Kipling's tale, “The Light That Failed,” perhaps his best novel, contains a reference to New Zealand. The painter-adventurer hero tells his war-correspondent comrades in their London “diggings” how while travelling on a ship from Lima to Auckland he painted a wild and wonderful picture on one side of the hold, and when the ship was loading wool in Auckland the stevedore made his men keep the painting uncovered. —D.G.D.

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Confirmation of my firm belief that the literary gift is inherited is furnished by Isabel Maud Peacocke ((Mrs. J. E. Cluett), quite the most prolific and successful of New Zealand authors.

Mrs. Cluett's father, Mr. Gerald Loftus Peacocke, was a literary man and a writer of much graceful verse which used to appear in “Temple Bar” and other London magazines of high standing in the ‘eighties. Her aunt, Miss Georgiana Peacocke, many years ago published “Rays from the Southern Cross,” the first book of verse by a New Zealand author. Mrs. Cluett (who contrary to report has always made her home in the land of her birth—she along with her husband have a charming bungalow in Remuera, Auckland) commenced her literary career at a very early age. In 1910 her book of poems—“Songs of the Happy Isles”—was published by Whitcombe & Tombs. In 1914, her first book of fiction “My Friend Phil,” was brought out by Ward Lock & Co. and also appeared in a United States edition. In all Ward Lock have published fourteen semijuvenile books from her pen and five novels with a New Zealand setting. General novels with an English setting are among her later achievements. One of these, “The House at Journey's End,” was serialised both in England and America before it appeared in book form. Between times this most energetic writer produces articles and verse for several New Zealand and Australian magazines. She has a regular commission for two books a year from a London firm of publishers of high standing. —K.J.M.

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Apparently the scrap-heap is not always the fate of “old-timers” among railway engines. On a tramp recently in the country I discovered a small sawmilling yard where the motive power for driving the saws was an old-type locomotive bearing the date 1866. The old “loco,” was aged and badly weatherworn, and the years since she retired from the “iron way” must have been many; yet daily she still wheezed at her task. A fighter to the last, she will probably only give in when she bursts!—N.F.H., Wellington.

At a farm house in a country district of Otago a dog that had been chained up broke adrift and with its chain, disappeared for about ten days. It was eventually found “caught up” in a patch of scrub, fortunately within reach of water. When discovered, after diligent search, it was found well supplied with bones carried to it from the homestead (a considerable distance away) by its free kennel mate, a nondescript —merely “a dog.” “Rastus,” the good Samaritan, until his recent demise lived in honoured retirement in the vicinity of Dunedin's marine suburb.—Wirihana.

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Trafficing in native land was an early pursuit in New Zealand, but most of the first speculators, especially in the South Island, had no success. Whatever good faith existed on either side, no real mutual understanding was likely, and no legal security probable when neither party could freely use the other's speech. When Commissioner Godfrey was adjusting South Island land claims 60 years ago, he was puzzled to find many claimants presenting parchment deeds with fine seals, drawn up in the forms then used in Sydney and in England. These deeds must naturally have been completely unintelligible to the Maori sellers and little less so to most of the buyers. They came from a Sydney lawyer's clerk who, finding it wise to leave that town for a spell, decided to try his talents in New Zealand. His documents, all complete except for names and places, sold well at #5 5s. the deed in all the coastal settlements, and were much more valuable later in Sydney. Land deals were then in fashion, and these formal-looking papers, fortified by a tatooed face supposed to represent the Maori equivalent of a signature, found an easy market. On their security much money was paid out and goods were sent to New Zealand for which no return was ever made. The final holders could generally give the Commissioner no description of the land whatever, and most of the place names mentioned were those used by the whalers and sealers rather than by the native owners. The natives, when admitting any claim at all, alleged that the coast boundary set down was never intended to define more than a buyer's rights by sea, while claimants invariably wished it recognised as the base-line from which to decide the extent of his shore property. One Otago chief. Koroko, who sold over a million acres, and some of it several times, when asked why he had so disposed of land he could not possibly have owned, said it was because other natives had sold lands to which he had a fair claim, without his consent or sharing in any payment made. He, therefore, sold the whole district to give them a proper notion of his quality. He whakahe i a ratou. “So I register my protest.“—”Taipo.”

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I was hypnotised the other morning by a scene both fascinating and uncanny, instinct with power, with strength leashed but ready to leap into life at a touch—the railway yards at 8 o'clock of a grey morning, with the Auckland Harbour a misty, shadowy green in the background. Against the neutrality of the sky every engine sent jets and columns of white into the air—swirls and swathes of it, contrasting sharply with the black glistening bodies of the monsters from which it issued. Now and again came the harsh flash of red as a fire box glowed. Everything pulsed with life, with terrific vitality. It was a scene curiously reminiscent of Whakarewarewa at Rotorua, where pillars of snowy steam rise vaporously above hidden boiling pools. Or one could imagine the swirling columns of white as the snorting breath of a couchant beast straining for action. In any aspect it was a strangely mesmerising picture. —“Unicorn.”

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The following incident took place at a chopping carnival on the West Coast (S.I.) some years ago when O'Rourke, one of the finest axemen this country has known, was in his prime. The main event was about to begin when an Irishman, whose son was among the contestants, met a fellow countryman and offered to wager him his son would win. “And I'll back O'Rourke,” said the other. It was agreed. “Two pounds?” “Two pounds!” The money was handed to a third man. Meanwhile the limit men had commenced chopping—one by one, as the seconds were counted, their axes swung into the wood. And O'Rourke, on scratch, waited nonchalantly. Time came, and his axe sang as the big chips flew. Despite the heavy handicapping, he won easily. And, when it was over, the two Irishmen met again. “Well,” said the one, I win. The other parried a moment. “You do,” he said “but if the stakes hadn't been paid, divil a penny you'd see of mine!” “And why? O'Rourke won, didnt’ he?” “Yes, he won—but” (in a sudden burst) “unfairly! Did you see how he waited till the others were tired before he started!”—Topize.

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Harassed passenger, at Stratford Station: “What time does the next train leave?”

Porter: “Which Train? The New Plymouth one?”

Passenger: “No, the other one.”

Porter: “The Wanganui one, then?”

Passenger; “No, no, the other one.”

Porter: “The Tangarakau one, then?”

Passenger (very relieved): “Ah, yes, that's the fellow.“—O.M.

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Maoris are born orators, partly perhaps because their ancestors had no written expression. Most ordinary looking individuals among them can deliver themselves happily and naturally of sentiments appropriate to any occasion. Their best efforts follow their easily roused emotions. At such times the natural dignity of the speaker, combined with melodious utterance and astonishing power of poetic and historical racial allusion, has an irresistible charm for all hearers and inevitably reduces a native audience to tears. The following words were uttered recently by a tattered old Maori at the burial of a pakeha-Maori:

“Another giant totara from the fast diminishing forest of my old friends among the sons of Tane has fallen to the ground: the centre post of the council-house lies crumbled in the dust; the storehouse of wisdom is empty; the canoe that for so long has borne our troubles has been wafted away by welcoming breezes from the spirit land down the rolling ocean road, Te moana nui a Kiwa, to that far off home in Hawaiki whence we have all come and whither we trust we shall all one day return. ‘Haere ki te Iwi! Haeri ki te po!! Haere! haere! Pass on to join the tribe, God speed you through the night.“—A.H.B.

”The Closed Mouth Catcheth No Flies.”

One of the many wise old Chinese proverbs for prudence in speech. It cannot be said, however, that a closed mouth catcheth no cold. The cold germ will always find a way in, but fortunately there is one remedy that quickly shows him the way out. That is good old Baxter's Lung Preserver.

All chemists and stores sell “Baxter's” in 1/6, 2/6 and 4/6 bottles.^*