mercury Bay. The voyage was then resumed past the Firth of Thames, and sailing further north still, he discovered Waitemata, or Auckland. In due course he arrived at the cape which Tasman named Cape Maria van Diemen. He then continued southward, finding no harbours until he sailed into Queen Charlotte Sound without knowing he was in another island.
Map of the world, published about the middle of the fifteenth century.
From a nearby hill Cook first saw the strait that now bears his name, and realised that New Zealand consisted of two islands. After formally taking possession of the islands in the name of the King, he sailed round the South, and Stewart Islands. For much of the time he met rough weather, and although his map is accurate in the main, he apparently thought that Banks Peninsula was an island. He also missed the discovery of Foveaux Strait. On Cook's original map Stewart Island is shown attached to the mainland as a peninsula. The outline of this map corresponds more with the map accepted to-day than with the amended one of the early whalers and traders.
The old map of the world shows that New Zealand was not discovered at that time, and that little or nothing was known about Australia. It is remarkable that the great country of Australia should have remained so long undiscovered. Many maps published 400 or 500 years ago do not include Australia, but show open sea. Other cartographers in the same period show
One of the chief reasons why the old map-makers invented this southern continent was the common belief that there must be equal quantities of land in both northern and southern hemispheres in order to keep the world evenly balanced. As the area known to exist in the northern hemisphere was very much greater than that known in the south, the map-makers sketched in by guess work a large stretch of land such as they thought would balance the world, naming it Terra Australis (the southern land) or Terra Incognita (the unknown land).
As will be seen from the map of the world people of that time had a very hazy idea of what land existed in the southern seas. The map makes it clear that Australia was thought to be part of a vast continent reaching from the Antarctic. The map is astray, too, in its outlines of other world continents, notably South America.
Strangely enough there are maps published before the one reproduced which have upon them a land too much like Australia to be dismissed as mere fancy and invention. These maps were drawn by the French, who may have worked on information obtained from the Portuguese. About this time the Portuguese were sailing the seas north of Australia in search of new countries with which to trade, and it is possible that some Portuguese captain came across Australia and sketched part of the coastline.
At an inquest at Birmingham not long since touching the death of a young lady, Miss Madeline Merton, seventeen years of age, it was shown that the unfortunate girl fell asleep while smoking a cigarette in bed, the coroner remarking that notwithstanding the many fatalities arising from this cause people would persist in running “a very foolish risk.” Yes, smoking in bed is a dangerous habit—and so is smoking out of bed, sometimes! For habitual use of tobacco heavily charged with nicotine may completely undermine the health, and there are, unfortunately, only too many brands like that about! “Safety First” is a wise slogan, and the safe way for smokers is to smoke “toasted,” the five popular brands of which Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead) Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog) Cavendish, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold, after treatment by the manufacturers' exclusive toasting process emerge from it pure as tobacco can possibly be for the “bite” is taken clean out of them, and you can get a smoke absolutely unequalled for flavour and aroma and comparatively innocuous.*
(By
Rosaline Redwood
This is a true story of a pioneer's experience in Southland. Names only have been changed.
The Mataura River, with its widely flowing waters, swirled onwards towards the sea coast, now and then spluttering gleefully as it gurgled around the roots of some forest giant growing at the water's edge. The banks were a riot of tangled green lawyers, twining tendrils in a sticky mass over dense clamps of undergrowth, from which rose the huge brown trunks of the native rimu, towering their dark heads against the clear morning sky. The warm sun scattered spots of brightness, like confetti, through the cool dimness of the underbush, while the birds and insects sang and buzzed in happy harmony.
An inquisitive weka was viewing with interest a new, roughly cut track through the ferns, when suddenly it became affrighted and scurried to the nearby shelter of a dead fern tree, from whence its cheeky little russet-brown head was thrust into view, as a man on horseback rounded the bend.
Tom Mason rode carefully forward, picking his way between the tricky curled roots and stringy brown fern stumps. He had already had several spills, for the track was anything but smooth.
His young, eager face, openly revealed the facts that he was new to the country, and that his very soul thrilled at the unusual glory of the New Zealand native bush. He felt he could hardly be home-sick for smoky London, when his nostrils inhaled this new air so heavily laden with the peculiarly sweet scents of the bush. How much more pleasant the clear, rich music of the bell bird and the tui, than the screeching, jarring noise of the city.
“Here, Dobbin — whoa — whoa!” Tom's firm command startled the animal, as he suddenly drew rein.
The cold waters of the river were rippling in frothy bubbles round the horse's feet, and the thirsty creature eagerly stretched forward his head to drink.
Tom patted his neck and murmured reprovingly, “Well, old chap, you might wait a minute. I expect in another twenty years there will be a bridge here—but in the meantime I guess we'll both have to swim across.” He bent down to feel the rush of cold water against the palm of his hand and added uncomfortably, “It doesn't look too inviting—and it's darned cold.”
Dobbin seemed to understand, and whinnied nervously in response, as he gently muzzled his master's shoulder with a moist, velvety nose.
There was only one way to ford the river and have dry clothes at the other side, and Tom Mason had prepared himself for that way by providing a canvas bag. As he stripped off his clothes he methodically packed each article into the bag, and securing the flap, strapped the lot securely to the horse's saddle.
The tall, silk hat, the height of fashion for masculine headgear in the early ‘fifties, lay forgotten where he had tossed it, on a clump of fern. Glancing round, Tom's eyes fell on it, and a perplexed line settled between his straight brows. The bag was full, and anyway the topper would be ruined if it were crushed inside. Then he had a brain wave—he would wear it. Yes, that was the only thing he could do—he would wear it. He could easily keep his head out of the water as he swam.
Ruefully chuckling as he pictured what he would look like in a full-length mirror, he jammed the hat down over his ears, and blushingly hoped there were no inquisitive Maori maidens in the vicinity.
He tied the reins loosely to the saddle, and urged the animal into the water. With a friendly slap on the flank, and, “Gee up—Dobbin—get along,” the horse reluctantly took the
(Photo. by R. J. Cowan.)
The Taramakau River, Westland, New Zealand.
“Looks as if the old fellow was a better swimmer than I—I'm blessed if he isn't half way across”—his thoughts ran on smoothly, while outwardly he spluttered and gasped.
Ten minutes later Dobbin's feet had touched the hard stony bed of the river, near the farther bank, and soon he was wading up the gentle slope in shallow water. Tom watched the deep ripples spreading in wavering circles round the animal's legs, and as he pressed forward he called out encouragingly, “Bravo, old chap. I'll guess your hide keeps out the cold better than mine, though.”
At the sound of the familiar voice, Dobbin pricked up his ears and turned slowly round in the shallow swishing water, then suddenly—so suddenly, that Tom could not grasp what was wrong—the soft neigh ended in a terrified snort, the meek animal eyes were dilated with real fear—and he caught one wild flash of flying spray and heavy lashing legs, and Dobbin had reached the bank, and was floundering desperately and drippingly up the slippery bank on to dry land.
Dazedly the nude swimmer realised that it was his white naked body partly visible above water, and offset with the silk topper of shining black, that was solely responsible for the terrified performance. Dobbin might have recognised the hat—but certainly not the owner.
As he neared the bank, he waded cautiously forward; he simply must get to that horse—all the possessions he had in the world were in the bag strapped to the saddle. At a safe distance Dobbin stood shaking his wet body, but obviously still agitated and alert. Possibly he was puzzled, too, for his keen animal intuition could not mistake his master's voice, but that white creature in the river had inspired the very fear of the devil in him.
“Here, Dobbin, old fellow—whoa! whoa!” came coaxingly from Tom, as he rose right out of the water and crept up the bank. Worse still! The dumb creature's eyes widened again in renewed horror at the full-sized spectacle, and with heels flung wildly in the air he dashed like a maddened thing through the choking lawyers, stumbling blindly over fallen trunks, floundering onwards, and bruising a new track through the dense, untrodden bush.
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
Christchurch-Greymouth Express approaching Arthur's Pass, South Island, New Zealand.
Scratched and bruised, and with a gaping wound at the knee of his fore leg, at last he emerged into an opening, beyond which grew flax and toitoi in wild profusion. The dense bush was left behind, and Dobbin, deciding this was a haven, settled down to crop the long juicy grasses.
Back on the river bank, Tom Mason cursed his foolishness, and his horse, alternately. Here he was, a stranger in a strange country, and miles (for all he knew) from any camp or habitation. Certainly not an envious position. He looked down at his body and remembered he was stark naked. An ironical grin curled round the corners of his mouth as he considered the peculiar humour of things—alone, in unknown bush, and wearing only a handsome silk topper. Funny when one looked at it like that. Not so funny as he examined the bruised ferns and creepers which marked the track his horse had taken. How could he follow with bare feet, and he ruefully stared down at his blue legs and tender feet. “Darn that horse!” he muttered, “If I only had a few clothes, it wouldn't be so bad—I wouldn't mind being stranded in this rotten jungle then. If I want food and clothes I suppose I'll have to follow the brute. Oh darn!” And he glared down again at his white toes.
He had only gone a few chains when his legs were bleeding from many scratches, and sharp woody spikes punctured and blistered his
For hours it seemed, he had struggled onwards, falling often, creeping sometimes, and walking where possible. It was well past midday when he came to the open space where Dobbin had first halted in his mad flight, and his sharp eyes noted the freshly cropped grass, as he eagerly skirted the flax bushes.
He called softly, “Hey Dobbin—Dobbin,” and it was answered by a whinney to the right. Gingerly allowing only his head to be seen over the flax leaves, he called again. This time the dull plop, plop, on the damp soil assured him the horse was trotting towards him. His heart lifted thankfully, and he wanted to shout for joy, but instead he contrived to be cunning. The animal was also cunning, and when within a few paces from where he was concealed, abruptly stopped and sniffed suspiciously.
Tom was taking no risks this time.
With “Whoa—whoa Dobbin,” he sprang from his hiding place and clutched at the dragging reins of the bridle. The next instant he felt them jerked through his fingers, and saw them snap in half as Dobbin reared suddenly—then plunged forward again into the rustling flax and tussocks.
Disgust and dispair settled down on his tired young face, and the extreme cold was causing him to shiver convulsively. He decided he had better keep going on—and on—there seemed nothing else to do, and anyway he was hopelessly lost now, so he might as well follow the animal's tracks. Perhaps by night he might manage it.
Strange he couldn't help thinking of everything that was warm and cosy—thick winter coats lying useless in almost every home—warm blankets that no one wanted except at bed time—glowing fires….
His brain was becoming too fagged to think clearly as the day wore on, and he realised that his condition was becoming serious, but he tried not to think of his exhausted bodily pains, and determined that the feverish dizzy feeling in his head should not have dominion over him. So he struggled, shiveringly miserable, horribly sore, and still wearing his tall silk topper. It had been repeatedly torn from his head in the bush, but he had refused to leave it there—after all, it was all he had.
* * *
The sun was sinking low in a crimson-streaked sky, and the flax bushes had merged into a plain of yellow tussocks, when Tom Mason's fevered spirits rose dully at the sight of a
Mt. Rolleston (7,447 ft.) as seen from the Otira Gorge Road, South Island, New Zealand.
He placed his cold hand across his throbbing brow, and wondered that his head should burn so, when his body was shivering violently with the cold. He sank down exhaustedly on a tussock, too miserable from his nightmarish hours of scrambling, to care if the tussock's spiky stump felt like a hedgehog, and beyond thoughts for his blistered and bleeding feet. A peculiar peace began to soothe his pain-racked frame. Then he became alarmed—and with an effort roused his numbed senses from the pleasant feeling of nothingness. Perhaps he realised it would be the finish if he didn't make some weak effort to keep moving, and keep the fever, which was taking control, at bay. Dragging himself wearily upright again, he staggered forward towards the bright red and gold bank where the sun had vanished.
The sky was rapidly becoming darker and only a dim outline now showed where the tussocks swayed in a mocking, wavering line. Somewhere an owl hooted out it's hungry “More-pork—More-pork” cry, causing Tom to start nervously and raise his blood-shot eyes from the cutty grass at his feet. He stopped dazedly—was that a fire ahead? Perhaps he was going mad—yes—that was it. Mad people often saw the things their soul most craved for—he was mad. With a cry of anguish he started forward…. His feet seemed to get strangely lighter, then the whispering tussocks grew silent and distant, and he was sinking, sinking lower — lower — away from everything—no pain—nothing mattered—darkness….
* * *
The crackling fire leaped and fell casting queer shaped flares of light on the figures of two men, bending over a third still form.
Tom Mason opened weary eyes, and wondered why the glow of a fire could give such comfort. He stared into the kindly faces of two strangers, where he read relief and curiosity intermingled, and then his eyes centred on the warm grey blanket which enveloped his body, finally passing on in bewilderment to a crushed and torn silk top hat lying in the light of the camp fire. Oh—that hat! Then he remembered!
“All right, mates”—his voice sounded strangely thick and unreal, “I'm not an escaped lunatic, or anything like that—just give me something to drink—and I'll tell you what happened.”
An enamel pannikin was hastily held to his lips….
(By
G. N. Morris
(S. P. Andrew, photo.)
Katherine Mansfield.
On my rare visits to Wellington I do not fail to take a stroll down Tinakori Road. I go to reassure myself that a certain house is still there—that it has not yet been burnt or pulled down or even remodelled. I mean the house where Katherine Mansfield was born, just fifty years ago. Some years ago Eileen Duggan confessed that she could not pass this house without a stir of pain for the girl who lived there as Cassie Beauchamp. Quite recently O. N. Gillespie in this magazine has given us the dictum of a London journalist: “You can rest on your laurels in New Zealand now for a long time. One Katherine Mansfield is enough for you to produce every hundred years.” No doubt the average New Zealander will consider that statement an exaggeration. American and English critics, however, in dealing with the literature of this century, are unanimous in conceding a high place to K. M. She has been translated into at least eight European languages. The French indeed make definite claim to her, not only because she spent so many years in France and because she was buried at Fontainebleau, but also because they see in her own name—Beauchamp—an indication of a distant French ancestry. There is, too, a book of her stories in Japanese. This surely is world-wide recognition. I wonder when she will receive equal appreciation in her own country?
There was a story published as recently as 1935 in an American magazine. The writer had come to Wellington, as on a pilgrimage, and he went into a bookshop to make inquiries. He asked to be directed to a Katherine Mansfield shrine. Let us try to be fair. Let us concede that probably the bookseller was annoyed because this queer man was not a customer. His reply was: “They've put up a gate in her memory. You'll find it at the top of Molesworth Street.” Even after that the writer exhibits a faint surprise at finding that the memorial had been erected, not by a grateful public, but by her father. That story hurts, and it is difficult not to be bitter about it. One thinks of the French critic who dismissed the preoccupations of the Wellington of Katherine Mansfield's youth in a contemptuous “des affaires et du pot-au-feu.” But bitterness is futile. We are indeed not far enough removed from the days when food and warmth and shelter occupied all of our lives. It is a demerit inseparable from a new country. How shall the tree flower before its roots are firm and deep? In my more optimistic moments I think our budding time is near. But we must first overcome our ancient lack of faith. It is still necessary for a New Zealander to go abroad before we acknowledge his greatness. We do not yet believe enough in ourselves.
The memorial is the very heart of the Mansfield country. Close at hand are three of the homes in which K.M. has lived. A circle with this as centre, drawn to include Karori on one side and Muritai on the other, has within it the scenes of most of her New Zealand stories. Here she walked and scribbled and fretted and yearned after life. Amid all the beauty which has been created in Fitzherbert Terrace one can sit awhile to think about this girl. One thinks of the storm on the day of her birth, a storm which was prophetic, symbolic of the life of turmoil she was to lead. And she seemed to know it. At fifteen she wrote concerning a projected story: “Now to plan it—she is born in New Zealand on the day of the storm.” The wind was to blow through so many of her stories. Her friend Frieda Lawrence has said that Katherine hated a high wind. Really I think she loved it—love with a spice of fear. From those windows on many a night she must have watched the wind tossing the trees in the old pine avenue. Sometimes I regret that those trees are gone, old and gnarled and sombre though they were. I think she loved them, too, again with a spice of fear. Lest this should seem fantastic I quote from one of her French friends: “She loved to be afraid, listening to the wind at night chasing the leaves in the garden and slamming doors and shutters. She took a shuddering pleasure in it.” There is no denying it; the storm of her birthday remained always a part of her.
Those who can appreciate her artistry will not be content merely to hear this charming voice. What did she look like? What was the personality behind the vivid stories, the poignant Journal? Many of her friends
Again and again you come upon such phrases as: “a transparent spiritual quality”; “an expression which was not of this world”; “living in a zone which was not life, but its halo”; “unearthly and a little chilling, like the remoteness of Alpine snow”; “she did not seem to see your face, but the back of your mind”; “so assured that I felt shy and clumsy.” As these phrases come from such men as Conrad Aiken, Frank Swinnerton and H. M. Tomlinson they cannot be dismissed as mere hysteria. Katherine Mansfield had a crystalline quality, difficult to define, but surely the source of the elusive and inimitable charm of her work.
Her stories, particularly I think the New Zealand stories, are extraordinarily vivid. The compositor who set up “Prelude” was forced into the exclamation: “Gosh, those kids are real!” You have, as a French critic has pointed out, the illusion of hearing K.M. actually speak. You feel that you are living amongst the people described and that you know them intimately and in detail. Yet when you read the story again it is difficult to ascertain the source of your knowledge. Katherine Mansfield wrote between the lines. “In all her stories,” says J. B. Priestley, “you may say the air tingles. She was one of the few writers of our time who made life seem as rich, exciting and significant at every turn as it does in one's best moments.” Edith Sitwell wrote: “Katherine Mansfield's style is pellucid beyond measure—like a clear shallow water through which you can see something shining and lovely, impalpable and beyond your reach.”
Professor Sewell has shown how she has wrought a new texture out of English words. “Nowhere else in English prose narrative, I would almost say in English prose, is the veil of words so rare, so translucent. Nowhere is the subtle play of feeling in the lives of children and children grown-up—nowhere is the troubled inwardness of life more directly, more purely conveyed.” She has in fact introduced a greater poetic content into English prose and already I think this has influenced our literature. H. W. Massingham, writing in the “Nation” at the time of K.M.'s death, remarked that her “spiritual excellence lay in the reflective power of a mind that caught up a thousand rays of revealed or half-revealed consciousness, and gave them out again in a serene order and a most delicate pattern.”
A most discerning French critic, whose love and pity for Katherine Mansfield shine through all that he has written about her, pays this tribute: “She gave forth a music, which, scarcely heard, could never be confused with any other. She was so dauntless, so young and so perfect, with the charm and radiance of rare but natural flowers. She was woman from head to foot, woman to the ends of her finger-nails, filled with a tepid sensuousness, and at the same time with a fastidiousness, an adorable feminine purity, without ever once allowing herself to be mixed up with those moral problems, those questions of marriage and of education, which in England fascinate so many writers in skirts, so much so that most of them use their novels to quarrel with life and to take on it revenge for disappointments of their own.”
Quotations of this sort could be multiplied. Those I have used are intended to indicate the esteem in which Katherine Mansfield is held elsewhere in the world and to quicken appreciation in her own country. On the Continent of Europe many people must have come to picture New Zealand from her books. It has not always been realised that these stories were written as a sacred debt due to her brother and that in them she tended to idealise the land of her youth. This at any rate is a Continental impression of New Zealand, written by a critic of her work: “It was one of those islands, a happy island, golden, bathed in a sea of mother-of-pearl, where life flowed on, infinite; an island such as one believed could not exist but in a dream, which however she had seen, whose sands she had touched, whose perfume she had breathed. The prodigal child had returned to her native land, on the wings of a dream and with dazzled eyes.”
One cannot write an article of this
(Photo, Thelma R.)
On the road to the Lewis Pass (Westland side), South Island, New Zealand.(Rly. Publicity photo.)
The ferny entrance to “Aladdin's Cave,” in the Orakel—Korako thermal region, North Island, New Zealand.
Thomas Moult, an English critic, writes of a visit to her in 1918: “Katherine Mansfield's sleeping-room was next to mine, and each morning at the same hour—how I came to dread it for her sake—the woeful sound of coughing, body-racking and relentlessly prolonged, would pierce the walls—and the hearts of those that heard it. Later in the day, though, she showed such sparkling gaiety downstairs, that anyone who had not listened to that coughing must have been utterly deceived and reassured about her.” Compare what she herself wrote in her Journal in the same year. “The man in the room next to mine has the same complaint as I. When I wake in the night I hear him turning. And then he coughs. And I cough. And after a silence I cough. And he coughs again. This goes on for a long time. Until I feel we are like two roosters calling to each other at false dawn. From far-away farms.” Thus indeed does a sense of humour reinforce courage.
Vain it may be, human it is to speculate as to the work she might have produced, had she lived to blossom into her full maturity. We know that at the end she was dissatisfied with all that she had written. She had said that there was nothing she dared show to God. Appropriately, A. R. Orage, the man who had introduced her to the English public, was with her at Fontainebleau at the last. He has written of a conversation with her on this subject from which I choose an extract:
(Photo. courtesy French Railways—National Tourist Office)
One of the famous Chateaux (Amboise) in the beautiful Valley of the Loire, France.
May she sleep sound in that quiet old forest cemetery at Avon, near Fontainebleau. I cannot think she frets that this should be her last resting-place, for around her are the trees she loved so well, and the birds singing their little unfinished songs. Not far away her beloved brother lies in the same French soil. She is amongst a people who love and admire her, who claim her as one of their own. “I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle danger we pluck this flower, safety.” Words she had loved and lived by make a fitting epitaph. Perhaps at last she has found the flower. Perhaps, too, as Louis Gillet suggests: “if there is in Paradise a little corner for consumptives, it is there she is, near the poets that she loved, near Keats, near her dear Tchekov, immortal group of ephemerals. Chopin makes music for them. Watteau prepares the dress for Venus. But that corner assuredly exists. It is in our hearts.”
New Zealand Verse
* * *
* * *
* * *
thesekill
those, the many lovely things?
(By
A. J. G. Schmitt
“A spurt of flame, and Wynder's revolver dropped to the ground. He caught at his wrist with his other hand.”
Chapter V.
The names of people in this story are wholly imaginary, though the incidents referring to some of the employees as being refugees from the Law are true. In the early days the remoteness of some of the mills made it quite possible for “wanteds” to hide in seclusion for many months.
(Concluded.)
Wednesday night came, and, as usual, Wynder excused himself. Lynn was not long in following as far as the garden gate, which he opened quietly. He could just discern a figure walking in the shadow of the bush, making towards the tram line. After following the direction taken by Wynder (Lynn was sure it was he) he slipped into the bush and made a half circle to the head of the tram line. Lynn judged he was six to eight yards from the place where he had heard indistinct voices a few nights before. In a short while, a low whistle, followed by another, was heard. Occasionally a few words were audible such as “swag,” “gate,” “bridge,” and finally, “to-morrow night, leave under cover, go straight on to bridge, wait for me, and tell Holt not to forget the timber.”
“Good-night!”
“Good-night Colonel!”
Lynn waited until they got well away and then returned to the house. He was not wrong in his calculations. Wynder was no less than the escaped Colonel, and Higgins and Holt were the two “wanted” burglars. From all accounts there were capital charges against two of them. If this were true, what sort of fight would they put up? “It's quite believable,” he thought, “that Holt means to start a fire to divert attention.”
When Lynn reached the gate, on his return, Cushla met him.
“Where have you been? A nice way to leave your best girl when you are going away for a whole day to-morrow.”
“Not so loud, sweetheart. Walls, hedges, and everything have ears.” He put his arms around her slender waist and drew her to him.
“Give me a good-night kiss, Lynn, and mind you look after yourself tomorrow. Although in reality you are going with Dad as far as the tram
“Yes, dear. Nobody is to know I'm going with Martin, except your Dad and Mr. Jasper, and, of course, my sweetheart.”
With that they went inside. Mr. Hawkins looked up as they entered and gave them a smile. Jasper also looked up from his book and wagged his head solemnly.
* * *
The following morning Lynn met the car at the outside gate. None had seen him, and Martin was more than relieved when he picked up his passenger.
“It's pretty decent of you, Mr. Kingswell, for from what you have told me it looks like a brush all right to-night.”
“This is the place I think they intend for the hold-up,” said Lynn, as Martin eased up to negotiate the bridge. “Wynder mentioned ‘bridge’ last night, and they wouldn't have time to get any further. They can't leave until after tea, and it would take them two hours to reach here. It will be about 8.30 when we get back to this promising spot.”
“How are you going to work it, Mr. Kingswell?”
“By lying low in the back of the car till you're challenged. Bad as they may be, they won't shoot unless you show fight. You'll have to throw up your hands and then I'll get busy, but shall not shoot to kill, unless it is absolutely necessary.”
Everything went on at the mill as usual. Jasper tried hard to keep unconcerned. He was wishing 6 o'clock would come, and after that there were still three or four hours before he could jump on his horse and hasten to meet Lynn and Martin.
“Whatever you do, Jasper, don't be seen on the road. Our friends will be pretty watchful,” were Lynn's last words.
Dinner went off as usual, after which Wynder said he was going for a ride. He would have a heavy day to-morrow and some fresh air would do him good. Nothing was said until some time after he had departed.
Cushla could contain herself no longer.
“Mr. Jasper, please go to Mr. Wynder's room and see if anything is left.”
“Why on earth—Miss Cushla?”
“Because he would leave everything if he intended to come back.”
Eight o'clock had just struck. Jasper went to Wynder's room. There was a small suitcase which was empty. “That settles it. I'll ask Desmond to put two more hands on to guard the mill.”
He met Desmond on his way to the house.
“Mr. Jasper,” he cried. “Higgins and Holt have just left. Their shack is empty.”
“I thought so,” replied Jasper. “By Jove! what's that glare?” They have started a fire at the northern end. Get all hands quickly. I'll slip along and ring the bell.”
Having seen the glare, Mr. Kay and Hawkins made straight for the mill, and got the two powerful pumps working. As soon as Jasper had heard the alarm, he sought out Miss Cushla, who was standing on the verandah.
“If I could do anything I wouldn't be here, Mr. Jasper.”
“I have just come to tell you the fire can't spread. It may burn a few thousand feet, but by this time there is a full head of water and luckily it's the wet timber corner, so don't worry on that score.”
“It's not the timber, Mr. Jasper. It's Lynn. He may be killed,” and Cushla tried to choke back her tears.
“I can't wait now. I promised Lynn I would leave about half-past eight to meet them, so I must go. I don't want to be there at the finish, but at the start.”
“God bless you, and take care of you, Mr. Jasper.”
Without saying another word Jasper strode away, found his horse, and
* * *
Wynder and Higgins had concealed themselves in the scrub, one on either side of the road, and Holt some fifty yards away, towards the mill. They had heard the sound of the car coming in the distance, and in a short while the lights flashed out of the gloom.
The car slowed down as it approached the bridge.
“Careful now, Martin. It's here we're going to have the fun, if we are going to have any,” said Lynn. from the back. “If demanded, put your hands up immediately.”
Lynn had no sooner spoken when two masked figures appeared at each side of the car.
“Hands up! Quick now!”
The car was brought to a standstill. Up shot Martin's hands.
“Do as you're told and you won't be hurt,” said the man on the driver's side.
“Come out now, and keep your hands well up. Here, mate, come and lend a hand to tie up this accommodating gentleman. Take him into the light. Don't move, Martin, else I'll drill you.”
Lynn, so far, had no chance to fire, but the opportunity came as Wynder stepped back, covering Martin. A spurt of flame, and Wynder's revolver dropped to the ground. He caught at his wrist with his other hand.
Martin, taking advantage of the sudden diversion, swung a blow with all his force into Higgins' face. Higgins simultaneously fired his revolver, the bullet tearing a fleshy part of Martin's arm. Higgins staggered backwards. In a moment Lynn wrenched the revolver from his hand. Wynder, though suffering agonies, was groping for his gun with his good hand. When Martin realised his intention he kicked the revolver into the drain. Wynder then turned to make for the bush, but a voice from just outside the radius of light checked him. There was no uncertainty about it.
“Halt! Face round, else you'll go to Kingdom Come, you ungrateful hound,” and Jasper came on the scene.
“Any rope in the car, Mr. Lynn?”
“Yes,”
“You can get it for me, Martin.”
“Right!”
“Wounded, eh?”
“Well, just let me fix this miserable fellow and I'll see what I can do.”
Lynn, in the meantime, was similarly occupied with Higgins.
“Better put a tourniquet on Wynder's arm else he will bleed to death, and that would cheat the law.”
Wynder said nothing. He was ghastly white and could hardly stand. Martin had sat down on the running board. Lynn ripped open the sleeve of his coat which was saturated with blood, took off his own shirt, and tore it in strips, and with Jasper's assistance bound the arm. The wound was not deep, but reached from the elbow up to the shoulder.
“We'll find Holt along the road a bit,” said Jasper. “I laid him out with the butt of the revolver. He was evidently stationed on the road to cut off retreat, and to endeavour to check any advance. He will be coming-to now, so I think I'll look after him until you come along. Can you manage, Mr. Lynn?”
“Yes, quite all right. Now you two, get into the car. No funny business, else I'll hand you over to the crowd when we arrive back.”
Wynder and Higgins, with Lynn's help, got into the car. Martin got in beside them, his uninjured hand gripping the revolver. Lynn took the wheel. They soon came up with Jasper and Holt, the latter sitting on the side of the road in a dazed condition.
“Can you take this fellow in the car, or will I put him on the horse?”
“Put him in somewhere. Tie his arms well,” said Lynn with little ceremony.
Holt was bound and pushed in with his two accomplices, Jasper following behind.
A short way further on they were met by Mr. Kay, Hawkins and Desmond. As soon as the fire had been extinguished they jumped on to the horses which were ready waiting for them, and proceeded at a fast pace along the road.
“Here they come! They must be all right or the car wouldn't be heading this way,” said Desmond.
A few moments later the car pulled up.
“All right, Lynn?” asked Mr. Kay.
“Yes, but Martin is wounded.”
“What happened?”
“Strike a match and look inside, Mr. Kay.”
Mr. Kay did so.
“What a trio—and Wynder of all people. Wounded, too. By Jove! Lynn, you have done well.”
“You have to thank Jasper and Martin. I laid low. Martin bore the brunt. We had better get along with our cargo,” and the car proceeded.
They met Cushla at the gate.
“Are you all right, Lynn,” she enquired anxiously.
“Yes, dear, and as happy as Larry.”
“We had better take Martin straight to the house. Miss Cushla will be along presently and will look after him,” said Lynn.
“I don't know what to do with the prisoners—better wait until Mr. Kay comes. The men won't treat them too well.”
There were quite a number making for the car already. They had not heard full details of the capture and were now clamouring for information.
Lynn turned to Mr. Kay. “You had better speak to the men and tell them they mustn't use any violence, but to help guard against any escape, and to-morrow they will be taken to town and handed over to the police.”
Mr. Kay told the men, and added that they—the prisoners—had already been knocked about a good deal. Mr. Jasper, a little later, would go down and dress their wounds. He concluded
“Springing to one side, he dealt Higgins a blow on the jaw that knocked him over.”
The men gave three cheers for Mr. Kay, and for Kingswell, Martin and Jasper. Lynn then drove the car down to the quarters of Higgins and Holt, and the three captives were handed in without obstruction from the men, though the latter crowded round and did not hesitate to express their opinion of the prisoners.
Lynn called for volunteers—“Men who can handle a revolver”—to take turn about to guard the shack.
About double the number needed came forward, and eight were selected. Each was handed a weapon which depleted the whole store of small arms.
“I can't figure yet how Lynn worked it out,” said Mr. Kay.
“It was not so hard,” replied Lynn. I followed Wynder last night and overheard the arrangement. I had to play foxy in the back of the car, otherwise seeing two, our friends would have opened fire. I didn't think for one moment that if Martin threw his hands up they would shoot him, so I waited my chance to engage one of them, knowing that the diversion would give Martin a chance with the other. As Higgins fell he pulled the trigger, and Martin was shot in the arm. With Wynder crippled, and Higgins on his back, coupled with the timely arrival of Jasper, we had it all our own way.”
Cushla ran out and met Lynn. She took his hand and pressed it to her lips.
“Oh, Lynn, how thankful I am you are safe and sound.”
“How is Martin?” asked Lynn.
“He is quite all right. I have washed the wound and bound it with lint, and he is sitting in the dining-room,” answered Cushla. “Where is Mr. Jasper, Lynn?”
“He has gone down to dress Wynder's wrist. It must be awfully painful. I had better run down to him, the poor beggar can't remain all night tied up. And I completely forgot to search them.”
After relieving Higgins and Holt of their pocket knives and sheath knives, and handing the articles to the men outside, Lynn asked them would they make no attempt to escape if he unbound them.
“I might tell you, you have not a chance in the world to escape, as there are armed guards round your shack. We are taking no chances, Higgins.”
The men were unbound and immediately worked away at themselves to dispel the stiffness. Lynn did not have any trust in the two, and kept a wary eye on them as he endeavoured to help Jasper, who might otherwise have gone down in a heap, as the two rushed him. Springing to one side, he dealt Higgins a blow on the jaw which knocked him over. Holt, cowed, went and sat down on the bunk.
“You are a pair of fools,” said Wynder. “You are only making it harder for all of us.”
Lynn jerked Higgins to his feet.
“Now, do you want any more? The best thing I can do with you is to put the handcuffs on. Hold your hands out, and if there is any more trouble with you, I'll tie you up to the wall.”
“I'll make your bed for you, Wynder,” said Jasper, after he had dressed his wound and put his arm in a sling. “What I can't understand about you, Wynder,” he went on, “is that you went back on the best boss that ever a man had. For three months you have been treated as one of the house-hold, and all the while you were planning this robbery, and to make matters worse you associated yourself with a pair of blackguards like those two.”
Wynder did not reply.
There was great excitement when next morning, accompanied by Jasper, Lynn started off with the three prisoners. They were put in the back and handcuffed to one another. Jasper, armed, sat in front with Lynn. A fair-sized mirror was suspended over part of the wind screen and any movement on the part of the prisoners could thus be seen immediately.
They arrived at their destination and the highwaymen were handed over to the authorities. So ended an affair that might have easily cost the lives of two or three people.
The return journey was accomplished without mishap. Needless to add Cushla was on the look-out for their safe return.
Very little was said during dinner that evening. The thought that they had employed a man who had taken a part in their conversation and pleasures as one of themselves—who, to all intents and appearances, behaved like a gentleman, had all the time been a hardened criminal awaiting his opportunity to rob and even kill, if necessary, had naturally the effect of subduing any hilarious tendency on the part of the diners.
Mr. Kay thanked Jasper for what he had done and a cheque for £25 was awaiting him on his office table.
“I can't say much more at the moment—only this, Lynn, that the day you marry my daughter, a partnership in the business is yours.”
“What do you think of that, Cushla?” said Lynn.
“After all, young man,” said Mr. Kay, with a twinkle in his eye, “although I engaged these men who turned out to be desperate characters, I did not repeat the mistake with your engagement. That was justified. Don't you think so, Cushla?
The End.
Arthur L. Stead
Bober River Bridge, near Grunberg, German National Railways.
Awonderfully successful summer holiday season has been experienced by the Home railways. Hundreds of thousands of visitors to the Empire Exhibition at Glasgow have been transported by the four group lines; the impressive Military Tattoo at Aldershot—now an outstanding annual event—called for the running of no fewer than 206 special trains; while to Home and continental holiday resorts there has been an exceptionally heavy passenger movement.
Enterprising excursion ideas by the score have, this season, been evolved by the railways, most of these aiming at popularising long-distance travel by rail, road and steamer. Taking advantage of cheap excursion fares, London's millions have been able to travel by day and half-day excursion trains to all corners of the country at trifling cost. Countryside outings by combined rail and road, and rail, road and river-steamer services have been a feature. These outings have varied from a conducted tour through Windsor Castle, with tea on a Thames river-steamer en route to Magna Charta Island, to organised rambles through the New Forest, and day trips by rail and road through the Shakespeare Country, the Peak District, Lincolnshire and Suffolk. Educational excursions have been well patronised, as, for example, half-day trips to Bath with a conducted tour of the Roman baths, an attractive motor-coach tour of the surrounding countryside (with tea provided), all for an inclusive fare of 11/3 from London.
The distance which it is possible to cover by special day trips is increasing enormously. Thus, this season special excursions have been run from London to Oban, in Scotland, for steamer cruises to the islands of Staffa and Iona, 1,100 miles being covered between Friday evening and Sunday morning at a cost of less than £2. Excursions to the continent have drawn thousands of passengers of all ages. Here are a few examples of the good fare offered this season: An excursion from London to Rouen, France, including a tour of the surrounding country, and giving 22 hours in France for 25s. A trip from London to Brussels, covering travel, three meals, and a conducted tour of the city, for 30s. Sixteen hours on the Belgian coast for 27s. Id. Seventeen hours in Holland for 57s. 7d. Truly, the railways have opened up a new world of adventure for the excursionist!
Railway travel is made so much more interesting nowadays in a hundred and one ways. Look at the development of locomotive naming, for example, a practice which has grown steadily through the years, and one which has a great deal to commend it. Last year no fewer than 160 Home railway locomotives were given distinctive names, and during the past few weeks fresh christening ceremonies have been going on throughout the country. Ten new L. M. & S. engines of the “Princess Coronation” class, being built at Crewe, are to be named after the Duchesses of Gloucester, Norfolk, Devonshire, Rutland, Hamilton, Buccleuch, Atholl, Montrose, Sutherland and Abercorn. Five of these locomotives are of orthodox appearance, and the other five are streamlined like the “Coronation” and “Queen Elizabeth” engines. Four locomotives of the “Patriot” class have very appropriately been named after famous Army regiments.
L. and N.E.R. “Flying Scotsman” drawn by streamlined Pacific locomotive, “Dominion of New Zealand,” passing over water-troughs.
Exactly one hundred years ago there was opened a very famous old railway—the Manchester and Bolton Railway. This system developed out of the Manchester, Bolton & Bury Canal, which was opened for both goods and passenger conveyance in 1796. Following
A three-car electric train, Moscow-Mitischi Railway, Russia.
Freight traffic is exceptionally heavy in this corner of England, and Lancashire contributed largely to the making up of the 286,617,000 tons of freight handled by the Home railways last year. Although at this season, freight business is on the light side, general business is good if not so bright as had been anticipated. An outstanding feature is the rise in popularity of road-rail containers. In 1928 the Home railways had 1,574 container units: today there are 13,800 in service. Introduced experimentally some years ago in selected rural districts, railway country lorry services are another popular activity of the Home lines. These services are maintained by modern motor lorries, operating up to twenty miles from railheads. In all, about 2,800 railheads are fed by the road motor services in question. To-day, the four group lines operate more than 10,000 road motors, these mostly consisting of 2-ton and 4-ton vehicles, supplemented by light vans and heavy lorries for special work. Remarkable increases, too, have been recorded in the numbers of special wagons built for the rail movement of specific traffics. In 1928, the fleet of special wagons totalled barely 6,000 vehicles: it is now in excess of 11,900. But one of the greatest improvements on the freight side has been the wonderful speeding up of goods trains. Apart from the ordinary pick-up services, there are now more than 660 express braked freight trains linking up the principal centres, and mostly giving next morning deliveries.
Interesting information is contained in the recently published bulletin for 1937 of the Diesel Engine Users' Association. Progress in the application of oil engines to railway traction, it is stated, was fully maintained last year.
The Erecting Shop, Swindon Engine Works, Great Western Railway, London.
Europe this year is celebrating yet another railway centenary—that of the Russian lines. Russia's pioneer system was the Tsarskoye-Selo Railway, linking the Czar's summer residence with St. Petersburg. Five years later there was commenced the construction of the Moscow-St. Petersburg line. In 1914, the total length of the Russian and Manchurian railways was 38,650 miles. To-day, the official mileage figure is given as 52,900. Most of the lines are steam operated, although there are about 1,000 miles of electrified track in use, an outstanding electrification being that in the Moscow area.
(Written and Illustrated by
F. G. Fitzgerald
Looking across the wide scree basins toward the spires of the Mitre, 8,600 feet.
Beyond Wellington Heads, across the blue open Straits, a grey shadowed outline of the South Island forms a barrier on the far horizon. Towering above the north-east coast of the distant mainland are the Kaikoura Mountains, climbing to over 9,400 feet. From a jumble of foothills rough spurs join broken ridges which form a majestic massif crowned by Tapuaenuku, 9,467 feet, our highest mountain beyond the Southern Alps.
From Wellington many have admired the stately symmetry of this beautiful mountain rising from a base veiled in a soft blue summer haze, or later, when clear winter air sharpens distant views, the frozen icy walls guarding the snowy dome glisten and shine, and high above, the tower of the magnificent peak pierces an azure sky. From Tapauaenuku the main inland Kaikoura Range runs south to Mt. Alarm 9,400 feet, Mitre 8,600 feet, and a chain of peaks and pinnacles fade into the far south. The seaward range forms an eastern boundary and to the west a maze of hills and valleys, ridges and gorges, form a veritable “terra incognita.” For generations Maoris of the Kaikoura coast have known and respected their great peak—Tapuaenuku, which may be translated to the pakeha tongue as, “Footsteps of the Rainbow.”
In the old colonial days of 1849 Lieutenant - Governor Eyre, when Governor of the Middle Island, led an expedition to discover a route overland from Wairau to the Canterbury Plains via a pass in the Snowy Mountains (Kaikouras). From the eastern approach the snow-capped cone soaring above its surrounding satellites offered a challenge to the exploration party, and His Excellency planned the first ascent. From their base camp the party climbed for thirteen hours and when within reach of their goal they were reluctantly compelled to retreat in the gathering darkness. Their descent was marred by tragedy, for a member of the party fell to his death from the precipitous heights of the virgin peak.
On their return the “Wellington Spectator,” dated 24th November, 1849, reported their interesting discoveries: “It is believed that no serious obstacles exist to a communication overland from Wairau to Port Cooper. The country is free from timber and though in the neighbourhood of the Snowy Mountains (Kaikouras) the country is hilly and broken by ravines, it would not be difficult to find a pass between the lower ranges; the natives say there is a good ‘road.’ Two very singular facts were observed. Towards the summit of the range, at an elevation of 6,000 feet above the sea, were found remains of large totara trees (many of them charred), some of which belonged to trees originally five feet in diameter, affording proof of the former existence of extensive forests before the upheaval of these mountains, which must have taken place at a comparatively recent period. No vegetation now exists on this spot save a few mosses and lichens. On the lower ranges, also, are sharp pinnacles of conglomerate gravel, which have the appearance of being forced through the surrounding gravel by the mighty agencies which have upheaved them from their original position.”
A climber rests below the rock ridge leading to the summit of Tapuaenuku, 9,467 feet.
The Pinnacle, 8,860 feet (in the background) from the floor of the Shin Valley.
In 1895 a topographical and trignometrical survey of the district necessitated the erection of a trig-station on the summit of the Kaikoura Range. From the Gladstone Station, in the Awatere Valley, a survey party followed up the Hodder River through precipitous gorges to the south saddle on the main divide. This party carried the heavy tripod and transit theodolite equipment to the top of Tapuaenuku, and to-day it remains the highest trig in New Zealand. When the accurate survey was completed the old name Mt. Odin, which had appeared on early colonial maps, was erased, and the grand Maori title for this isolated prominence was revived.
The precipitous gorges encircling the base of Tapuaenuku are the subject of an interesting geological report by Mr. Alexander McKay, early Government geologist:—
“These gorges are a wholly unique feature in New Zealand scenery; gorges that are cut in horizontal limestone strata, having a less variety of aspect and a gloomy grandeur, while impressing the explorer with the massive solidity and giant proportions of the great cliffs rising from the deepest part. Yet high above in the sky these terminate in clear-cut pyramidal peaks, gables and roofs, massive below, light and airy above. Architectural in aspect, these vertical walls and steep slopes, bearing just a due proportion of flowering plants and gorgeous shrubs, may be seen and admired, but are not easily described; and when a peep of sky dropping west from the zenith is seen filled by the glistening snows and jagged summits of ‘Tapuaenuku,’ art may strive in vain to copy the beauty, the grandeur, and the majesty of the picture.”
A combined Wellington and Blenheim climbing party planned to attempt Tapuaenuku during the late summer season when the high rock ribs are clear and the mountain is free from snow.
Morning mists in the Hodder Valley.
A third endeavour to enter the “promised land” proved successful and a high-level route brought us to the head of the Hodder Valley. In this alpine fastness, hidden away in a fold of the Red Hills, mountain sheep and chamois have found a natural sanctuary, and we envied them as they scrambled along the narrow ledges and splintered crags above their highland glen. Later, from the summit rocks of Tapuaenuku, we were rewarded with a view of the vastness of the wild domain.
Alongside pointed the needles on Mt. Alarm, across the wide cree basins rose the spires of the Mitre, below were the shattered knobs of the Red Hills and a maze of minarets and jagged rock outcrops—relics of volcanic action centred in this district aeons ago. The steep fall of the valleys from Tapuaenuku do not hold the glaciers and snow-fields of lesser peaks in our Alps, yet the heart of Marlborough has a rugged beauty of colourful scenic splendour which will always hold a charm for the lover of our high hills.
By)
Charles Clayton .
“I advanced towards him, drawing my sword as I did so.”
You must learn, my friends, that not all dream places are pleasant places, and not all of the stories brought back from the shadowy kingdom are of a kind to tell when the fire burns low and the wind stirs into fearsome shapes the death black clouds of the winter sky. Some there are who say that what a man does in his dreams he would not hesitate to do in his waking life if he had the chance and were brave enough or base enough. For such opinions I care nought. I only know that the story. I have to tell you now is one of black treachery and murder, and that the man responsible who still walks abroad respected by men, was none other than myself!
You know, do you not, that I am a great reader of Dumas? On the night I wish to tell you about—and a bitter, cold night it was—I was seated alone at my fireside reading one of his romances. It was the one concerning the attempt of Monsieur d'Herblay to carry off Louis XIV, King of France, and put in his place His Majesty's twin brother, who bore him a remarkable likeness. On account of this likeness the Prince had been cruelly imprisoned in the Bastille for many years. It was a masterful plot. None knew of the existence of this twin brother of the King, and Monsieur Baisemeaux, Governor of the Bastille, although strictly charged to treat the young Prince well, never at any time suspected his identity. The secret had been well kept, and of the few who had discovered it, all but Monsieur d'Herblay were sleeping the long sleep from which there is no awakening.
It was the night when the King was to be seized forcibly and put in the Bastille in his brother's place. All had gone well with the plotters. His Majesty was peacefully sleeping at the Chateau de Vaux-le-Vicomte, the palatial residence of Monsieur Fouquet, his First Minister. As Dumas tells the story the plot had all but succeeded when d'Herblay decided to take Fouquet into his confidence. This was a rash decision, for the Minister was a man of honour and would not permit such a dastardly crime, as he called it, to take place. Thus a plot which had cost d'Herblay enormous sums to bring so near to an issue was ruined when about to be crowned with success.
On the night of which I speak, I arrived at this particular point in the story and wished, as I always wish when reading it, that d'Herblay would on this occasion prove more cautious. My fire was low and I was about to go for logs when a strange thing happened. I rose from my chair, but it was not I who rose, it was Monsieur the Chevalier d'Herblay! I walked, it is true, but not in my own house, it was down one of the long corridors of the Chateau of Vaux that I walked!
It was to Fouquet's room that I went, conscious that my hour was upon me, knowing full well that what I did that night, as a result of months of laborious preparation, would make me the most powerful man in France, or bring me to an end I shuddered to contemplate. Fouquet was in his room writing late into the night as was his habit. I reasoned that such a brilliant mind could not fail to grasp the significance of such a master stroke as I proposed, so I told him all. I was excited, feverish, restless, and verily believe that I was drunk with the thoughts of future power. Fouquet listened eagerly, and not once during the long recital did his expression change, nor did his dark eyes leave mine for an instant of time. When I had finished he looked at me with an expression I could not read. For a time his eyes seemed to be seeking out my very soul, then at last he spoke. “Monsieur,” he said, “I thank you for telling me of this. You have been my friend, and it saddens me to tell you what now I must. His Majesty is my guest. He is under my roof and as my King and my guest, he is doubly sacred to me. Monsieur, I give you men and horses, I give you an hour to leave France, and, because we have been friends, I give you my Chateau of Belle-Isle as a sanctuary. Go. Monsieur.”
This was very similar to what Fouquet had said in the book, but by
“I say that the King is under my roof, my guest, and sacred to me,” said Fouquet quietly.
“Is that your final word,” I asked in despair. “Is that all you would say, Monsieur?”
“d'Herblay, you know me well. You know, and France knows, that once Fouquet has spoken, he speaks no more on the same subject.”
Then it was that a towering, ungovernable rage came upon me. See this plot come to nothing I could not. Fouquet stood in the way—well, Fouquet must get out of the way. In a fever of perspiration I advanced towards him, drawing my sword as I did so.
“But, Monsieur, what is this on your sleeve?”
“Heaven help me and pardon what I am about to do,” I said in a terrible voice, “but unless you swear neither to hinder me nor reveal what I shall do this night, I must kill you Monsieur.”
“d'Herblay, if you kill me I shall not be the first gentleman who has given his life for his King. You must know that what you ask is infamous. You must know that whatever power you gain in your lifetime through such an action, your name will in future ages be held in contempt by all honourable men. I bear a great and honoured name, Monsieur, and the swords of the men of my house have ever been used to defend the King and not to wound him.” Fouquet spoke sadly but firmly. I knew it was useless to delay further. He drew his blade, and, although I try to tell myself that what followed was a duel, I know in my heart that it was murder, no less. His face in those last dreadful moments bore the look of a man, who knew he was being assassinated, and after a few passes and thrusts, he fell, pierced to the heart.
I was on horse! I was flying through the night to release a royal prisoner and place a new King on the throne of France! I was in Philippe's cell, kneeling at the feet of the wise and noble Prince in whose name I hoped to rule. He was warned and ready. Over long and weary months I had prepared him for this moment and now at last it had come!
“Monseigneur,” I said, still on my knees before him, “the hour is at hand. I call you from this prison cell to occupy your rightful place on the throne of your ancestors.”
What a noble Prince he was! Lesser men would have fainted at the sheer joy of the moment, but his was a nature truly royal, and he gave no sign outwardly of what his feelings must have been.
“Let us go, then,” he said simply, assisting me to rise. “But, Monsieur, what is this on your sleeve. See, my hands are red with blood.”
Fool that I was! I had then to tell him all, saying that Fouquet alone had stood between him and the throne.
“I had to kill him, Monseigneur,” I said as I brazened the whole thing out. “There was no other way. One life alone stood in the way of our projects and I took it knowing full well that you were condemned never to leave this place if I hesitated. The great ones of the earth have lesser men to do such deeds for them, Monseigneur, but if they have to act alone, then—they act.”
The Prince turned pale and then, as if unable to support his body he sank into a chair and did not speak for a long time. I watched him as but an hour before I had watched Fouquet, and with as little success in divining his thoughts. When at last he spoke his voice was firm, and I knew that there could be no question made of what he said, for he had the indomitable and royal will of all his race.
“Monsieur,” he began, “you must know that as a son of France I could not ascend the throne of France after such a—forgive me, Monsieur—after such a terrible crime had been committed in my name. I know what you would say,” he went on, as he saw that I wished to speak, “you would say that in condemning my brother to what has been my fate here, I would commence my reign with an act no less criminal than yours. The comparison is not just, d'Herblay. As King, I should merely be punishing the guilty, but you, Monsieur, have killed a man innocent of all crime, and, moreover, a noble and loyal gentleman who loved his King. Monsieur, I am a Prince of the Royal House of France and worthy to reign over you. I shall prove it to you by refusing the crown you offer me and which you bring to me in hands which are covered in blood.”
Broken man that I was, I nevertheless could see plainly after this terrible speech, that my crime was past all atoning for. I had killed a man in cold blood, and must have been mad to think that the son of a King would be possessed of such a base nature as to profit from my crime. How could I raise myself up in the sight of this noble Prince, who waited for me to speak, who waited to hear me even as I had heard him, but whose firm countenance gave no sign that aught I could say would move him? I felt myself utterly crushed by his look, but presently heard myself speaking.
“Monseigneur,” I said, “I am a man of noble birth. Unlike your Royal
“When you came to me with the knowledge of my real identity,” said Philippe, “you brought me hope. In leaving me, Monsieur, you also leave me in hope, for I know, only now do I know, that I am worthy of reigning as King in France. Fare you well, Monsieur.”
I left the Prince and went out into the night. Of a sudden I was cold, so very cold. What was upon me? The grim Bastille walls suddenly faded and I left the shadowy kingdom behind. I was back in my chair at home. My fire was all but dead and, as I rose shivering from the chair, I swear I saw the ghastly, blood-covered face of Fouquet glaring at me malevolently from the coals!
When the late Sir Jas. Barrie was asked on one occasion which smoke of the day he considered the best he replied, with a smile, “I enjoy a pipe at any time but especially after a hard spell of writing when one is feeling, perhaps, a little fagged. A smoke at such time is peculiarly soothing and refreshing.” The celebrated author, as is well-known, invented a blend of his own which was put on the market by a London tobacconist and became famous. But a really good tobacco always catches on; witness the over-bearing success of the New Zealand blends; Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cavendish, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold. Their super-excellence is, of course, mainly due to the splendid quality of the leaf composing them, but the toasting they undergo at the factory has also a lot to do with it, for toasting eliminates most of the injurious nicotine in them and helps to give them their delicious flavour and unequalled bouquet. All attempts to imitate them have failed utterly.*
By “)
Shibli Bagarag
It was too late to refer in last month's issue to the passing of Miss Jessie Mackay, New Zealand's sweetest and gentlest poet. I will not elaborate on her gracious years of life. Full justice to this aspect has been conveyed in many articles, kindest and most appreciative of them all being from the pen of Eileen Duggan. I have enduring memories of Miss Jessie that will live with me in the many beautiful letters she wrote to me, and also in the messages she penned for me in her several books of verse. Possibly one of the last letters she wrote was to the P.E.N. on 10th June. It was a reply to a letter of hope and encouragement in her illness, and read as follows:—
“The beautiful greetings and kind wishes of the New Zealand Centre of the P.E.N. carry an uplift all their own in these days of lowered vitality. The P.E.N. from the first gave all for nothing to a representative who could not be present. But at least we are New Zealanders all, and very sweat to an old pioneer are the praises and encircling goodwill of those who carry New Zealand's banner now to far and high places.
Yours always,
Jessie Mackay.”
A beautiful letter and so typical of the writer.
* * *
Many congratulations have been showered on Miss Eileen Duggan over the fact that she has been offered and has accepted an American market for her poems by Macmillans, the English publishers. This means that her last collection of verse, published by Allen and Unwin, with the addition of a few more poems, is to be published in book form in America. I hope that the publishers will allocate at least a hundred or two copies of the American book to this country. Apart from collectors who will be almost frantically seeking for possession of this new edition, there are many keen admirers of Miss Duggan's verse who will be anxious to add the American edition to their libraries. Miss Duggan's books threaten to become bibliographic rarities. Her first booklet, published by the “New Zealand Tablet,” is unprocurable, “Bird Songs” is out of print, and the Allen and Unwin edition of her verse is selling out rapidly.
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Book lovers who have a habit of making Dunedin a landmark because of Newbolds' wonderful secondhand bookshop, will be interested to hear that the establishment has been taken over by a company with the present manager, Mr. Dick White, as managing director. Mr. White has an encyclopaedic knowledge of books, and in appearance and personality fits in admirably with the massive shelves of books that tower around him on all sides. There are thousands upon thousands of books in Newbolds. Many of ancient vintage. It took Dick White years of work to shelve and itemise them, but that was before the good old days, when I used to rummage (sometimes even on my hands and knees) in the glorious disorder.
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Book design for Eric Reeves by Stuart Peterson.
Reviews.
“Think and Grow Rich,” by Napoleon Hill (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) is, to use the words of the sub title, an exposition of “the James Andrew Carnegie formula for money-making based upon the thirteen proven steps to riches.” Seeing the book comes from America the average person might think that the author is out to prove his theories by the simple expedient of getting the public to buy his book. However, the author discusses his subject with obvious sincerity, and a manifest desire to help others to become rich. If he succeeds in making successful converts to his religion of the Golden Calf, the world will quickly be peopled with millionaires. Apparently the first step towards the accumulation of millions is the fanatic desire to be rich and a definite idea of the sum desired. The second rule of the race for riches is that entrants must go just one step beyond the point at which defeat has overtaken them. Also you must turn over the pages of your dictionary and neatly strike out the word “impossible.” Complete faith in oneself and in riches is essential. The author elaborates on his plan in a most interesting and I must admit convincing manner. His ideas are wrapped up in the experience of more than five hundred men of great wealth. He shows how these clever people sold their personal services, and one wonders if many of them did not do the job so thoroughly that they sold their souls as well. I am so interested in this book that I will wait eagerly on the possible sequel, i.e., having gained riches how is one to regain happiness?
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“Wind in Spring,” by Alison Mc-Dougall (Angus & Robertson) is a novel of character. There is a quiet strength about the composition of the
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“The Modern Ballroom Dance Instructor” is the last word in handbook form of modern dance rhythms, by Miss Adela Roscoe and Mr. Cyril Palmer, British Professional champions for 1937. All the ballroom gyrations are dealt with, from the waltz to the rumba. Robertson & Mullens (Melbourne) are the publishers.
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“The Mysterious Valley,” by G. W. Wicking (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) is a plain story of love and adventure. Harry Dexter, a popular footballer is menaced with T.B. and his employer provides him with a wonderful caravan so that he might seek for gold in the waybacks of Australia. He meets with adventures in plenty through becoming involved in a tangle of mystery and crime. This is a good exciting novel for a train journey.
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“Round and About,” by G. E. Hunter of Wellington, is an entertaining booklet of travel memories. There is no attempt at a connected story of the writer's journeys to other lands, yet the various chapters do not lose in interest on this account. The author is a keen observer of places and people. He takes us to Bombay, London, Britain, Pitcairn, Panama, Jamaica, etc., and records his impression of these places in an unusual yet easy style of writing.
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“Swinging Into Golf,” by Ernest Jones and Innes Brown (Angus & Robertson, Sydney), is appropriately described on its jacket as a book that “will help the great army of labourers to become players.” The American edition of this book has already run into four large printings. In text and diagram it seems to be the last word in simple and effective instruction. This is the opinion of an expert—not myself, for my knowledge of the game is imperfect.
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“The Victorian Era,” by Professor Walter Murdoch (A. & R. Sydney), discusses the strength and weakness of the greatest period in English history. Here, indeed, is a fascinating subject with one of the finest critical writers of the day as commentator. The period is examined mostly through the quality of its literary productivity.
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“The Auld Sinner,” by Cowan Harper (Professor S. Angus, of St. Andrews College, Sydney), is one of the most remarkable stories published by Angus & Robertson. Davy Duncan, a lovable old character in an Ulster village, personifies the title of the story. Though in the eyes of his kirk frequenting neighbours, he is beyond the pale, he has a greater Christianity than they, for he practises the greatest of all virtues, charity. Each incident or chapter of the story reveals his lovable personality, but it is not until after his death that his neighbours realise that old Davy will be waiting at the Gate for them in the hereafter.
* * *
Stephen Gerard, a young Wellington pressman, evidently loves adventure, because of the thrill and the copy there is in it. I believe he has made some remarkable journeys in open boats. One of such adventurings he describes in his book” Strait of Adventure,” recently published by A. H. & A. W. Reed. It is a fitting opening to a very interesting collection of tales about old-time navigators and warriors, of Cook Strait and its environs. In this opening chapter, which has a fine graphic style about it, Gerard describes a lone journey he made in a “somewhat unorthodox yacht” from Lyttelton to Wellington. Then he opens for us many interesting pages of history. We meet Te Puni, Bully Hayes, Ensign McKillop, the lonely lighthouse-keeper on the Brothers, and Te Rauparaha, and visit with the author places coloured with the purple patches of the past—Greville Harbour, Tua Marina, and Cannibal Cave. The book is well-written and well-illustrated, and should meet with a popular demand.
Several times I have referred to the poetic gift of Douglas Stewart, of Eltham. The latest news about this promising writer, now on the staff of the Sydney “Bulletin” is that a collection of his poems, “The White Cry,” is to be published by Dent's. In a preliminary announcement the publishers state:—”Douglas Stewart is a young New Zealand poet whose romantic and swift-flowing verse is enriched with the scene, the mood, and the character of his own country and his own people. He does for the Antipodes what Roy Campbell, a poet of similar impulse, does for Africa. The fine sensuous imagery, the almost Swinburnian rhythm of his poetic verse, the immediate intelligibility of its content, offer another proof of the fact that our younger generation of poets is returning once more to a joy of life, to a faith in love, and a sense of an audience to whom they offer work which can be immediately understood and enjoyed.”
* * *
“The Making of a Scientist,” by Raymond L. Ditmars (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) tells weird and wonderful stories of a scientist's adventurings in the animal kingdom. As a boy the author was the terror of the neighbours because of the strange and uncanny pets he harboured around his home. When his hobby turned to snakes the police intervened. Later, young Ditmars realised his ambition, and became an assistant at a big American museum. Later he journeyed with famous scientists in search of animal wonders. They met the tropical frog that is a giant when young and dwindles to a dwarf with age; they met a multitude of snakes and all manner of extraordinary reptiles. There is a quaint chapter on monkeys, the story of a bear hunt, the quest of the giant bat, etc. Altogether, the book is as engrossing as a detective thriller. Many plates illustrate this beautifully produced volume.
(Continued from page 16).
Sounds diadem of beauty. Here the trees are the thickest, the waters clearest, the panoramas richest in surprise, the changing views daintiest in their delicate adornment.
The soft-coloured hills here ring waterways that are in all shapes and sizes, from the tiny tarn to the long narrow fiord. Now and again a slender pass unexpectedly broadens a little and appears to be proud of displaying a small beach of glittering sand. Now and again the emerald waters are fathomless right to the rocky or bush-clad shore.
Reflections are myriad, and the moving ripple of the launch's wake makes crazy patterns in the mirrored picture of tree and hillside.
It was heartbreaking to leave the defiles of Tennyson Inlet, but another kind of beauty was now emerging. As the board waters of the Tawhitinui Reach flashed in the sunlight, they gaily turned a washing blue, and, by manoeuvring the launch, my friend of the camera got a peep through the distant miles of the northern Pelorus Sound at the entrance to the open sea.
I advise folks taking trips about the Sounds to take a map. It is impossible to remember where you are, or where directions lie, in this delightful but confusing maze of channel and hillside. I can quite understand our host telling us that it was years before he would risk a night journey. “No traffic signs,” he said, “and no corners to recognise.”
The journey home was just as fascinating. We called in at “Homewood” to find the meeting over. Launches were leaving in various directions, rowboats busily plying between the shore and the bigger craft, folks going aboard in the matter of fact fashion of a crowd getting into taxis on the arrival of the “Limited” at Wellington. And again we called at landing-places of various designs, and deposited passengers.
Then came Sunday; Sunday morning was the “Sontag” of Bendl's tone poem.
Dreaminess was over everything. The sun was hot on the wide verandah, flowers glowed, and a blue-eyed small guest named Margaret Ann floated joyously about the pretty grounds like a piece of coloured thistledown. Even The Portage wharf lost its mundane air and seemed to be a toy standing on satin.
In many respects, the long views here resemble those at Lake Waikare-Moana. Here are the same successive mystery ridges, fading in the distance to a blue haze. But here, one knows, that between those far lines of veiled mountain heights are hidden winding reaches of shining water.
From a tall summit, too, the lower, irregularly shaped peninsulas, islands, promontories, hummocks and forelands look like Bobdignagian monsters afloat in silver seas.
Never in a life-time of sight-seeing have I felt so loath to leave a place. Time ought to stand still here; there is, by the way, an old clock in the little Portage post office which shows 8.40 permanently, reminding me of Rupert Brooke's “Stands the church clock at ten to three?”
It is easy to see why the same people have been coming here year after year. It is a mark of the natural genius of these born hosts, Mr. and
Typical cottage annex at “The Portage.”
I repeat that the most obstinate case of worry, the most disagreeable example of vexation, the most desperate form of pessimism will vanish in Pelorus Sound. Beauty is healing, and beauty in this idyllic place comes in plentitude, unbidden and in quiet.
The stout-hearted settlers who wrest a living from the hillsides here have compensations; their ugliest troubles must have often looked trivial when they looked about them at Nature's largesse. They live in a land which Captain Cook described as “a fairyland of beauty and music,” and his words remain true to this day.
The little British war-brig after which Pelorus Sound was named is an immortal vessel now for this wonderland known as the Marlborough Sounds will give increasing happiness to future millions.
Leading New Zealand Newspapers.
Perpetrated and Illustrated by)
.Ken. Alexander History can be almost too interesting for a school subject if approached from the right angle. There are two angles of approach—the dryangle, and the spryangle. The first is what the teacher teaches; the second is what the pupil makes of it. With a few disconnected facts to work on a schoolboy of imagination can produce a private history of England calculated to make professional historians kick themselves black and blue to think of their neglected opportunities. There is creative genius in youth which history is capable of bringing out in purple patches. For this reason it is a criminal act to retard a boy's mental development by feeding him with historical date pudding after the first standard. It is in this standard that all his most valuable impressions are formed. It is at this stage of his development that he learns that Joan of Arc was Noah's wife, and that Cardinal Wolsey was the man who invented underwear. It is here that he gathers valuable data concerning 1066 so that, whatever his future occupation may be, he can put it to any use from adding his overdraft to advertising socks. 1066 is capable of anything. To advertise socks with it all one has to do is to write 1066 in large letters at the top and continue: “If the Britons had worn So-easy socks at Hastings they wouldn't have got cold feet. Socked but un-sacked!”
It has always been my fear that some historian, crazed by the repeating dismals of history, will do something to prove that the Battle of Hastings wasn't fought in 1066—in fact, wasn't fought at all on account of a strike among the woad-pickers and pikers. This would be a national disaster, depriving a deplorable number of people of the whole of their historical knowledge. It is poor consolation to contemplate that, if we lost 1066, The Battle of Hastings, posterity would still have 1938, The Battle of Hustings.
History is not concerned with the future. An event has to be practically forgotten before it can be history; a happening so fresh that it can be authenticated by living witnesses doesn't give an historian a dog's chance. Living witnesses are notoriously drab. Truth may be stranger than fiction, but it's a darn sight duller.
History is News with moss on it. Not until an event is at least a hundred years old is it handed over to the historians to be treated hostirically.
“Guy was merely enjoying a quiet pipe of Raleigh Twist among the Coronation fireworks.”
Some historian, a hundred years later, dramatised Guy's smoke on the theory that “where there's smoke there's fire.” Had he lived to-day he would be employed revising Shakespeare
I cherish my historical impressions of childhood and have never done anything to disturb them. I still admire the concentration of Bruce The Spider who climbed up the wall of his cave and came a thud time and time again until he finally swung from the ceiling and so, in some incomprehensible way, saved Scotland. (His real name was Robert The Bruise.) Why this saved Scotland has never been clear, but, saving being an old Scottish pastime, any one who could do a bit of saving for Scotland was bound to be a national hero.
The Pictsandscots, Williamanmary, Roundheadsandroyalists and Greatfireolondon will never be eradicated from my put-and-take. This type of double-header history should be fostered by our educationalists. A boy never forgets the Pictsandscots even if he does think of it as the earliest form of Scots finance, associated with “pickins.” Without resorting to the contemptible practice of looking up the history book, I propose to give a brief history of England from the Skinflint period. Not that the Skinflints really count, for history didn't begin until William the Conqueror, whose real name was Norman, called after the Norman conquest which he invented to get himself into the hisory book.
The Skinflints were a backward people, meaning that all their history ran backwards and was lost among
Next came the early Muddle Ages which were so primitive that nice people never speak of them. They are only taught at night schools because some of their incidents will not bear the light of day. In the Muddle Ages all the women were locked up in castles and all the men were wrapped up in tin. The men spent their time “tin-canning.” This was also known as the opening of the Footle Period; the Footle Barons lived in strongholds—with keep, which made work unnecessary and gave them plenty of time for tin-opening. Their wives spent their time praying that their lords would return home unopened, but very often the family tin was returned empty with the lid off.
After this nothing much happened until the Stuarts who were famous for making history brighter. They were bad kings but good copy. Charles II was known as the Merry Monarch because he had the laugh on Cromwell. He adopted an orange girl named Nell Grin who had a peeling laugh and comforted him when he had the pip. She was known as Sweet Nell of the Old Brewery and was probably of Maltese extraction. She had a good appetite which got Charles II worried at times, and his last words were “Don't let poor Nellie starve.” The orange diet was not valued in those days.
Other characters whom I cherish are Richard the Racer who offered to sell his kingdom for a horse, and Ethelred the Unready, who was always a great comfort and inspiration at examination time. I also admired Drinking Drake, who, when the Spaniards were arriving in gallons, had a few more bowls on Plymouth Hoe and said “Ho, Ho! There's time to finish our bowls before we blow the froth off the Spanish gallons.” The Henrys too were interesting contrasts. One lost a son and “never smiled again.” Another lost wife after wife but kept his sense of humour. I have always felt sorry for the poor Spanish Armada boys who were wrecked on the coast of Scotland and naturally lost everything.
I know a lot more history which isn't in the books, but I am reserving it for a “Children's Cheerful History.” There will be no dates and very little History.
By)
Nellie E. Donovan
“Alizard! I like that! I am a member of the family of sphenodons, the oldest back-boned land animals in the world. We come from New Zealand,” said the sphenodon proudly.
“Do you?” exclaimed Barbara excitedly, “So do we! I once kept a lizard—I mean he was something like you. He was a Tuatara, only one day he ran away,” ended Barbara sorrowfully.
“Why have you come?” asked Michael.
“I've come to help you escape,” answered the sphenodon.
“To escape!” Michael exclaimed.
“How?” asked the more practical Barbara.
“Can't you see,” answered the sphenodon, nodding towards the hole.
“We may be tiny,” said Barbara, “But we're not as tiny as that hole. I don't think we could squeeze through it.”
“I know that,” said the sphenodon, “So I've brought two of my brothers to help gnaw the hole to make it bigger. I have also brought six glow-worms. They will light up the hut.”
With a quick movement of his tail, he had darted through the hole. In a few seconds he reappeared with two other sphenodons and six glow-worms. The glow-worms ranged themselves along the side of the wall.
“Oh,” exclaimed Barbara, “Don't the glow-worms light up the hut wonderfully. We've seen glow-worms before. Haven't we, Michael, in the Waitomo Caves in New Zealand?”
“Yes,” answered Michael, “Mummy and Daddy took us there last Christmas holidays. It was great!”
“These are my brothers,” said the first sphenodon.
“How do you do,” said the sphenodons together in a squeaky voice like their brother's.
“What is your name?” asked Barbara of the first sphenodon.
“My name,” he answered, “is Samuel, but everybody calls me Sammy. But if you don't like that name, you can call me any name you want. I don't mind,” he ended shyly.
“I like Sammy for a name,” said Barbara. “And what are your names?” She turned to the other two.
“I'm Albert,” said one, “And I'm Henry,” said the other.
“Well, Sammy, Albert and Henry Sphenodon, what do we do now?” asked Michael.
“First,” answered Sammy, “We will gnaw away the hole. Come on, brothers.”
They set to work with their strong teeth, and all that could be heard for a few minutes was the steady gnawing as the hole grew bigger and bigger.
“Isn't it wonderful!” exclaimed Barbara, “that these sphenodons have come to rescue us.”
“I wonder how they knew we were here, Barbara?” said Michael.
Sammy stopped gnawing and turned round to the children.
“I was hiding in the bushes when I saw you being brought before the King goblin and I decided to follow to see where you were taken and so her I am.”
“It's awfully good of you,” said Barbara.
The Sphenodons gnawed away the hole.”
“Oh, it's nothing,” answered Sammy, “My family have always been the enemies of the goblins ever since they smuggled away on a goblin ship and came to live on the island. We are not allowed to roam round the island, we must stay in a certain area which the goblin King has given us. If any of us are caught outside that area, we have our heads chopped off. The goblin King is a very wicked King and so by rescuing you we also spite him.”
“But what if he catches you now?” asked Barbara.
“This forest and this hut is in our area” said Sammy.
“Do you happen to know a Mr. William Wiggins?” asked Michael, “He is such a funny little man with a bald head except for one piece of hair, and he has awfully large feet.”
“Mr. William Wiggins?” said Sammy in a puzzled tone. “I don't know anyone by that name, or like you describe. But you say he has very large feet? I suppose they would make a noise when he was walking?”
“Oh, yes,” put in Barbara,” “His shoes flop up and down.”
“Now, I will tell you something strange,” said Sammy. “One night, not so very long ago, we were all sound asleep at home, when we heard a strange noise. Now I come to think of it, it was just like large shoes, flip, flopping up and down. Father rushed outside, but he couldn't see anything in the darkness, yet he still could hear the noise which seemed to be going down the hill. We only heard it once. It might have been your Mr. William Wiggins.”
“That's not his real name,” said Barbara, “That's only a name we've given him, because we hate it and because he is a nasty man. He has built a funny cottage near our place and Tiny Toes says he catches fairies and elves for slaves.”
“I wonder if it was the same person we heard,” mused Sammy.
“I think the hole is big enough,” Albert said squeakily.
“Come on, then,” said Sammy, “Crawl through.”
Barbara and Michael needed no second bidding. They crawled easily through the hole. After them came the sphenodons and the glow-worms, Outside, the children stood upright and looked round the dark and gloomy forest.
“Oh, even if it is gloomy out here,” said Barbara with a shiver, “I'm glad we're out of that stuffy hut.”
“So am I!” exclaimed Michael. “Where are you going to take us, Sammy?”
“I'm going to take you to our home where you can stay till morning, and then we will try to rescue the elves from the Palace.”
“And Peter, too,” put in Michael.
“Peter? Who is he?” asked Sammy.
“He is a little boy, our friend whom the goblins have imprisoned,” said Barbara.
“Oh,” said Sammy, “I think I remember now something about a mortal boy being brought here, but,” he looked them up and down, “he was ever so much bigger than you.”
“Yes,” said Barbara, “As you're a friend, I can tell you. We came here in a fairy boat and we left it in a safe place. Tiny Toes and Dimples know where to find it. Tiny Toes sprinkled Fairy powder over us so as we could fit into the boat. He can make us our right size again.”
“Oh, I see,” said Sammy. “Now we had better start for home. You jump on my back, Barbara. And you, Michael, jump on Albert's back. You glow-worms go in front and light the way.”
The children climbed onto the sphenodons' backs and they moved off at a slow pace.
They soon passed out of the forest and they came to a stream in which there were stepping stones. The sphenodons were careful as they stepped on these and Barbara and Michael did not get a little bit wet.
They began to climb up a steep rocky path. “Is your home very far away?” asked Barbara.
Sammy stopped for a moment. “We live right at the top of this hill,” he said.
“What a wonderful view you must have,” said Barbara.
“We have in the daytime,” said Sammy, moving on, “We can see all that's going on in the valley below. You will see in the morning.”
Far down below, the valley lay bathed in moonlight. The night was perfectly still, not a leaf stirred. Up and up they climbed. Sammy was beginning to puff with the exertion of carrying Barbara on his back.
“Perhaps I'm too heavy,” said Barbara, “Shall I get off your back?”
“I think—puff—you are a little heavy—puff—” answered Sammy. He stopped a moment for breath. “I think—puff—I must be getting old.”
“Aren't you coming, slowcoach?” sang out Albert squeakily from the top of the hill.
“Of course, I am,” answered Sammy. “We've just stopped to admire the—puff—view, that's all.”
“Hurry up, then,” sang out Albert, as he moved on with Michael on his back.
“This is a very steep hill,” said Barbara, feeling very sorry for Sammy. “You look tired. Let me help you up.”
“No, no,” said Sammy, “I can get up—puff—by myself.”
“Here,” said Barbara, and she picked a piece of flax which was growing by the roadside. “You can hold one end with your teeth and I'll take the other, and pull you up. That will help you.”
“Oh, very well, if you insist, but they will all laugh at me,” said Sammy as he took the piece of flax between his teeth.
And so they continued up the hill. When they reached the top, there were Albert and Henry laughing as if their sides would break.
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Sammy's getting old. Doesn't he look a funny sight. Ha! Ha! Ha!” they laughed.
“I think you are being very unkind,” said Barbara indignantly. “Your brother is not getting old. He was just tired, that's all, and I thought I would help him.”
But Albert and Henry still continued to laugh. “Ha! Ha! Ha! Sammy's getting old!” until they disappeared into a large hole in the side of the hill, followed by the glow-worms.
“I don't like Albert and Henry, now,” said Michael.
“Oh, they're good chaps in their way,” said Sammy, “as they are young, they don't understand that I cannot get about like I used to and this hill is steep. Now, come into our home.”
He led the way into the hole in the side of the hill. At first it was a little dark, but as they walked along the passage, they came to the opening of a large, round room, which was lit by glow-worms hanging from the ceiling. All round the room were little openings. Seated at a large mushroom, which did duty as a table, were six sphenodons having their supper. Albert and Henry were leaning over one rather small sphenodon and talking excitedly.
Sammy stopped in the opening to the room. “Mother, Father, here is Barbara and Michael, a little mortal boy and girl whom I have brought here for the night.”
The little sphenodon bustled forward.
“My Mother,” introduced Sammy.
“My dears,” she said, in a squeaky voice like her sons'. “I'm so glad to meet you.”
“How do you do,” said Barbara and Michael politely.
“Come and meet Sammy's father,” said Mrs. Sphenodon.
“Pleased to meet you,” said the fat sphenodon in a gruff voice. Then in turn the children met all the family from Sammy's eldest sister, Annie, down to Baby John.
“Now,” said Mrs. Sphenodon, “I will get you some nice berry juice and some bread I have just baked myself with fresh honey from our hives.”
She quickly placed before them little acorn cups of berry juice and slices of bread and honey. The honey and the berry juice had a delicious flavour and the children's hunger was soon satisfied.
“I will show you your room where you can sleep,” said Mrs. Sphenodon when they had finished.
She led the way through one of the holes in the wall into a little bedroom. On the floor were rush mats and two tiny beds were covered with flax coverings.
“You will be cosy here until the morning,” she said.
“Thank you very much,” said Barbara. “You've been awfully kind.”
“Sleep well,” said Mrs. Sphenodon, and she went through the opening into a large room.
After removing their coats, berets and scarves, Barbara and Michael jumped into the little beds and pulled the flax coverings over them.
Sammy put his head round the opening. “We'll be up early in the morning to rescue Peter, Tiny Toes and Dimples. Good-night!”
“Good-night,” murmured the children, and they turned over and went to sleep.
(To be Continued)
ByHelen
I Have sketched a useful outfit for the spring and summer months. The coat and frock are both slim-fitting, cleverly darted at the waist-line. The coat, of satin-backed crepe romaine, has a matching short-sleeved frock, but I have pictured it worn over a bright flower-printed silk. Note the stiffened shoulders and the clever pin-tucking.
The hat, with wide dipping brim, has a grosgrain ribbon trim, with a stiffened “plume” in front.
The handbag, in Morocco, is capacious, containing two compartments, one of which has a special zipped pocket for notes. Metal loops add interest where the handles join on.
The gloves are cleverly thonged in a contrast colour.
The gusset court shoes, with sensible heels, have a smart ribbon bow trim.
To make this a utility outfit, care must be taken in choosing the colour of the two-piece. I suggest navy blue, black, or any of the neutral shades from beige to platinum grey. With navy or grey, choose a hat with white brim edge and trimming. Navy gloves are thonged in white.
Whatever the coat colour, don't match all the accessories to it when wearing the matching dress. Gloves, bags and shoes are offering in a variety of shades which give zest to a one-colour ensemble.
On days when you dress for the sunshine but keep an anxious eye on the sky, carry a portable rain outfit.
It may be a folding umbrella which telescopes into half its length and slips neatly into a matching cover. Or you may prefer a 3 1/2 ounce raincoat or cape of a transparent material that looks rather like cellophane. The cape has an attached hood which will cover a small hat; a separate hood may be bought to match the coat. The whole outfit folds into a neat envelope bag about eight inches by five. The colours—blue, red, burgundy, green, lemon or clear—are flattering. This new kind of rainproof is quite dressy enough to slip on over smart clothes at race-meetings or on the way to a theatre.
Coiffures.
For formal occasions have the hairdresser sweep your hair upward in curls in the Edwardian manner. For sports, brush it down and under in the page-boy style.
Cutlery canteens are now being made in sets of eight. For so many households, six are too few and a dozen too many.
The newer table knives, copying the French style, are growing shorter in the blade and longer in the handle. This type of knife is easier to handle, especially for those of us who are tempted to move the index finger down nearer the cutting edge.
Table mats for informal meals are abandoning ecru and pastel shades. For a dull day, use mats of natural coloured linen bound in scarlet, or banded at the edge in yellow, orange and brown. A suggestion for midsummer is green spotted linen.
Furs are no longer made exclusively for winter wear. Women know how flattering fur is and are demanding summer fur styles. The idea is a good one, especially for New Zealand, where the “between seasons,” with their coolish days and evenings are so long.
The lightweight furs—dyed squirrel, moleskin, antelope, grey lamb, ocelot—are chosen for special summer-planned models. The bolero style, the cape, the short coat, the swing three-quarter length, are all popular.
A delightful bolero, in nigger-brown American broadtail, has wide shoulders and short sleeves. An authentic summer touch is given by a large white piqué bow at the neck, and a hint of white cuffs below the sleeves.
In coats, look for squared shoulders, big sleeves, short sleeves, very large collars, no collars.
Ties and capes in blue and silver fox are smart for town wear, and also in the evenings. Red fox is right for all occasions.
An English hip-length jacket is of skunk mounted on black suede. The suede, stitched with gold, forms a border down the front.
Printed silks are flowery. Flowers may make a small all-over pattern; they may be scattered, slightly larger, in bunches; they may grow in rows.
Linens are delightfully original. For frocks, designs are floral, e.g., a white linen printed with large red sunflowers. For beach wear, one looks for novelty prints showing yachts, or sunshades, or anything that's rather ridiculous on a dress material.
It's the furnishing linen which interests me most. The idea is to have curtains in plain linen, and upholstery in a printed linen, or vice versa. For a den, consider brown linen curtains and a brown and white printed linen for chair coverings. Think of red and red-and-white for a cheerful dining-room, and green and green-and-white for a drawing-room or bedroom.
A successful drawing-room features grey and yellow. The upholstery is in grey, piped with yellow, and the curtains are printed in an unusual grey, yellow and white design.
Note the importance of white in furnishing and in furnishing fabrics. The use of unstained wood has a great deal to do with this fashion.
London, 20th July, 1938.
Dear Helen,—I had hoped this week to make another trip to Paris during the Royal visit, but unfortunately John is tied to London for the present. The King and Queen left for France this morning. Last evening we saw the crimson hangings in readiness at Victoria Station, and cleaners were being specially zealous over their sweeping. A large shop opposite is very patriotic with bunting.
But Paris is the place for preparations! Crowds have thronged the streets this week to see the decorations. The populace has responded nobly to the appeal of the President of the Municipal Council: “Put flags in your windows. Decorate your houses. Let the colours of the two nations float everywhere interlaced.” There will be a wonderful response to “Cheer the King. Cheer the Queen.”
The headlines in the press are growing bigger and bigger. We hear of masts bearing long red white and blue streamers in the Champs Elysee, of pylons each carrying 128 flags in the Place de l'Etoile, of 80,000 roses transforming the Avenue de l'Opera into a lane of flowers—and of Parisiennes wearing Union Jacks on their stockings.
Yes, I'd love to be over there where the wine of life is a-sparkle on the boulevards and even the Anglo-Saxon stranger is elated by the easy bubbling gaiety.
London seems drab in comparison, even though painters have been busy for weeks hiding the winter's grime. Here, summer is not bearing out the promise of the spring. Morning after morning we set out with raincoat or umbrella, knowing that ere long showers will splash down. That is why English people are weather pessimists.
Shows, where attendances dropped abruptly during the short hot spell in June, are benefiting from the cooler weather. We have patronised quite a few.
On Saturday evening, as a farewell to friends, we made up a party for the circus. I had looked forward so much to a first-class English circus—but I was disappointed. There was a blaring band, and a circus ring, and a ring-master and half a dozen clowns—but the circus atmosphere was missing. We were cut off by a row of footlights and the proscenium from the canvas, the sawdust—and the animal odours. The turns were all good — performing seals, elephants, dogs, an unrideable mule, and acrobats and equestrians galore—but I merely felt bored. I thought perhaps it was my fault, but John says he felt the same.
Straight plays are the safest things to attend. I believe you had “George and Margaret” in New Zealand at Easter. Isn't it a delightful play? It's still running here and shows no signs of closing down. Another long run is that of “French Without Tears,” but I didn't enjoy it nearly so much. It's not such a natural play, and the jokes presuppose in the audience a considerable knowledge of the French tongue—all right in London, judging by the immediate response of most of the audience, but the same gags would fall rather flat in New Zealand, where we're certainly taught to read French,
Every Limb “Locked”
Hospital Case of Rheumatism
Completely Relieved by Kruschen
The value of perseverance with Kruschen, in the treatment of rheumatism, is proved by this man's experience. He says:—“I was abroad for over seven years, and when I returned I began to get rheumatism—particularly in the feet and arms. Three years ago my rheumatism got much worse, and I was eventually taken into hospital, unable to move any joint of my body. I left the hospital after two months, when I was somewhat better. I was recommended to take Kruschen Salts, and I have taken them continuously. Since then I have gradually got rid of my rheumatism, until I am now entirely free of those awful pains. I would not be without my Kruschen Salts for anything.”—M.B.
No remedy can bring permanent relief from rheumatism unless it performs three separate functions. These are (a) dissolution of the needle-pointed uric acid crystals which cause the pain; (b) the expulsion of these crystals from the system; (c) prevention of a further accumulation of uric acid.
Two of the ingredients of Kruschen Salts are the most effectual solvents of uric acid known to medical science. They swiftly dull the sharp edges of the painful crystals, then convert them into a harmless solution. Other ingredients of these Salts have a stimulating effect upon the kidneys, and assist them to expel the dissolved uratic needles through the natural channel.
Combined with these solvents and eliminants of uric acid are still other salts which prevent food fermentation taking place in the intestine, and there-by check the further formation of mischievous uric acid.
Kruschen Salts is obtainable at all Chemists and Stores at 2/3 per bottle.
but are not familiar with the spoken world.
Recently we saw a fine play about the Antarctic—“White Secrets.” The strain of a long stay in this land of snow and silence frets men's nerves.
Irritations, jealousies, fears—and then conflict! It's good.
A top-notcher is “Idiot's Delight.” I overheard a man behind us say, “Fine anti-war propaganda, but it's six years too late.” I don't agree with the “too late” criticism, as all propaganda for peace is of immense value now and always. “Idiot's Delight” is an amazingly clever play because it nevertheless loses nothing in entertainment value. I imagine it would read almost as well as it plays.
I don't know what you'd think of London theatres. They're terribly old-fashioned, with boxes at an awkward angle, and cupids sprawling overhead. Some of the broken spring seating has been renewed—but not all. In most theatres and in all cinemas smoking is permitted. It's necessary to go out for air during intervals, and then, of course, the bar and supper room do a good trade. If you prefer to remain in your seats, attendants will bring you tea or coffee.
We're avoiding cinemas rather. They're quite palatial, but crowded from 11 a.m. to about 11.30 p.m. It takes good ventilation to cope with that. Films, too, are rather poor. There are a lot of second rate American films running, and practically nothing from the English studios. Good films, according to the fan papers, are in the making both here and in California, but they take a long time to arrive. Some of the West End cinemas are showing re-issues, “Henry VIII,” “Things to Come,” “Mata Hari,” “Frankenstein,” “The Invisible Man.” To show the shortage of films, “The Big Broadcast of 1938,” according to the advertisement columns of one evening paper, is showing at eight of the principal cinemas. I find foreign films interesting. Five French and one Russian film are showing at present in the West End.
Summer sales are still on here—and they're real sales! It's such a comfort to know that what I buy here, end of season, will be the dernier cri when I get back to New Zealand.
John is going all English. He's spent his spare time lately practising rolling his umbrella like that which accompanies the typical business man. To-day he is buying a light raincoat. I hope to save him from the universal black hat. After all, sellers of maps and postcards in Trafalgar Square still approach him hopefully. But we were annoyed in Paris when vendors tried to sell us English papers—just on our looks. A truce to burbling.
Yours,
Retta.
Health Notes.
Health the Source of Happiness.
Look on the bright side of everything and keep all thoughts of your ailments to yourself. If you are under the impression that there is anything organically wrong, don't waste any time before getting medical advice, but do not pander to the weak side of your nature by discussing “in season and out of season” sundry minor ailments.
A normal woman seldom thinks, far less speaks, of health. There is no reason for discussing it. The world is a wonderful place—infinitely exhilarating and we do not want to addle our brains with thoughts of disease, etc.
To walk, in preference to motoring. How few of us have the energy to spring out of bed an hour earlier in order to have time for exercise. We scramble through the day and are grateful for easy methods of transport, not realising that it is really our downfall. Children as well as adults are pampered in this direction.
Clothing, diet, exercise, and relaxation are all important ingredients in the making of health.
Clothing.—It is essential to allow free access of air to the body, so that the skin may function satisfactorily. The skin is an excretory organ, and the chief organ for regulating the temperature of the whole body. When the atmosphere is warm, or when extra heat is produced by muscular exertion, sweat is poured out from the glands and evaporates on the skin, thus abstracting heat and cooling the body.
Another factor in the maintenance of good health and resistance to germ invasion is the frequent changing of under-clothing. Vests that are worn during the day should on no account be worn at night. Loosely woven and porous garments are very easily washed and dried, and the little extra trouble is offset by improved health and vitality.
Recipes.
I have just read: “It's laziness that makes wives give dull food to husbands,” and “you shouldn't have to persuade people to eat … More skill, greater care, that's what you need.”
If that is so, Mr. Chef, we'll adopt a few American menus and try them on our ill-treated menfolk. Here are some:—
Orange juice, rolled oats with cream and sugar, poached egg on whole-wheat toast, coffee, milk.
* * *
Lettuce sandwich on whole-wheat bread, cream of spinach soup, apple, date, nut salad, cocoa.
* * *
Buttered peas, baked potato, moulded citrus, fruit salad, whole-wheat rolls, butter, ice cream, coffee, milk.
What about our “dull bacon and eggs” and “roast beef”? Would they be “taken off the list and never be missed”?
(Specially Written for “N.Z. Railways Magazine,” by
W. F. Ingram
Although Association Football is not permitted in many of the leading Secondary Schools in New Zealand, the Secondary Schools' team selected to represent New Zealand in Australia proved too strong for all the teams met over the other side of the Tasman Sea. The success of this team of youngsters must be heartening to the administrators of the Soccer code in New Zealand. Australia has had a higher standard of senior play than New Zealand for some seasons, but the standard of junior play obviously does not reach that of New Zealand's and when these lads grow up and take their place in senior teams New Zealand should not have any difficulty in defeating Australia in senior play. Prominent among the New Zealand team was D. Yeoman, of Wellington, who scored most of the goals. Yeoman set a record by representing Wellington in senior provincial football at the age of 15 years, and is a player of marked ability.
There is a mistaken idea held by many in New Zealand that Soccer is a game played in New Zealand by recent arrivals from Great Britain, but a survey of the players this season will show that more than 75 per cent. are New Zealanders, born and bred.
Championship.
With the holding of the New Zealand cross-country championship at New Plymouth the winter running season was brought to a conclusion after one of the most successful seasons experienced. More and more track athletes are beginning to realise the value of cross-country running as a means of retaining physical fitness, and new clubs are being formed annually by Bible Classes and Social Clubs. The spirit of comradeship that is engendered in this form of sport makes cross-country running of special value apart from the physical aspect.
Claude Weller, winner of this year's championship, equalled Billy Savidan's record by winning the title for the third year in succession, but has a long way to go to equal Savidan's other record—winner of the title on six occasions.
Savidan was expected to go close to winning the title again this year—it was in 1935 that he last won the crown—but he was not selected to represent Auckland, although he was showing form better than in past years.
Prior to the selection of the Auckland team it was announced that contenders for places in the team were to attend at the Auckland Domain for training, but Savidan did not report, so he was passed over when the team was chosen.
Mr. A. L. Fitch, “Tony” to his friends, arrived in New Zealand a few weeks ago in readiness to resume his coaching engagement under the auspices of the Wellington and Canterbury Athletic Centres. During his holiday in the United States of America Mr. Fitch approached the authorities at the University of Southern California and was successful in securing two scholarships in Physical Education for the benefit of New Zealanders.
These scholarships will be available for a period of four years, but do not
New Zealanders who were looking forward to seeing their own wrestling champion, Lofty Blomfield, meeting Bronko Nagurski for the world wrestling title at an open-air match in Auckland are doomed to disappointment. When arrangements had been completed and three tickets made available for Nagurski and his party to leave from Los Angeles a cable was received intimating that Nagurski would not wrestle unless an American referee, Don McDonald, was allowed to referee the match. This ultimatum was not acceptable to the Dominion of New Zealand Wrestling Union and an offer was made to bring a neutral referee from Australia, but Nagurski's manager would not agree to this suggestion. Under the circumstances, the Wrestling Union cancelled all arrangements.
The fine standard of Rugby football in Fiji came as a distinct surprise to the Maori representatives, but the islanders showed that the natural gifts
A few weeks ago I renewed acquaintance with a former Wellingtonian now resident at Samoa, and he assured me that track and field sport is growing in popularity in that country. A suggestion that a team of New Zealand athletes would help to further increase the interest was met with approval, and on return to Samoa the ex-Wellingtonian is to take the matter up. It should not be a difficult matter to arrange a team of New Zealand athletes, each man paying his own expenses, for a short stay in Samoa. The good to be done the sport should make the visit worthwhile.
In these days when sportsmanship is sometimes overlooked it is pleasing to record the action of the Otago Rugby Union after winning the Ranfurly Shield from the Southland Rugby Union. These unions play home and away matches every year, and when Southland intimated that it did not intend to press for the return match to be for the Ranfurly Shield but would play under those conditions if the Otago Union desired it that way, few Rugby followers anticipated the sporting action of Otago in offering to put the Shield at stake. It is history, now, how Southland went up to Otago and regained the shield, but it will be a long time before the sporting action of Otago will be forgotten. More of this spirit and less of the win-at-all-costs in sport would be appreciated.
An important development in sport in Wellington is the granting of the Petone Oval to softball instead of cricket as has been done for many years. This important sports ground has been the headquarters of cricket in the Hutt Valley, but the popularity of softball, a game introduced in to New Zealand last summer, has made such progress that it already rivals cricket in some parts of the Dominion. Influencing the Petone Borough Council in making its decision to place the Oval at the disposal of softball was the fact that the softball authorities intended to use the ground on Saturday morning as well as the afternoon and that more than 100 players would be participating in the games instead of 22, as in cricket.
Wit And Humour
An electrician was working on an emergency wiring job. Turning to the apprentice who was helping him, he said, “Say, Bill, take hold of the end of that wire.”
“All right.”
“Feel anything?”
“No.”
“Well, then don't touch the other one, it's got over 5,000 volts.”
A tramp paused outside a large house, and as he did so another of his kind came shuffling out of the gate.
“Any luck, mate?” asked the first tramp.
“It ain't no use tryin' there,” was the reply. “It's a poverty-stricken ‘ole. There was a couple o' women tryin' to play on one blinkin’ pianner!”
* * *
Errand Boy: “Is killing a pig murder, sir?”
Butcher: “No. Murder, my lad, is assaulting with intent to kill. The other is killing with intent to salt!”
He had long overstayed his welcome. “Tell me,” said the host at last, “how long was the fish you caught the other day?”
“Oh,” said the guest, holding his hands wide apart, “so long.”
“Well, so long,” returned the host, “if you really must be going.”
* * *
The henpecked husband took his pipe from his pocket. His wife looked daggers at him.
“But, my dear,” he protested, “all great men smoked, you know.”
“Yes, Henry,” she replied sweetly, “and when you get to be a great man I shan't mind you smoking either.”
“But how on earth did you come to get so completely intoxicated?” asked the magistrate.
“I got into bad company, your Honour. You see, there were four of us. I had a bottle of whisky—and the other three were teetotallers.”
* * *
Father: “Why is it that you are always at the bottom of the class?”
Johnny: “It doesn't make any difference daddy, they teach the same things at both ends.”
“Anyway, Claude, what a ridiculous place for a tree to grow.”
As Mike marched down the street, he passed two men who were talking on the corner, so he promptly joined in the conversation.
“Are you gintlemen arguin' about Oireland?” he asked.
“No,” replied one of the men, “we're not. We're just discussing some personal affairs.”
Apparently satisfied, Mike walked on. But he hadn't gone more than five yards when an idea struck him. He turned round again and came back to the two men.
“Faith!” he cried. “Maybe you think Oireland isn't worth arguin' about!”
It was breakfast time at the house of the eminent professor, who had spent the major part of the night in his laboratory.
“My dear,” he said to his wife, “congratulate me! I have discovered a gas of hitherto unheard-of density, and I'm going to name it after you!”
* * *
“There's something odd about you this morning,” said the dictator to his chief lieutenant.
“Yes—I know what it is. For the first time since I've known you you've left off your medals.”
The lieutenant looked down at his chest.
“Great Heavens!” he cried, “I forgot to take them off my pyjamas.”
* * *
Guard (to Scotsman in train): “This is a platform ticket you have.”
Sandy: “Aye, but I want to go to another platform.”
* * *
First Boy: “Old Harry roller-skates pretty well perfect, don't ‘e?”
Second Boy: “I don't know. ‘Is father won't let ‘im fetch ‘is beer on ‘em yet.”
* * *
An American was talking of the terrible storms he had encountered. He had seen hailstones the size of a penny.
“Shure, that's nothing to the great storm in Cork years ago,” said an Irishman. “The hailstones there varied in size from a shilling to eighteen-pence.”
* * *
A little girl walked upstairs to the room where her father was gargling his throat, ran to the top of the stairs, and shouted: “Mummy—come quick! Daddy's boilin' over.”