A Maori War Dance, North Island, New Zealand
HotelsA Reliable Travellers' Guide
Contents
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 alm 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 non de plume.
Contributions are accepted for publication only upon the express condition that the contributor will indemnify the Publishers of the Magazine against all claims made by reason of anything in the contribution constituting an infringement of copyright or being defamatory.
Short stories, poetry, pen-and-ink sketches, etc., are invited from the general public upon New Zealand subjects.
Payment for short paragraphs will be made at 2d. a line. Successful contributors will be expected to send in clippings from the Magazine for assessment of the payment due to them.
The Editor cannot undertake the return of Ms. unless accompanied with a stamped and addressed envelope.
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 lass than 24,000 copies each issue since april, 1938
Controller and Auditor-General
10/11/38.
The New Zealand
Railways
Magazine
Railways
Magazine
“For Better Service”
Service Copy
Published by the
New Zealand Government Railways Department
Vol. XIV. No. 2.
Wellington, New Zealand
May1, 1939
The Garden Country
New Zealand is fast qualifying for sole right to a new title—that of “The Garden Country.”
As we know, gardeners are not, as a class, notorious gad-abouts—although the first of the clan, the original Adam, seems to have made the first migration. But it would be a great thing if all the gardeners of the Dominion, professional and amateur alike, could make a leisurely trip through the country to see what their fellows are doing to make an earthly paradise of our rich Islands.
The average gardener enjoys his own plot of land and employs any arts and sciences he knows to make the most of it. But when he wanders, then he can compare and enjoy what others are doing, and carry new notions home for further experiment in the production of beauty in nature.
A begonia house to one gardener may be just a place for housing blooms of rich and radiant variety, with pots and beds placed in tiers to make a close array like an army glittering with banners.
But there are other methods of treatment. At New Plymouth, for instance, the gardener of Pukekura Park has seen in his begonias just a crowning glory for a green vista swinging upwards from a cool tunnel portal—a vista that outvies the loveliest conceptions of poets and painters of the Garden of Eden itself.
Look about any suburban or country settlement in New Zealand and you will be held up here and there by the charm of gardeners’ work with flowers and lawns, shrubs and trees and hedges—work that reveals the true eye for beauty and something more than the mere architectural arrangements of contour and colour in the infinity of forms with which these may be presented.
Amongst scenes such as these, an unsightly or neglected garden stands out as a sad spectacle of carelessness or ineptitude, telling that the owner or rentier is unworthy, not only of the opportunities that lie at his door, but also of association on the same plane with his more civilised neighbours.
In travels up and down the land, one cannot but be impressed by the great improvements effected during the past year or two in the general standard of home gardens. The whole picture is brighter—the country has had its face lifted. Clearly more time is being spent, and to better purpose, in the culture of gardens.
This is doubtless one of the imponderable, although very real, advantages of the 40-hour or 5-day week, an advantage which many lovers of the beautiful in nature have remarked and enjoyed. The effect of more time spent in gardening, and the resultant improvement in the appearance of home, streets and cities, is adding health to our peoples; it helps to calm the mind, to modify the pressure on blood and nerves, and adds to the opportunities of happiness and the beauty of life.
For the enlightenment of the railway staff and the general public alike, and in order that the true value of the propaganda that is being carried on through the Press and other channels in connection with the recent resignation of the elected representative of Division One, Mr. J. S. Roscoe, from the Railways Appeal Board may be fairly judged, I reproduce, on page 8, copies that have come into my hands of letters sent by Mr. Roscoe to the Executive Committee and all Branch Secretaries of the Railway Officers Institute. As an example of the methods employed—methods that to all fair-minded people surely carry their own condemnation—I would draw pointed attention to Mr. Roscoe's postscript to his letter of the 25th March—a postscript that was obviously not included in the copy of the letter he sent to the Executive Committee.
The reasons given in Mr. Roscoe's letter of the 31st March for his resignation from the Appeal Board will not stand the test of intelligent examination.
He states: “My recent experience of appeal cases convinces me that no appellants have a chance of winning an appeal before the new Board is appointed,” but apparently he overlooked the fact that in the cases he has adjudicated upon he has supported 88 per cent. of the decisions of the Board. Mr. Roscoe also overlooks the very serious reflection his statement casts on the integrity of the present members of the Appeal Board, particularly the Chairman, who is a Magistrate. In this connection it should be noted that the Board regulates its own procedure, and is required to hear and determine appeals according to equity and good conscience on the evidence adduced before it. Mr. Roscoe's statement is also extraordinary in view of his published declaration: “My personal relations with my colleagues on the Appeal Board are the happiest possible.”
Mr. Roscoe's further statement that: “Senior Officers of the Department are coached in the evidence they are to give,” considered in the light of his general statement, leaves only one implication—that Senior Officers are not true to the oath they take that they will speak “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” This is again a serious reflection on the integrity of our Senior Officers and is, I know, absolutely without foundation. I would expect all witnesses either for the Department or the appellant to be completely impartial, and to speak the truth in accordance with their solemn oath. Any officer who failed to so act would not only embarrass the Department, but he would not be a proper person to have in a position of control. From my long association with, and knowledge of, proceedings of the Appeal Board I can say definitely that every endeavour is made to present the case for the Department with the utmost fairness, and I am satisfied that anything to the contrary exists only in Mr. Roscoe's imagination.
According to Mr. Roscoe's estimate, neither the Chairman of the Appeal Board nor the Departmental representative is to be trusted, and he also implies that the Senior Officers of the Department are of doubtful integrity.
Mr. Roscoe speaks of the loss of “the right of appeal against non-recommendation.” As he should well know, there has been no right of appeal against non-recommendation at any time since he accepted appointment to the Appeal Board; and, of course, the position in this respect is still the same, and is in accordance with the legislation which has been in existence for many years.
Mr. Roscoe alleges that accelerated promotion in special positions gives “all the plums of the Service to favoured few.” I say definitely that there is no favouritism in the Service, all appointments being made strictly in accordance with the terms and provisions of the Government Railways Act.
One would have expected that in charging the Department with maladministration, Mr. Roscoe would have quoted some instances had there been any; but not once, either in his communications with the Press or in his propaganda amongst officers and members of the Officers’ Institute, is a single instance of maladministration quoted.
Another error of Mr. Roscoe's is in stating that “the right of appeal in relation to dismissal for alleged drunkenness and alleged peculation is denied by the Department.” In reply to this I say there are no dismissals in the Department for either “alleged drunkenness” or “alleged peculation.” The real position is that when drunkenness or peculation are admitted or proved and dismissal follows, then—in accordance with the terms of the Act—“in no case shall any person who has been dismissed for peculation or drunkenness be again appointed on the permanent staff of the Department.”
The course I am pursuing in this Message is somewhat unusual, but the circumstances necessitating it are exceptional, and I am constrained to deal with the matter also for another reason. I find that besides the misleading propaganda distributed by Mr. Roscoe through the channels mentioned, he has received the support of the official organ of the Communist Party of New Zealand, the “Workers’ Weekly.” which, in an article on the 24th March, applauds him and his action, and follows up these laudatory comments with remarks very similar to those contained in the propaganda issued by Mr. Roscoe himself to the Branch Secretaries of the Railway Officers’ Institute.
These latest developments convince me that Mr. Roscoe's real objective is not concerned with the best interests either of the majority of railway officers or of the public. It is therefore my obvious public duty to make known what is going on, in order that influences which might do harm to an important Department of State may be counteracted.
General Manager.
Copy.
N.Z.R.O.I., North Canterbury Branch.
Christchurch, 25/3/39.
To the Executive Committee and all Branch Secretaries.
Special General Meeting–North Canterbury Branch Held 23/3/39.
Dear Sir,
The largest General Meeting of the R.O.I. members ever held in Christchurch gathered to hear J. S. Roscoe's reasons for his action in resigning from the Appeal Board.
At the conclusion of the meeting the following resolutions were carried unanimously:–
(1) That Mr. J. S. Roscoe's action in resigning his position of Division I representative on the Appeal Board at this juncture is approved.
(2) That this branch has full confidence in Mr. Roscoe as Division 1 representative and calls upon him to accept nomination for re-election.
(3) Further, that this Branch Meeting directs that the Executive Committee be requested to make immediate representation to the Minister for Railways for the appointment of an expert Committee vested with the powers of a Royal Commission to inquire into all alleged causes of dissatisfaction with the present staff control and administration–the Committee, after investigation, to report to the Government with a view to amending the Government Railways Act.
The meeting directed that these resolutions be forwarded to Executive Committee and to all Branches and to Press Association.
The suggested composition of the Committee of Investigation was:–
X (a) One or two representatives of Division 1 staff.
X (b) One or two persons with a personal knowledge of railway management problems or wide staff work experience but who are not now associated with the management.
X (c) One prominent public personality with training in business management and economic science, e.g., Mr. G. Lawn, Director and Economist of the Reserve Bank.
As directed by the meeting the above is forwarded for your information and the taking of suitable action.
Fraternally yours,
J. S. Roscoe,
Branch Secretary.
P.S.–Don't let Executive Committee get away with the proposal for a conference with the Management that will produce little more than our annual conference representations.–Please do your best to get a paraphrase of X put through a General Meeting.–We must make the most of the present position.
Best wishes.
Stan R.
Copy.
55 Conway Street,
Christchurch, 31/3/1939.
Dear Sir,
Our General Secretary informs me that what appear to be contradictions between my notice of resignation from the Appeal Board and my address to the North Canterbury Branch members has caused him some difficulty in explaining to Branches which have written to me as to what are the actual matters which brought about my resignation.
I am very sorry indeed that such should be the case. The apparent contradiction if any arises from the fact that only the opening remarks of my speech were reported, together with the resolutions passed by the meeting. The parts of my speech which have caused the misunderstanding seem to be–I do not think that our Administrative Officers are solely to blame–the matter lies deeper than mere administration–the source of most of our troubles to-day is in the 1927 and 1928 amendments to the Railways Act.
You will note that the press report of my speech concludes with–Mr. Roscoe then discussed the reasons given in his notice of resignation from the Appeal Board. This part of my address was kept out of the press to conform with the concluding paragraph of the Executive Committee's statement of March 21st.
To clear up the misunderstanding, I summarise below very briefly the reasons given to our Branch meeting–
The term of the appointed members of the Appeal Board finishes in May next. My recent experience of appeal cases convinces me that no appellants have a chance of winning an appeal before the new Board is appointed. My action prevents the hearing of any appeals before a new Board is appointed. Senior officers of the Department are coached in the evidence they are to give. They should be able to tell the truth without coaching. One of the most serious handicaps that members have to contend with is the loss of the right of appeal against non-recommendation. This right was taken away by the 1927 amendments to the Act. These amendments also provide that a member winning an appeal must take the position of the member against whose appointment he appealed. This frequently reacts in a manner disadvantageous to appellants since the Board is loth to displace a good man. The questions of accelerated promotion in special positions giving all the plums of the Service to favoured few is one of the most burning problems of the day and can be rectified only by amendment of the Act. The hard and fast rule in relation to examination barrier is not in accord with modern educational practice. The law in this case prevents very good men from exercising the right of appeal in relation to promotions from grade 7 to 6. The right of appeal in relation to dismissal for alleged drunkenness–whether on or off the job–and alleged peculation is denied by the Department which is supported by the Solicitor-General. The right of appeal by officers in relation to the grading of positions is challenged by the Department notwithstanding that they have actually occupied or do occupy the positions. The present system of regrading is altogether too cumbersome and productive of delay. This must be altered probably by establishing a tribunal which will hear evidence of altered value of positions annually. This requires amendment of the Act. Advertising of consequential vacancies destroys any value there might be in the advertising of vacancies, and must be remedied. Delays in the settlement of grievances such as the non-enforcement of the forty-hour week, the shortage of staff, overdue annual leave, the unsympathetic attitude of the Management in relation to adequate facilities for the training of cadets and penalising these young members for failing to qualify for Morse in their own time.
The above are matters which I amplified in my address to our members as bases contributing to the general state of dissatisfaction which permeates the Service, many of which are beyond the scope of conference between the interested parties, and require for their adjustment an expert committee empowered to take such evidence as it considers might be valuable and make recommendations to rectify such matters.
Trusting that the above will remove any misunderstanding that has arisen from the published report of part of my Christchurch speech.
Fraternally yours,
J. S. Roscoe.
“Above me are the Alps,
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps …”Byron.
The terminal face of the Tasman Glacier, near the Hermitage, Mt. Cook. The Tasman Glacier is the greatest outside the Himalayan and Polar regions, being eighteen miles long by one to three miles wide.
(Thelma R. Kent, photo.)
ByO. N. Gillespie
(Rly. Publicity photos)
In the fields at Motueka. An armful of fine New Zealand leaf.
Two hundred and forty years ago rare Ben Johnson said that tobacco was “the most sovereign and precious weed that ever the earth tendered to the use of man.”
He knew nothing of New Zealand when he wrote; it lay under the Southern sun, a land of birds and virgin forests, of lithe and active Polynesian warriors; half a century was to pass before old Abel Tasman found a place for it on the map of the world. I would like to bring Ben Johnson back here and show him the great industrial palaces in which New Zealanders make their own smokes. He would have found in this new land Lilly's “Holy Herb, nicotian,” being transformed into the many exciting and attractive forms demanded by modern smokers. He would have found these miracles being wrought in vast temples of industry, housing populations equal to those of a substantial English village of his time.
Cigarettes and all kinds of smoking tobaccos are made in an atmosphere of smiles in New Zealand, and in the establishments I visited there seemed to be ample evidence that the happiness-giving qualities of tobacco permeate the places where it is fashioned for our use. The variety and the vagaries of taste in tobacco provide this industry with a complete set of distinctive cross-word puzzles. However, our own organisations have solved these problems; it is difficult to find the cigarette epicure who cannot have his nicety of discrimination flattered by the “little tube of mighty power” made in New Zealand by New Zealanders. This goes, too, for the pipe smoker; however hard to please or however discriminating he is, there will be something exactly to his taste in the wide range of New Zealand made tobaccos.
It is a strange fact of history that tobacco was unknown in Europe before the middle of the sixteenth century. No armoured knight ever had trouble with his vizor to get a whiff between battles; neither Henry VIII nor Cardinal Wolsey knew “the indefinable link between smoking and philosophy.”
We know that the first plant was brought to Europe in 1558 by a Spanish physician, and that the practice of smoking was quite general in England before the end of the century. It is queer, too, that such lusty strangers to rest as Raleigh, Hawkins, and Drake, should be variously credited with the merit of introducing into England “sedative, gently-soothing, gently clarifying tobacco smoke.”
Within a hundred years, the habit had spread all over the world, and there was a proverb in far-away Persia saying that “Coffee without tobacco is like meat without salt.”
It was natural when our first settlers came to this country that they brought with them the solace of tobacco.
However, this was intended to be an article about New Zealand industries, not an historical essay. I and my friend of the camera made a pilgrimage to the great mansion of glass and concrete that houses the tobacco manufacturing plant of W. D. and H. O. Wills in the Hutt Valley. The company is the first to manufacture cigarettes in New Zealand, and started in a modest way in the city of Wellington. Some ten years ago the manufacturing side of the business was transferred to a fine modern factory at Petone, and it was not long before a further story was added to the building, resulting in the imposing home shown in our picture. We had a romantic day from the moment we sighted the capstan in white and blue that stands on a corner of the lawn, and was presented by a marine-minded admirer. This is the real thing standing there as a symbol of the world-famous.
Imposing Main Entrance Hall, Head Office, National Tobacco Company, Ltd., Napier.
The cutting machines—from leaf to golden Three Castles Virginia Tobacco.
The factory buildings stand in spacious grounds totalling five and a half acres. In the front there is an eighteen hole putting green, well manned at lunch hour. There are sweeping green lawns and many playing fields for various sports. There is even a plant nursery, necessary to maintain a set of gardens which are on the scale of those of a public park.
The first thing we noticed on breasting the main stairway was the distinctive, attractive, all-pervading fragrance. It was faint but persistent, and gave point to the early European belief in the “Holy Healing Herb,” for one felt the effect to be like that of a purifying incense.
One of the features of the whole W. D. and H. O. Wills’ factory is the extraordinary cleanliness. The floors, benches, walls and all the machinery in this temple of Three Castles and Capstan are completely immaculate.
Our starting place was where the tobacco leaf arrives from the stores where it has been maturing since it was purchased from the growers. As the great cases are opened, they show serried, closely packed masses of dried leaves. The first process is the conditioning, and we saw the leaves carried by slowly revolving drums to vanish into the chambers where the changing is to take place. The leaves in their cases, however, made an interesting study. Here I began to appreciate the vast range in types and quality of the tobacco leaf. The colour was in general a lemony gold with various tones of brown. There seemed to be remarkable consistency in the size and length of these leaves that had travelled all the way from the “Ole Plantation.” I understand that the “body” improves as the leaves grow nearer the top of the plant.
The conditioning processes are many and various, and there is no space in this article to describe them.
The whole attention of the Capstan folk, however, is focused on the leaves. The manager lifted some of them, lovingly, to show their length and shape, and the evenness of their curing.
Cigarettes are untouched by human hands during manufacture, but for the reader's benefit the operators show a length of Capstan Cigarettes before cutting. The dark divisions are cork tips.
Still, they would flake and disintegrate in their rather brittle state so they are transformed by these scientifically calculated conditioning processes. It is a magical change. It should be explained that the leaf is kept in a dry condition for the purpose of storing and maturing, but it must obviously be softened before the machines can handle it. This is known as conditioning after which the leaf becomes almost of the texture of silk, soft, pliable, and easy to handle.
The next job is to take out the stems which is accomplished by a complex machine of uncanny ingenuity. Then once more the countless rivers of sweet smelling herbs leave on their journey for more processing. I was intrigued in one room to hear a low-voiced community chorus being hummed as the girls worked happily.
The cutting comes next. This is effected by instruments of great precision, one of which, a rotary cutter, resembles an aeroplane engine. It sharpens its own blades as it spins with tremendous velocity. Under the exact shears of these razor-edged blades, the tobacco seems to foam out into the receptacles. There is an everlasting fascination in looking at these rich masses of fine cut tobacco, like soft tresses of golden hair. When held up in the hand it looked like a molten fall arrested in mid-air. The strands of the tobacco itself are surprisingly long and in spite of their fineness, have quite a noticeable strength.
The handsome front elevation of the modern factory of W. D. and H. O. Wills, in the Hutt Valley, Wellington.
There is no dust whatever. Enormous dust extractors everywhere, deal effectually with this problem.
Of course, such a house as W. D. and H. O. Wills have a number of secret processes, the result of years of research and experience.
The cigarette making machine gave us a complete surprise. These mechanical marvels seem to have their own intelligence. What was entirely new to me was that Capstan cigarettes, for instance, are turned out in a long endless snake which is subsequently neatly divided into cigarette lengths. Still more perplexing was the cork tip application which is the acme of scientific mechanical wizardry. No hand touches the cigarette in the gumming, filling or cork tipping processes, and cigarettes pour out of these machines at an incredible speed. Then there is another apparatus, almost human, which tests every cigarette for size, weight, and length.
While we were watching here and waiting to take a picture of the machine, we noticed the staff sports mistress making her pleasant way round, arranging the pleasure programme for lunch hour.
The packing rooms are a study by themselves. Packing tobacco and cigarettes into the tins with which we are so familiar or into the packets which we so carelessly throw away, is a complicated combination of manual dexterity and mechanical contrivance. The packets themselves up to the large cartons, the varied shapes and sizes of tins, and all the rest of the container ranks of whatever type, are all made in New Zealand. The tobacco industry is therefore a definite “Feeder” for it indirectly keeps a host of our fellow-countrymen and women at work in industries supplying its varied requirements.
Well, our next item was the lunch adjournment. This was worth the journey alone. W. D. and H. O. Wills have just cause for pride in their staff management. There are six hundred people in this great place. All girls are under the supervision of a matron and are engaged by her. There is a sports mistress, and it was a heart warming sight to see this small “townful” of workers enjoying their mid-day break. Men were kicking a football, and there was a first class attendance round a dart board. On the roof there are several deck tennis courts, and I saw foursome between four men which was of the “Niagara” standard
Some of the employees having lunch at the Wills factory.
The lunch rooms are well appointed and tastefully furnished. Tea and milk are provided free and the cafeteria provides food at actual cost.
I believe it to be nothing but the sober truth that in this Capstan edifice work is a pleasure. I had in my brief visit more than a dozen proofs that the Wills’ staff is a happy fellowship. Many of the men have been with the firm since it opened, and the thinning of the feminine ranks is almost solely done by Dan Cupid.
I liked, too, the idea of the different coloured caps worn by the girls in the different departments. They are smart and gay little affairs, quite un-factory-like, and the uniforms have a trimness which is in keeping with the whole spic and span air which is observable everywhere in the well-lit halls of this fine building.
I should say that making Capstans and Three Castles is a fine way of putting in the day. I meant to tell all about Capstan Navy Cut tobacco and the savoury appearance of the great squares of pressed tobacco being assembled and then sliced. Then I watched the tins being filled, another exercise in necromancy.
We finished the day with an inspection of the enormous stores. Mountains of cases are assembled here for direct shipment to every sizeable place in New Zealand. I noticed with interest two big instalments marked Invercargill and Whangarei, respectively. Three Castles and Capstans were going North and South.
(Continued on page49.)
ByJames Cowan
(All Rights Reserved.)
The high canoe chant of the canoe captains rang like war cries along the Wanganui in the misty morning of a July day in 1849, when Donald Maclean and Richard Taylor began this visitation cruise. “A fine grey dusky morning,” Mr. Maclean wrote in his diary, “packed, washed and started up the river at a quarter to eight. The banks on each side presented a grand picture of high cliffs, overhung with vegetation from dark brown to verdant green to the highest trees; and from the highest trees to the smallest shrubs, with overhanging plants on the most desirable exposures for their growth. In the foreground, at some of the bends, the sun pierced through the mist, and reflected on our splashing paddles, as each canoe in front pressed up against the force of the fresh, our own natives eagerly singing their shrill canoe songs, and happy with the prospect of arriving in good time at Hikurangi, a populous pa on the river. A little racing between the canoes enlivened them; and the females distinguished by their mild voices, even in the thick mist, where their bodies were concealed, gave the scene a romantic charm that is peculiar to New Zeland. The simplicity of the natives, and their kind attention and courteous treatment of travellers makes such journeys as this most agreeable.”
The Rev. Richard Taylor and his friend, the Government Agent and Land Purchase Commissioner, Donald Maclean, frequently joined forces in Wanganui River expeditions. On this occasion they were bound to a far-up tribe in a remote and wild country seldom visited. Maclean's Ms. notes tell the story: Some pigeon and other game were killed by the chief Kawana's son, who was in Kingi Hori's canoe, where the Union Jack was erected, and the greenstone mere, the emblem of chieftainship, was conspicuously placed in the chief's belt; that the pakehas might see that while he respected the Queen's emblem of sovereignty (the flag) by having it in his canoe, he did not neglect those of his own nation.
The first night was spent at the pretty kainga of Hikurangi. There more Maoris joined them for a great church assembly or hui which was to greet the missionary away up the Manganui-a-te-Ao, which Mr. Maclean wished to see.
“Leaving in the morning, we were much amused by the chattering set up by the ladies who were not accompanying their husbands to the hui. They collected on the bank below their pa, just above our canoe. Some of the men were apparently indifferent to what passed among the fair sex; but they were not insensible of the treasures they were leaving behind them, however much they might appear to neglect them when in their presence. Ladies, however agreeable their company in other parts of the world, are not permitted to join us in our canoe. The women, determined as usual, to have the ascendancy, had taken a canoe of their own, poled and paddled by themselves, a few old grey-headed men, and a tribe of young boys, who are always ready for any extraordinary service or exploit that may chance to cast up. A party of these young chiefs are squatted on the house-tops to watch our movements, as we sweep up against the stream.
“A few miles brought us to Pukehika, the termination of Hori Kingi's boundary on this river. Next we called at the beautiful pa situated on the opposite side, called Pa-te-Arero. This
(Rly. Publicity photo.) Fern-trees Cliff on the Upper Wanganui.pas of the rebel chiefs up this river. A fine clay-walled church of large dimensions is being erected; which indicated a disposition for peace on the part of this tribe. If New Zealand had a few more zealous Missionaries like Mr. Taylor, we should have fewer wars. But this most populous district seems to have been wholly abandoned to one labourer; whereas it would require four to render their services efficient. One of these should be situated among the scattered tribes of Tuhua and the Manganui-a-te-Ao; where the natives are becoming unsettled.
“We reached Pipiriki at 2 p.m., after a pleasant pull, the weather proving more favourable than we had expected since we left the mouth of the Wanganui.
“What a cheerful, happy race the
“An elderly native told me that rewha-rewha, that raging disease so destructive to the New Zealanders, prevailed when he was about five years old. He remembers the numbers that used to be buried indiscriminately in one hole; when the disease ravaged this populous part of New Zealand. This circumstance brings the date of the disease to a late period, later than I had officially noticed, by some ten years.
“We rest, to-night, at a house built for the Rev. Richard Taylor; which is comfortable and convenient, enabling us to enjoy our reading and writing, with the aid of a table; which cannot be found in tent-travelling, or, as yet, at the native villages.
“Thursday, 14th July, 1849.—A fine morning. Refreshed by sleep, but rather disturbed by dreams and premonitions during the night. How far they may be considered of any import, or not, I have not yet decided as fully as I should wish.
“Last night I got a knock on the forehead, above the left eye-brow, against the centre-pole that supported the house, having come to the kitchen to look for some firewood. It drew some blood, and this was observed by the natives in the morning. They seemed anxious about the consequences of this slight scar; and asked me if they would knock down the post, house, and all, as utu for the injury I sustained; or if, in accordance with their custom, I should claim the land; or if they should cleave posts and dig some land to designate where this accident befel me. All our canoe boys said this morning, ‘Let us have some utu for your injury; or let us show that it requires some notice.’ This is a custom among the natives, to claim the land where an accident befalls any of their chiefs, especially if blood is drawn on the spot.
“We had a strong pull up the river; and about two o'clock in the afternoon entered the branch called the Manganui-a-te-Ao, where the rapids are very numerous and difficult to ascend. Our natives fought the rapids admirably; and as evening was setting in, we got to Te Arero, a fort on a high hill. The numerous canoes on the river, the white foam on the rapids; the industrious groups of men, women, and children, with dogs, pigs, and cats made up the motley crowd that were passing to Pehi's meeting; discussing religion, feasting, politics, land; and for all a little change and excitement.
“About 100 canoes are hauled up at this place. The owners are scattered in happy groups, like so many gipsies, around the pa. The landing of the canoes, the passing of natives in the shallows of the river, with their long poles over their shoulders, and happy greetings, though shivering at the time with cold, was a picture of great interest to us, who viewed them to great advantage in the deep glen where we were camped.
“We slept at Te Arero, where Pehi's lands commence, and where he is considered to be a large claimant of a country in which he is not likely to be disturbed during the present generation.
“Next day (Friday, 15th July, 1849), it rained very heavily. We started at 9 a.m. for Otaki, on the Manganui-a-te-Ao, where the hui is assembled; and crossed a most hilly, dangerous, slippery road, up hill and down dale. The mist was hanging thickly over the cliffs, leaving a beautiful mountain scene to burst unappreciated on the eye, as we scrambled over cliffs that looked so precipitous that you seemed about to fall head-long into a horrid abyss. We arrived at Otaki about 2 p.m. after travelling a distance of six or seven miles from Te Arero.
“The encampments of Otaki were most picturesque. Tents of blankets,
(Rly. Publicity photo.) On the upper reaches of the Wanganui.toetoe huts, spread themselves on various embankments around the pa, which is surrounded, except at the entrance, by high rocks. The rain continued to pour, but there was no diminution in the busyness and chatter of the natives, who were running about for shelter, and erecting houses in all directions.
“It is quite a politic act for an Agent of Government to be present at such meetings, to hear what is discussed among the Maoris, and to correct the erroneous impressions that gain ground amongst them respecting the proceedings and intentions of the Government. Such feasts or assemblies as these, under the direction of old and influential chiefs, are productive of great good; as they engross the native mind with the subject, and prevent worse feelings from gaining ground. They are naturally a people fond of change and excitement, and something to occupy the mind should be encouraged.
“Saturday, 16th July.—The display of food provided by the natives for this meeting is very grand. There are 1,200 kits of kumara, large baskets of taro, papa or bark cases of birds cooked and preserved, including tui, kaka, kiwi, and there are also eels. The birds are boiled in their own fat, and covered over with it; they will keep thus for three years. Pigeon, weka, duck, and whio (blue mountain duck) are also included in the papa, which are decorated with the feathers of the birds they hold. They look very well. Pigs and potatoes are abundant. In apportioning
“This country is the most broken and unavailable that can be met with. It is a perfect jungle thrown up in such confusion, as if man's occupation of it was never intended, at least civilized man's, whose superior ability for subduing a country to his use would be fruitless in a place like this. All the eye surveys is horrid steeps and cliffs, with slippery hills and braes. Climbing over precipices, while holding on by the roots of trees, some of these decayed, is not an agreeable occupation, with heavy winter rains, when every false step you take may send you to eternity.
“Glencoe is considered to be a wild part of the Highlands of Scotland; but the scenery is much wilder here than there. Within the last two hours, from eight to ten at night, we have had seven avalanches (or land slips) on the opposite side of the river. Instantaneous and awful are the operations of nature, and how obvious they are in a mountainous country. I fear these avalanches endanger the navigation of our river; for to-morrow, if we are spared, our own position, should such movements become more general, does not appear altogether safe; as we are situated on a high overhanging rock, well-placed for defence in time of war; but how insignificant does such a natural defence prove, when under the operation of mysterious workings. Thousands of people in New Zealand have fallen victims to sudden avalanches. Five hundred people were sunk in one night on an island on the coast.
“Next day again (June 19th) was wet and stormy, with strong freshet on the river. It is quite tempting Providence to start in such weather. I feel that I should have remained at Otaki till to-day to have done more good for the Government.”
Maclean noted this with a shiver no doubt. But the party all set out to run the rapids, and they reached the Wanganui safely, and had a comfortable passage for the rest of the voyage. For the journey Maclean, through the Missionary, paid £110/-, also eleven shirts and some tobacco to the crew.
“It is satisfactory,” he wrote, “to have completed a journey, and seen so many natives at a season of the year when such journeys cannot be undertaken without great trouble. The Manganui-o-te-Ao is a dangerous river, and we had a narrow escape in coming down its rapid streams and torrents, overflowing with a heavy freshet; and so steep on both sides, that a person could neither climb up, or save himself in any way from drowning, or perishing in the frozen streams, on which the sun seldom reflects at this season of the year. We, however, got through in safety; but I shall be more cautious in future how I come along such dangerous places.”
* * *
That was one of many canoe voyages up the great Wanganui made by Mr. Maclean, in his capacity as Government Agent, often as peacemaker. Of a cruise up to Pukehika in August, 1850, he wrote:—
“At 10 a.m. we left the town in a canoe manned by fifteen good stout natives, to go up the river. Te Rauparaha's son, Tamihana, accompanied us, on his first visit up the river. He seemed greatly delighted with the liberal arrangements and large reserves made for the Whanganui natives; also with the idea that we now sold back land to the natives at a moderate price. It rained very much, but the natives are of such amphibious habits, that they paddled up in a most happy and cheering strain, all the way to Parikino; where Mr. Park (the surveyor) and myself, after dining, are comfortably quartered.
“We slept at Hikurangi, a nice karaka
(Govt. Publicity photo.) Retarake, Upper Wanganui River.
“The scene presented here resembles the Holy Fair. People from all places are flocked together, in their fanciful dresses. It is hard to guess how much the simple New Zealanders are animated by Christian zeal, in attending these meetings; but it is certain that in a political view, if an Agent of Government is present, that they are attended with great good; as the native feeling is so easily ascertained; and explanations rendered, of the intentions of Government, so frequently misapprehended by an extremely jealous race. There are several hundred persons of all ranks and ages, assembled here, intent on their religious duties, probably as much as an equal number of our own country people here; and certainly quite as intent as they would be in devouring the food prepared for them, and enjoying the gossip and scandal of the women and idlers of the party.”
This sage young officer of the Government made comment in his notes that when the natives of the wild, broken interior country of the Wanganui could afford to feed 1,400 people for three days together, and have tons of food to spare afterwards, “how well might our British country-people manage to live, even in the wildest parts of New Zealand, and be much better off than in their present starved condition in the Old Land.”
byArthur L. Stead
The “square deal” campaign of the Home Railways, now beginning to bear fruit, continues to impress upon one and all the justice of the railway claims. The latest development takes the form of a “Fighting for Freedom” exhibition, staged at Waterloo Station, London. This exhibition is housed in a special structure on the station concourse. Fronted by a realistic painting of a goods train, the building covers an area of 900 square feet. On entering, attention is directed to a large photograph of Waterloo concourse, upon which are superimposed photographs of the “square deal” posters, Press announcements, and booklets recently issued. Next, wall displays catch the eye. One display features photographs of the four general managers, with brief details of their careers. Another traces the history of railways since pioneering days, and it is demonstrated how statutory regulations hinder not only the railways but also railway users. The fact is driven home that the railways are the biggest purchasers in the country, and that their buying brings benefit to workers in almost every industry. A very attractive series of photographs illustrates a day in the life of a railwayman, and there is a display covering the handling of holiday traffic. “Railways in Wartime” is a telling feature, serving as a timely reminder of the vital importance of the “Iron Way” in times of peril. Last, but not least, is an ominous picture of the bankruptcy court, by way of suggesting what will happen to the railways if they are denied the “square deal” they so justly deserve. Altogether, we have here a most impressive and praiseworthy effort.
New agreement, reached between the railways and the road carriers, promises well for both interests. The agreement is principally concerned with conveyance rates, and provides for the setting up of a joint central consultative committee of rail and road, to consider all matters common to the two industries, and to expedite rates agreements.
In addition to the central committee, there are to be area committees, and probably local committees, and certain route committees for long-distance transport, all of whom will tackle broadmindedly the problem of rates agreements applicable to both sides. These measures are of a voluntary nature, and as statutory enforcement is necessary to make any agreement of this kind a success, government approval is being sought through a Parliamentary Bill. If approved, this Bill will give the railways a substantial measure of freedom, and a new tribunal, covering both rail and road, will be established to replace the existing Railway Rates Tribunal. Its duties will be to review agreements as and when made, and also to hear objections from trade associations, traders and carriers, who feel aggrieved at any projected rate. It will also be
Goppenstein Station, southern entrance to Loetschberg Tunnel, Swiss Federal Railways.
Steady progress is being made with the ambitious scheme of the L. & N.E. Railway and London Passenger Transport Board, for railway electrification in the north-east London area. Electric traction is being instituted by the L. & N.E. Company on four tracks between Liverpool Street terminus and Gidea Park, a distance of 14 miles; on two tracks between Gidea Park and Shenfield, a distance of 6 ½ miles; and from Fenchurch Street to Bow Junction (3 ¼ miles), from whence trains will run to Stratford over a single track now being constructed. The complementary scheme of the L.P.T.B. will relieve the L. & N.E.R. of the Fairlop loop and Loughton Branch traffic. The Central London
“Golden Arrow” Express, Calais to Paris, Northern Railway of France.
From Switzerland comes the news that the Federal Railways have just acquired what is claimed to be the world's most powerful electric locomotive. This is a giant machine developing 12,000 h.p., and of the 2-4-2-4-2 + 2-4-2-4-2 wheel arrangement. Intended for service on the St. Gothard route, the locomotive is of articulated design, and at a speed of 46 m.p.h. the tractive effort is said to be 88,000lb. To secure a high tractive effort at starting, the adhesive weight of all the driving axles is increased to 172 tons, by an apparatus operated by compressed air, and reducing the weight on the central carrying axle. Weighing in working order about 244 tons, the new Swiss giant hauls 600-ton express passenger trains up gradients of 1 in 39 at 40 m.p.h.; and 75-ton freight trains at 31 m.p.h. In the neighbouring country of Italy, completion of the Milan-Bologna and Florence-Rome electrifications has enabled through travel by electric train to be undertaken from one end of the land to the other, a distance of slightly more than 900 miles. There are now about 2,430 miles of electric railway in Italy, and the development of hydro-electrical power resources is going ahead at a rapid rate. The fastest electric service is that between Milan and Bologna (72 m.p.h.). Other noteworthy runs by electric train are those from Milan to Rome (395 miles at an average speed of 66 m.p.h.), and Turin
Tudor architecture at Stratford-on-Avon, birthplace of William Shakespeare.
In view of the increasing utilisation of electric traction in many lands, it is interesting to note the divergence of views existing on the subject of the possible vulnerability of electric railways in time of war. It has always been understood that one important reason why electric traction has been turned down on the Northern Railway of France was because it was felt steam operation was much less liable to interruption in time of war than electric traction. Looking round, however, we find Germany and Italy going ahead with electrification on a big scale, and this would certainly point to these countries being satisfied with electric traction under all conditions. The secret appears to lie in the fact that modern practice is to inter-link power stations (which, incidentally, being usually situated in mountainous areas present difficult targets for hostile aircraft) so that, should one station be put out of action temporarily, a supply can quickly, be secured from elsewhere. Actually steam locomotives, with their issuing smoke and steam by day, and the glare from the firebox by night, would appear to offer a good target and guide for aircraft. One recalls our own experience on light railways in the Great War, when solely because of this fact, we had to replace steam engines by petrol tractors on the forward lines.
Written And Illustrated
ByJoyce West
The beach at Opunake.
In the year 1862, the steamer Lord Worsley, carrying arms and ammunition and four chests of gold, rounded Cape Egmont, and drove in upon that iron-ribbed reef which guards the mouth of the Otahi Stream just south of Opunake Bay.
That was in the troubled days of the Taranaki wars, and the Maoris from the nearby fortified villages came swarming jubilantly down to the cliffs. Under their very eyes, the captain gave orders that the guns should be thrown into the sea, and the casks of powder stove in and rolled overboard, and, while the seas battered the breaking vessel, the crew stoically obeyed.
Boats were lowered, the men rowed in to the beach. The impotently enraged Maoris awaited them, and there would speedily have been an end to the ship's company of the Lord Worsley if it had not been for the intervention of Wiremu Kingii, who took the part of the white seamen. Kingii and his followers—among whom was Te Whiti, who was years later to make Taranaki history—dug themselves in upon a cliff-top, and a sniping battle ensued, and lasted the better part of the day.
Under cover of the excitement, canoe-loads of Maoris raided the Lord Worsley. Five men from a pa near the Harriet Beach stole the chests of gold, and hid them in a swamp. Under cover of darkness, they removed one chest, and carried it home. What happened after that has never been known. Perhaps they fought over their spoil, and killed one another. They did not return for the other three chests, and the gold was discovered and salvaged long afterwards.
But of the chest of gold which was carried to the Harriet pa, no one has ever heard of it from that day to this. Innumerable treasure-hunters have sought it in vain. Perhaps it lies
Site of the wreek of the “Lord Worsley.”
Opunake to-day is a sleepy little town, a holiday resort, famous for a glorious surfing beach. It lies on the wind-swept cliffs above the blue and white jewelled coastline, brooded over by the calm aloofness of Mount Egmont, the lovely Taranaki of old Maori lore. In summer the sweep of Opunake Bay is sun-bright; long rows of cars stand parked on the hard brown sand; the foaming surf is gay with laughter and shouting and tumbling bronze bodies. But in the winter, the sands lie pounded clean by the great Tasman rollers, and a haze of rain and spindrift blurs the bold face of the rugged cliffs. Then Egmont draws a blanket of cloud to him, and wraps his dazzling whiteness away, aloof and unattended.
But sometimes, on a calm winter's day, when there is frost in the air, and
There is little of the old days which has survived in Opunake. The old Redoubt, on the windy cliffs, has been razed. The deep moats are filled, the ramparts which saw the stirring days of the 'sixties and 'seventies and early 'eighties, are levelled to the ground. The Power Board has made a lake of the little saucer-shaped valley where the vegetables for the Camp were raised. Over on the good salty turf of the cliffs, where the Constabulary men grazed their horses, you may play golf, with a little caddie to save you the trouble of carrying your bag.
Of the old trading days of Opunake, nothing remains. The roadstead was once a busy port; as many as six ships in a day lay anchored, bringing trading goods and carrying off a cargo of baled flax. They were worked by surf-boats which plunged perilously through the tossing seas to the shore where patient bullocks waited, with wagons deep in the thunder and swirl of the breakers.
Now you approach Opunake prosaically enough by railway, or by the long grey bitumen-surfaced roads that run so straight and so smoothly through the flat green farmlands of Taranaki. No more the old mail-coach jingles along the New Plymouth highway, rattling over the stony mountain creek-beds, and lurching through the mud of the flax-swamps. To-day you may cover its long stages, in a modern car, on the smooth-surfaced road, in little more than sixty minutes.
In a car, you cross the swift clear waters of the Waiau River by a broad white concrete bridge. There is nothing to tell of the old, bad days of Taranaki, when the Waiau River crossing was the key to Te Whiti's position at Parihaka.
For many months a Constabulary post was kept at the Waiau River. Large parties of Maoris were not allowed to travel northwards; each man had to produce a pass, or convince the bridge guard that he was merely a peaceful traveller pursuing his own business. By such means a check was kept upon any large gathering of Te Whiti's disciples.
Opunake was the nearest white settlement to Parihaka, and at Opunake the main body of the troops was stationed, and a great display of arms made, while the difficult work of roading and survey continued through the province.
You may visit Parihaka to-day. That famous old Village of the Prophet is a peaceful little Maori settlement lying beneath the shadow of its guardian mountain, Egmont. You enter by way of gates built of unhewn stone, and, as your car rattles over the iron cattlestop, the loose rails sound a rude alarm,
Site of the old Opunake Redoubt, looking out to sea.
There is something strange about Parihaka.
Of an evening, when Egmont fades away, blue and silver, into the mists, and night falls, Parihaka becomes a village inhabited by ghosts. Its lawful inhabitants are a-bed and asleep, and strange things are upon the night wind. A dispossessed people come back to cry for justice.
But no ghosts walk at Opunake, that leisurely little farming town upon its windy sea-cliffs. The motor-camp and the surfing beach, the busy dairy factory and the comfortable shopping street all very effectively manage to keep the past at bay.
But perhaps … of a rare summer evening, when the mists roll back from the mountain and a bow of fairy colours arches above the hazy coastline …. you may feel that deep at the foot of it must lie the lost chest of the Lord Worsley gold.
By …Frances Brebner
Low thunder reverberates in the distance, assuming gigantic proportions as the sudden light far down the grade rapidly develops into a hurtling monster of gleaming metal, driving pistons, lighted windows and swaying coaches. With a confused blur of faces, carriage after carriage flashes by, followed abruptly by red tail-lights, which diminish in brightness, flicker, and are in turn swallowed up by the enfolding darkness.
The “Limited”—No. 229—with its cosmopolitan living freight, has passed, speeding on its long journey south. Vague shadows hover intermittently at steam-darkened windows, and in the long coaches passengers read or doze; experienced travellers are prosaically sleeping as if in their own beds.
What hope, ambition, or sorrow, may be locked in the breast of each of these night voyagers, cleaving the darkness in the wake of a Juggernaut! Borne swiftly over a bridge, they roar, suddenly through a tunnel, or click rhythmically along foothills. A vibrant whistle sounds and faces peer from windows at startled stock in flight.
Now, from some remote dwelling or farmhouse, a lonely light appears, in that fleeting countryside, and the occupant automatically checks his clock. “It's the Limited,” he murmurs to the drowsily stirring form beside him, while on the footplate of that swaying cab, two men control the leaping, roaring monster of power and speed. The safety of the long train lies in their hands; each individual life in those following coaches is their responsibility.
“What's your total?” is the query shouted at one busy station.
“Ten, total,” laconically calls the driver of a long train.
Thirty years on the footplate! Thirty years in which driver and fireman have had the handling of many engines, and known affection for some few. Mr. M. Johnston, well-known Rugby referee and administrator, and popular masseur of the victorious 1934 All Black Rugby representatives, looks back over a full thirty years of Railway service.
Joining the Department in 1908, he spent his first three years at the old Christchurch cleaning sheds, long since demolished. He was then transferred
(Rly. Publicity photo.) The Auckland-Wellington “Limited” crossing the Waikanae Bridge.
“Firing on the ‘O’ class goods was a breezy job in the heavy winds of the Wairarapa,” smiled “Massa” Johnston. “I soon realised why the driver had advised me to tie down my overalls on that footplate. And I knew the reason for the peculiar shape of the ‘onesided’ young trees along the track.”
After fourteen months’ service at Masterton, Mr. Johnston was transferred to Palmerston North. From there he frequently descended Paekakariki above a curling white expanse of restless seas, or traversed the difficult Wangaehu bank to Wanganui in days when the latter gradient achieved a fame that had
(Rly. Publicity photo.) On the North Island Main Trunk Line, near Taumarunui.
“The Palmerston North depot of twenty-five years ago might be described, literally, as a dumping ground,” recalled Mr. Johnston. “From the ‘W's’ to the very early types, almost every known class of engine was represented. It was a relief to train crews when the first superheated type was introduced at this depot, proving far superior to the old saturated steam engine.”
“Massa” Johnston spoke of the impressive scene at Awapuni Racecourse when the “Main Body” was encamped. As a fireman of the troop-trains, he has not forgotten the busy week of the transportation to Wellington.
Four mixed trains conveyed a number of troops and horses to Thorndon Station one fateful Monday, three similar trains running on the Tuesday, and a further four on the Wednesday. After firing on the long strenuous journeys of Monday and Wednesday, “Massa” returned again to Wellington on Thursday's excursion train which brought friends and relations to attend the enthusiastic public farewell at Newtown Park.
Early in 1916, Mr. Johnston was transferred to Ohakune as fireman and acting-driver. He was attached to this depot of the Main Trunk line for more than ten years, working on engines of the “X” class, the heaviest in New Zealand, up to that time. To Taumarunui or Taihape he journeyed on mixed or goods trains, and for a number of years after the War was firing on the “First Express,” No. 221, now superseded by No. 227.
The heavy pull to Waiouru, New Zealand's highest station, was accomplished over grades that were steep and long. Then down and down on the continued slope to Taihape. It was driver Street and fireman Johnston who ran the first timetable train when the Raetihi branch line was officially opened by the Rt. Hon. W. F. Massey, P.C., then Prime Minister.
In the several years that driver Barrowman and fireman Johnston drove No. 221 together, they became familiar with every inch of the track, every
(Rly. Publicity photo.) Another Main Trunk scene, approaching the Hapuawhenua Viaduct.
They knew the tilling of the lowlands and the harvesting of golden grain. They saw the bushland slowly recede, leaving a trail of stumps and discarded logs. They watched rough settlements along the line become thriving townships, marking each new cottage near the embankment, each small farm which sprang up. Here they looked for a cheerily waving apron in a laughing house-wife's hand, or the merry shout of an eager child—and one day perhaps to gaze on lowered blinds which told their own mute tale of tragedy.
They drove their charge together, humouring her in her miles of achievement, in harmony with her working. They coaxed her up the long grades and let her have her head on the plains, checked her around the curves and nursed her along the up and down gradients. With real affection they regarded her, and with regret passed on to other spheres of work.
Following his promotion to driver, Mr. Johnston recalls the installation of the first electric headlights on the “Night Cat,” whose shrill cry was a familiar night sound to settlers of many townships.
Winter brought a fantastic unreality to the departure from Ohakune in the cab of an engine fitted with snow ploughs and brushes. The rails, and all
(Photo., W. W. Stewart Collection.) The New Zealand Railways powerful “K” class locomotive. Type, 4-8-4 with double bogie tender; water capacity, 5,600 gallons; coal capacity, 7 ½ tons; total weight in working order, 136 tons: tractive force, 30,815 Ibs.
The dreaded influenza epidemic of 1918 exacted a heavy toll, and at Ohakune a temporary hospital for Railway employees was opened in the District Traffic Manager's residence, then vacant. A large proportion of the staff was on the sick list, and the few remaining men endeavoured to maintain a skeleton service of necessary trains.
The creditable efforts of such train crews as driver Cornish, and fireman Wolff, were responsible for a good deal of the maintained schedule, a crew often taking out one train after another and remaining on duty for 15 or 16 hours per day. As acting-depot foreman, cheery “Old Tom” Barrowman is well remembered.
Perhaps the most heroic figure to the men of Ohakune in that dreadful time was Nurse Drummond, only daughter of the Rangataua Workshops Manager. The young nurse was holidaying at home when the grim epidemic seized its first victims, and she readily volunteered her services.
She was to become a veritable Florence Nightingale to her patients and gain the respect and affection of the many Railway employees whom she nursed back to health. Later, the gallant little nurse herself fatally contracted the disease, and her untimely death was mourned by the whole community. The presence of white-faced semi-convalescents brought to the final graveside scene all the tragic poignancy of the passing of a warm young life.
Mr. Johnston spoke of the famous Raurimu Spiral, whose tortuous ascent of 500 feet in five miles he negotiated with express or goods trains on countless occasions, in times ranging from an average of 30 minutes to delayed periods of 2 ½ hours. On early morning trips the magnificent scenery was sometimes obscured by drizzling rain, and bewildering changes of climate were probable as higher altitudes were reached.
With winter's approach, the scenery took on a wilder, bleaker aspect of bush tones in green, and in the sombre hues of great railway cuttings, gaping dark as wounds in towering walls of rock. The steady ominous crackling of bush fires at night would precede many a proud tree's toppling crash into hungry unflung arms of flame.
New Zealanders and overseas visitors are intensely aware of the arresting charm of New Zealand scenery, its character indigenous, its contrasts both vivid and subtle. In earlier days, before the building of the spacious Chateau, when National Park had not yet become the glorious winter playground of New Zealand, “Massa” Johnston and his mates had realised the wonder and the beauty of this mountain scenery.
On a clear day they had, from Waimarino, a magnificient view of the three snow-capped giants, Ruapehu, Ngauruhoe, and Tongariro. Nearby, the
The run to Waimarino has held one breath-taking glorious moment for many an appreciative train crew. On Makatote Viaduct where the twin rails passed above the bush-covered gorge, 260 feet below, the train hovered in the shadow of grand old Ruapehu—a minute and creeping caterpillar suspended ‘twixt earth and sky. Then in one fleeting moment came a far clear glimpse of the remote majesty of Egmont, one of Nature's sudden flashes of incomparable beauty.
Mr. Johnston's transfer to Auckland in 1926 enabled his growing family to attend secondary schools of the city. In the 12 years of his Auckland service, he watched the rapid expansion of the city's outskirts and their growth to exclusive suburbs. From Auckland depot he had driven many trains and handled various classes of engine until his retirement in June, 1938.
As a member of the Railways Locomotive Staff for more than 30 years, Mr. Johnston has seen many changes in the personnel and in the rolling stock of the Service; a Service of longer trains and heavier engines that is to-day
(F. G. Fitzgerald, photo.) The Greymouth-Christchurch Express on the run down from Arthur's Pass to the Canterbury Plains. The Goldney Ridge of Mt. Rolleston, on the Main Divide, is shown in the left background.
With the strain of night-work at continued speed, a strain increased by the number of trains and crossings on the “road,” drivers of the “Limited” and the Expresses have attained a high standard of efficiency.
Of the thirty powerful “K” class locomotives in the North Island, ten are attached to the Auckland depot. These modern engines average 136 tons, as compared with the 84 tons of the older “AB's,” and increased power is certainly needed to handle the greater weight of the air-conditioned cars of to-day.
As New Zealanders, we have many reasons to be proud of our National Service, whose thin brown lines are the pulsating transport and commerce arteries of the Dominion's economic life. The pictured “K” locomotive inspires a parting thought of the efficient designers and builders in Railway Workshops throughout the country, who are the unseen creators of each modern engineering masterpiece that to-day worthily upholds the Service tradition: Safety First.”
From His Worship the Mayor of Whangarei, Mr. W. Jones, to Mr. G. H. Mackley, General Manager of Railways:
“Recently, my good lady, the Mayoress, travelled from Whangarei to Dunedin. After boarding the Auckland express at Whangarei it was found that her purse and railway tickets for the entire journey had been left in the car in which she had motored to the Whangarei Station.
“My Town Clerk has informed me that contact was immediately made with the Stationmaster at Waiotira on arrival, and I would like to express to you my appreciation and thanks for the assistance given my wife by your officers.
“The officers whom I specially wish to mention are the Stationmasters at Waiotira, Maungaturoto and Helensiville, and also Mr. Martin attached to Whangarei Station Staff.
“I did appreciate all their kindness, courtesy and assistance to the Mayoress and it is my privilege and duty to tell you so.
“The tickets were uplifted at the Auckland Station on the following day.”
* * *
<name type="work" key="name-410698">Night</name> .
* * *
<name type="work" key="name-410699">Vale</name> .
<name type="work" key="name-410700">The Exile</name> .
WrittenandIllustratedbyNeville R. Lewers
Mr. H. H. Bridgman checking up for the filming of a sequence.
1940—the year of the New Zealand centenary will mean many and varied things to a diversity of people. To those, however, who see behind the celebrations themselves there is this important fact: New Zealand is putting her historical house in order. A great many of the early stories of our country have been lost because no one thought it was worthwhile to write them down. Alas, with the death of many of our early settlers there perished forever stories of courage, daring and romance. It is a tribute to the pen of men like James Cowan and others that with untiring efforts they have sifted out the facts of our history and recorded so many of them.
It has been shown all too clearly in the past that the real history has been the life of the people—a history not contained in official documents and one that can, for New Zealand, often be recaptured only by hours of patient listening in all manner of places.
Some are contributing by writing, others by various forms of art, and one of the most valuable of these will be the film illustrating the growth of New Zealand which is being produced by the Government.
This month, deserting once more the highways, we follow a byway to spend a day on the film location situated a few miles out of sunny Tauranga.
The setting was chosen for its suitability for filming scenes against bush, farming or domestic backgrounds. In a patch of bush to the left of the ploughed paddock is a rough hut made of punga fern with a canvas fly over the top for a roof. This is the setting for the filming of the pioneers in their first temporary home. About fifty feet away where the bush opens out into a clearing, another home is being built in feverish haste, for this is the more permanent home of the settlers, and as the day is bright nothing must hold up the “shooting.”
On this location, it is learned that a portion of the 1840–1860 part of the film is being produced. Few people will
A serious talk about the Maoris
On the set at Tauranga ordinary day-light was used for the “shooting.”
Una, Bob, and Lewis discuss a trip to town.
Una Weller, who is quite well-known in Wellington elocutionary circles, is in position ready for a take outside the punga hut. She is playing the female lead for this portion of the film, and Mr. Bridgman considers her very well-suited for the part, typifying the fine stamp of woman who came to New Zealand as a pioneer. In the background can be seen the bush, and surmounting it, billowy clouds set in a clear blue sky—a setting which should be a feature of this portion of the film.
Mr. Bridgman struggles with a heavy tripod trying to set it up in the middle of a patch of fern or blackberry. Always, in the bush, an axe or a most efficient chopper was a regular part of the camera equipment, for it was necessary at times to sever thick vines or tough branches that barred the way for the “shots.”
A sequence in the script, timed to take place at night, was being rehearsed late in the afternoon. Action was all passed and Mr. Bridgman asked for the sound.
There was a sound through the headphones that suggested it wasn't all right.
“What's the trouble? Is the mike picking up the milking noises from the farm?”
The “shooting” had to proceed.
These and many more troubles have to be encountered when recording away from the sound stage. On another occasion the filming of a tree felling sequence necessitated making a rough track through the bush so that the sound truck could be taken in close enough for the microphone to record the axe blows of the felling. The sound recording mechanism is housed in a big V8 wagon which takes some skill to manoeuvre, especially on a rough bush track, but the journey in was accomplished all right. The “shooting” of this sequence was a dangerous enough job for it meant that only a wind had to spring up or some other factor cause the tree to fall the wrong way and it would have been good-bye to cameras, amplifiers, microphones and a great deal more incidental equipment of all sorts, together with an expensive sound truck. However, the scene was necessary, and, unde, the expert guidance of Mr. Rogers, the felling commenced.
Two cameras were lined up a few feet away from the foot of the tree, and another further back for a long “shot” to take the tree and follow it down as it crushed. It took about an hour or more to get the cameras and sound equipment lined up and something like ready for action. By this time the sun had moved on and another tree was shielding its direct rays from the scene of action. Mr. Bridgman wanted the offending tree out of the way. This was done.
At last the tree was about to fall, and Mr. Bridgman shouted, “It's going!” There was some mighty fast work done by the clapper operator (for synchronisation) at the foot of the tree as he did his job and beat a hasty retreat. The director calmly kept grinding the two cameras taking the close-ups of the last strokes of the axe as the tree was going over, only a few feet away from him. Unfortunately the tree was held up and slewed round by hundreds of thick vines high up so that it came down about a third of the way only. It was too late to repeat the felling with another tree that afternoon so the equipment was packed and a second attempt planned for the next day.
“Shooting” went on from ten o'clock in the morning till seven each evening, with intervals for refreshments.
It is interesting to know that Mr. Rogers, who has helped the production so much by allowing any of his land to be used for the filming, and in many other personal ways, appears in several places in the film as a supporting actor. His treatment of all those on the location was a fine example of old New Zealand hospitality.
It was most interesting to watch Mr. Bridgman at work. Under operating difficulties such as those outlined, he succeeds in getting scenes of excellent quality, and he possesses that necessary degree of patience that brings out the best in those who are acting for him. Before each different scene he outlines the general background mood, thus supplying what is lacking in the break in sequence associated with filming work, and creating the right atmosphere for those who are to be before the camera. This is most helpful and assists in getting the right action response in as short a time as possible. For the “shooting” of the sequence depicted in another illustration, it was necessary for the clapper board to be held just beside the horse's nose and banged (for synchronisation) just before the call for action. This job fell to the writer on this occasion. I banged the board once, just for practice, and the horse reared his head suddenly, because of the noise. I heard a whisper from Mr. Rogers just behind me: “Bang the clapper board several times near the horse's head. He'll soon get used to it.”
I banged and was making great progress with the horse, but was so intent on this operation that I had not heard the cameras started and went on banging innocently. Each time I banged, Mr. Bridgman thought it was the correct one for synchronisation and waited for me to slip quickly out of the way so
Una, Bob and Mr. Rogers in a further sequence.
“What went wrong then? Why didn't you move out?”
Before a scene can be filmed, the action must be rehearsed—usually many times. There are innumerable points to check up. The dialogue and action must be re-enacted just as the director visualises it in his own mind, the words must express the right emotion whether it is keen enthusiasm or tired persistence, besides being exactly as they are in the script, and the action must follow suit. The action may have to be changed and improved, for the director is visualising all the time just how things will appear on the silver screen, and everything must be clearly seen from the front.
Before rehearsals, general preparations have to be made, and, in particular, a suitable place has to be found for the microphone. This is often fixed to a special long boom with the mike suspended just over the heads of the actors, but sometimes exterior interference makes this difficult and other places have to be found. For example, in one of our illustrations with Mr. Rogers, Bob Pollard, and Una Weller, taken outside the hut, the microphone was held in the bell-topper. In this case it was the blowflies that had caused the trouble. In the top of this picture the top of the mike boom can be seen where it was originally set up.
After placing the mike, the assistant checks up with the cameraman to make sure that it will not show in the picture.
While rehearsals are going on the sound is being watched at the same time. The director and sound technician, with headphones on, watch the dials on their respective instrument panels, each of which has a built-in mike so that communication can be carried on freely between the two. To the onlooker it would appear that the volume of the voices has to be even more carefully controlled and matched by the actors than in broadcast work, and not till this is satisfactorily checked can the “take” be proceeded with. The mike is so sensitive that it often picks up the noise of the camera motor during a “take” and thus records it on the film as a distinctly extraneous sound. To overcome this the camera has to be swathed in a “blimp” which is something like a blanket with holes cut in it for access to the controls and to allow the lenses to poke their heads through.
The announcers’ studio on the mobile broadcasting unit, 5ZB. This interesting venture of the National Commercial Broadcasting Service was officially inaugurated on 4th April, and the unit is now on a tour of the North Island.
Now, as the picture is recorded in the camera, and the sound on quite a separate film in the sound car, it is necessary that these two must synchronise exactly. For the matching of these two films a clapper board is used. This consists of two parts. At the top are two blocks of wood hinged together and with parallel lines painted at an angle to the surface. The bottom part of the board has sequence number and brief description of the “shot” chalked on it.
For a “take” the procedure is something like this. An assistant stands with the clapper board just in front of the actors where it will photograph exactly in focus. The camera is started by turning on an electric switch, and the director calls “Number.”
This is the cue for the assistant who bangs the clapper board and speaks quickly into the mike. “150. Close-up of Una in first hut.” He then ducks quickly out of the way.
The director then calls for “action” and the filming proceeds till the end of the scene when the call for “cut” is made. The director then consults his staff.
Bob Pollard, who is playing the male lead for this part of the film, will be well-known to many New Zealanders. He was one of the announcers of station 3ZB when it opened, and has since been promoted to a position at 2ZB. His broadcasting experience assisted him greatly.
The illustrations show four scenes from this interesting film in the making.
“Wherever you go in New Zealand,” writes Colonel Chasemore, in a popular London weekly, “you will find the tobacco of the country on sale. Even the ‘wayback’ country storekeepers keep it in stock. Its popularity is easily accounted for. Although quite moderate in price, it's really as good as it's cracked up to be.’ The tobacco plant flourishes in various parts of the Dominion, and many a man on the land finds it a profitable side-line to cultivate because the dried leaf commands a high price per ton and is in steady demand. New Zealand tobacco has won the good opinion of visiting experts, and containing but little nicotine, it is safer to smoke than perhaps any other tobacco. You can indulge ad. lib. without fear of consequences. This they tell me, is owing to the toasting of the leaf, which process appears to work wonders.” Colonel Chasemore refers to the five brands so familiar to Maorilanders: Navy Cut No. 3, Riverhead Gold, Desert Gold, Cavendish and Cut Plug No. 10.*
By …Rosaline Redwood
“The apparent leader was holding the knife as if he were itching to use it.”
Janet'S slim, deft fingers kneaded the stiff mass of dough into shapely, rounded loaves. She then hurriedly stirred the glowing embers on top of the camp oven, and added more wood.
She opened the oven door carefully, felt the hot air rushing out, and quickly decided the heat was about right. The last batch was slipped into the hot cavity, and Janet shut the door with a sigh of relief. No more bread making for a week—she was glad of that. There was a glow of pride in her eyes as they rested on the small, rough table, where other loaves, baked to a rich golden brown, were still steaming beneath a cloth.
White bread at last! Janet smiled happily as her thoughts flew to Jack, who had carried that sack of flour on his back all the way from Dunedin—long miles that led over rough, tussocky country, through swirling creeks, and then along the narrow bush track to the cabin. It was his idea of a pleasant surprise for her.
Brown bread made from the wheat which she herself crushed in a small, hand coffee mill, was the only bread she had tasted since she had left civilisation for the lonely log cabin in the bush. There wouldn't be any butter to go with the bread, but there was lard and treacle. There was always lard, for when Jack came home for an occasional short visit, he always shot a wild pig or two. They were so plentiful, and the lard and pork were uncommonly good.
Thoughtfully Janet paused in the doorway of the cabin, and her eyes sought eagerly for the plump little figure of baby Sally. There she was, a few yards away, playing with grey river stones. Sally didn't need toys to make her happy—her little round face glowed with contentment, as she playfully handled the stones in her lap.
Janet smiled dreamily—Sally was good company! Her eyes wandered across the small clearing in front of the cabin, and her smile faded a little. After all, she did hate the loneliness of the place, but the bush was lovely, even if she felt at times that it was too close—too dense, and mysterious. It had been worse at first. She had imagined all sorts of horrors that it might conceal, animals and Maoris—savages that were cannibals! But the only animals she had seen were wild pigs, and occasionally wild dogs—small animals that had originally belonged to the Maoris. These animals had run wild, and Jack had assured her that there were no Maoris in these parts. She was getting used to it all, and her fears were gradually dying. It would be wonderful, though, when Jack had saved up enough from his labouring job in Dunedin to start clearing the land for cropping. He would be with her always then.
To the left of the clearing, soft, curling green fern-fronds parted cautiously, and brown eyes peered inquisitively at the log cabin and the queer, pakeha woman standing in the doorway, and the plump little child in front, playing with smooth, grey river stones.
So cautious was the movement that Janet was blissfully unaware of anything unusual in the fringe of green. She turned inside, a smile on her lips, and was in the act of turning the hot oven knob, when her hand dropped suddenly, and the smile froze. Sally had screamed! A wild piercing scream of terror, that echoed another terror in the mother's heart.
She flew to the door, as Sally's fat little legs stumbled over the step towards her. Above the tousled head Janet saw the cause of the scream, and every atom of colour drained from her face. Maoris—at least a score of them, and their tattooed faces seemed to glint menacingly as they advanced in a long single file.
No wonder Sally had been terrified, for the child had seen no man except her father during her short life on earth.
Janet's eyes widened in terror, and a half stifled scream left her lips, as the flax skirted figures rustled closer. There flashed through her mind all those stories she had heard. Terrible stories of cannibal and head hunting tribes that were supposed to have long disappeared from the locality. The next minute she was facing the stalwart dark-skinned leader. Sally screamed again, and clung frantically to her, while she tried to back away from the brown faces that were surrounding her.
Every nerve in her body felt weak, but she knew in that instant that she dared not show fear—that might be the finish! Her arms tightened around Sally, and she remained facing the mob defiantly, until one of the men pushed her farther into the cabin, and roughly marched in. She shrunk from the touch of the hot brown hand, and stepped back till she felt the wall behind her.
The rest of the party trooped eagerly inside, and broke into an excited gibberish. What they were saying she had not the slightest idea, nor could they understand her when she demanded sharply: “What are you doing here—please leave my home at once.”
Her speech brought head shakings and more excited talk. They gathered closer around, and the look on their brown faces sent a chill through her blood. Vainly she tried to persuade herself that they were merely curious, that they only wanted to have a better look, but all the dreadful stories she had heard, crowded out the more sensible thoughts.
The large sharp knife that Jack always used for cutting up the carcases of wild pig, lay on the shelf above the table, and to her utter amazement one of the party pounced eagerly on it.
The others were equally interested, and it was excitedly passed from hand to hand till each Maori had caressed it's sharp blade, with his fingers, and gabbled delightedly over the find. She almost expected that they might turn on Sally and herself at any moment. She remembered with horror just how sharp Jack kept that knife.
Brown hands pulled the cloth from the freshly baked loaves, and puzzlement expressed itself on the tattooed faces. In that instant, as her eyes took in the danger of the knife waving in one of the warrior's hands and the crusty fresh loaves on the table, Janet had a flash of inspiration. It might work—she could try the ruse at any rate!
With the child still clinging to her, she leaned timidly forward and pointed to the loaves, then to the knife, in an earnest attempt to explain what she wanted. The apparent leader was holding the knife as if he were itching to use it, and she turned beseechingly towards him, holding out her hand for the shining blade. He shook his bushy head, obviously puzzled, but determined to keep the knife.
She tried again. Holding a loaf in one hand, she made cutting motions over it, as with an imaginary knife, and turned again to take the steel from the brown hand. This time he reluctantly let it go.
She felt much safer with the ugly weapon in her possession, but she knew she must act speedily, or they might easily force it from her again.
Setting the terrified Sally on one end of the table, and leaning protectingly over her, she cut slice after slice off the first loaf.
She reached for the treacle above her, on the shelf, and spreading a generous layer of the sweet sticky stuff over the first piece, she forced a smile to her cold lips and offered it to the nearest native.
She thought he viewed it with suspicion at first, as he carefully licked the top, but the suspicion, if such, changed to delight. Excitedly he offered the others a lick of the wonderful treacle.
Working dexterously, Janet covered slice after slice as fast as she could, and handed them round. They came closer around her, eagerly watching the process of the knife as it slid through the loaf, and greedily snatching each finished piece, but they made no attempt to get the knife back, and that was her chief concern.
The last Maori was served and was licking his lips in childish appreciation, when Janet became suddenly aware that the leader was giving some new instructions. With many gesticulations and much more excited talk, they filed out of the cabin as abruptly as they had entered.
Janet could have wept with sheer relief, as she clutched Sally tightly again, and watched the dark heads and rustling skirts disappear into the green fringe of the clearing.
She pressed her trembling cheek against Sally's soft, rosy one, and there were tears in her voice as she uttered the reproach: “Oh, Jack—if you knew how terrified I was—how I need you—in this awful lonely bush.” Then she stopped ashamed. It wasn't Jack's fault—the hardship of being parted was his, too. Didn't he toil early and late to make enough money to get a start at clearing his property? Her voice was strangely gentle as she told Sally: “Poor Jack—no, we won't tell him. He mustn't know how frightened I was—how I hate this lonely bush.”
She remembered the bread in the oven then. Scorching hot odours rushed out to meet her from the open oven door, and black charred mounds lay smoking in the baking pan.
“Never mind,” she sighed, “I'll make more, Sally. There is still plenty of white flour left. But it does seem a waste to think those awful Maoris have gobbled up all my white bread.”
(Thelma R. Kent, pho A road construction scene near Makarora, South Island.
By …Arthur O'Halloran
On the morning of the 25th March, 1772 (three years after Cook), two French ships, the Mascarin and the Marquis de Castries, were off the coast of New Zealand. The latter vessel was commanded by the Chevalier du Clesmeur, whilst Marion du Fresne, generally called Marion, was in supreme command of the expedition and was aboard the Mascarin.
At 8 a.m. the lookout sighted land—the beautiful snow-capped mountain now known as Mt. Egmont. Captain Marion named this peak “Mount Mascarin” after his own ship. He did not land, however, but after several days, gave orders for both ships to proceed north up the coast.
The French ships experienced very bad weather around the New Zealand coast. Using Tasman's chart they passed the “Three Kings,” visited Spirit's Bay, Tom Bowling's Bay, and on the 1st May, after rounding Cape Brett (called by Marion, “Square Cape”) reached the Bay of Islands.
Here, in a few weeks, Marion and many of his men were to come to a tragic end. To this same fateful bay a few years later were to come the whalers, the first missionaries, run-away sailors, and poor Busby. And here, in 1840 the Maoris, by the famous Treaty of Waitangi, were to cede the country to British sovereignty.
Arrived at the Bay of Islands, Marion dropped anchor off a large island which he named Marion Island. Here he landed the sick members of his crew, many of whom were suffering from scurvy.
As a precaution against thieving, he placed an armed guard at the camp. He seems, however, to have scouted the idea of any violence from the natives.
After having made arrangements for the sick members of his party, he proceeded ashore to a point on the mainland for the purpose of securing timber for new masts. Four huts were erected on the beach to serve as a temporary home for the shore party and as a store.
On the 29th May, the Frenchmen commenced sawing trees. During the next fortnight there were several more or less menacing incidents at the timber camp, and on the 12th June, Du Clesmeur went aboard Marion's ship and explained the position. The commander, however, seems to have had a remarkable trust in the natives, and urged Du Clesmeur to show indulgence towards them.
At 2 p.m. the same day Marion went ashore from his ship, accompanied by two chiefs who had visited him. With him were two officers and thirteen sailors who took with them nets for fishing. Neither Marion nor any member of his party lived to recount the terrible tale of that fateful mid-winter day. All were killed and eaten.
In addition to Marion's own party, no less than eleven men from Du Clesmeur's vessel — the Marquis de Castries met the same terrible fate that day, making a toll of 27 Frenchmen murdered.
Fortunately, there was one survivor from the Marquis de Castries boat party, a wounded sailor who had managed to elude the ferocious natives. This sailor hid in the bush and later got back to the ship and reported the terrible tragedy. Du Clesmeur immediately sent an armed guard to the sick camp. They were only just in time. Some 500 to
The old Residency at Waitangi, Bay of Islands.
On the 14th June, Roux made his attack. His force consisted of 126 men heavily armed (cutlasses, muskets and pistols with forty rounds of ammunition).
In the attack several chiefs and many native warriors were killed. (Du Clesmeur estimated that of 450 natives engaged only about 200 succeeded in getting away). The pa was set on fire. A fortnight later, on 29th June, there was a further clash with the natives, a number of whom were shot.
On the 7th July, the French found traces of human bones—grim relics of the cannibal feasts of the previous month. Further proof of Marion's end was the sight of a native masquerading in the French leader's clothes.
Du Clesmeur now called his senior officers to a conference and it was decided to leave New Zealand and sail for the Spanish settlement at Manilla.
No attempt was made to get possession of the timber on the mainland, but a bottle was buried on Marion Island and the country was formally claimed as a possession of the King of France. Then the ill fated expedition put to sea and “Austral France” (as they had called the new land) was left to the Maoris for the next 70 years when it passed to the British Crown.
(Perpetrated and Illustrated by
Ken. Alexander .) Ever since the regrettable innovation of human speech there have been Knowers.
Noah was a Knower—but he happened to be right. It might have been a fluke, but it was more likely his corns; and the chances are that he was goaded into a regatta fixation by the brothers Hem and Sham who, boys being—well, what they have always been, scoffed, “Silly old cheese! He thinks he knows everthing.”
And Noah, discovering that even his wife suspected him of water on the brain, said: “O.K.! I'll show ‘em whether I know it's going to be a wet spring.” And so he laid the keel of the nark—more in contradiction than conviction. It just happened that he fluked a particularly damp spring and must have been pretty difficult to live with ever after.
Many Knowers have been less fortunate. Take the case of King Canute (later pronounced “cannot” as in horse-racing) who took a fly with the “books” on his ability to go over the edge without getting soaked! He had to be practically wrung out by the royal tide-waiters! He runs closer to the modern Knower than Noah.
The Knower comes within the category of scourges, plagues and pestilences. In the Excited States he is known as Wiseguy, and, in our own country, as many things which even his best friend wouldn't tell him.
You may remember, many years ago, a biological phenomenon with the stage name, Argus, who challenged all-comers to a catch-as-catch-can with Knowledge. His slogan was “Ask Argus!” You could ask him anything from the number of three-penny bits circulating in Dunedin to the pronunciation of “centennial” and he could give you the answers; and, as no one knew what the answers ought to be, there was no harm done. He may have got the “bull” in the eye every time for all I know, but I can't help thinking what a bore he must have been at home. The common or house-howled Knower has no honour in his own family. Originally he is a domestic product—the victim of blind faith. In the first place he induces his wife to take a preference share in Marriage (Incorp.) on representations which, later, she finds to be unsupported by the evidence. Originally she is deluded by his air of doggish wisdom and, by the time she discovers that she has been sold a pup it is too late to rescind the license.
By this time he is an incurable Knower. Answers wing from his lips like migrating godwits, knowledge springs from him like rats deserting a shrinking sip, or fleas fleeing a drowning dog. He doesn't even have to think them up and they don't have to be correct because no one listens to them, anyway.
As his children multiply, his faith in himself is sorely tried and he is even tempted by an advertisement which demands, “How will you answer your children?” to buy a volume of five thousand answers to a similar number of frightful questions likely to be fired at suffering parents by heartless infants. But he knows that the answers to the brainteasers promulgated by his little hot-spots could not be found even in the Talmud; and, anyway, he isn't going to have his style cramped by mere authenticity.
He is already shocked to his artistic giblets by the drab unimaginativeness of the facts fed to his children by the Educational Authorities with the deliberate intention of discrediting his own authority; so much so that he is driven to reply to questions with, “Look it up in the book! How do you expect to learn if you rely on me to tell you everything?”
But you can't keep a good Knower down. He may take the count for eight but he will beat the ten-spot time and again. His motto is “Hic hoc hocus” which is dog Latin for “give it a pop.” He can tell you, without even thinking about it, that a totalitarian state is how you feel at tea parties, that the Cossacks are what monks wear, that the swastika was originally the laudry mark on certain shirts, that St. Paul's Cathedral was built by Christopher Robin, that the Trappist monks are tree-dwellers who snare
“How will you answer your children?”
He can tell you that the Colossus of Roads is a bulldozer, that a bigamist is a heavyweight lifter, that the sign of the Zodiac is three gold balls above a doorway, that the Incas came from the Black Sea, and that an igloo is what an eskimo beats his wife with.
A Knower's end is inevitable. When his children take to reading encyclopedias, his wife to gaining her general knowledge from the visiting tradesmen, and even the dog gives up looking up to him with eyes swimming with dog-like delusion, his hours as an imaginative genius are numbered. He must either divert his ingenuity to used-car salesmanship, go dumb (which would probably result in a deep-seated explosion) or turn his unnatural ability to that most imaginative and inexact of all the sciences—horse-racing. Racing is peculiarly suited to the gee-genius of the Knower. There is something about the horsiness of a horse that gees up his creative faculties. There is so much to know, and so little time to know it in. You have to know the owner's intentions, the trainer's expectations, the jockey's ambitions and the horse's feeling on the subject of forging ahead and proving his claim to be the friend of man. And you've got to know when all these warring elements will cash in at the post.
Tennyson, the poet, was a worshipper at the shrine of “My Lady Nicotine,” and like many men of letters, preferred a pipe to a cigar. (Cigarettes hadn't been invented in his day). His favourite pipe was a common clay. He would take a new clay, fill and light it, smoke it till empty, and then, snapping the stem and throwing the fragments aside, would fill and light a second clay. He never smoked the same pipe twice. His tobacco was purest Virginian, for he insisted upon the purity of his weed. Therein he was wise. Really pure tobacco is harmless. Impure tobacco (i.e., tobacco containing much nicotine) may, and often does prove, highly injurious. This fact is at last becoming generally recognised. Hence the demand for our beautifully pure New Zealand tobacco which, containing less nicotine than any other, can be smoked even immoderately with absolute safety. Why?—because it's toasted! There are, as most smokers know, five brands only of the genuine toasted tobacco: Cavendish, Navy Cut No. 3. Cut Plug No. 10, Desert Gold and Riverhead Gold.*
“You can tell he is not running in the race because he is wearing a bridle.”
Here is unlimited scope for the Knower. He may be discredited in his own family loose-box, his relatives may flee moaning from his presence, streets may clear of all sign of life at his approach, and he may be listed as an inflictious disease; but as a quadrupedagogue he claims audiences with impunity. He is not regarded as a nag among horses. His face grows long and solemn, but you can tell that he isn't actually running in the race because he isn't wearing a bridle. Even other Knowers listen to him if he looks mysterious enough to suggest a dividend complex. He whispers horsely of strange knowledge that has come to him in the night; of deep secrets plucked from the favourite's feed-bag; of devious devices designed to spice the sport of ginks with financial fecundity. He wears an air of melancholy dignity befitting one immersed in the topsyturfy affairs of life and debt.
And so at last he passes to the better course where there are only payout windows in the “tote,” and the bookmakers—I mean the barbers—send a tribute of horse-chestnuts inscribed: “Heaven's gain is our loss.”
But here's to the Knower. His heart's in the right place even if is voice is all over the place.
(By
“Shibli Bagarag .”) Victoria Street, Christ-church, apart from its antique shops, has other artistic interests. In that street, some time ago, I saw a modest building, the home of the Caxton Press.
Over a period of years I have purchased a number of New Zealand books bearing the Caxton imprint—books of typographical excellence. I had, too, corresponded with the presiding genius, Denis Glover, and was eager to meet him in the flesh. When I entered the building I saw three young men bending over a table. They looked up at my approach. The tallest of the trio was Denis Glover. I shook hands with the clever young poet-printer, and noted his interesting face and thoughtful, humorous blue eyes. His partners were Leo Bensemann, a talented young artist, and another younger fellow by name, Drew. I was glad to meet them for I have always been an enthusiast of good printing. Glover has written unsual verse and has shown that he is a keen disciple of Eric Gill. Some of his typography is a credit to the printing craftsmanship of this country.
Denis Glover and his companion craftsman deserve all the support that can be given to them. I was pleased to note that these Caxton enthusiasts are establishing themselves, for in the centre of their printing room was a new and imposing automatic printing press. This I presume is for their bread and butter lines, for they will continue to produce occasional booklets of verse and prose where type and format blend artistically with the printed word.
And now for a few words for the latest Caxton production. “Not in Narrow Seas,” by Allen Curnow. Side by side with thoughts in phrase concerning the history of the Canterbury settlement is printed verse of protest against the manner in which the country and its people have responded to modern development. It is “the straining hearts despair” of a visionary who can see little but sordidness and distress in the manner in which the Dominion has progressed. It has ever been thus with the young poet whose prerogative is to stub his toes against imagined or exaggerated obstacles. In his dark hour let Allen Curnow look at the typography and format of his book. He will find it most consoling. At least in one place in “James Cook's pig farm” (as he calls New Zealand) there is the art and beauty of creation.
* * *
A reader of this page asks the following interesting question:
“In various reviews of novels dealing with early life in New Zealand I have noticed that a critic will sometimes say ‘This is an excellent novel, but it is not the epic novel of New Zealand.’ What exactly is
Ex Libris G. M. Van Wees A Dutch Bookplate.
Now an epic novel is hardly the correct description, for the adjective is usually associated with poetry. The essentials of an epic poem are a dignified theme, complete unity and an orderly progression of action. Applied in a wider sense in a novel the same qualifications would no doubt be expected. Obviously what my correspondent wishes to know is what are the essentials of a great New Zealand novel. It must be a work of genius, descriptive of the life and atmosphere of the Dominion and its people. It must have plot, action and character. It must be true to life as life exists and has existed in New Zealand. Perhaps “Promenade” is the most imposing story ever written about this country but it is not the great New Zealand novel. Let us hope that this important literary event may happen during this Centennial year.
* * *
A worthy addition to the library of New Zealand verse booklets comes from Whitcombe & Tombs, Auckland, in Helen Brookfield's “The Fugitive Poems.” Miss Brookfield reveals herself as a woman of fine thought and character. Her verse has art and charm. She introduces herself, as it were, in the opening poem, “The Poet.” Here she is seen communing with Nature, digging “for wisdom with a spade,”
Lighter music is heard occasionally—true Irish melody also in her poem, “Stolen Away.”
* * *
An invaluable reference booklet is the Union Catalogue of New Zealand Newspapers compiled by Dr. G. H. Scholefield. Although published over a year ago a copy came my way only recently. I have already had occasion to refer to it a number of times. The list comprises details of all the newspapers preserved in public libraries and press offices in this country.
I welcome the opportunity of saying a word for the Handcraft Press, Wellington, represented by Noel Hoggard. His latest booklet, “Ballet in New Zealand,” is the story of the ballet, particularly in relation to the recent New Zealand tour of the Covent Garden Russian Ballet Company. The story is told interestingly by Eric de Mauny and there is an introduction by Anton Dolin.
Reviews.
“Like Water Flowing,” by Margaret Mackay (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) is a story that will delight everybody. It is a novel of life in northern China and because of the apparently faithful picture it gives of the simple Chinese country folk and the Chinese countryside has a particular interest at the present time. “East is East and West is West,” has been the theme of many a novel, but here the scheme is worked out in a new light. Indeed, Pearl Buck in commenting on the
“Four Men and a Prayer,” by David Garth (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) is a novel that will appeal to everybody with its colour, romance and excitement. Colonel Sir Loring Leigh is found dead in his English home. Presumably a case of suicide, for he has been brooding over the fact that he has been chashierd following a Courtmartial. His four sons think otherwise and search for the individual or individuals who “framed” him. They go to India, Morocco and Buenos Aires and meet romance and adventure. The novel teems with excitement.
“The Little Black Princess of the Never Never,” by Mrs. Aneas Gunn (Robertson & Mullens, Melbourne) was first published in 1905. The latest edition in booklet form has been adapted for use in schools. This little book, with its vivid pictures of native life in Australia, is a small Australian classic.
“Ego of Youth,” by Willow Macky, is an artistically produced booklet of verse carrying the imprint of the Griffin Press, Auckland. I gather from the introduction that Willow Macky is
“Koala,” by Charles Barrett, C.M.Z.S. (Robertson & Mullens, Melbourne) is the second edition of a booklet descriptive of the Australian bear. In letter-press, photographic illustration and format, the booklet is a pleasing production.
“Air-Raid Precautions in Peace or War,” by L. Buchanan (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) is a timely booklet bringing home to people of the Southern Hemisphere the fact that the advent of a world war must set us thinking about problems of air defence.
“Shibli” Listens In.
The cheap reprints being published by New Century Press, Sydney, are making big sales in New Zealand.
There are rumours of an Australian monthly publishing a New Zealand edition.
A New Zealand publication that has found success is “The Student's Digest,” published by L. J. Cronin of Wellington. The paper explains current world affairs in a simple and concise way for teachers and students.
ByDorothy Esher
We had been ploughing our way steadily across the Tasman for nearly five days, when out of a clear blue sky came a wild cry. “Land, there's land over there!” “There's New Zealand!”
“Where”? We all rushed to the ship's side, eager, expectant. “Over there, see, ahead of us.” And there, sure enough, there in the distance lay a long line of dark purple clouds—our first glimpse of New Zealand. “The hills of Home!” said someone, and what a thrilling sight it was for the exile! Even as we watched, the clouds seemed to take shape, peaks stood out, mistily at first, then becoming more clearly defined as we steamed closer, until suddenly the dense bush shone green in the late afternoon sunshine.
At last, about 4.30 p.m., we came to the entrance to the Sound, and skirting round the point on which the little white lighthouse stands, we entered the calm deep waters of Milford. What words can describe the towering rugged grandeur of Milford Sound—the world-famous, awe-inspiring fiord in the south-west coast of the South Island of New Zealand?
The captain on the bridge rings down to the engine room and the ship slackens speed. We sail slowly, slowly up the Sound between great towering granite walls lost in the mists which shroud the
(Rly. Publicity photo.) The world-famed Milford Sound showing Bowen Falls (right), Mitre Peak and Lion Rock.
We are rather anxious about the mist, and hoping it will lift a little so that we can see Mitre Peak, and we long to see the glacier too. “Oh, oh, look!” cries someone ecstatically. We look up, and the mist has lifted. There stands Mitre Peak, proud, majestic, and crowned with the mist floating above its very peak like a bride's veil, tinted gold and amethyst and rose by the sun.
We feel so small standing there looking up, up, to where snow-capped peaks merge mystically with the mists. I say we feel small and insignificant and very subdued, awed by the still majesty of dark waters, sheer granite walls, snow-peaks shining in the sun, waterfalls weaving misty patterns over the cliff's face, and crowning all, there, high up in the mountain side a whole glacier lies gleaming, dazzling white where the sun catches it.
At last we reach the head of the Sound, and here the little white Government launch comes out to meet the ship, which drops anchor and lets down a gangway to the deck of the launch. Here some lucky folk alight to tramp over the Milford Track. We are a little sad because we cannot do it too, and envy the fortunate ones. Here is an elderly spinster, dressed in short, thick skirt, heavy boots, woollen sweater, and with the light of battle in her eye. There is a young man, well-equipped for the walk, his eager eyes looking forward. One has done the walk before and thrills the newcomers with accounts of her experiences. All are buoyed up with an intoxicating sort of expectancy. We envy these lucky ones.
When all is ready the little white launch pulls away from the ship, amidst cries of “goodbye, goodbye,” cheers and the waving of handkerchiefs; the gangway is taken up and slowly we start to turn. The gulls wheel, crying round us.
As we turn we get the full view of the beautiful Bowen Falls, which fall some hundreds of feet, then the waters strike a ledge of rock and spray out, falling in one great spray of foamy mist to the still waters below. The Lion stands guard as of old. We wave to him, but he gives us back a calm and serene, though stony stare.
Now we steam slowly back through the quiet sunset, and at last reach the entrance again. How we long to stay and just gaze and gaze till our weary eyes cannot bear any more beauty, but here we must say a sad, regretful “farewell” to “The World's Wonder Fiord.” And as we sail away we look back. We see the last rays of the setting sun, shining on the snow-peaks and touching them with gold and amethyst and rose …
Buy New Zealand Goods.
(Continued from page 13)
Happy lunch hour at Wills’ factory.
There is another angle of the New Zealand tobacco industry which must not be overlooked. New Zealand is growing tobacco. Adam Smith observed long years ago in the “Wealth of Nations” that tobacco was always regarded by Governments as “a subject for collecting taxes,” and he pointed out that “the cultivation of tobacco has been upon this account most absurdly prohibited through the greater part of Europe.”
The scene has changed. Tobacco is now grown in many parts of the world. In our own country, for example, the production of New Zealand grown tobacco leaf last season amounted to approximately two million pounds.
There is, of course, no reason why the country which grows the world's best sheep and pedigree rye grass should not compete in tobacco. There are many tobacco farms in New Zealand growing bountiful crops of high quality, most of them in the sunny Nelson province.
Under the tutelage of experts, skill in flue curing, the modern method, has been acquired, and the utmost care is taken over this process, as it is the foundation of good quality. In the Flue Barn, the green leaves change to a pale lemony-gold, and from them eventually we get our Silver Fern cigarette tobacco, Twelves cigarettes, and those smooth smoking mixtures, Tasman Toasted Flake, and Four Star Pipe Tobacco. If you are a lover of any of these, well, you appreciate a blending of New Zealand tobacco in your smoke.
We also visited Napier, and saw the National Tobacco Company's fine institution. As I have said before, industries which grow up in our provincial centres have a special place in my regard.
It is therefore fitting and proper that the lovely capital of Hawke's Bay should have as its leading industry, the great concern that makes Riverhead Gold, No. 3, Desert Gold, Cavendish, and other famous and well-liked brands.
The company has its own toasting process and makes an article of world parity.
Here again is ample evidence that the people who are engaged in the making of tobacco derive happiness from their daily job.
We show a picture of the girls having refreshments in the National Tobacco Company's lunch room, and
National Tobacco Company's staff, Napier, at refreshments.
Port Ahuriri has a utilitarian appearance like most work-a-day seaports, and the National Tobacco Company's premises strike an unexpected note of aesthetic value. The elevation is handsome and the entrance ornate but tasteful.
The hall is most impressive. It is domelit, and has exceedingly beautiful doors and walls.
The growth of the company's business is evidenced by the erection of fine new bond stores. Here again we must take into account the allied industries who benefit from the existence of the National Tobacco Company. Tins, round and square, containers of every description, cases, packets and all the rest of the necessary accessories, are all made in New Zealand by New Zealanders.
It is pleasant to know that from the mildest smoke, to the heavy and sustaining, all smokers’ needs can be met by the product of our own folks in New Zealand factories.
But to me, the main significance of these well established organisations was their air of competent, but amiable fellowship; a universal feeling that a working day could be pleasantly got through in the making of a good article under good conditions.
Once more, it was driven home to me that in modernity of plant, and in the scientific care and up-to-dateness of manufacturing method, New Zealand is on the march, abreast with the world. This applies with full force to New Zealand made smokes.
ByMona Gordon
Captain James Cook, F.R.S.
It seems that the time has come when New Zealand might do well to consider the advisability of marking the Centennial of either Wellington or Auckland by a fitting memorial to Captain Cook. What could be more appropriate at this time? For, except in Christchurch, the memory of the great navigator has scarcely been recognised, and it is surprising that the other capital cities have so far neglected to raise in enduring stone or marble any memento of the man who gave Britain her heritage of the Pacific.
Overseas, Captain Cook has been honoured in many places. Strangely enough, France, whose navigators followed close on his heels in the South Seas, set up the first Cook memorial. This was erected in 1779 by Pajou in the garden of the Chateau de Mareville, and was the only one raised in the year of his death. Unfortunately, however, it has disappeared from the Chateau grounds, and it is not definitely known where the white marble sarcophagus which Pajou erected there has found a resting place. An interesting search awaits the traveller who wishes to unearth this early memorial, which included a bust, an urn, and a lion eating an eagle.
It is not so strange that France should have erected the first memorial, for her navigators followed close on the heels of Cook in the South Seas; the tribute of La Pérouse being that he had left him “nothing but to admire.”
Next came a British memorial erected on the spot where Cook's body was burned. It was set up by Captain Lord Byron of H.M.S. Blonde, in 1825, followed by a stone, at Venus Point, in the Society Group, to commemorate the observation of the transit of the planet, on which event hinged the whole of Cook's voyages and undertakings.
The most important and certainly the most inspiring of British memorials is the obelisk at Easby, Yorkshire, raised by Robert Campion, Lord of the Manor of Easby in 1827. On the highest point of the Cleveland hills it stands like a beacon, as if to keep guard over the moorland villages those hills enfold, many of them associated with Cook's early life, from Marton to Great Ayton, and on to sea-washed Staithes and Whitby. Campion's obelisk, overlooking as it does those dear familiar scenes of his boyhood, the soil from which he sprung, the rolling moors so familiar to his eyes, bears a longer inscription than any of the other memorials, and perhaps fittingly, as if to remind the simple Yorkshire folk that there is that in their fibre which can go forth and bind the world. The opening paragraph reads:
“Erected to the memory of the
(Photo. W. Hall Raine) The memorial to Captain Cook at Ship's Cove, Marlborough Sounds. South Island, New Zealand.
(F. Keen. photo.) The memorial to Captain Cook at Christchurch, New Zealand
In 1912 Whitby received a fine memorial in the statue presented by Sir G. Beckeand. Little James Cook in 1742 had tramped twelve weary miles from the fishing village of Staithes, where he was apprenticed to a grocer, to take up service in the coasting trade with Mr. John Walker of Whitby. “A weary lad flung himself upon the grass of West Cliff, Whitby,” states a recent writer, “where his statue now gazes over the roofs of the old seaport.” Its inscription reads: “For the lasting memory of a great Yorkshire seaman this bronze has been cast, and is left in the keeping of Whitby; the birthplace of those good ships that bore him on his enterprise, brought him to glory and left him at rest.”
Various smaller memorials mark other spots in Yorkshire connected with Cook, such as the marble vase in Stewart Park, Marton, on the site of the clay “biggin” where he was born, and the monument of Cape Everard granite on the site of the Great Ayton cottage, removed to Melbourne under the false impression that it was his birthplace. This cottage was merely the home of his parents in old age.
London has her bronze statue at Admiralty Arch and a tablet in Mile End Road, while Liverpool, whose shipping connection with the lands of his discovery seems to warrant some reminder, has also a statue. Australian memorials include statues at Randwick and at Botany Bay, while the Australian Museum boasts the largest collection of Cook relics in the world, among them the stern plate of the Resolution, and the ornamental jacket which Mrs. Cook was working for her husband during the third voyage from which he never returned.
A plate at Cooktown, Queensland, recalls that here the Endeavour was repaired, and on Possession Island, Torres Strait, an obelisk bears the magnificent unchallenged assertion that James Cook took possession of the whole east coast of Australia.
At Kealakekua, Hawaii, a native princess had granted land for the erection of a memorial as long ago as 1874, and here, near the spot where the tragedy took place, a tall shaft was later set up, catching the tropic sunlight above the place which witnessed the closing scene of a great life. On 18th August, 1928, Kealakekua was again the centre of a memorial ceremony when a half-submerged plate was unveiled near the spot where the massacre took place. Its inscription runs: “Captain James Cook, R.N., was killed near this spot, Feb. 17th, 1777.” On that occasion, Sir Joseph Carruthers, representing Australia, expressed the opinion that the famous navigator met his death as a result of “a complete and mutual misunderstanding.”
Compared with enduring monuments, we are forced to the conclusion that so far, New Zealand has not sufficiently honoured the man to whom she owes her very existence as a British Dominion. In the North Island, his first landing place is marked at Poverty Bay by a granite obelisk mounted on three steps. It stands on the beach near Gisborne, and though lacking the personal appeal of a statue, its historic interest gives it a unique place among world memorials.
“On the 7th (October, 1769) it fell calm,” says Cook, “we therefore approached the land slowly … About 5 o'clock we saw the opening of a bay,
Thus the great navigator first set foot on our shores; and his first landing place in the South Island is fitly marked at Ship Cove, Queen Charlotte Sound, by a cairn of stones, and the guns of Cook's period presented by the Admiralty. Of his first sight of the South Island Cook says: “The land here is of a considerable height …. At daybreak (Jan. 15th, 1770) I stood for an inlet … and at light I got within the entrance … We saw a village situated upon the point of an island (Motuara) … and anchored in a very safe and convenient cove (Ship Cove) on the north-west side of the bay.”
The most recent, and indeed by far the best among New Zealand memorials, is that of Christchurch in 1932. The statue, from a triangle facing Colombo Street, surveys with calm dignity the busy thoroughfare, seeming to gaze cathedral-wards with the eyes of one used to the far distances of uncharted oceans. Sunset flames behind the figure, morning gilds the face; all about him are silver birches whose leaves turn russet as in the land which gave him birth.
Surely no higher centennial objective could be attained than to mark thus in other centres the memory of Captain Cook, but for whom neither Auckland nor Wellington would be celebrating their hundred years of life, except perhaps under the flag of France.
(Rly. Publicity photo.) Taxis awaiting the arrival of the Auckland-Wellington Limited express at Wellington Station.
By …
Audrey B. King It has always been interesting to compare conditions in our present day with those of the past, especially in the matter of mechanical and scientific invention. It is with a feeling of satisfaction, too, that the twentieth century man looks down the vista of years and says, “In those days they did so and so. How our grandfathers would stare if they could see us now!” I wonder.
On reading old newspapers and letters of the year 1880, written in the city of Wellington by one of its most prominent citizens, John Plimmer, one cannot but see that the advancements of which one is so proud are merely the outcome of the forethought and diligence shown by the pioneers of the Dominion.
One of the most interesting comparisons, no doubt, is that of past and present means of travel. The old coach holds a fascinating place in our memories, romantic, certainly, but how inconvenient, precarious and uncomfortable they were! How thankfully the traveller arrived at his destination and with what apprehension he embarked on his next journey! Modern
Then our railways! Viewing the magnificent Wellington Station, the memory comes back of Te Aro Station, of the train puffing busily through the city streets, and one hesitates to think of such a thing happening to-day.
It is difficult to believe that less than sixty years ago, the North Island Main Trunk line was merely a dream in the minds of a few citizens, and that the proposal for the construction of the railway was viewed with disfavour and doubts. Yet such was the case.
The following extract from a letter written to a Wellington paper at that time gives some idea of the conditions then existing in the city:—
“First, Wellington, after many drawbacks, has become a large commercial city of 22,000 inhabitants, with one of the best harbours in the world, and is the most central city in the Colony. The capital of New Zealand would thus be at the proposed end of the line. At the other end, on what is called the West Coast, are some millions of acres of the finest agricultural and pastoral land, not only in this Colony, but in the world, together with some 25,000 inhabitants; and yet the land will not pay for cultivation, for the simple reason there are no means of transport to the market.
“If this line of railway were made, the whole of this splendid country would be within five or six hours of Wellington city and harbour, and the country indicated would be able to find profitable employment for 50,000 more people. On the other hand, the merchants and tradespeople of Wellington, some of whom are making their acquaintance with the Bankruptcy Court, would experience a revival of commercial health and prosperity. Our tradesmen and labourers would be fully employed, the city authorities would be large gainers, the wharves would be fully occupied, the building trades would revive, and the new aspect of things would make the hearts of the people ring for joy.
“The city at the present time is almost as much a desert as the country. You scarcely hear the sound of a hammer, merchants and tradespeople are carrying on business at a loss, and the sales rooms are filled with the household chattels of the poor, seized for rent or debt of some sort, and we are at the same time driving thousands of our population away from our shores to seek the necessaries of life elsewhere. Our wheat, flour, oats, barley and even butter, cheese and bacon
The scheme, however, was not as simple as it sounded. Money was scarce, or apparently was being used elsewhere on Public Works. Trades people and labourers left in shiploads to seek more lucrative employment than that offered by the despairing city. Finally, in desperation, a meeting of leading citizens was held to bring matters to a definite issue and the following five resolutions were the subjects under discussion.
1. That it was essential to the interests of the city and the districts lying between it and Wanganui, that a line of railway should be constructed without delay between Wellington and Manawatu.
2. That the Government being unable to undertake the work, steps should be taken to construct it by private capital, the Government being asked to guarantee a reasonable rate of interest.
3. That a provisional company be formed, and that £4,000 be raised to meet preliminary expenses.
4. That the title be The Wellington and West Coast Railway Company; the capital to be sufficient to complete the work and to provide rolling-stock; and that provisional directors be appointed to take the necessary steps for arranging preliminaries, and to issue certificates to all subscribers towards preliminary expenses, entitling them to £3 in shares for every £1 so subscribed.
5. That the co-operation of the outlying districts and the members representing them, and the city be invited.
The meeting, reported as having “a tone of vigorous and determined selfreliance auguring well for the future,”
Such a struggle for a railway which to-day we cannot imagine as anything but absolutely necessary!
It was an uphill fight for the company. Finally, however, success crowned their endeavours, and it was at a luncheon held at Palmerston North to celebrate the building of the railway that Mr. John Plimmer told of their struggles, and of a happy incident, trivial at the time, which had, he maintained “the most important and far-reaching results.” The extract is from John Young's book “The Life of John Plimmer”:—
“Mr. Plimmer, in a felicitous speech, related, in brief, the history of the company from its earliest conception. He related how the present of a bunch of camellias had unexpectedly led to most important and far-reaching results.
“Sir John Hall had, as his custom was, just taken up his residence in Wellington with his family, on the eve of the opening of Parliament, and Mr. Plimmer called at the house early one morning to hand in a bunch of camellias as a present to Lady Hall. He was just in the act of retiring when he encountered Sir John. Sir John exclaimed, ‘Oh! Mr. Plimmer, I want very much to see you. I read your speech at the meeting in the Chamber of Commerce about the proposed railway, and was very pleased with it. Come in and tell me all about it.’
“Mr. Plimmer then related how he then and there gave Sir John the facts of the case, so far as the movement then had gone; how he (Mr. Plimmer) was willing to give £200 to get an empowering Bill passed by the Legislature; and he was firmly convinced that the formation of a railway from Wellington to Palmerston North as an investment would yield a good return to shareholders, and that it would confer an immense benefit both upon the city of Wellington and the north western districts. Sir John then asked, ‘Well, Mr. Plimmer, what do you want me to do? I will assist you if I can.’ The reply was: ‘Give us 140,000 acres of land, that will be a subsidy equal to about one-third of the cost of the line, also grant us permission to reclaim thirty acres in Wellington for the southern terminus.’ Sir John replied, ‘You shall have it.’ …
“Sir John agreed to bring in a Bill to empower the company to get to work, and to make the company a present of a new bridge for Porirua harbour, imported by the Government. Thus you see, as remarked by Mr. Plimmer, what great results sometimes follow insignificant things.”
A bunch of camellias and the establishment of a railway! There is surely romance in the building of a nation.
Promotion of Health. Waikato Winter Show.
A Comprehensive Exhibit.
In order to make the display of health and fitness posters and literature at the next Waikato Winter Show as complete and as comprehensive as possible, the association is appealing to all health, educational and social welfare institutions in New Zealand to forward contributions to the show. The Association has received a remarkable response from health organisations throughout England, Europe and America, and the display of posters and booklets dealing with health, physical education and social welfare to be exhibited at the show will be the finest yet made in New Zealand.
The show will be officially opened by the Minister of Health, the Hon. P. Fraser, on Tuesday, May 30th, and will be continued daily until the evening of June 6th. All the space devoted to commercial stands has been allotted and large entries are expected to be received in the competitive sections.
Many unique features will be embodied in the Association's programme this year, and it is expected that the exhibition will be equally as successful as any of its forerunners.
ByHelen
Styles:
Equally feminine, equally alluring, are the two basic styles for evening wardrobes. Drape yourself softly in chiffon or silk crepe; accent a waistline; know the fluid grace of a full hemline, sitting, standing, walking. Or, a Victorian picture, rustle in moiré, stiffened lace or tulle, velvet or slipper satin; be opulent with bows, with flowers, with feathers, on the yards of richness; sway the billowing fulness of your skirts; be very “grand ‘dame” or enticingly young in a crinoline with strapless bodice.
Accessories.— Whatever the style you choose, sweep up your hair, and be daring with the decoration of your coiffure. Perch on it three little feather birds poised on a comb, or a little bunch of waving feathers tied with a velvet bow, or some ostrich feather tips on a clip. (We would be sadly dull this winter without the aid of the bird with the ostrich feather tail).
If you love flowers, wear them, tucked into your curls, pinned across your corsage or on to a hand-bag. If you are dark, place a white flower against the blackness of your hair. “Brownettes” and blondes will prefer violets, tawny pink lilies, and all the new misty flower shades.
A neck-bow of velvet is ravishingly new to this generation. And muffs — flower muffs, feather muffs, fur muffs—have the same “dressing-up” appeal.
“Picture” Dresses.— My mind is a kaleidoscope of colour, a froth of silks and laces. To disentangle them, I shall describe gowns that appealed to me. Then you may make your choice.
The seated figure in the sketch wears a very heavy taffeta with draped bodice and halter neckline. The unusually full skirt has a bouffant frill below the waistline.
A period frock in four tones of moiré ribbon has a pink bodice and a skirt of bands of grey, green and purple.
A silver lamé has a green velvet sash circling the top front of the bodice. The wide end of the sash falls in graceful folds from the waist at one side almost to the hemline. The bodice is embroidered with flowers.
An unusual gown of pink satin is trimmed with tufts of pink and blue ostrich feathers. Violet blue and petunia taffetas are allied in another model.
Imagine a picture dress in cream faille with a black Malines lace fichu caught with a single rose. Or a white tulle dance frock with its frothy folds held by an “ostrich feather” of magenta velvet.
A dignified gown in wine and silver, with a full stiffened skirt, has its silver hem threaded, surprisingly, with blue ribbon. There is a touch of the same blue at the waist.
For the matron, young or older, is black velvet, with its sleeves entirely covered with black and white ostrich feathers. There is a matching muff.
In white, a most popular shade this winter, is chiffon on semi-crinoline lines. Tiny sleeves of white fur match the little white fur muff with its posy of pink flowers.
Soft and Sheer.—Draped and pleated gowns favour the Grecian or Empire line. A typical example is the black chiffon sketched. The soft pleats are held in to an Empire waistline by heavy gold ornamentation.
The background to the sketch is a black net sprigged with multi-coloured posies. A similar net fabric has a gold appliqué in a twirling design.
A clinging grey gown is embroidered all over with a wriggly pattern of gold and silver sequins.
Grey-pleated chiffon has a violet flower on the corsage.
A white lace princess dress depends for richness on its design—roses outlined in gold.
White satin has the front encrusted with gold and crystal beads; shoulder drapery falls to the ground at the back.
Sophistication is not so much sought after as richness and elegance. For those who seek all three, there are slim models embroidered in crystal and sequins. Frocks which cling to well below the hip have the front slit filled in with a panel of lamé.
Dinner Wear.— There are different types of dinner occasions. For a restaurant, a suitable outfit comprises a long black wool skirt and a black satin jacket, padded and quilted in horizontal lines. The wearer carries a muff to match.
A useful “in-between” dinner outfit consists of a black silk skirt topped with an evening blouse of lamé with voluminous sleeves.
A more formal gown is of silvery-blue lamé, cut slim and straight, with an embroidered collar band, epaulette embroidery round the armholes and a wide embroidered waist-band.
“The holiday period is over, and here am I, settling down in my new domesticity to the difficult winter season. As fast as I can I'm trying to grow into the skin of the home-loving women, but they've had such years of practice that I find it hard to catch up, much as I love my new little house. Even when I expand my usual interests, as I have always longed to do, there is still time left over—but I am not going to spend that time rashly. “Time” is my miser's treasure.
During the long months of winter I'm going to find out whether I can settle happily into this new life or whether I am better as a flat-dweller and a club-woman. We shall see.
So far, the only decisions I have made are in regard to the open air. Most of us women, especially the older ones who have not kept up an interest in winter games, look forward to hugging the fire and our knitting in hours of leisure. (Knitting is much better than a novel as an excuse for laziness). It's not such a pleasant prospect, for though socks and pullovers are admirable in their way, fire-hugging brings many evils, chief of which is the common cold. I prefer to buy sweaters readymade with the money I save on cough-cures, and, incidentally, on indigestion mixtures, for I do enjoy heavy winter food which doesn't agree with the inactive.
Refusing, therefore, to become a dyspeptic or a chimney-corner draught-detector, I have been looking over my heavy shoes. I have one pair, large and comfortable, which have been a winter boon for years, but which are almost too decrepit for public display. I shall wear them to the last, but meantime I shall haunt the shoe stores until I find just what I want in the way of a straight-lasted, broad-toed, firmly laced, sensible shoe.
Then, on winter afternoons when some of my friends are comforting themselves and their colds by fires, I shall be tramping the countryside—I hope. I have always been a gregarious soul, but I must try to cultivate a liking for solitude, and the ability to appreciate the starkness of winter-skies, bare hill-slopes and alien trees, without an ever-present companion as recipient for my thoughts. I have found it curiously difficult to pry woman friends from their household cares for any reason unconnected with bridge or merely social occasions. Therefore, lacking the “perfect friend,” I must be self-sufficient.
Another winter pastime of mine is to be gardening. Don't laugh! Even I know that gardening is for spring and summer. But I, who have never had time or opportunity, having suddenly acquired both, desire to use these treasures immediately. Therefore I have bought a gardening book and collected seedsmen's catalogues. I talk earnestly about my bare patch to friends who have made their deserts blossom
The heavy digging will be too much for me. I shall employ a man, who will turn vegetation under, or burn it, according to which is best. My land will lie fallow for a few months. Frost, I believe, is good for it. Then, with everything flattened out, and traces of earlier dabblers erased, I can plan things in my own amateurish fashion.
I shall spend hours this winter planning my own tiny landscape. I shall study to conserve my few trees and shrubs, to make full use of the sunny corner and of the shade near the gate. The drying green will have to stay as it is. Much as I long to use it for vegetables.
I must hurry and decide what hedge plant I want for shutting off the drive-way to the garage, as I have been advised to get that job done this month. I am afraid that hedge-planting, also, is a job I must delegate to others.
Maybe I should plant bulbs for spring, but I haven't yet decided where permanent beds are to be. I shall grow a few in bowls for the house.
I can, at least, get some seed-boxes, and, as the correct season arrives, sow those flowers which I love and have never grown before. Permanent places must be planned for the seedlings.
Altogether, my garden will be of an absorbing interest even during the winter. The mere planning of it will be as much fun as a season's hockey used to be.
Yes, what with walking and gardening, I'm certainly going to have an enjoyable winter.
Heath Health
No doubt most of us are ready for a period of relaxation after a year of hard work. Physically and mentally we relax, but often overlook the fact that our eyes have been subjected to consistent work during the greater part of the year.
Even in the holidays the eyes work hard viewing bright lights, new scenes, the special strains of holiday sports and of summer reading—anywhere and anytime regardless of the light glancing down on the reading matter.
Give the eyes a rest while on holiday. Don't frequent the cinema at night after a day in the sunshine, and don't read except if absolutely necessary for more than an hour at a time. Be fair to the eyes by allowing them to benefit by the holiday.
Winter is really the best time to take stock of the eyes, as the greater strain of working, reading, writing and living under artificial light begins.
If you have to screw up your eyes to read a newspaper, if they smart after reading, or you wake up in the morning with bloodshot eyes, lose no time before expert advice is obtained.
However, we can help ourselves by giving our eyes a fair chance, an adequate amount of sleep and avoidance of strain. Simple and effective eyewashes are easily obtainable. Here are a few:—
1. Boracic lotion solution of a teaspoon of boracic to a tumbler of warm water.
2. Put your head into cold water, keeping the eyes open.
3. Wash the eyes with a cotton wool pad dipped into a little warm water.
4. The old-fashioned remedy of green tea-leaves for sore and aching eyes is excellent.
The best way, however, of bathing the eyes themselves is by the eye-cup, rolling the head in a circle so that every part of the eye is reached.
The following are a few rules for maintenance of health:—
1. Avoidance of molly-coddling.
2. Restrained and reasonable consumption of starch.
3. Banish excess of comfort.
4. Don't overlook necessity for exercise.
Recipes.
Boil 2lbs. of peas till tender in salted boiling water, then drain thoroughly. Place in a saucepan, add a heaped tea-spoon of butter. Toss them lightly in this for 3 minutes, then add a shaking of powdered sugar, a good dust of ground cinnamon and just enough thick cream to make peas creamy. Make piping hot and serve on toast or by themselves.
One cup butter, 3 cups sifted icing sugar, ½ cup brandy, 1 egg white, pinch of salt, 1 lemon, ½ cup port wine, 1 cup thick cream.
Beat butter to a cream with salt and sugar. Strain and stir in brandy and port wine gradually. Beat well, then fold in lightly whipped egg white and thickly whipped cream. Pile in and mound in a glass dish. Dust lightly with grated nutmeg and cinnamon, if liked. Serve at once.
One crayfish, 2 teaspoons curry powder, 1 ½ tablespoons butter, 1 teaspoon dry mustard, salt and pepper to taste, 2 teaspoons vinegar, water.
Remove meat from crayfish, mince and mix with mustard. Place in a saucepan. Add just enough water to prevent mixture browning. Boil up twice, stir in vinegar and butter. Boil up again. Serve at once.
A scene at the New Plymouth railway station during the inauguration ceremony of the Wellington-New Plymouth railcar service.
Inset: The Government representative, the Hon. H. G. R. Mason, speaking at the ceremony
Wellington-Wanganui-New Plymouth
The railcar service between New Plymouth, Wanganui, and Wellington, was inaugurated successfully on 16th April. The railcar Aotea, which travelled from New Plymouth was fully booked. On its arrival at Aramoho a short civic welcome was given by the Mayor of Wanganui, Mr. W. J. Rogers.
Mr. Rogers congratulated the Government representative, the Minister of Justice, Hon. H. G. R. Mason, on the inauguration of the service, which he was sure would be greatly appreciated by the Wanganui public. Mr. Rogers pointed out that railcar travel was an established fact in the Dominion to-day.
In reply, Mr. Mason, who was heartily cheered by the gathering, said that well attended and enthusiastic receptions had been given all down the line. The railcar was one of the latest, comparing favourably with any throughout the world, and it was hoped to develop an even fuller service.
“The railcar maintained its schedule splendidly,” said Mr. W. M. Cole, District Traffic Manager in Wanganui, who travelled as far as Aramoho in it in company with Mr. J. Dow, District Engineer, Wanganui, and other officials of the Railways Department.
The New Plymouth station was decorated by the railway staff and as the ribbon was cut by Mrs. E. R. C. Gilmour, Mayoress, the streamlined car moved away to the cheers and clapping of spectators numbering many hundreds. In addition to the Hon. H. G. R. Mason, Minister of Justice, and Mr. G. H. Mackley, General Manager of Railways, and his party, there were many passengers from New Plymouth. All seats available were booked, some of the travellers having arranged to join at Stratford and Hawera.
Addressing the gathering at New Plymouth, Mr. Mason said it was an occasion of historic importance. He apologised for the absence of the Minister of Railways, Hon. D. G. Sullivan. Mr. Sullivan had taken the keenest interest in the developments of railcar operation in New Zealand since he assumed the portfolio of Railways in 1935, and had given particular attention to the Department's problems in the Wanganui-Taranaki district, this involving not only the designing and construction of a suitable type of railcar for the 251 miles between New Plymouth and Wellington, but also the arrangement of a time table satisfactory to the largest number of potential users.
Mr. Sullivan wished him again to express his appreciation of the interest and assistance of local bodies, chambers of commerce and Parliamentary representatives in the electorates most closely concerned in reaching uniformity
Before the departure of the mobile broadcasting unit, 5ZB, from Wellington on 4th April. (From left): Announcer, Bob Pollard (broadcasting the farewell ceremony), the Hon. D. G. Sullivan, Minister of Railways, Mr. Beau Shiel, Acting-Controller of the National Commercial Broadcasting Service, the Hon. F. Jones, Minister of Broadcasting, and Mr. G. H. Mackley, General Manager of the New Zealand Railways.
Mr. Mason was sure that the General Manager and the responsible staff were equally pleased that the outcome of their efforts in the design, construction, and scheduling of the railcars for the New Plymouth service had been such as to give general satisfaction to the public. Mr. Mackley had been indefatigable in his efforts.
At Stratford a number of people gathered at the station to watch the car's arrival and departure. One man boarded the car for the journey south. On Saturday evening, on the way to New Plymouth, Mr. Mackley was met at Stratford by the Mayor and Mayoress, Mr. and Mrs. Percy Thomson.
On arrival at Hawera the railcar was greeted by a large crowd which
Gratification with the highly successful inauguration of the Taranaki-Wellington railcar service was expressed by Mr. G. H. Mackley on his arrival at Wellington after the first run of the service. In spite of two unavoidable delays the car easily maintained its schedule and reached Wellington ahead of time. The car picked up the ten minutes it was late in leaving New Plymouth before it reached Aramoho. There was a slight delay at Palmerston North. The car was full all the way and the passengers said they were thrilled with the run, concluded Mr. Mackley. They were surprised at the comfort and cleanliness of the car and the excellence of the fittings.
The railcar would be the new canoe for the young people, but it should serve to remind them of the old canoe Aotearoa that brought the Maoris of old to New Zeaalnd, said Momona Tamihana when speaking for the Maoris at the ceremony at the New Plymouth railway station. His suggestion that the car should have its title extended to the original Aotearoa was later readily agreed to by Mr. G. H. Mackley, General Manager of Railways. When it had been decided to name the railcars after historical canoes as a compliment to the Maori race, Mr. James Cowan, a recognised authority, had explained that Aotea, meaning “clear light,” was the early name of Tahiti, from which Trui set out 600 years ago for Taranaki, said Mr. Mackley. Turi was the principal ancestor of Taranaki natives, and it was therefore appropriate that the railcar should be named after his canoe.
Naming it a “railway cocktail,” a Past President of the Wellington Chamber of Commerce, Mr. G. C. McCaul, summarised the qualities of railwaymen when speaking at the inauguration of the railcar service at the New Plymouth station. “There is a certain quality possessed by railwaymen the world over,” he said. “It is their common heritage.” His recipe was: One part foresight, two of courage, a thick slice of ability, and a dash of caution.
New York World's Fair
When Their Majesties King George and Queen Elizabeth visit the New York World's Fair (as it is hoped they will), they will find at the foot of the giant golden statue of Britannia guarding the British Government Pavilion, a most attractive bureau staffed by the British railways. The entrance to this bureau is flanked on either side by models of famous expresses—the L.M. & S. “Coronation Scot,” the L. & N.E. “Coronation,” the G.W. “Cornish Riviera Express,” and the Southern “Brighton Belle.” Inside, there is a huge illuminated map showing the main railway routes in Great Britain and Ireland, and with miniature drawings of places of outstanding scenic interest. Posters of every type are on show, and behind the 17ft. long glass-topped counter are experienced travel representatives qualified to answer every conceivable enquiry. The piece-de-resistance, of course, of the whole Fair is the actual “Coronation Scot” train placed on show by the L.M. & S. Railway.
A Forward Step In Amateur Athletics
Specially Written for “N.Z. Railways Magazine,” by
W. F. Ingram.On March 25th, a new page in the history of amateur athletics in New Zealand was written. On that date the first national track and field championship meeting for junior and women atheletes was held. Auckland, where enthusiasm for such a meeting has been keen for some time, had the distinction of staging the inaugural meeting and the success of the venture indicates that New Zealand possesses young athletes of near-international class. All that is needed is competition against star athletes.
An outstanding performer at the meeting was Colin McGregor, winner of the 100 and 220 yds. junior titles. McGregor, an Otago representative, had won his senior provincial sprint title but did not make the trip to the national senior championships where A. R. Duff (second to McGregor at Dunedin) was placed third in the senior championship. Running in beautiful style, McGregor won the 100 yds. title at Auckland in 10 1/5sec. on a track not suited for speed.
Elsewhere on this page I give the Canadian junior records for the purpose of comparison with the performances registred at New Zealand's first junior track and field championships and I think readers will agree that the destiny of New Zealand in track and field sport is in safe hands if the juniors are given encouragement.
Another athlete to take my eye as a prospective senior champion is Jim Bourke, of Taranaki. Bourke, a welldeveloped lad, won the shot-putting title with a heave of 45ft. 9 7/8in. This was his first competition against athletes from outside the boundaries of his own district, but he completely overshadowed his rivals and with coaching he should
R. McKenzie, junior javelin throwing champion, who has thrown the senior javelin to 170ft. 11 ¾in., won the junior title with 175ft. 3 ¾in. McKenzie travels from Waikouaiti to Dunedin to get competition and on his showing at Auckland he bids well to follow in the footsteps of Stan Lay, former British Empire champion. Only 17 years of age, McKenzie ranks as one of the best junior javelin throwers in the Empire.
For the purpose of comparison I give the Canadian junior records, as at November, 1935, and the performances of New Zealand junior athletes at the first junior national championship meeting. The N.Z. figures may not be records, but as they were made under strict control they serve as an example of our high standard. Here are the figures:
British Empire champion at three events, Miss Decima Norman, of Perth (West Australia) did much to popularise women's athletics during her short tour of the Auckland province in March. Beaten by the New Zealander, Miss Doreen Lumley, who equalled the world's record of 11sec. for 100yds., Miss Norman came back to turn the tables on her rival and also equal the world's record. Miss Norman followed this up by winning three New Zealand track championships at the women's inaugural national track and field championships.
Miss Norman's style of sprinting is against all accepted rules, but she possesses energy to burn and seemed to put more enthusiasm into her sprinting than do New Zealand athletes.
Accompanying Miss Norman as manageress—not chaperone, she requested it be made known—was Mrs. D. Magee, Secretary of the Australian Women's Amateur Atheletic Union. Mrs. Magee worked hard to secure an interchange of visits between New Zealand and Australian feminine atheletes and there seems reason to suggest that her mission will succeed.
New Zealand's feminine athletes reached a high-class of competition at the inaugural meeting and proved that they could hold their own in international competition if given more chances of competing against recognised stars. This was the first occasion an overseas representative has competed against the pick of New Zealand's feminine athletes and the lessons learned will do much to raise an already high standard.
When it was first announced that Sir Julien Cahn's cricketers were to visit New Zealand there was a feeling that cricketers and followers of the
H. G. Vivian, considered by many sound critics to be one of New Zealand's best cricketers, has left New Zealand to link up with Sir Julien Cahn in a business-cricketing capacity. No doubt Vivian was influenced by the success attained by C. S. Dempster and Roger Blunt, fellow New Zealanders, while associated with Sir Julien, but the continual departure of our best young cricketers is not doing the sport any good in New Zealand. With Merritt, Blunt, Dempster and Vivian gone, New Zealand has lost a quartette of exceptionally fine cricketers.
Cash athletics—I never use the term “professionals” when referring to New Zealand atheletes who compete for cash—occasionally produces an outstanding competitor. One such is J. Gilmore, a young farmer, who won the Federation Handicap, of one mile, at the Stawell (Victoria) Easter sports. Gilmore, from 40yds., ran the distance in 4min. 8 4/5sec., completely demoralising a strong field. Gilmore does not secure much competition, but on the face of it he would appear to be a better miler than V. P. Boot. Boot, although acclaimed by many as a great miler, does not, in my opinion, reach the same heights over 1,760 yards as he does in the half-mile. An attempt is to be made to stage a big cash athletics and cycling meeting during the Centennial, and New Zealand could invite the world's best milers with the knowledge that Gilmore is capable of extending all-comers.
Maurice Strickland, New Zealand heavyweight boxer, has been steering an erratic course in his quest for the world's boxing championship. After knocking out nine opponents in succession he went in against the wellperformed Bob Pastor, one of the few men to last the distance against Joe