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Tokamaru River, Manawatu, North Island, New Zealland.
The New Zealand Railways Magazine is on sale through the principal booksellers, or may be obtained post-free for 6/- per annum.
Employees of the Railway Department are invited to forward news items or articles bearing on railway affairs. The aim of contributors should be to supply interesting topical material tending generally towards the betterment of the service.
In all cases where the Administration makes announcements through the medium of this Journal the fact will be clearly indicated.
The Department does not identify itself with any opinions which may be expressed in other portions of the publication, whether appearing over the author's name or under a nom de plume.
Short stories, poetry, pen-and-ink sketches, etc., are invited from the general public upon New Zealand subjects.
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All communications should be addressed to The Editor, New Zealand Railways Magazine, Wellington.
I hereby certify that the publisher's lists and other records disclose that the circulation of the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” has not been less than 23,000 copies each issue since August, 1937.
Controller and Auditor-General.
2/12/37.
“A sea loch's inmost bend Is narrowing to its end …”
—W. Wingate.
The Portage landing at Torea Bay, Queen Charlotte Sound, South Island, New Zealand.
(Rly. Publicity photo.)
It is no small part of the work of those who wish well for New Zealand to encourage appreciation of New Zealanders by New Zealanders.
This applies to every field of endeavour upon which our people are engaged.
Just as in the individual, self-trust is the basis of personal development, so, in the nation, mutual trust and confidence amongst those composing it is the true foundation of greatness.
New Zealanders have every reason for mutual trust in each other to a degree not excelled by any other country. Their records of achievement in the widest range of human activities are more notable than most of us are wont to realise. They live longer than the people of any other country, and it is not improbable that they die happier.
Entrancing volumes could be written on New Zealand inventions; on the per capita production of the country; on the genius that New Zealand's sons and daughters have displayed in the most fertile fields of art and literature; on scientific discoveries of world import made by our own countrymen; on the valuable results of original research by New Zealanders in industrial and production methods on the land and in the factory; and on the exceptionally high quality of the goods produced for sale in competitive markets overseas.
A friendly climate, a favourable soil, a sound educational system available to all through a long period of years, a democratic habit which leaves open the gates of opportunity to those qualified for advancement along the many avenues of human endeavour, these have made of New Zealanders a race of self-reliant people whose habit it is to bring intelligence and enterprise to aid experience in any work they undertake.
Their greatest drawback is a tendency to national self-depreciation when comparisons with the work and achievements of other countries are made.
When New Zealanders reach the point of mutual appreciation denoted by the pride of country that marked the Greek and the Roman of the great days of those empires and that still distinguishes the Englishman's outlook as it did in the days of Drakes—then “Buy New Zealand First” will be the natural impulse of our people, as “See New Zealand First” is the natural advice of travel promoters.
For this reason the decision to run a campaign through the Bureau of the Department of Industries and Commerce to promote still further the spirit of mutual confidence amongst New Zealanders in the products of their own hands and brains is of first importance. The effect will be to encourage the use of New Zealand products of all kinds, and to impress the advantages of the country from the climatic, scenic, and health aspects as well as in regard to living conditions generally, including civic amenities and state services. It is another step in the national development of the “Brighter Britain of the South.”
Following on the first Departmental Refresher Course held at Railway Head-quarters last year, members of the inspectorial staff for the whole of New Zealand assembled in Wellington last week to attend the second of these courses, which it is proposed to hold each year.
The courses are presided over by the Signal and Electrical Engineer, who has associated with him the Chief Signal Inspector and the Signal Instructors. The meetings are attended by members of the Traffic, Locomotive and Signalling staffs responsible for the supervision of the men engaged in traffic and locomotive operation where the proper functioning of, and obedience to signals, and the interpretation of rules and regulations governing their operation is one of the most important duties of those associated with the movement of trains.
This method of instruction is a matter of first importance to-day because of the modern developments that have recently taken place in regard to signalling, such as the introduction of centralised traffic control—the first of its kind outside of England—the operation of electric multiple-units by means of automatic points at crossing places, and the installation of modified automatic signalling. With these and other extensions of up-to-date railroading equipment incorporated in the system from time to time, refresher courses ensure standardisation in the method of operation and in the interpretation of the rules and regulations set down for the guidance of the operating staff.
Those present are also addressed by the Locomotive Superintendent and the Transportation Superintendent on matters affecting their respective Branches.
As General Manager, I also take the opportunity to address the Conference and to point out to the assembled officers the more important aspects of the work that confronts the management, and other details that matter a great deal from the point of view of the travelling public and clients of the Department generally.
Much of the advantage derived from these refresher courses would be lost unless it extended beyond those taking part in the Conference itself, and it is hoped that the men on the road who make personal contact with the members of the inspectorial staff after they return to their respective districts will benefit from the knowledge and experience transmitted by those who attend the courses. More particularly should the knowledge so gained be helpful to the younger members of the Service, by whom the inspectorial staff should be regarded not only as teachers but as friends anxious to impart a wealth of knowledge gained by years of experience and study.
The whole idea behind the refresher courses is to pass on knowledge of the standards of operation required, so that everybody concerned will be better equipped to do their job, and thus become more efficient railwaymen, with favourable results both to the public and to the Department.
General Manager.
(Photo., courtesy Lands & Survey Dept.)
The southern entrance to the Galatea estate, North Island, New Zealand.
There is a new road, little travelled as yet, that surpasses some of our celebrated tourist routes—the Buller Gorge, for example—as a highway of unusual landscape values. Some day it will take popular rank as a road of wonder and beauty, and big tourist ‘buses will hurtle round its dizzy corners. They will not hurtle yet awhile; the road is precariously narrow in places and the overhanging mountains have a trick of toppling a rock or so down on the wheelway carved out of their grey flanks.
I had imagined I knew all the wild glens and rugged traverses in and about the Urewera mountain land, from the western sierras to the tapu peak, Maungapohatu, and the gulches and cliffs of the Huiarau range and down to the bays of Waikaremoana. Foot and horseback and camp in the forests that cover most of that region, spread over forty years, gave a pretty thorough knowledge of the highlands and the Maori people. But until a few months ago I had not seen at close quarters that section of the western buttresses of the Tuhoe land between the Galatea plains and the Rotorua—Whakatane main highway at Te Teko.
The link between these places is supplied by this new road, thirty-two miles in length. It was made to give the Government's newly-broken in farm settlement at Galatea—or more correctly, Tauaroa—and the outer world an alternative route to the long way round, via the Kaingaroa Plain and Rotorua. It also gives the Urewera Maoris a better way of communication between Ruatoki and the Whakatane plains and the mountain villages.
It rained all the way from Rotorua to Waiotapu and across the Kaingaroa plateau, where the road across the great pumice plain is now shut in by the new forest of exotic pines. When I first rode across the plain, on my way to Ruatahuna, the vast bare prairie spread out as far as the eye could carry; it was without a tree, except for a few gale-beaten cabbage-trees, with frayed-out heads tilted to the north. Now the pines and gums form a dense and lofty plantation and the right angle roads give the only views. We got out of the car to lunch in the soft rain, under the lee of the pines. The new forest, fragrant of resin and eucalypt, has
(From a drawing by T. Ryan, 1890.)
The Urewera Ranges (western side) from the Rangitaiki west bank, Kaingaroa Plain North Island, New Zealand.
We came out into the open again when we drove down the eastern slope of the Kaingaroa to the Murupara village and the white bridge over the Rangitaiki River.
It had been raining for a week in the high country across the wide river strath. All the tops of the Urewera saw-edge highlands were shawled in fog. We had glimpses of the shoulder of Tawhiu-au, the sacred peak of the Ngati-Manawa tribe, whose homes are on the terraces along the Rangitaiki. A rightly named mountain; Tawhiu-au means “Swirling Mists.” The ragged garments of fog drifted above its steep pyramid; they parted a moment to reveal the high waterfall, a stream that drops straight from the bush and loses itself in a hidden gully. A water-drop-of Maori history; its name is Mangamate—“Stream of Death.”
The Rangitaiki River, we saw as we went down to it from the eastern edge of the Kaingaroa, was in high flood, rushing under the white bridge, eddying in whirlpools. Where we formerly
Turning off to the left on the eastern bank, we took the new road that leads north through the great Galatea estate. In towards the mountains on the east the main road trended into the ranges—the way to Ruatahuna and Waikare-moana.
The western wall of the Urewera now was on our right hand; we could not see the tops of the peaks, but I knew their outlines by heart, and knew the topography from many a journey into those bush-shadowed gorges. Rolled about in mists to-day the ranges seemed to loom up more sternly than ever; in the gulches between their lower steeps we had glimpses of the thunderous blue mystery land.
The Rangitaiki flows in a northerly direction all the way from its source far to the south of us. This part of it, where the alluvial plain of the Kuhawaea opens out between the Kaingaroa tableland and the Urewera wall, was once a lake. The powerful river which fed it at last burst the barriers on the north and emptied the flat-floored valley. The pumice showered on the hills by the Taupo and Tongariro-Ruapehu volcanoes in past ages was borne down in vast quantities to the plains, scouring deep valleys, accentuating the sharp outlines of the sierra that makes Tuhoeland's western rampart and building the long levels that extend to the sea.
We seemed, as we drove over the Tauaroa or Galatea estate that was once the great Troutbeck sheep and cattle station, to be moving endlessly through a prairie of mist. The dim shapes of farm buildings and haystacks appeared and vanished.
We crossed the Whirinaki River, rushing in from the mountains around Te Whaiti; its discoloured waters were almost level with the bridge planking. It is the largest tributary in these parts; and timber felling on its upper waters increases its powers of erosion in this pumice plain country that cries out for trees for soil protection and shelter.
The mountains on our right grew more steep and stepped closer to us. We closely skirted the right bank of the Rangitaiki. Over to the west across the river was Galatea proper; that settlement below the Kaingaroa upland was named after the historic redoubt, Colonel Whitmore's military base, now clothed in fern and peace, which preserves the memory of the Duke of Edinburgh's cruise to New Zealand in H.M.S. Galatea. The Kaingaroa, we saw between the drifts of mist, increased in height and its edge dropped down in bluffs of dark volcanic rock.
Presently the river's course narrowed to a gorge. It ran in rapids, plunging furiously. The Urewera Ranges became a series of bold buttresses, rising precipitously above the yellowing current. Our road was cut out of the cliffs; the rata and rimu trees leaned over us wherever there was a firm root-hold. The gutters of the mountains gushed; from every misty alcove and gully a stream dashed out or a waterfall dropped.
(Rly. Publicity photo.).
Hongl's Track, near Rotorua, is on the circular route described here.
The rain continued; we could not see the mountain tops; they were hidden from us not only by the steep-ness of their pitch but by the soaking mists. Directly below our road, as it snaked and climbed along the range foot, the river was a continuous succession of rapids. It raved and roared; it was no longer the Rangitaiki of the smooth though swift upper reaches.
There were little islands in its course, with trees and ferns. It charged at them and over them, and sent its spray high up the banks. It was a Mad River of the White Mountains, ten miles of it or more before it steadied down.
Now the Kaingaroa Plain edge across the river bumped itself up into mountains. Here was a savage volcano land, the dead yet thunderous nest of the fiery craters of old. The river dashed through an ancient explosion crater or a series of them. A vitreous cliff face opposite us glinted like obsidian; it was clearly the wall of an extinct volcano. It shone in the wet like the explosion pit-walls
A truculent corner, this canyon, it threatened us with its overhanging cliffs and its raving waters. The buttresses of east and west seemed to menace each other; they would have plunged into a battle of the rocks but for this river that pushed masterfully between them. A long waterfall poured over the volcano brim opposite our road, from one of those knife-cut fissures in the eastern wall of the Kaingaroa.
The Waiohau River came swiftly out from the ranges through a basin of cultivated land, a vivid oasis in the fierce toss-up of crag and cliff and all-covering bush.
A Maori meeting-house and a few small whares and a pataka storehouse stood there, the Waiohau kainga. All this country, wild as it is, was a home and fighting ground of various clans of the Urewera people. Hereabouts was the olden fortified village called Tauheke. Descendants of the ancient clans, Ngati-Rakei, Ngati-Haka and Patu-heuheu live in the Waiohau district and such adjacent parts as are habitable.
The canoe-men of the olden tribes navigated the Rangitaiki; they made portages at the wildest parts, hauling their canoes around the banks above the worst of the rapids. It must have been a strenuous job at such places as this Okahu bluff, near the precipitous hill called Arorangi.
The modern highway makers had an even more difficult job, chopping and carving and smoothing this road of ours. The boiling-mad torrent below; the all-too-narrow wheelway; the cliffs impending over us, streaming with little waterfalls, every fern and shrub and bed of moss dripping.
More bluffs; then the ranges at last stepped back again. The valley opened out, and the Rangitaiki recovered from its display of temper and smoothed its face; and you would scarcely have known it for the same mad-drunk and disorderly river by the time we crossed it by the bridge at Te Teko and turned Rotorua-ward.
All that riverside journey—it was on a Sunday—we did not meet car, man, or dog. It was fortunate; the gorge road was narrowest just at the worst cliff corners, and was quite unprotected by parapet or fence.
Of one thing we were convinced—if we had not been convinced already that this Rangitaiki, running in a practically straight course for the greater part of its length, is charged with immense power of damage to the lower lands near the Bay of Plenty unless the bush on the ranges above it is strictly protected. It is only the jungly bush that holds together the unreliable soil of the heights and the hill slants. Guard that forest of the
I have seen no place in New Zealand where forest preservation is more obviously a national duty than this western side of the Urewera mountain land.
To return to the route: It is a magnificent excursion, this Kaingaroa-Rangitaiki-Lakeland journey. Easily in one day, from Rotorua, you traverse the gateway of the volcano gods at Waiotapu and Rainbow Mountain (the Maori Maunga-Kakaramea), the great new Forest of the Kaingaroa, the riverside road with its thrilling moments, and the return way to Rotorua, skirting the three lakes of the woods, Rotoma, Rotoehu and Rotoiti. You see that most wonderful of old volcanoes, Putauaki (Mt. Edgecumbe), springing powerful from the plain; it is a more boldly-cut mountain than even Ngauruhoe. You drive along Hongi's Track, bush avenue of beauty and poetic folk-lore, with its tapu tree—Hinehopu. There is no more wonderful round-route drive in all New Zealand. But mind your steering!
The war bird is the natural defence warden of New Zealand. With an efficient air force, our land can be made into a veritable hornet's nest for any enemy, however imposing in strength, however resolute in attack. But there is a difficulty; it takes eight men on the ground to keep one aeroplane aloft. At present, as we stand to-day our eighty or a hundred pilots, and fifty to sixty planes require a total Air Force personnel of approximately seven hundred and fifty. Peace loving countries naturally only want to maintain their Air Forces at a strength that would just meet a sudden emergency. But as the recent flurry in “Insanity Fair” has just shown us, there is need for planning. In short, the Royal New Zealand Air Force is seeking to create a Civil Reserve of 5,000 New Zealanders; the men wanted are those whose trades or professions have given them the basic knowledge needed in building up a larger Air Force. Here is an opportunity for the skilled craftsman and the expert technician of all ages, to help in the best of all national causes, the defence of our hard won blessings of comfort, humanitarianism, and cultural progress.
(Photo., Chas. E. Brown.)
Spitfire” wings along the Coast.
Of all the achievements of mankind in the last quarter of a century, the most awe-inspiring is the conquest of the air. It is a pitiful testament to human weakness that this newly-won mastery has been put to the crazy business of killing the sons and daughters of men, but when world-madness passes away, there will remain the shining marvel of man's ingenuity, daring, and endless patience.
The romance of flying goes a long way back in New Zealand, and it is surprising, to use an old-fashioned phrase “how time flies.” I can remember going into a tent at the Palmerston Winter Show in June, 1912, to see the Bleriot monoplane, the first machine that had ever actually flown. Mr. Reginald White, of Wellington, flew a locally built machine designed by Mr. Percy Fisher in May, 1913. The flights consisted of long hops of about 200 yards each and Pigeon Bush provided the flying ground. Before that again, Messrs. Schaeff and Fisher had got as far as some stray leaps in the air with an aeroplane built in 1910.
In 1907, Mr. B. Ogilvie had constructed a model triplane which was taken to England, and the “Winchester Aeroplane” created great interest, and was entered for the Baron de Forest Prize for the Channel flight. However, finances ran out, and this New Zealand design suffered the fate so common in those early pioneering days.
The first people to make an actual flying machine that flew in New Zealand were the Walsh Brothers, who built a Farman biplane, carrying out a good flight at Papakura in February, 1911.
These good New Zealanders, Messrs. L. & V. Walsh will go down in New Zealand flying history, for they went steadily ahead and formed the first flying school, training pilots for the Royal Flying Corps away back in 1915. It is interesting to remember that while they were on the job of building their first aeroplane they read of Bleriot's flight across the Channel.
I can remember the arrival home in New Zealand of Mr. J. J. Hammond, after winning fame in Northern Africa and England as an aviator.
(Photo Stevart & White Ltd.)
Contemporaneous with him was that pioneer pilot, J. W. H. Scotland, who assembled a row of records in his Caudron biplane which he brought out in January, 1914.
He flew this machine in an epoch making journey from Invercargill to Gore, leaving at 6.50 p.m. and arriving at 7.38, thus attaining the terrific speed of 60 miles an hour. An interested spectator was the present Controller of Civil Aviation, Group Captain T. M. Wilkes.
(Photo. Stewart & White, Ltd.)
Aircraft engineers carry out regular inspection and overhaul.
The story of these doughty heralds of the new dawn in transport methods would fill many volumes. The fine fact remains that New Zealanders were abreast of the world in this gesture of man's empire in every realm of nature. The Great War crashed all progress in aviation in New Zealand, as it crashed progress everywhere in so many other avenues of human endeavour. Even the modest “Britannia” Bleriot machine was shipped back to the Motherland, and our fliers did their deeds of daring in France and Mesopotamia. The fame of the late Squadron Leader M. C. McGregor, “Mad Mac” of “War Birds,” will never die. Great as were his war exploits, the real memorial to this great airman is the establishment of the present splendid system of commercial aviation, and, of course, his extraordinary achievement in the Melbourne Centenary Air Race.
After the war, New Zealanders who had gained their wings came back full of burning enthusiasm to make New Zealanders air-minded. Once again the scenic beauties of our “pocket world” interfered with the development of the new transport arm.
The clear but constant winds, the diversity of mountain and plain, and a hundred and one other possessions of our land which delight the tourist and bedevil the technician, conspired to slow up all progress. We must not forget Wigram aerodrome, the first to be constructed in New Zealand by that enterprising pioneer, The Canterbury Aviation Company. Nor must we forget R. L. Wigley's formation of the “New Zealand Aero-Transport Company,” in 1920. In a D.H.9 ‘plane with a Siddeley Puma engine, he and his pilot established a record flight from Invercargill to Auckland in a flying time of 8 hours 53 minutes.
(Photo. Stewart & White, Ltd.)
Vildebeeste torpedo bombers of the R.N.Z.A.F.
But New Zealand did not become really “air-minded” until that great figure “Smithy,” the deathless Australian, Sir Charles Kingsford Smith, flew the Tasman. His missionary work up and down New Zealand set the fashion, and aero clubs sprang up in every centre. Please be reminded that New Zealand has provided its share of world aviation figures.
The list is long, but the Blenheim-born Flying Officer Clouston, and the dazzling figure of Jean Batten, give us high rank in the countries who have produced “aces.”
From 1928 onwards, development in New Zealand was so rapid as to be exciting.
We have now over 600 pilots, and 55 licensed aerodromes. The Aero Clubs flying year ended with 1,805,138 miles flown.
It is claimed, moreover, that to-day, in proportion to population, New Zealanders are the greatest users on earth of passenger ‘planes.
This article commenced with the statement that war birds were the best form of defence craft for our country. In other words, we are compelled to consider the military value of this instrument of high romance, this proof of man's intellectual greatness.
Our island country with its tremendous coastline, its mountainous terrain, and its diversity of configuration, is an ideal subject for defence
(Photo. Stewart & White, Ltd.)
J. W. H. Scotland's “Caudron” flying at Christchurch.
If a struggle starts again between major countries, it will obviously be long drawn out, and call for a great increase in the numerical strength of all arms of our air defence.
The gist of the matter is—where are the extra men to come from and how are they to be trained? Now, here is the opportunity to fit yourself into a position of value to your country in its time of need.
The method of handling the problem in New Zealand is simple and straight-forward. An Air Force register is being compiled, the idea being to ascertain who, among our population are specially fitted for this arm of the service. Naturally the men wanted are those whose lives have been spent in some trade or profession which gives them the basic technical or administrative knowledge which will be helpful in building up a larger New Zealand Air Force.
The step taken by the citizen is to join the Royal N.Z. Air Force Civil Reserve. As usual, this means signing a form, and these are obtainable at any Post Office, or from the Air Department, Wellington.
The form itself is clear, easily understood, quite unambiguous, and therefore good journalism.
There is this to remember, in peace time, members of the Reserve will not be asked to carry out any training, nor is it proposed to provide uniforms or pay.
The broad principles as to who are the folks who should join, are plain. The main jobs relate to engineering, mechanics, signals, wireless, photography, and so on.
The mechanical construction of an aeroplane is the highest development of complicated structural design known in engineering achievement.
(Photo. Stewart & White, Ltd.)
Therefore, the greatest precision, and the highest grades of technical proficiency are needed for the handling of the repair, upkeep and running of aeroplane mechanisms.
The real idea at the moment is to get a full register of all New Zealand-ers who are specially suited for participation in this work.
The first group required has five subdivisions: Engineering; Armament; Navigation; Signals; Photography.
Men with professional qualifications, in any of these avenues of expert knowledge, will be welcomed, and from these would be filled the vacancies for officers.
The second group consists of the skilled tradesmen. I take at random some of the sub-headings: precision-machine worker; locksmith; blue-print maker; watchmaker; electrician; sail maker; upholsterer; and all the grades of fitters—tool-fitter, constructional fitter, turner, motor mechanic, and so on. Coppersmiths and metal workers are also wanted, as well as carpenters, wireless operators, panel beaters and packers. It seems to me that every craftsman, every “man of his hands” can fill some niche in this national task.
After the ranks of those who know about machines and scientific apparatus, there remains the force who must attend to the administration of finance and supplies.
These will require men with warehouse experience, store controllers and storemen, despatch men, and indeed all those who have had experience in factory, workshop or warehouse, particularly in the handling and distribution of goods; in this case, goods are articles of special equipment.
In particular it is to be remembered
It is clear that here is a golden opportunity for men of experience and hard won skill, to be useful in the time of our country's need. We have them here; in the Railways Department alone, there is a self-contained industrial world. Looking through the list of occupations contained in the Air Force form, I could not find an occupation which is not followed by some member of the mighty railways brotherhood.
The sad truth is that if we are to be able to defend our country, we must prepare beforehand. The last few weeks have proved in tragic fashion that the world is still a patch-work of panic and passion, and that the vast madness called war may blaze into flame and fury at any time.
It is ground for just pride that our air development has progressed so rapidly in the last decade. It is a greater thought still that an efficient air force for all purposes can be created swiftly in New Zealand; and it is warmly comforting that it can become so strong as a weapon of defence that we could feel secure from attack. Our very position as “a far-flung outpost of Empire”; our very isolation;
Joining the Royal N.Z. Air Force Civil Reserve is not a patriotic gesture, or a warlike move; it is a common sense act of social service.
One of the gratifying developments in the aircraft arena in New Zealand has been the rapid expansion of the Aero Club Movement. Dunedin led off in January, 1927, and was followed by Auckland and Christchurch in the next year, and now the whole Dominion is covered at all important points.
This movement has entailed a great advance in the number of trained pilots. For the year ending 31st March, 1938, the figures are almost exciting.
The miles flown were 1,805,138, and flying hours came to 19,295. Over eight thousand passengers were carried, and pupils under training at the end of the year amounted to the imposing total of 361.
There were no less than 55 licensed aerodromes, and licensed pilots numbered 546 with “A” licenses and 74 with “B” licenses.
The aero club movement is a healthy one. Apart from the acquisition of practical skill in flying an aeroplane, there is a wealth of social endeavour, and no quantity of actual transport is effected.
By generous subsidies and in other ways, the Government assists the growth of these clubs, and they form to-day an integral part of New Zealand's panorama of everyday life.
Air travel has become a common-place here, and it acts as a subsidiary and valued “feeder” to rail and road transport. The measure of open-air life, and the general “handiness” of the average New Zealander gives him advantages over many citizens of older lands, in the matter of physical and mental suitability for this new method of getting from one place to another. We have already a heritage of air exploits, both civil and military, which is astonishing for such a small population. I believe that the heritage is in safe hands, and that New Zealand as an air-minded land, will take its place among the leaders.
It is possible that over the years I have become “railway-minded,” but I do find a distinctive atmosphere in any town which is not on a main railway highway. This was noticeable in Gisborne, and it is clearer still in Blenheim. It is difficult to fit a definition in exact words; but it is ever present, all pervading, and reveals itself in a thousand and one touches of local thought and outlook. Perhaps the main manifestation to the visiting observer is the tendency to dwell on the past. More history is talked in Blenheim and Gisborne than in any of the many places I have visited in the whole of New Zealand. They told me in Blenheim, as I stood on the modern Alfred Street bridge, of the old pontoon which was worked by a chain at that particular spot, and of how Lock-up Creek used to roar in flood beside the site of the Town Hall. This is a refreshing change in some ways, but I prefer the cheery forthright and wholesome pride in the future of their town shown by the inhabitants of so many lovely and pleasant centres in our country.
As they are rather inclined to dwell on the glorious past in Blenheim, this article will show that the pretty river-town which is the capital of Marlborough, has a bright present and a glowing future.
Blenheim, in many respects, is the most romantic provincial capital in New Zealand. I am sure that in the rapid changes to come, and in spite of the speedy growth which is the future lot of this sunlit town, it will retain its distinctive atmosphere. I was everlastingly reminded of Rupert Brooke's “Granchester,” as my friend of the camera and I wandered down the long streets.
Of course the trees of Marlborough are famous, the latest discovery being a bluegum 265 feet high. Tall trees are everywhere in Blenheim and we give you a picture of the large double-stemmed Sequoia in Maxwell Road. More than this, we landed in early September and the town was ablaze with blossoming shrubs and every tinted variety of flowering fruit tree. Every home has a garden, and every garden was golden with daffodils and gladioli. A flower shop in Blenheim would be entirely without customers.
We took pictures of one dream place which really needs a colour print to do justice to its radiance and chromatic tracery.
There is a small stream here with clear water and swaying green water-weed which is as English as the Cam or an upper reach of the Thames. There are many of these rivulets in the gardens of Blenheim.
The streets of Blenheim in the main are narrow, so that they contrive to look rustic lanes. A quarter of the population of the town live in suburbs, Southside, Mayfield, Springlands, Redwood Town and Riverlands, and this whole area is consistently pervaded by a leafy and sylvan sweetness.
The commercial and administrative portion of Blenheim differs wholly in design and lay-out from all its New Zealand sisters. The middle of this section is an irregular triangle, one side of which is dominated by the Post Office Block. The radiation of streets from this original central plaza, is, therefore, most interesting, and provides continual surprises. The reason for this furnishes a good story.
Market Square, as this trigonal space is called, was an impenetrable swamp when the surveyor made the first plans for the new township. On his tracings, therefore, he simply put his streets on the safe high ground, and left the “Square” blank. The first business man in Market Square was a photographer who built his premises on high piles with a bridge entrance.
Of course, it goes without saying that fine modern shops of metropolitan standard, well appointed hotels, and, as Blenheim is a capital, imposing offices of large businesses adorn the commercial blocks. Many fine public buildings adorn the town, notably a handsome Court House. The schools are of high standard, the Marlborough High School standing high in the ranks of secondary schools. We show a picture of a splendid open-air primary school, which is a notable example of giving the children of this fortunate region the manifest advantages of a genial climate. There are also blocks of flats which would grace Auckland or Wellington.
The distinctive configuration of this delectable centre is helped by the presence of two inconsequential, wandering, and slow-flowing rivers. I am not going to pretend that either the Omaka
The truth is that the banks of the town rivers are highly ornamental, and a band of enthusiastic workers with the good title of the “Come to Blenheim” Society are rapidly transforming them. Our pictures show the changes these folk have wrought, and when their plans are complete, there will be miles of scenic show-places and pretty playgrounds along the river banks. I noticed among other attractions, a remarkably populous aviary whose many-coloured inhabitants sparkled in the Blenheim sunshine.
Of course, the Opawa has its utility value, helped by the Omaka which acts precisely like a railway switch line, giving the steamers deployment room for backing and turning.
A river port always has a personality of its own, and many a Blenheim boy must have got the full savour of Mark Twain and his Mississippi stories from his own home town wharves.
By the way, the river trip is worth while for any visitor. There are seventeen miles of winding waterway which pass through lands of abounding fertility, spreading green pastures and cosy homesteads.
It is well to remember that Blenheim owes its birth to the existence of these interesting river loops.
That interesting pioneer Dutchman, Wynen, had built his first store at the Wairau Bar entrance, and so sat at the gateway of the province as far back as 1847. His strategy was good. The Wellington vessels did not attempt to cross the Wairau Bar. They anchored outside, where Wynen's boats transhipped the cargoes, and ran them up to “The Beaver.” A smoke signal called the settlers from far and near to collect their consignments.
Thus “The Beaver” became Blenheim, and in the fervour for military names, Waitohi, the rival for the leadership of Marlborough, became Picton.
Memories are good in Blenheim, and as I have said, interest in the fascinating history of the place is maintained in high degree.
The citizen who showed me the fine gasworks installation belonging to the municipality, explained that the works were erected on the very hummock from which the smoke signals ascended warning the farmhouses on the plain that boatloads of goods had reached “The Beaver.”
Of course, I should pause here to mention that Blenheim is replete with every civic convenience and every modern community comfort.
An American tourist, travelling with his family on a comprehensive New Zealand tour, “reckoned” that the Criterion Hotel, was as “mahdern” as a good city hotel back Home. It seems to be the Mecca, too, of dinners and weddings, giving it an urban air.
There is a capacious theatre with an up-to-date stage which would accommodate the largest travelling companies, there is a modern cinema palace, and I saw an abundance of other halls. The cultural and recreational possessions of Blenheim are high even for New Zealand.
There are three men's clubs, all with good premises and luxurious appointments, and I was shown an array of flowering trees in the grounds of a pretty club house belonging to the other sex.
Playing fields are in abundance, and the golf course is good. I enjoyed the stroll through Waterlea Park which adjoins the picturesque racecourse. One of these days this will be a beauty spot for all New Zealand. Other reserves in the town add up to 180 acres.
A project for a noble Civic Centre is well under way, and a long step has already been taken in the fashioning, over the years, of Seymour Park, an ornamental ground of very great beauty. Here stands the impressive War Memorial, and there are also characteristic tall trees. This two-acre
The central position and the presence of handsome buildings near by, invest Seymour Park with an air of urban dignity, yet it manages to retain an old world atmosphere.
Its most interesting exhibit, and perhaps, one of the most exciting old-time treasures in New Zealand, is the Blin-kinsopp gun.
This six-pounder was the total consideration for the purchase of the Wairau Plain. Captain Blinkinsopp, having exchanged his gun for a deed of transfer signed by Te Rauparaha and Rangihaetea, set off to Hobart, and launched a rosy scheme of settlement. He was drowned off the Australian Coast, the Maoris repudiated the transaction, particularly after they learned of the mariner's death, the few settlers who did arrive, mysteriously disappeared, and the only use made of the gun throughout the years was when some enthusiasts on Mafeking Night fired a salute from it.
However, it stands in Seymour Park now, a silent monument to the roaring days of the early Wairau. The charm of those far-off days is always with us in Blenheim. The stories of the long battle between Picton and Blenheim are full of vim, and possess the qualities of an Oppenheim novel. For a long period after the establishment of Marlborough as a separate Province the Picton old guard fought the good fight, and for a while, held the upper hand. The Chief Post Office and the Government Buildings were erected in Picton, which became the capital of the newly-constituted province. Time continued to do its work, the Wairau and the Awatere were filling with settlers, and in spite of such efforts as a stonewall speech of nearly eleven hours by the late Sir Harold Beauchamp's father, Mr. A. Beauchamp, the Picton fortress fell.
The Government archives were moved to Blenheim by bullock dray and the Picton paper sadly records as a last blow, the loss of the town clock which, of course, followed the removal of the Chief Post Office.
The Blenheim paper remarked laconically that “if it does not do us better service when erected than it did at Picton, we shall wish it speedily back again.” The paper referred to—“The Marlborough Express”—is one of the seniors among New Zealand newspapers.
The rebellion of the Marlborough settlers against government by Nelson provided a vivid page, and the stout band of Wairau settlers were the first to secede and become an independent province. Their example was soon followed by Hawke's Bay, in the North Island.
The Borough of Blenheim is one of the oldest in New Zealand. It was gazetted on 6th March, 1869. It has the distinction, too, of being the first municipality to adopt the revolutionary idea of allowing the citizens to elect the Mayor instead of the Council.
Mr. James Hutcheson, in 1873, was the first Mayor in New Zealand to be chosen by the whole body of the ratepayers.
History may be in the air of Blenheim, and all about its hinterland are regions rich in legend and story; but the Wairau Plain is a present scene of surpassing beauty. This vast terrain contains over 65,000 acres of prodigally rich soil. The climate is nearly perfection. The patriotic Blenheim citizen rightly claims that in the much debated statistics of sunshine hours, the Marlborough capital is in the top two or three. There is little variation in the temperature, and as I know from much experience, the winter is mild and has plenty of “blue days.”
Then the plain is well-watered by never failing streams, and the best rainfall obliges by dropping on the richest land. This is a land where “anything grows.”
The agricultural prospect is more varied than in any other portion of New Zealand. Wheat, barley, oats, red clover, peas, lucerne and other crops make a diversified colour scheme of the landscape. From the air, for instance, it is a tessellated pavement in pastel shades, the neat squares of the farm subdivisions presenting a patterned and symmetrical beauty which is quite distinctive.
In the autumn, the preponderance of cereal crops, makes obvious the aptness of the title, “Marlborough the Golden.” There is a permanent spell of enchantment in the wide vista of cultivated lands. The rapid growth of trees also helps by giving to the townships dotted about this plain an old world air of restfulness. This is seen even in the new centres in the other great Marlborough Valley, the opulent Awatere. From the top of the Redwood Pass, there is a long view which in many countries would entail the establishment of a tourist hotel to accommodate the sightseers. In the distance is Tapuaenuku, the mighty chieftain of the lofty Kaikouras, and in the foreground is the lovely valley of thirty miles of concentrated scenic pageantry. Seddon, although comparatively new, spreads lazily underneath groves of mighty bluegums, and any globe-trotter might be excused for thinking that the township was two hundred years old.
If the timbered homesteads of Wairau and Awatere were replaced with buildings of brick or stone, the scenes would be interchangeable with Wiltshire or Kent. Be reminded, though, that the distant mountains would be loftier and that there would be here an added wealth of genial skies and constant sunshine.
It is a strange phenomenon in the development of New Zealand that this noble region should not have had lavished upon it every means of development. The feeling of isolation, of incompleteness in ways of egress and ingress, is inescapable.
The very fact of the abundance of production, the exuberance of natural wealth, entails that the best instruments of bulk transport should be available. It was delightful to find such widespread knowledge among its people of the romantic story of Marlborough Province. As a writer I was charmed to find the full range of legend and story read, remembered, and appreciated by a greater percentage of local folk than in any other part of New Zealand.
But I am going to make this prediction. Marlborough and its capital, Blenheim, are moving towards a glory of progress and expansion which will startle even their most optimistic prophets.
Every natural and economic condition exists here to maintain a town of twice the size. I believe that even if
There is one thing more—Blenheim is worth a visit by the holiday-maker, even if you are not on your way to the far-famed Marlborough Sounds. Fishing and shooting are good, and there are endless scenic trips by land and water. White's Bay was a surprise to me. It is about ten miles from Blenheim, and is a perfect semi-circular sweep of golden sand which will one day become a populous seaside resort.
Marlborough the Golden has a golden future and the beauty of its capital will not be impaired because it grows to be a “bigger, better and brighter” Blenheim.
A well-known Auckland lady, an old identity, has no time for the modern miss. Interviewed by a local pressman she discussed the shortcomings of the girls of the period and said if she had smoked cigarettes when she was a girl her mother would have “spanked her and sent her to bed!” But other times, other manners. There's really no harm in a girl smoking a cigarette than there is in powdering her nose—always provided that the tobacco is really pure and of first-class quality. And that applies to smokers generally. Of course such brands are not quite as common as used tram-tickets, but you have them in “toasted” for the five famous blends Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cavendish, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold are as near perfection as tobacco can be. Not only are they a joy to the smoker but, thanks to toasting, comparatively harmless, so little nicotine is left in them. They have stood the test of time, emerged triumphant, and challenge comparison with the world's best.*
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On the ninth of January, 1826, an American brig put into Poverty Bay and was boarded from a canoe by a cloaked and feathered native, heavily tattooed, and armed with a battle-axe. “Here is a white New Zealander!” exclaimed the captain.
The “native” replied in perfect English: “I am not a New Zealander. I am an Englishman.” And proceeded to unfold to the astonished Captain Jackson certain astounding adventures which had befallen him.
The “White New Zealander,” John Rutherford by name, had arrived in New Zealand about ten years previously, when Captain Coffin (ominous name!) of the American brig Agnes put in at “Tokomardo” for water. After a show of friendliness, the natives had captured the ship, slain the captain and two of the crew and captured the remainder. Six of the twelve who were brought ashore fell immediately to the Maori ovens, while Rutherford and five comrades were taken to the house of the chief where they were kept for the night. This house, said Rutherford, was long and wide, with an aperture closed by a sliding door, so low that it was necessary to crawl through it. The common people slept in the open air, sitting and covered by their upper mats, which gave them the appearance of so many haycocks or beehives.
The white prisoners were shortly forced to submit to the process of tattooing (moko), which Rutherford describes: “The whole of the natives having seated themselves on the ground in a ring, we were brought into the middle, stripped of our clothes and laid on our backs, and held down by five or six men, while two others commenced the operation of tattooing us. Having taken a piece of charcoal, and rubbed it upon a stone with a little water until they had produced a thickish liquid, they then dipped into it an instrument made of bone, having a sharp edge like a chisel, and shaped in the fashion of a garden-hoe, and immediately applied it to the skin, striking it twice or thrice with a small piece of wood. This caused a great deal of blood to flow, which they kept wiping off with the side of the hand, in order to see if the impression was sufficiently clear. When it was not, they applied the bone to the same place a second time. They employed, however, various instruments in the course of the operation; one being made of a shark's tooth, and another having teeth like a saw. They had them also of different sizes, to suit the different parts of the work. While I was undergoing this operation, although the pain was very acute, I never moved or uttered a sound, but my comrades moaned dreadfully. Although the operators were very quick and dexterous, I was four hours under their hands; and during the operation, the chief Aimy's eldest daughter several times wiped the blood from my face with some dressed flax. After it was over, she led me to the river, that I might wash myself (for it had made me completely blind) and then conducted me to a great fire. They now returned us all our clothes with the exception of our shirts, which the women kept for themselves; wearing them, as we observed, with the fronts behind. We were now not only tattooed, but what they called tabooed, the meaning of which is, made sacred, or forbidden to touch any provisions of any kind with our hands. This state of things lasted for three days, during which time we were fed by the daughters of the chiefs. In three days, the swelling had greatly subsided, and I began to recover my sight; but it was six weeks before I was completely well. I had no medical assistance of any kind during my illness; but Aimy's two daughters were very attentive to me, and would frequently sit beside me, and talk to me in their language, of which, as yet, however, I did not understand much.”
The white men remained at this village for about six months. A house was assigned for them to live in, together with the possession of a much-prized iron pot the natives had taken from the vessel. At last they all set out with Aimy and another chief to pursue their journey into the interior. Four of the captives were left at different native villages with native chiefs. At last Rutherford and his sole remaining companion reached the inland pa of Aimy, and here a hut was erected in which the two men took up their abode and were permitted to live, as circumstances allowed, according to their English customs. And here, save for journeys taken with the chief, Rutherford continued to reside during the remainder of the time he spent in New Zealand.
For the first few months, he and his companion spent much time in fishing and shooting, the chief lending Rutherford a capital double-barrelled fowling piece as well as plenty of powder and duck-shot which he had taken from the plundered vessel. Then the chief Aimy's aged mother died, and her death was attributed to the fact that she had eaten potatoes which had been cut with a white man's knife. For this, Rutherford's companion, to whom the offending knife belonged, was slain with a mere, and Rutherford was left alone with the tribe.
Taught by the murder of his companion on how slight a tenure he held
“Shortly after the death of my companion,” Rutherford narrated, “it happened that we were all assembled at a feast. The chief, Aimy, called me to him in the presence of the chiefs, and said that he wished to make me a chief on account of my prowess with the gun, with my consent. To this I readily agreed; upon which my hair was cut with an oyster shell in the front in the same manner in which the chiefs have theirs cut; and several of the chiefs made me a present of some mats, and promised to send me some pigs the next day. I now put on a mat covered over with red ochre and oil, and my head and face were anointed with the same composition by a chief's daughter who was entirely a stranger to me. I received, at the same time, a handsome stone mere, which I afterwards always carried with me.
“Aimy now advised me to take two or three wives—it being the custom of the chiefs to take as many as they thought proper. About sixty women were then brought up before me; none of whom, however, pleased me. On which Aimy told me that I was tabooed for three days, at the expiration of which time he would take me with him to his brother's camp, where I should find plenty of women who would please me.”
Apparently, however, Rutherford had cast an approving eye upon the chief's eldest daughter, his ministering angel; for none of the parading beauties at the second camp met with his approval. When he approached the chief's daughter, who had followed to her uncle's pa, she immediately screamed and ran away. “But two of the natives, having thrown off their mats, pursued her and brought her back, when, by the direction of Aimy, I went and took hold of her hand. The two natives then let her go, and she walked quietly with me to her father; but continued laughing, and hung down her head. Aimy then called his other daughter to him, who also came laughing; and he then advised me to take them both. I then turned to them and asked them if they were willing to go with me, when they both signified their willingness.
“On this, Aimy told them they were tabooed to me, and directed us all three to go home together, which we did, followed by several of the natives.
“In the evening, a great feast was given, and dancing was kept up throughout the night.
“My eldest wife's name was Eshou, and that of my youngest Epecka,” says Rutherford with some complacence. “They were both handsome, mild and good-tempered. I was now always obliged to eat with them in the open air, as they would not eat under the roof of my house, that being contrary to the custom of their country. When away for any length of time, I used to take Epecka with me, and leave Eshou at home. The chief's wives in New Zealand are never jealous of one another, but live together in great harmony; the only distinction being that the oldest is always considered the head wife. He who marries a chief's daughter is secure from being plundered, as the natives dare not steal from any person of that rank.”
Rutherford made many journeys, both along the coast in canoes, and through the interior on foot, with Aimy; always accompanied by his younger wife, Epecka. They were attended by about twenty slave-women on the overland journeys, to carry their provisions, each woman bearing upon her back about thirty pounds of potatoes, and driving
Photo., J. D. Buckley.)
The General Manager of Railways, Mr. G. H. Mackley (left), and executive officers of the Railways Department, at Paekakariki, on the occasion of the trial run of the new standard railcar “Aotea,” 1st August, 1938.
During this time, he met many of the important chiefs of New Zealand, including Pomare and Hongi, and was witness to sanguinary battles between opposing tribes. In one of these encounters, Rutherford mentions that the two parties engaged had about two thousand stand of arms between them. This estimate is not an exaggerated one, being borne out by a missionary writer, Mr. Davis, who wrote in 1827, “The natives have many thousand stand of arms at this time among them.”
Now comes the story of the escape of Rutherford. Smoke signals appeared one day upon several of the mountains, which signified a ship on the coast. “I was quite overjoyed to hear the news,” stated Rutherford. “Aimy and I immediately set off for ‘Tokomardo’; and in two days we arrived at that place, the unfortunate scene of the capture of our ship and its crew on the 7th March, 1816. I now perceived the ship under sail, at about twenty miles distance from the land, off which the wind was blowing strong, which prevented her nearing. Meanwhile, as it
“I was then dressed in a feathered cloak, belt, and turban, and armed with a battle-axe, the head of which was formed of a stone which resembled green glass, but was so hard as to turn the heaviest blow of the hardest steel. In this attire I went off in a canoe, accompanied by the son of one of the chiefs, and four slaves. When we came alongside the vessel, I immediately went on board, and presented myself to the captain, who, as soon as he saw me, exclaimed, ‘Here is a white New Zealander!’”
Captain Jackson invited Rutherford to his cabin, where he was told of the plan to seize his ship, and warned of the danger of putting in at that part of the island. Rutherford begged the captain to stand off as quickly as possible, and to take him with him, as this was the only chance that had ever offered for escape in ten long years. By this time, the chief's son had commenced to help himself to articles he considered attractive from the ship. The crew forthwith tied him up and lowered him over the side to the canoe.
The captain agreeing heartily to give Rutherford passage, the ship stood off from the coast, and the exile took his last look at the scene of his long imprisonment.
Rutherford's experiences were later recounted in detail, and embodied in a little volume naively called, “The Library of Entertaining Knowledge,” published in 1830.
I believe with the Maori that when we drift into dreamland the spirit leaves the body for a space and meets in its floating the spirits of other dreamers, and beholds those vanished faces “lost in death's dateless night.” Very seldom is there perfectly dreamless slumber. The day's work and the day's news often carry on in their own way in one's sub-conscious mind. But more often still the mind is in the past, in the old scenes, and with the men and women who are a memory of the past in one's waking hours.
The old places come before one more; one does not dream of future surroundings—at any rate to me it is always the past that is “apparelled in celestial light”; the future is a dim mystery impenetrable. The past is best.
I would not see the future, if I could. Old friends—old enemies, too—old sweethearts, the old dream faces appear in their several environments. But most of all I think the faces of my father and mother. If ever I prayed to any God it would be to them.
The old farm scenes, the good land on which I was reared, the horses I rode in my boyhood, the old roads and tracks, the creeks and pools, the big-trees, the farmhouse, the old-fashioned buildings that are really much better than those of to-day. The blockhouse that stood near our farm—I can remember being taken into it when I was three years old (date fixed by a frontier murder and Maori raid scare that are historical); the tall windmills that were the Waikato settlers' flour-mills; the old-fashioned flail and the tarpaulin threshing floor, the first bush journeys, and the first pigeon shooting climb up Pirongia Mountain, all bush and gully and cascading streams. Such scenes are revived with all “the glory and the freshness” of early years' impressions. There are other hallowed places. There are scenes that I saw when they lay perfectly unspoiled, sanctuaries of peace, slumbering in their gauzy mists—Waikare-iti, Okataina, lakes of the woods. I shall not row across their shining waters with my companions again.
The glamour of the days when exploration of many such quiet places was a kind of adventure will not return.
The first home I knew, the first trees and flowers, were on the soil that had only ten years before been a battlefield. That is my favourite sleep-time roving ground. The farm lay with a gentle tilt to the north and the quarter of greatest sunshine. There were Maori-planted peach-groves and cherry groves, and big almond trees with flat stones at their feet where Maori children before us had cracked the stone fruit.
There were tongues of raupo and flax swamp thrust into the land from the broad belt of forest that covered the main swamp on the north—rich pasture land now, with scarcely a white pine or a rimu left. A small swampy stream flowed through the deep valley on the west of the knoll on which our home stood. It was a wonderful play-water for small boys. Harry, the North of Ireland man who worked on the farm, made a toy water-wheel for me; it clacked merrily at a tiny water-fall. Lower down there had been a small Maori flour-mill, in the wheat-growing days before the War. The old mill-dam, fed by the little creek and large springs, was now used for watering the farmer's cattle and sheep.
Where the stream crooked its way past a large grove of acacia trees, and a peach grove, there was wild mint growing and there were wild straw-berries under the peach trees, and the ruins of Maori houses, relics of the peaceful missionary days when there were several villages of Ngati-Raukawa here. The settler's wife sometimes walked down here with the children in the lovely weather when the winds were awhile at rest. She gathered the mint that grew in the clear water where the stream, only a few feet wide, rippled over a mossy log. We shook down ripe peaches—the size, the colour, the fragrance, the honeyed taste of those peaches!—and hunted for the small, tartly sweet wild strawberries.
The songs and hymns my mother loved to sing in those happy dream-days seemed to mingle with the small voice of the streamlet as it tumbled over the old fallen tree. She sang “Buy a Besom,” and “Rosalie the Prairie Flower”; she sang:—
Those fields have long gone to strangers, who do not know the place traditions and associations that became a part of my being. Most of the old groves have been felled; the waterways have dwindled. But the magic murmur of that little creek under the flax bushes and the peach trees and acacias
There was a scene of later days, the pretty Maori village of Orakei, on the sandy incurve of Okahu Bay, the home of good old Paul Tuhaere and his Ngati-Whatua tribe. Saturdays or Sundays often found me rowing or sailing down there, a relief from the hot town. Portly, tattooed, sideboard-whiskered Tuhaere was one of my mentors in matters Maori—stories and waiatas, place-names and their traditions.
A beautiful war-canoe, the Tahere-tikitiki, lay under a long raupo-thatch shed. Paul and a crew of men and women now and again launched it and paddled up the shining Waitemata to pay a ceremonial call to a visiting warship; sometimes to race a naval cutter. The whares in the neat kainga were all of raupo or nikau thatch. Between them and on the flat in rear were the potato and kumara, maize and melon gardens. And now—the sorrow of it!
It must have been a mental carry-over from a newspaper topic of the day—the miserable condition of the remnant of Ngati-Whatua, crowded out by the pakeha. In my wairua's rovings one night a once-familiar figure landed before me out of a pale wisp of cloud as I sat on crumbling Whakatakataka Point, above Orakei Bay, looking out over the Waitemata.
“Oh, Paora,” I said, “I was just thinking of you and wondering what you would make of it all if you were to return to your beloved bay and the harbour where you so often steered your beautiful Tahere-tikitiki.”
“My boy, I often return here,” said Paora, as he sat down on the grass, and took his pipe and home-made twist torori out of his pocket, borrowed a match and lit up. Presently he continued: “I have watched over the place of my youth and my strength and my old age, ever since they laid my body down under the trees yonder in front of my house in Okahu kainga. And my thoughts are many, and sad and deep.
“Now I tell you. I was wandering about the Reinga a little while ago—or it may have been a long, long while ago, for we have no time in the Place of Shades—when I met my old cousin, Te Hira te Kawau—you remember Te Hira, who had more tattoo than I have, and a white moustache like an old colonel of the soldiers—and who should be with him but Te Kamera—my good old friend, Sir John Campbell, who once had a land-buying disagreement with Te Hira, but they are good friends now. Te Kamera said to me: ‘You are a matakite, Paul, I know; you are a seer, and you pierce through those mists of death that keep me bound, and you can see what is doing in the world of light we left so long ago. Now tell me, Paul, how fares it with my beloved old home?’
“‘Alas, my friend, Kamera,’ (Paul's shade continued ‘it is so changed that you might not be happy if you saw it now. True, it is a very great and wonderful city, with its amazing buildings and all manner of pakeha inventions. But the pakeha is a strange creature to-day. He calls my people dirty, although they bathe far more than he does wherever they can find sweet clean streams or bays. But when pakehas herd together in a city of splendid buildings they spoil everything about them. They have mutilated the hills, they have made our once lovely Waitemata a place of pollution. They have taken my beautiful bays and made them ugly, and they poison our food of the salt sea with their drainings. The pipi banks where my two wives and the other women once gathered food, the mussel rocks and the oyster reefs all about the shores are thick with the city's filth, and the horrible oil from ships, and the people are sickened to death if they draw their food from the sea grounds that were guaranteed to us by the Treaty of Waitangi. Of what use is that Treaty if our people in the land of light are afraid to eat the food that the gods gave them? And the pakehas who put a sewer across my front door are destroyers of beauty as well as of food. They have cut away nearly all the
(Photo., G. Stephenson.)
Evening scene in the Waimana Gorge between Taneatua and Opotiki, North Island, New Zealand.
moko on our Maori faces—and to what end? So that they may dash in their motor-cars along the roads like race tracks, all in a tremendous hurry to arrive somewhere or other—for what? Nobody knows—at any rate I do not.'
“All that” (Paul continued) “I told my friends in the spirit world, and they groaned over it; and Campbell groaned again and said some strange fierce words in his ancient Scotchman's tongue when I told him also that his old home-cliffs and trees that adorned Campbell Point had been chopped away and ruined because the pakeha rulers hate anything in the nature of graceful curves, as I said before. And the old man sorrowfully left his adze with which he had been working at his canoe as in the days of his youth at Waiomu, and he and Te Hira vanished from my sight.
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“And now I must go. I shall return, Kawana. I cannot rest until my people—those who are left of them—obtain some land to cultivate for their living. I am shamed; Te Hira and I weep over it. Our people work for the Chinese—men, women and children toil in the cabbage gardens—our tribe who once owned all this land as far as you can see. They work for a taurekareka race. My shame! My grief!”
And so saying, the wise old chief of the Waitemata faded into a fog of powerful torori smoke and was gone.
Only five months ago was the first “Snow Train” run to National Park, but the innovation proved so popular with the younger people of Wellington—and Auckland—that those two words have now become synonymous with everything modern youth expects and appreciates in his conception of the ideal week-end holiday. Until quite recently ski-ing was generally looked upon as being beyond the means of most, but through the enterprise of the Tourist and Railways Departments in running these low cost excursions, all the thrills of this glamorous winter sport have been brought within the reach of everyone.
The “snow train” of September 16th, despite the proximity of the Dominion Day and Labour Day holidays, was no exception to its predecessors, over a hundred enthusiasts, the majority of whom had not previously been in the Tongariro National Park, making the trip to the Chateau.
Less than nine hours in the comfortable first class carriages, the journey made appreciably pleasanter by the attention and courtesy of the train crew and the Tourist Department's representatives, and the party had arrived at National Park station.
Promise of a fine week-end had been given at daybreak by a clear sky against which Ngauruhoe, in solitary majesty, was startlingly silhouetted. Expectation soon changed to disappointment, however, for a heavy mist, drifting from the north, rapidly shrouded the whole countryside with its dismal mantle. Out of the train at National Park station and into waiting buses—no bother about baggage, all of which was transported direct from van to Chateau by special lorry—followed by a ten miles drive through desolate and dripping tussock, whose flat monotony was relieved only
Arrival time at the Chateau was about 7 a.m., and even at that hour the big reception room was well filled, a large party of school-girls, ready dressed for the ski-ing fields, finding amusement for themselves in the interval before breakfast.
For those who thought the snow fields too far off, the splendid nine-hole golf course was a good substitute, but most of the excursionists, come to ski, were determined to do so and all morning bus loads of be-capped and trousered figures picked their way through the fog along the rough track to the Salt Hut, where Ernst Skardarasy, Austrian ski-ing instructor and his henchman outfitted them with snow equipment and treated them to hot tea. Incidentally Skardarasy's alpine hat, plentifully adorned with various ski-ing insignia, was particularly interesting to the girls in the party, possibly presaging an extraordinary trend in women's hat fashions in the near future.
Snow conditions weren't the best for
(Photo., courtesy A. A. Kirk.)
In the Tongariro National Park after a recent snowfall.
In the early hours of Sunday, snow began to fall and by breakfast time the surrounding countryside was covered with a six inch coating—an open invitation to snow-fights which were waged around the Chateau all day. The fall continued intermittently, luring a large number to the basins and slopes above Salt Hut where, with the help of Skardarasy and his guides, beginners became near proficient and vied with the experts in performing all sorts of manoeuvres that usually ended in a heap on the snow.
Many of the visitors, instead of skiing, tramped about the Park, Taranaki Falls attracting quite a number, others doing the Silica Springs and Whaka-papanui Gorge side-trips.
Dinner preceded another round of enjoyment that continued for the “snow-trainers” until ten o'clock, when the unwelcome call to buses came. An hour later, with most of its load already asleep, the “special” pulled out of National Park station on its eight hour run to the city.
“'Sno good,” punned one wit as he left the train at Wellington the following morning and his humorous dejection at the thought of the week-end finished, surely had its counterpart in the minds of the others.
And this same Paddy O'Pan is playing the very droth with the respectable feelin's an' instincts of fine staid sedate gintlemen with interests in the city an' families in the suburbs, an' bright new rolled umbrellas an'all. This O'Pan is a disrespectable lad who tootles on a pipe an' takes no pleasure in the rightness of breeches. At the notch of the year when the sun is scoured till it shines like the sitting end of a new copper kettle, this O'Pan presumes a mission to reform everyone who acts unnatural like sleeping in beds and wearing underwear and houses. Only yesterday morning did I see with my own eyes a fine respectable gintleman in a come-to-glory collar, an' all, throw down his beautiful bun hat an' jump on it. An' I did hear that his office chair was empty of him all day an' he did return home with twigs in his hair when the moon was runnin' from the milkman.
This O'Pan bears no respict for the dignity of hard-won authority an' the rulin' classes. He pops up unpropitious an' tootles trills of timptation on his persuasious pipes. Only this morning did I find him with his hoofs on my desk flipping a forefinger through my papers.
“Dear sir,” he chanted contemptuous: “Yours uv the thirtieth ult. t' hand an' in reply we beg to request—.”
“Blither!” roared this O'Pan tossing the papers to the ceilin' from whince they fluttered down as the petals of water lilies. I swear it on am impty bottle.
“You beg to request!” bawled O'Pan. “You beg! You request! When the whole elegant world is here to be took. Are ye a man or a forked gate post? Does the bee beg? Does he request?
You, with y' beggin' and scrapin'—y'r buyin' an' sellin'—y'r lead-headed hair-pins an' two-way pot lids! Commerce, is it? Have y'r ever bought or sold anything worthy of y'r cunning? Have y'r ever bought a sunset with its crimson centre, and the magenta edgin's of it, an' its saffron trimmings? Have ye ever chaffered for rivers with their fine keenin' songs that mind ye of the most comfortin' wake that ever cheered sorrow? Have ye got tinned mountain breezes in y'r store or bottled bellbirds' songs? Have ye bought an' sold th' spirit of the open that is as quick to elude ye