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The New Zealand Railways Magazine is on sale through the principal booksellers, or may be obtained post-free for 6/- per annum.
Employees of the Railway Department are invited to forward news items or articles bearing on railway affairs. The aim of contributors should be to supply interesting topical material tending generally towards the betterment of the service.
In all cases where the Administration makes announcements through the medium of this journal the fact will be clearly indicated.
The Department does not identify itself with any opinions which may be expressed in other portions of the publication, whether appearing over the author's name or under a nom de plume.
Short stories, poetry, pen-and-ink sketches, etc., are invited from the general public upon New Zealand subjects.
Payment for short paragraphs will be made at 2d. a line. Successful contributors will be expected to send in clippings from the Magazine for assessment of the payment due to them.
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 less than 20,000 copies each issue since July, 1930.
The Department's accounts show that the sales of the Magazine during the year ended 31st March, 1936, were more than treble those of the previous financial year.
Deputy-Controller and Auditor-General.
26/5/36.
On the 28th September, an afternoon tea was rendered at the Auckland railway dining hall to Mr. H. W. Springer, a member of the Automatic Signal Maintenance staff in the Auckland district, by the Cable Makers' Association of London. Mr. Springer was the winner of the gold medal awarded by the Association to the candidate heading the list in the Wiremen's Registration Board's recent examination in theory.
The function, which was attended by over one hundred representatives of the electrical trades, engineering departments of local bodies, the Public Works Department, fire underwriters, and technical branches of the Railways Department, was presided over by Mr. F. S. Taylor, who represented the Cable Makers' Association.
In making the presentation, on behalf of the Association, the Minister of Railways, the Hon. D. G. Sullivan, paid a tribute to the industry and conscientiousness of Mr. Springer, a young man, in coming first in New Zealand in a stiff examination. He was rendering a service to the Department and to the State by reaching such a state of proficiency. It was pleasing to see the manufacturers recognising in such fitting manner skilled craftsmanship. Other speakers were Mr. G. H. Mackley, General Manager of Railways, who commented on the rapidly increasing use of electricity in the New Zealand Railways, and Mr. Nelson Jones, a prominent member in electrical body affairs.
Following reports from all districts in New Zealand of improvements in rail traffic—notably in reference to the larger numbers of passengers carried by train—there has been much recent comment by speakers and the press regarding the public becoming increasingly “railway-minded.”
This consciousness of the railways and of the service they perform for the public, is more than merely a pleasing sign of the times; it is the accumulated effect of years of effort and concentrated attention by the staff of the Service in pleasing the public by catering for their transport wants in such a way as to secure for them in the highest degree that “safety, comfort and economy” which forms the background of the Department's now world-famous slogan.
Railway consciousness begins with the very young if they are put in touch with railway affairs at that stage. A youngster's first railway journey is a tremendous affair, and usually follows some acquaintance with railway sights and sounds—the rush, clang and bustle of a shunting yard, the click and ring of rails, the busy life of a station platform, puffs and spurts of steam and warning blasts from hard-pressed locomotives—huge of size and portentously powerful of aspect. Then there is all the drama of movement to set the mind and imagination dancing—coloured lights, signals, uniforms—and the grace of marshalled trains. These entrance the youthful mind and nurture the romance of transport.
From this source, no doubt, is derived that large body of railway “fans” and “boosters” (advocates and supporters, to put it in purer, though weaker, English) who, although not connected in any way officially with the Railways, love to study timetables, and the history and classes of engines, and every detail of railway equipment. Some of them, with technical aptitude, make models of locomotives and trains that show not only craftsmanship of the highest type, but also a love for the subject which inspires them to a perfection of attention to the tiniest details of their work. Others, with a mathematical bent, take pleasure in preparing train diagrams, and sketching out for themselves the changes involved in the whole system by some alteration which they think might improve the service. Some sing songs about the railways, others write poems about them, others photograph them from every angle and in every phase, and others, again, just ride on the trains whenever they can make the opportunity.
The low-fare excursions, of which increasing numbers are arranged as the years go by, are proving a particularly good means for making the public “railway conscious,” and this interest amongst an increasingly large proportion of the people has a definitely stimulating effect upon members of the service.
As the railways take their passengers to the most pleasant places, and their freight in the most convenient way, nothing but good can come from increased use of the railways—particularly as they are so closely associated at every turn with the trade and commerce and general well-being of the nation. In these circumstances it is to be hoped that the ranks of the railway conscious may increase to the Nth degree!
The many things that the Railways can do for the public are not so fully realised as could be wished, although there are none of the major services that are not advertised in some way or other. It is the little incidental services, that come “all in the day's work” for the average railway-man, with which the public are not so familiar, and it is this class of service which cannot be too widely made known. For instance, a business man told me recently how greatly he appreciated a telephone call which the guard of his train had been able to arrange for him some stations ahead.
This was a small thing from the railway point of view, and the guard was only acting in the spirit expected of members of the service when dealing with its clients, but it evidently meant much to the man and the business concerned, and was gratefully acknowledged accordingly.
I would like the public to regard every railway-man as a friend in all matters, and especially those associated with transport, and to ask freely for advice, information, and assistance in these matters. Railway-men should be ever ready to help in unanticipated ways, using the great resources of the whole national transportation system for the benefit of the Department's customers. What is done on other railways along these lines has been summarised interestingly in “Railway Information,” a publication of the British Railways Press Office, London. It instances “water for the dog on the journey, letters by train, the sending of telegrams from the train, break of journey, connections, luggage in advance, tickets in advance, holiday zone season tickets, invalid travel, rugs and pillows, refreshments, save to travel, reduced rates for motor-cars, cheap tickets for bicycles and dogs, storage of cycles, warehousing railhead distribution, town cartage.”
Most of the above services and many others not mentioned, are given as incidental to the usual run of business on the railways of New Zealand. Household removals with no bother at all to the householder; paddocking and watering livestock on long journeys; watchful care over children; a comprehensive range of all travelling requirements at Railway bookstalls and refreshment rooms; advice and guidance in travel or the despatch of goods to any part of New Zealand; checking luggage to any station, and to and from overseas vessels at the main ports; portable railway booking offices alongside arriving liners at Auckland and Wellington for booking passengers and checking or stowing luggage; business agents at call to explain and assist in transport arrangements; special compartments for hire on trains; customs clearance service at principal ports for country clients; the issue of a Locality Guide giving the names and distance from the nearest railway stations of all places where people live in New Zealand—all these, and many other aids to transport are given as part of the general service provided by the railways of this country.
I would ask the staff to place a full appreciation on the value of these services to the public and to help in making them known as widely as possible so that customers (actual and potential) may make the most effective use of the facilities provided for them by the National Transportation System.
General Manager.
Arini Tu Pura was not beautiful. Her face was too oval, too pointed for prettiness, and her hair was short and very, very straight. Her sister, Kahurare, had none of these defects, but was possessed of good looks to such a degree that more than half the young men of the place could be numbered among her admirers.
Accustomed to being overlooked when her sister was about, it was small wonder that Arini had added to her natural reserve of manner a decided love of solitude. Sometimes, when the fact of her loneliness thrust itself too sharply upon her she would creep away into the cool forest-places, and the stillness and the beauty would capture the soul of her, and presently she would make a little song. And the trees would be in her song, and the grey, elfin shadows and the moist brown smell of the leaf-mould, so that unhappiness would have no part in the singing at all.
There was one tree she loved better than all the others. Tall and slimstemmed it stood where the forest bordered the shores of a lake and its strong leafy boughs spread far out over the water. Arini, lithe and agile as any boy, often climbed high up among the branches. And the blue of the sky was the tranquil blue of the lake, and the distant hill-ridges would shimmer with haze, and wind and sun would whip the lake-ripples to dazzling silver. Then the words would come swiftly into Arini's head, like birds winging home through the dusk, and she would sing them to a tune of her own devising. Old Nua, the tohunga, he who had taught her many chants and songs of the tribe, prophesied in this wise: “You do well to hold the tree so dear, O bird-voiced one; for love hides lightly in its leaves and when the shadows fall across your path, then will the tree show you the way of escape.”
One day Arini fled to the bush in great trouble. Her sister, for all prettiness, was exceedingly bad-tempered, and because Arini had not performed some task exactly to her liking, she turned and abused her, even taunting her over her lack of suitors. Wearied with sobbing, poor Arini sought the refuge of the tree. The sunlight wove delicate traceries round her, the sky shone blue through the gossamer network of leaves, and a wind went shimmering by. Some of the hurt and shame departed from her and in their place a melody began to take shape. Haunting and wistful it was in accordance with her mood, but the sweetness of it was beyond all telling.
Now it happened that the chieftain Tareha was passing through the forest just at this time and feeling thirsty, he sent his servant to the lake for water while he himself sat down to rest. Soon the slave came back, saying, “There is something strange happening at the edge of the lake. I can hear the sound of singing, yet though I have searched all about I can see no one. I am afraid.”
“Nonsense,” said his master, and repeated his demand for water.
Reluctantly the man went, but in a few minutes he had returned, saying, “I can hear the sound of singing more plainly than before, yet I can see no one.”
Thereupon Tareha became angry and commanded him to go at once for the water, but the man came back shaking with fear and crying that the place was possessed of an atua, a spirit. So terrified did he look that Tareha took the calabash and went himself to see what it was that had given the fellow such a fright. Presently he heard singing just as his slave had said, and following in the direction of the sound he found himself standing at the edge of the lake. Carefully he peered in all the bushes, but no trace of anyone could he discover; and then somewhere overhead the singing started again—the merest whisper of a song, soft, caressing, lilting to a rippling crescendo of sound. Now he could make out the words—exquisite words matching the beauty of the song—words that caught at his heart and lingered in its secret places.
Swiftly he swung himself up into the branches of the huge tree, and there, high above him, sat a girl looking out over the water and absorbed in her song.
And suddenly he knew! And the love-song of Tareha, the chieftain, mingled with the clear, high notes of Arini, the flute-like one.
Ecstasy gave to her colouring warm, ivory tintings, deepening the poignant curve of her mouth and making her smile such a vivid, spontaneous thing that her face was more lovely than a flower. Tareha was enchanted, and the spiritual quality of his love that worshipped her for her voice alone quickened to a greater, more wonderful emotion—the love of a man for a maid.
As for Kahurare, the newcomer made no response to her beauty, no avowal of homage whatever, and her annoyance was in no way lessened when she learned that her father had promised Arini to him as his wife. Tareha never once wavered in his choice, for he saw Kahurare as she really was, jealous of others and spoilt, in spite of her good looks; and so he troubled about her not at all, and he and Arini went forth to their happiness.
Alas! that happiness was short-lived. A raid was made on the tribe of Tareha by an enemy band, and they immediately planned to avenge the attack. The women-folk anxiously waited the return of the warriors to the kainga, the village, and when at last they came they walked slowly and in grief, for Tareha, their chief, had paid the price of victory with his life.
All feeling seemed to die out of Arini. Gradually one thought shaped itself in her mind—the tree—the tree whence came her happiness—the tree would show her the way of escape. Away into the bush she went, on and on, caring naught for hunger or fatigue, never stopping until she was secure among the topmost branches of the tree-of-dreams. The face of Tareha seemed to laugh up at her from the shadowy ripples of the lake; and the prophecy of the ancient priest was fulfilled and the way of escape made plain. Music trembled on her lips, beautiful and unutterably sad, a song of farewell, and at the end joyousness stole in till all the sadness had gone, and standing poised an instant on the bare branch-tip, she slid smoothly down into the cool grey water. The quiet depths closed over her, and the soul of Arini took flight to join Tareha in the dim Reinga, the Place of Departed Spirits.
And the wind sprang up and the sound of singing swept through every leaf and branch, so that people passing by called it the Singing Tree. Henceforth it was treated as tapu, as sacred, and even now in these times of encroaching settlement and dwindling forests the tree still stands by the lake-edge, untouched by axe, unharmed by fire. The Maoris say that misfortune will befall the disturber of its branches, for sometimes in the wind can you not hear the sound of singing, haunting and sweet beyond all telling? Then you know that Arini, the bird-voiced, and Tareha, her lover, have crept back for a space to the place of their happiness—the Singing Tree.
One is always inclined to regard a railway station as a place of utility only, and to associate it with a certain amount of unavoidable grime, combined with a bleak and tidy efficiency which is depressing; in short to find it a coaly, smoky, noisy place admirably suited for its purpose.
Beauty and a railway station—what a contradiction in terms! But not in fact, for the beauty-worshipper, the garden-lover, is not to be baulked by utilitarian ugliness into abandoning his quest for sweetness and light.
Such unpromising materials as a plain wooden box of a waiting room and ticket office, a raised slab of concrete, a net-work of rails, a coal dump or two, and a corrugated iron shed all challenge him to conjure beauty out of ugliness. That he succeeds is evidenced by the many wayside stations in New Zealand, where smiling gardens charm the eye, making one forget the featureless platforms of country railway stations. In some are pretty pergolas over-run with roses or wistaria, in others beds of blazing colour where scarlet geraniums, blue lobelia or bronze and yellow calceolarias lift up bright heads in the sunshine. The railway officials who spend their leisure in beautifying these stations are public benefactors, for what a refreshment to the eye of jaded travellers is a patch of delicate flowers all a-blowing and a-growing in the midst of the prosaic appurtenances of a railway yard, and what a delight is the fragrant scent of roses or honeysuckle wafted across the acrid hot breath of smoke and steam.
In Australia I noticed that there seems to be keen competition in station gardens. Even in the metropolitan station there is an attempt made to brighten up the drabness and grime of the great yards, by the growing of palms in the open spaces among the rails, and along the North Shore line there are many stations which are veritable bowers of roses and other climbing plants, while in one the only decoration used was flat white pebbles and coloured bricks. In England and Scotland, too, many stations are made very trim and smart with flower-beds and grassy plots. The most beautiful and unique of these is without doubt Wemyys Bay on the Clyde, the jumping-off place for the famous Kyles of Bute. Wemyys Station is neither more nor less than a conservatory. It is completely enclosed in glass, and is in reality a railway pier where the trains run to the water's edge. All the woodwork is painted white, while the overhead supports shine like silver, so bright and spick and span is the ornamental metal work. The entire length of the enclosed space is lined on either side by banks of flowering plants, some in pots, some in deep troughs painted green and white, and many of the plants being of the climbing variety, they take every advantage of their unique glass-house by twining up the supports, flinging green trails along the metal work in the roof and drooping their lovely festoons of leaves and flowers over the heads of the passengers. When the sun comes dazzling through this miniature Crystal Palace, lighting up with prismatic glory, delicate blossoms and leafy trails of greenery, bringing out the rich perfumes of flowers and setting the birds carolling lustily, a train seems an incongruous object in the midst of all this beauty.
Christopher Columbus had nothing on the average couple pushing off into the uncharted seas of Matrimony.
What with “raising the wind,” getting on the rocks, battling with crosscurrents and the tides of adversity it is amazing that so few matrimonial mariners succumb to the hazards of the high seize. They suffer minor damage, of course, such as slightly strained relations, leaks in the exchequer, a little trouble with the steering gear or misunderstandings in the galley, but the matrimonial “Lloyds” report comparatively few total losses.
Merrily they sail away without compass or chart in happy defiance of the advice of old shellbacks who sit in the inglenook and tell hair-raising tales of the terrors of the matrimonial main.
On Sunday afternoons you sight them, some with a full crew—in prams and on foot, some obviously undermanned, but nearly all bowling along merrily with upper and lower spars dressed and the best bunting fluttering from the maintop.
Aye, aye, me hearties! ‘Tis a pretty sight. What makes ‘em do it, asks you? ‘Tis the beckoning finger of glorious uncertainty, of adventure, of discovery, that urges ‘em to brave the terrors of the deep. For, when you go in you go in deep, me lad. First, you're deep in love, then you're deep in domesticity; then, maybe, you're deep in debt until you get your bearings. Later on you're likely deep in parenthood—and getting deeper. There's no half-tide in matrimonial deep-sea sailing. When you're in you're in up to the neck. But who cares? The first mate may mutter, the “old man” may kick the binnacle through the scuppers, the crew may mutiny and get a lick of a rope's end. But, bless yer spanker, when the sky-pilot gives sailing and sounding you're too busy getting her under way to notice where you're going; and when you get into a rip you're too busy getting out of it to notice you're in it until you're out of it. It gets a hold of ye, fair weather or foul.
And there you have it from one who knows. Wives without a stitch to wear, bad-tempered husbands, recalcitrant kids—it's all part of the time-worn tradition of the matrimonial pitch-and-toss. First you go up and then you come down.
A kick in the slats rolls you half-seas-under, and another kick in the other slats rolls you back. The husband who took his wife for better or for worse recognises that there's enough of both to balance her and keep her on a fairly even keel. The wife with a bad-tempered husband takes him over the sticks with cunning hand. For horses and husbands are alike in that they both go into captivity for “wheel or whoa.” We offer no apology for shifting the analogy from ships to horses for the followers of both are often on the rocks.
A wise wife gives her “old horse” reasonable rope. She recognises that when questing woman packs her lariat and rides into the backblocks of Bachelordom to rope herself a marital mustang she snatches him raw from the range—wild and woolly and hairyheeled.
For husband-breaking is even harder than horse-breaking. You can give a horse his head until he comes to his senses; but the woman of wisdom knows that when you give a husband his head he loses it. You can take a horse to the water but you can't make him drink; you can take a husband to the altar and then the difficulty is to stop him drinking. The spouse of nous adjusts the blinkers with such cunning care that he believes what he sees is all there is to be seen. This is a danggerous stage for, if love is blind, marriage can produce second-sight.
The party of the first (and only) part knows that the woman's hand is the hand that locks the stable and that kindly but despotic deception should be practised to keep horses and husbands comfortably captive. Thus, when turning the key, she leaves the top flap of the door open so that the old horse can see out while he stays in.
The rugged road of wedlock can produce either bliss or blisters according to the type of hand that guides the cart. The wife who realises that she's “in the cart,” lightens the journey by humouring the horse.
There is something to be said for some bad-tempered husbands, but their wives have said it all. We hold no brief for the husband who habitually looks as black as the back of Willie's ears; we simply search for causes and cures.
Some wives—otherwise quite nice—assert that the way to a man's heart is via his stomach; that the path to his affection is through his digestion. Certainly we all know of homes wrecked by a simple cookery-class pie, of domesticity desolated by culinary indiscretions. We know full well the dreadful potentialities of the unleavened doughnut and the horrid halucinations produced by a carelessly constructed sausage stew. We realise that the heart bowed down by weight of dough cannot beat the merry measure. Consequently the wily wife recognises that, after marriage, Cupid's darts are knives and forks.
But variety is the spice of marriage. For, to a woman of spirit, marriage is monotonous. She depends on her helpmeet for the simple domestic excitements and delightments which put the “ho” in home. The husband who oozes into her orbit each evening with the prosaic punctuality and cloying exactitude of a tide of treacle gives no scope for stimulating uncertainty. A man so consistently calm and somnolently serene is prone to make marriage feel like premature burial in blanc-mange. Such mousey men who never wake the welkin with their divine discontent or stir the stagnant juices of the body domestic into acrimonious activity are liable to find a letter on the mantelpiece, saying:
“Your cruelty is killing me. If only you had shuffled your feet or kicked the pom occasionally I could have borne it. Even if you had said that you dislike mother it might have started something to break the monotony. But day after day, year after year, you remained so good-tempered that I could have tipped hot mulligatawney over you; never an unkind word, never a growl about the holes in your socks! Why can't you be like Mr. Snag who bites the dog and snaps the handles off cups? There is never a dull moment in their house. How I envy Mrs. Snag! Farewell, until you can say ‘damn’ when you catch your thumb in the wringer.”
Truly, marriage is a great life if you don't weaken.
The subject of this sketch, the late Captain Matthew T. Clayton, of Auckland, was a truly great man in his profession, a Master of sea-craft in the era when canvas was in its glory, and a master also of the artist's pencil and brush. He was a product of the age when “the sailor of the sail” was at the zenith of his calling. He sailed in the old East Indiamen and raced in China tea-clippers; he commanded one of the most famous of the Blackwall line ships which traded between the colonies and London in the days of the great gold rushes. He will be remembered by many in the maritime world as the perfect type of a British sailor and skilled navigator; but it is as an artist of the sea and ships that he will be known by most people, and the maritime paintings to which he devoted himself during his later years are his enduring memorial. Good marine artists are rare; and in a maritime country like New Zealand, whose life depends on sea communications, the Clayton pictures are of special value and interest. Those which illustrate this article are selected from many of historical importance and technical accuracy, representing vanished ships, painted by a man who knew the ocean and who had seen much of adventure in vanished phases of sea-life.
Captain Matthew Clayton was a man of the Sussex coast. He was born in 1831, and in his thirteenth year he went to sea as an apprentice in one of the old wooden ships that “iron men” sailed in the seven seas. A sturdy, cheerful lad, he carried that sturdy happy impress through a long life. In his eighties, painting away in his little farm-home at Manurewa, in South Auckland, he was the most cheery of veterans who had used the sea. He saw every kind of sea-trade; he had trafficked in every ocean; he first saw New Zealand waters in 1846; he traded for sandalwood in the Western Pacific; he loaded his guns for defence against pirates in China and Malay seas. After he left the sea, he was Surveyor for Lloyds in Auckland for many a year, and it was then that I came to know him and to appreciate his splendid worth as a man, and a wise mentor in all manner of maritime lore.
Clayton's earliest adventurous years were those which he spent as apprentice in two old-time barques, the London and the Statesman. In the former vessel he was in Wellington harbour away back in 1846; he described a stormy midnight when he helped to send down the fore and main-topgallant-masts and yards, “black as pitch and blowing hard,” he said, “we were lying off Pipitea Point, and we were nearly driven on shore that night.” A little later he was in the barque Statesman out of Sydney, trading in the New Hebrides and New Caledonia for sandalwood; a risky trade, for all those black islands were cannibal then. Then a life all-around the world, but always under the old Red Ensign.
In 1856 Matthew Clayton, now a chief mate, entered the service of one of the finest sailing passenger lines that kept the seas, the Money Wigram fleet. Those were the days when builder vied with builder in producing sailing-ships of great beauty and speed, and fitted up for cabin passengers in a style that was comparatively luxurious. He signed on as chief officer of the ship Kent, a “Blackwall Liner,” after an interview with the famous old shipowner, who was the chief partner in the firm of Wigram and Sons. This firm owned besides the Kent a splendid fleet of passenger ships of the highest class, most of them named after English counties, such as the Norfolk, the Suffolk, the Essex, the Yorkshire; another of the fleet was the True Briton. The Kent was his floating home for seven years, for the latter half of this period he was in command. She was frigate-built; she was described as a semi-clipper. Though not regarded as a flyer, she nevertheless beat some of the tea-clippers under certain conditions of weather, as will be seen later on. She carried the old-style single, or whole, topsails, huge expanses of canvas with four rows of reef-points. In all detail of rig she exactly resembled a frigate. All the rigging when Clayton joined her was of hemp; wire rigging only came in after he had made two or three voyages. Her masts were of the best Norway pine; all her yards were banded with iron every three feet. An Ai specimen of maritime workmanship was the Kent. She was considered one of the finest ships trading out of the port of London in her day.
The crew of this good vessel matched the ship. There was no niggardly skimping of expenditure on crews in those palmy days of sail. The fo'c's'l was filled with prime British seamen, “every finger a fish-hook,” as the old saying is; when topsails had to be reefed there were enough men to reef all three sails at once. On one voyage Captain Clayton had a crew numbering fifty-eight, including eight or nine midshipmen. Besides the boatswain, there were two boatswain's mates, each, like their chief, carrying whistles or pipes
Kent never went to sea without signing on a fiddler as one of her crew. His regular duties were to furnish the music for the crew when they were engaged on work at the halliards or braces, or any other of the thousand tasks which was lightened by sea-melody. There were no “chanteys” on board the Kent; the usual merchant sailors' choruses were forbidden—Royal Navy style—and the fiddler, perched on the booms or the forecastle-head, supplied music to take the chantey's place.
The boatswain was an important man. He was always styled “Mister” on these ships. The Kent's bos'n in Captain Clayton's time was Mr. Walker, a tall broad, dark-complexioned man of some forty years, a powerful fellow and a thorough sailor. The boatswain's pipe was a familiar sound on board ship in those days. A great deal of work was done to the silver piping of the bo's'n or his mates—Navy fashion again—instead of to wild songs from sea-roughened throats. Captain Brine—appropriate name that for a sailor—was the commander of the Kent when Mr. Clayton joined her. Captain Brine! It has as salty a flavour as any sea-novelist or sea-song-writer could wish for. As fitting a name as old Captain Stormalong of the sailor chanties, or as that grand old sea-name, Tom Bowling.
Mr. Clayton succeeded Capt. Brine as commander, and was in charge of the Kent until the end of 1863.
The Kent, though loftily sparred, carried nothing above royals; but she had a full set of studding sails—stu'n's'ls Merchant Jack calls them—to spread on each side of her like huge wings; lower and topmast and topgallant studding-sails, and many a brisk tussle the rigging-out and in of the stu'n's'l booms and the setting of these auxiliary sails gave the sailormen of the Fifties and Sixties. By the Seventies stu'n's'ls were going out of date, and now they have vanished altogether.
As to arms, the Kent did not require the rather formidable armament of carronades and small arms carried by ships in the China trade, for fear of pirates. She had a couple of saluting guns on deck, and had a dozen or so of muskets and cutlasses in the cabin.
The Kent would have been a rich prize for an enterprising pirate had any of those gentry been cruising the Southern Ocean. She was regularly engaged in the highly profitable trade between London and Melbourne in the great gold rush days of Victoria, and on every trip she carried gold to England. On one voyage Captain Clayton had nearly half-a-million in gold bars on board. It was stowed beneath his cabin, in the run, in a specially constructed gold room. This sea-safe was locked and the deck-hatch caulked
down until London docks were reached; then the gold was taken up to the bank in waggons, under armed escort. Besides these shipments, the passengers carried a good deal of gold themselves; many of them were lucky diggers returning to their homes.
The American cruisers had their eyes on that treasure-lading of the Kent on one historic occasion, just after the Civil War began. It was in 1861, when the Trent affair nearly brought Britain to war with the United States. The U.S. Government had a warship cruising at the mouth of the English Channel to intercept the Kent or any other gold-ship from Australia in the event of war being declared. This Captain Clayton learned from his owner when he reached London.
On a voyage to London from Melbourne in 1862, Clayton had 270 passengers; the crew numbered 50. The ship carried about £400,000 worth of gold. She was too deeply laden for safety, and shortly before a hurricane struck the ship off Cape Horn the Captain decided to jettison some of the cargo. The falling glass gave him warning. “I knew,” Clayton told me, in narrating the events of that voyage, “that if the gale struck us we would be gone unless I lightened the ship.” He jettisoned about £4,000 worth of cargo, and then in the height of the hurricane sperm-oil was continuously poured on the sea. The captain's act of judgment in sacrificing cargo undoubtedly saved the ship and her precious freighting of lives and treasure.
One of Captain Clayton's paintings depicts an ocean race in which the Kent overtook and passed the Owen Glendower, a ship which brought troops to New Zealand in the war days. This is a story of an even more exciting race.
Early one calm morning in 1862, when the Kent was one degree north of the Equator, London-bound from Melbourne, young Captain Clayton found himself in company with four China tea-clippers. Those were the days when enormous interest centred in the annual races homeward from China with the first of the season's teas, and only the fastest sailers were employed in the trade. They carried immense spreads of sail, and cracked on tremendously under studding-sails and all sorts of extra wind-savers, from “Jamie Greens” to ringtails and water-sails. The four tea-carriers lay there almost motionless, heading all ways, a mile to a mile-and-a-half from the Kent, and piled to the trucks with sail. Captain Clayton spoke them. Two of them, the barque Robin Hood and ship Falcon, were bound to London; the other two, the Ellen Rogers and Queensborough, were for Liverpool. There was a big bonus on the cargo of whichever got into port first.
The commander of the Robin Hood requested Captain Clayton to keep in company with him, as his vessel had something the matter with her rudder-head. The Kent's captain promised to do so if he could. About an hour later the light N.E. trades sprang up, and all five vessels trimmed their sails for a race. The Robin Hood and the Kent kept company with each other for about two days; the others left them behind. Then the wind increased in strength and the Robin Hood ran away from the more heavily-built Blackwall liner.
The Kent saw no more of the clippers all that race up to English soundings. It was an exciting time on board, nevertheless, for Captain Clayton was determined to keep his ship up as close to the clippers as possible, though he had very little hope of beating any of them. He got very little sleep for the rest of the passage; he was constantly on the watch, taking the utmost advantage of all the winds that blew and keeping his ship crowded with canvas.
“At last,” Clayton told me, in his brisk, animated way, “we got up to the mouth of the English Channel. Not seeing anything of the tea-clippers I made for the Eddystone Light and hove-to to report. I had printed forms on board, in which there was a space to enter any ships I spoke. I had one of these forms already filled up with particulars of the four ships. As I hove-to I signalled for a pilot, and the pilot who usually took my ship into Plymouth came alongside. I gave him my report and a present of rum and tobacco, and made him promise to take my report on shore immediately. Off he went, and I at once made sail again and went up the Channel with a fair wind, studding-sails set.
“By next morning I was off the Dungeness light. It was a cloudy morning. All of a sudden the clouds cleared a bit, and looking astern I saw two big square-riggers coming up after me, crowded with sail. I was the first to see them.
“ ‘Here come the two tea-clippers!’ I said to my chief officer, who was standing near me on the poop. ‘Signal for a steamer!’
“We were then about five miles off the Ness. Up went the flags for a steamer, and one soon appeared, making for us. The tea-ships were now four or five miles behind us, I had every possible stitch of sail set, with three stu'n' sails on each side, the wind right aft. The decks were crowded with excited passengers, and there were any number of bets on. The crew cheered when they saw the steamer coming.
“As soon as the steamer was alongside, I told the chief officer to run the stu'n' sails in. The crew had them in in about five minutes. It was the sort of work to thrill a sailor. Directly we got the stu'n' sails in, the steamer took hold of us. Looking astern, I saw the two clippers taking in their wings, too, and signalling.
“ ‘Hoist a signal for another steamer,’ I said to the chief officer. In a few minutes another steamer was alongside us. Up-Channel we went with a steamer on each bow.
“ ‘Take in all sail,’ was my next order. The crew were aloft in a jiffy, and in came all our canvas. After we got through the Downs we unbent every sail, sent the stu'n' sail-booms and royal-yards down, and made the ship snug for dock. The end of it was that we steamed up into the East India Docks just half-an-hour ahead of the Robin Hood; the Falcon was the other clipper, close behind the Robin Hood
“The Kent's feat was the talk of the city. My report, sent ashore by the pilot, was the first news of the four tea-clippers that reached the London Exchange, where there was great interest in the race, and there was much surprise at the fact of us beating the fast ships. My owner introduced me to Duncan Dunbar, the great shipowner. Mr. Dunbar looked me up and down; I daresay he thought ‘What a boy to go and beat the China clippers’!”
“Packet cigarettes?” said the tobacconist to a customer, “bit of a back number! Why worry with them when you can roll your own and save money?” “But can you save money?” queried the customer. “Sure thing,” replied the smoke merchant. “Why I can tell you how to make ten beautiful full-size cigarettes for 4d.!—and one of ‘em's worth a trunkful of ready-mades, which are often dry as a chip and flavourless through being kept too long in stock, whereas roll your own and you're always sure of a sweet, moist, and fragrant smoke. I roll all mine.” “What brand d'ye use?” asked the customer. “Riverhead Gold, the finest toasted cigarette tobacco manufactured, bar none. And you can smoke all you want of toasted, mind you. Next to no nicotine in it. Toasting does that. Other toasted brands? Yes, there are four—Desert Gold (another splendid cigarette blend), Cavendish, Cut Plug No. 10 (Bulls-head), and Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog). These are the only genuine toasted tobaccos.” (Here a tin of Riverhead changes hands.)*
In telling such reminiscences the jolly old seaman lived the best years of his life again. He told of thrilling and perilous days, ice-beset, in the Southern Ocean. One of his oil-paintings reproduced in this article shows his old ship, hard-driven running clear of the icebergs in 56 south latitude and 153 west longitude, far down in the Southern Ocean between New Zealand and Cape Horn. His painting of H.M.S. Calliope steaming out of Apia harbour in the great hurricane of 1889, is the only adequate
picture of that great event that I have seen. He was always careful to obtain accurate data for his paintings. He was a seaman and an artist to the end. When last I called on him, at his little Manurewa farm homestead, he was still busy in his studio. That was in 1919, and he was eighty-eight. “My boy,” he said, “my hand is getting shaky and so are my legs, but my nerve is as good as ever. I could take a ship round the world today if my legs would only hold out.”
The brave old sailor left scores of paintings, historical and dramatic, which always found buyers. It is a pity, the thought came after going through Wellington's new Art Gallery lately, that there is such a complete lack of marine paintings there. I should like to see a Clayton or two. We could do without many of the others.
It will be 50 years this month (November), since the Manawatu Railway was opened to Palmerston North. I hope you will announce that in your valuable journal for November. When the train arrived at Otaki, about 100 Maoris stood in front of the engine and said the train would go no further, as they had not been paid in full for their land, by the Company.
The late Bishop O. Hadfield, who was a guest on the train, spoke to the natives in Maori, and told them they would get paid.
There was only one house in Crofton then, and five people in Khandallah.—Major Andrew, who gave the name to the place (taken from Khandallah in India), Bob Hannah, Hobbs (dairyman), Harnett (dairyman), and a man employed on the road.
In 1884, there were only ten residents in Paekakariki, viz., Lynch (2), Mackay's (3), Tilley (hotel), Cameron, Ostler, the policeman, and Old Mag and her husband (an old whaler).
All to be found from Manakau to Long-burn were mosquitoes, sand flies and bush.
—T.G.
Main entrance. Lausanne Station, Swiss Federal Railways.
New and more powerful steam locomotives continue to be introduced on the Home Railways. In this connection, the London & North Eastern system comes into the limelight. The King's Cross authorities have recently approved the building in the Doncaster works of a new series of 2-8-2 three-cylinder streamlined passenger engines; a number of 2-6-2 three-cylinder mixed traffic locomotives; a further batch of 4-6-2 three-cylinder passenger engines following the “Silver Link” design; and a series of 2-6-2 three-cylinder, passenger side-tank engines for suburban haulage.
The first of the new 2-8-2 streamliners has already been completed. It is named “Lord President,” and incorporates most of the features of the “Cock o' the North” locomotive, described in these Letters some time ago. It has, however, been given an entirely new streamlined front, not unlike the “Silver Link” class. The principal dimensions are:—Grate area, 50 sq. ft.; boiler barrel, 19 ft. long, 6 ft. 5 in. diameter; total heating surface, 3,490 sq. ft.; working pressure, 220 lb.; cylinders, 21 in. diameter by 26 in. stroke; tractive effort, 43,462 lb.; weight in working order, 107 tons. The eight-wheeled tender carries 5,000 gallons of water and 8 tons of coal. The “Lord President” and its successors will haul fast Anglo-Scottish expresses.
The mixed traffic locomotives, of the 2-6-2 three-cylinder type, should prove exceptionally useful. One of these engines has now been completed, and it has been named “Green Arrow.” Striking a new note in Home locomotive design by employing the unusual 2-6-2 wheel arrangement, the “Green Arrow” has three cylinders, 18 1/2 in. diameter by 26 in. stroke; grate area, 41.25 sq. ft.; total heating surface, 3.110 sq. ft.; working pressure, 220 lb. per sq. in.; tractive effort, 33,730 lb.; and weight in working order, 93 tons. This fine engine is intended for express passenger and fast freight traffic. It has been designed by Mr. H. N. Gresley, the L. & N.E. chief mechanical engineer—or, as we are now happy to know him, Sir Nigel Gresley.
Railway travel has for long been recognised the world over as by far the safest form of movement. Like the New Zealand lines, the Home railways are especially proud of their fine safety record—a record which the recently published official report upon accidents occurring last year shows to be splendidly maintained.
The total route mileage of the Home railways at the close of 1935 was 20,295, the greater portion consisting of two or more tracks. During the twelve months ended December 31st, 1935, only 13 persons were killed in train accidents, and 408 injured. The liability among passengers to fatal injury was one killed to every 130,000,000 carried. In what are officially described as “movement accidents”—as, for example, careless boarding and alighting from trains—84 passengers were killed.
The total casualties at level crossings were 51 killed and the same number injured. The official report rightly pays tribute to the successful efforts of the railways towards immunity from mishap. In 1935, passenger journeys totalled no fewer than 1,697,000,000; and passenger and freight train-miles, 435,000,000.
Sleeping-cars pay an increasingly important part in rail travel, as the public become educated to the advantage of night travel for business and similar journeys. Home railway sleeping-cars are of exceptionally comfortable design, and they are run in most of the principal long-distance night services.
By the London, Midland & Scottish Company there has been put into service the first of a series of thirteen new composite sleeping-cars which are being built in the Derby works. These vehicles are 69 ft. long and 9 ft. 2 1/4 in. wide, and are fitted with six-wheeled bogies. Each car accommodates six first-class and fourteen third-class passengers.
In addition, there is a first-class lavatory and an attendant's compartment at one end of the vehicle, and two third-class lavatories at the other. The six single first-class berths are arranged in three pairs, a communicating door being provided be-between each pair. Each third-class compartment has four berths—two lower and two upper. The interior decorations of the cars are particularly pleasing. In the first-class berths the decoration is in modern style, flush finish with chromium plated fittings, and Rexine walls and ceiling. The colour scheme is divided into three groups, blue, beige and green, the colour fading out from floor to ceiling. Each berth has a rug and a bedspread to match; a wash-basin; a full-length dressing-mirror; folding shelves and racks; and three 15-watt pearl electric lamps in chromium-plated reflectors.
With the Coronation of His Majesty King Edward still some months ahead, the Home railways are already preparing their excursion plans for this historic occasion. Special trains will be run by all the group lines to London for viewing the ceremony and its accompanying pageantry. So far as can be foreseen, practically every locomotive and every passenger carriage will be pressed into service to convey loyal travellers to London. Among the 130 special trains which the London, Midland & Scottish Railway have already arranged to run from the provinces to the metropolis for the Coronation, is one from Inverness and back, a distance of 1,136 miles. Over twenty special trains will also be run from other parts of Scotland, including points as far off as Aberdeen, Dundee, Perth and Ayr. Thirty-five excursions will come from the Midlands; 22 from Lancashire and Yorkshire; two from Wales; and one from Northern Ireland. The London & North Eastern also plan large-scale excursion bookings for the Coronation from Scotland and the North of England; while Wales, western and southern England are already arranging excursions over the metals of the Great Western and Southern systems.
Electrification of the Southern Railway London-Portsmouth tracks is making rapid progress, and it seems likely that this important work will be completed well ahead of scheduled time—July, 1937. The Southern Railway have reaped a rich harvest as a result of their progressive electrification policy. Between London and Brighton and other south coast resorts, electrification has been the means of retaining to rail an immense volume of passenger traffic which, under steam working, was fast being lost to the roads.
Very striking is the progress of electrification throughout Europe. In a recent paper read by Mr. E. R. Kaan, chief electrical engineer of the Austrian Federal Railways, before the Institution of Electrical Engineers, London, we learnt much of electrification's growth. Switzerland, it was pointed out, has made more progress with electric traction than any other European land. Some 75 per cent. of the Swiss Federal Railways system is now electrified, corresponding to about 92.5 per cent. of the gross ton-miles to be hauled. By the end of the present year, Germany will have about 1,500 miles of electrified track. Like Switzerland, Austria, Norway and Sweden, the system Germany favours is the single-phase alternating current arrangement, with 15 k.v. at the overhead equipment, and 16 2/3 cycles.
Sweden actually possesses about 2,000 miles of electrified trunk routes. By June next, the Swedish State Railways will operate electrically 2,600 miles of track. France, Holland, Belgium, Hungary, Poland and Spain are other European countries where electrification is making progress.
Spain has been through a trying time of late, and the railways of this corner of the continent have been operated under great difficulties. Completely reorganised some ten years ago, the Spanish railway system is unique in being almost all composed of 5 ft. 6 in. tracks, as compared with the European standard-gauge of 4 ft. 8 1/2 in. Under the law of July 12, 1924, the management of the various Spanish railways was left to the individual companies—about one hundred in all—but geographical grouping was introduced to cut out overlapping and uneconomic competition. Railway enterprise in Spain has always relied largely upon foreign capital. The two leading lines—the Northern; and the Madrid, Zaragoza and Alicante—both have supervising committees sitting in Paris. The Great Southern Railway of Spain is a British concession. Never very profitable undertakings, the Spanish railways must necessarily suffer considerably as a consequence of internal unrest.
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I Mpskill Lloyd was closeted in his steel-lined study examining, under a colossal magnifying glass, one of Woolworth's fourpenny pocket-knives.
It was just the type of study a famous criminal investigator would have. The steel walls were four feet thick and were lined on the inside, with row upon row of sawn-off shot guns, jemmies, Daisy air guns, bottles of lysol, magnifying-glasses and false noses.
In a huge glass case in the centre of the room was a collection of false clues—one of the finest of its kind in the world.
Impskill was concentrating all his attention on the pocket-knife, which, ever and anon, he plunged into a German sausage in front of him. Each newly-created wound in the sausage he would examine intently and then make copious notes in his Knife-wound Record Book, a huge tome, about twice the size of a family album.
Even while he was studying the pocket-knife, Impskill was silently cursing over the horrible mistake he had made over the bloodstained horse-shoe, the events surrounding which were described in the last chapter. It will be remembered that Impskill was positive that Lauder had been killed by a blow from a horse-shoe. Even so, he was not solely to blame, because his theory had been confirmed by Hilson Wogg of the Great Scott Correspondence School of Criminology. It was P. C. Fanning who discovered that the blood on the horse-shoe really came from a small packet of fishing bait he had purchased for twopence from “Kidney” Jenkinson, the Matamata butcher.
In place of the horse-shoe clue, now so ignominiously rejected, Impskill was satisfied that the pocket-knife had been the instrument of death, accounting at the same time for the alleged blow on the back of the neck.
It was so obvious. The murderer had plunged the knife with terrific force into Pat Lauder's left shoulder, the pain of the blow causing the head of the victim to jerk backwards severing the spinal cord and incidentally causing the terrible bruise on the back of the neck. Having discovered the cause, Impskill merely had to find the wielder of the knife.
A knock sounded on the door of Impskill's den and he immediately cut a slice from the sausage and commenced eating it, evidently to allay suspicion.
“Come in,” he shouted.
“Ah, it's only you,” murmured Imp-skill in a relieved tone of voice. Then he looked keenly at the visitor, Gillespie, his chauffeur.
“Good heavens, man! Why are you smoking one of those?”
“You mean a tailor-made?” inquired “Gil.”
“Yes,” replied Impskill; “you look as out of place as a ‘K’ locomotive in a drawing room.”
“Well, you see, Chief, I've damaged my rolling thumb,” replied “Gil.” “A barmaid bit it.”
“How on earth did that happen?”
“I was chucking her under the chin and her mouth happened to be open.”
“Now, here we are discussing frivolities,” said Impskill sternly, “and Pat Lauder's murdered body is still hanging over us.”
“Gil” looked up to the ceiling in alarm.
“It's all right, ‘Gil,’” added Impskill, “I was merely speaking metaphorically.”
“Anyhow,” said “Gil,” “that's what I've come to see you about. There's a bloke outside wot wants the corpse?”
“Wants the what?” cried Impskill.
“The corpse,” replied “Gil.” “He's C. Stuart Bury, the Matamata undertaker. Says Lauder has been dead long enough and it's about time he screwed the hatches down.”
“True, true,” replied Impskill thoughtfully, “You can hand him over the body—but first take a plaster cast of the wound on the left shoulder.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied “Gil” absent-mindedly. You see, “Gil” had once been a sailor, this accounting for his undying thirst.
“Strange,” muttered “Gil” as he left Impskill's den, “why does he want me to plant a cask by the corpse? Must be a blooming wake, he has in mind for poor Pat.”
So originated a happy event for the people of Matamata. Oblivious of the fact that “Gil” had mistaken the words “plaster cast” for “plant a cask,” Impskill had to leave his investigations to hurry to Dunedin by ‘plane to judge the Annual Festival of the British Llama League, an organisation with the laudable object of placing the
As he took a flying leap into the ‘plane, Impskill shouted final directions to “Gil.”
“Keep a cordon of police around all the knife factories of Matamata until I return,” he cried, “and don't forget the plaster cast.”
“Plant a cask,” muttered “Gil” waving his handkerchief in goodbye, “the mean hound! One cask. Why I've already ordered five. It's going to be a real wake.”
So, while Impskill flew southwards, “Gil” was busy on the ‘phone inviting every thirsty soul in Matamata to Pat Lauder's wake. He positively refused to hand over the corpse to C. Stuart Bury until the morning after the big beano.
It was a great and memorable night for Matamata. The Mayor, Zeb Barrett, entered into the spirit of the business and placed the Matamata Town Hall at the disposal of the mourners. Pat Lauder was laid out in state on the stage, and, flanking the body, were six hogsheads of the local beer.
P.C. Fanning was the first to be carried out of the hall. The trouble was that every time he cried “Hail!” (a time honoured salutation of his) they thought he was calling for more ale.
Zeb Barrett spoke feelingly of the deceased. Being an old newspaper man he poetically described Lauder as “going to press for the last time.”
“Be gob, from appearances,” observed Dan Doolan, the Matamata publican, “poor Pat was well and truly pied before they got him in the forme.”
“Ere, ere!” cried “Gil” as he drove the tap into another barrel, “he looked like a stop press item gone wrong.”
About 1 a.m. when the wake was waxing at its warmest the members of Pat Lauder's Crooners' Correspondence Course, who had arrived from all parts of New Zealand to farewell their departed Principal, rendered (in ultra-crooner fashion) “Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes.”
In a beer-charged voice “Gil” inquired: “What's wrong with your mouth?”
Of course we know what “Gil” really meant but, unfortunately, the crooners thought that he was reflecting on their singing. With a chorus of falsetto yells they charged at “Gil” from the stage. Fortunately “Horsey” Stuart intervened. He announced that as the wake was being broadcast through 45 Zq (the recently established Multi-Commercial Zq Station) it would be undignified to put the subject on the air. But for this timely intervention, the murdered body of “Gil” undoubtedly would have joined that of Pat Lauder on the stage, in which case more beer would have had to be ordered, and the wake extended another twenty-four hours.
To pacify the indignant crooners “Gil” promised, there and then, he would write them a song. In addition to being able to drive a car and roll his own cigarette, “Gill” was a born poet and a musician.
Five minutes later the crooners, as happy as a Labour Minister spending a million on pensions, were intoning the following delightful ditty:—
Take me back to Matamata
Where the crooners gently croon
Where there's beauty, beer and bounty,
Happiness from noon to noon.
Take me back to Matamata
Sad I am away from thee,
Matamata makes you fatter
For its beer is ecstasy.
Matamata—what's the matter
With Pat Lauder, cold and dead?
Than in heaven he would rather
Still be Matamata's head.
Give us treacle, give us nutmegs
Marble cake or cocktails queer
They would all taste just like wormwood
Were not Matamata here.
Just as the last memorable line was lingering in the crooners throats there arrived at the wake, by ‘plane from Akaroa, Count De Y'ken Alexander (see Lindsay Buick's “The French at Akaroa”).
Count De Y'ken immediately demanded wine, at which the mourners, led by Dr. Brannigan, commenced chanting most sadly, “What's wrong with beer?”
“Gil” broached another cask.
About 4 a.m. (no beer being left) Dr. Brannigan, Marris, Dan Doolan, P.C. Fanning and “Gill” commenced to look for further clues.
“Hey!” shouted. “Gil,” “What's this ‘ere butter about the edge of the knife wound?”
“The more butter they waste the better,” murmured the local grocer, Sol. Fuzsil, who was now well in his cups.
“But a wound like this looks rather rank,” cried “Gil.”
“Yes—as I thought,” muttered the grocer, “rank butter. ‘Ow ‘bout some more beer?”
Yes, a terrific discovery had been made. “Gil” had found butter marks on the edge of the wound in the body of Pat Lauder. He immediately ‘phoned for Leslie Binge, the local photographer.
Ere the sickly light of morning had etched, in mournful detail, the recumbent bodies of the participants of the wake, the sober, all resourceful Binge had taken a flashlight of the body and the developed photograph was ready, dripping huge drops of hypo, for the Great Sleuth Impskill.
One of the hypo drops fell on the face of “Gil” who awoke and immediately rushed to the local telegraph office to send the following urgent wire to Impskill:—
“Wake a great success stop butter found on Lauder stop important clue stop hasten back to Matamata.”
On receipt of the wire Impskill caught a passing ‘plane and was soon on his return journey. The trouble was that five of the festival llamas in-
(Continued on page 37).
November is New Zealand's National Month. With the oddest persistence, November appears throughout our history as the month of important happenings. The first recorded event of striking importance was the proclamation of British sovereignty by Captain Cook, on the 15th November, 1769. The most outstanding fact, however, is that New Zealand, as an entity, was born in this month. On 16th November, 1840, New Zealand was created a separate colony and the names of Northern, Middle, and Stewart Island, were changed to New Ulster, New Munster, and New Leinster. Until that date we were part and parcel of New South Wales. On the 28th November, 1840, the settlement round the shores of Port Nicholson, loosely called Britannia, was given the name of Wellington. On the 5th November of the next year, the “Arrow,” the first ship, entered the port of Nelson. It was in November, 1845, that Captain George Grey arrived as Lieutenant-Governor of the Colony and the real building of our nationhood entered upon a new order. The first general election in the Dominion was held in November, 1855, women first in the British Empire recorded their electoral votes in November, 1893, the first weekly half holiday, the establishment of free compulsory and secular education, the provision of Old Age pensions are all allotted to this month. The two new provinces of Marlborough and Hawke's Bay were established on 1st November, 1858 and 1859 respectively. We should not forget either that the first New Zealand Derby was run in November, 1860, and the first New Zealand Cup five years later. The list could be extended indefinitely, but it is an inescapable fact that November is not only our natal month but it is invested with a special significance. And, best of all, it is the gateway to our summer.
You have seen in railway sleepers and in household sitting rooms, in hotel lounges and steamer saloons, folks with earnest faces and closely-knit brows, working out crossword puzzles. I have been accosted by a total stranger in a railway smoker who wanted to know if I could give him the name of a Jewish prophet in eight letters ending with “h.”
Any of these enigmas are child's play compared with arriving at the right method of celebrating New Zealand's hundredth birthday.
The difficulty is unique because the history of the colonisation of New Zealand is unique. The panorama of our settlement story differs from all others since the dawn of civilisation, so this centennial might best be named the “New Hundredth.”
Although the crowded year of 1840 does genuinely mark the actual creation of the new and splendid addition we made to the British Empire, celebrations must take into their view the complex mass of happenings both before and after that date, the whole pageantry of our growth. The centennial must be planned to present as a whole the vision of the great events of the past, and a picture of the present achievement.
The settlement of New Zealand had no central point on which it would be right or fair to focus attention. We have no one single locality where our Pilgrim Fathers landed.
The romance of the coming of our pioneers is enriched by the fact that these argosies of British men and women had so many destinations, so many ports of call. It was not enough that this purely British cavalcade should light upon the portion of all the earth's surface most like their own Homeland. The various differing elements of the procession went, with miraculous precision, to the very parts of the new country that owned distinctive features reminding them of the very valleys, hills and skies of the actual localities from whence they came. The Cornwall and Dorset men went to Taranaki, a land of headlands and rolling downs; the Scots went to Dunedin, whose climate bears exactly the same relation to our North as that of Edinburgh does to the South of England; the purely Anglican expedition went to the level sweetness of Canterbury, where conditions were most suitable for the creation of a new Sussex, complete with a new Brighton.
In the North, the many-coloured story was far different. Wellington and Nelson were the fruits of the splendidly conceived theories of Wakefield. It is the fashion to treat that great genius as if his ideas had largely failed. The truth is that they were
The history of Auckland runs far deeper down the years. Keri Keri, now a populous fruit growing district, with streets of handsome houses reminiscent of Remuera or Heretaunga, is the cradle of our history. Here in 1819 the first wooden and stone buildings were built; they still stand without a blemish. In May, 1820, the first plough was put into the land of New Zealand. Six years before that Samuel Marsden had established the first Christian Mission at the Bay of Islands and a resident British Magistrate had been appointed by the Governor of New South Wales.
Away back in 1825, the islands of Waiheke and Pakihi had been purchased by an English company and the “Rosanna” arrived packed with hopeful immigrants. Hokianga was also to provide these new folk with the means of making their fortunes in the new land. However, hordes of tatooed Maori warriors provided such a reception by way of war dances and other signs of active dislike, that the frightened passengers decided to exercise their right of return. The company lost £20,000 and New Zealand obtained no new population.
Long before 1840, the semi-tropical climate and the rich lands of the Northern peninsula had attracted adventurers of all sorts and conditions. The roystering rover, Captain Tapsell, married his pretty Maria Ringa in 1823, and, by the same token, lost her on the wedding day. She bolted for the bush. Romances on a spacious scale and numbered by the thousand will one day be retrieved from those roaring days.
However, concentration upon 1840 is inevitable, and I place as the quartette of vitally important events of that year, these:
On 30th January, the hoisting of the Union Jack at the Bay of Islands by Governor Hobson; the first formal act of British Government in New Zealand.
On 5th and 6th February, the first reading and acceptance of the Treaty of Waitangi.
On 11th August the hoisting of the British Flag at Akaroa by Captain Stanley and the exercise of British authority for the first time in the South Island by the holding of a court.
On 16th November, the issue of Letters Patent in England, constituting New Zealand a separate colony.
There are many more happenings of signal importance. The 7th February is the date when Malcolm McKinnon was the first settler on the Canterbury Plains; the founding of Wellington was on the 22nd January, and on the 21st September purchase was made of the ferny district round the Waitemata Harbour that was to be Auckland, the capital of the new colony.
It will seem at once how widespread must be the centennial celebrations, even of those events confined to the one year of 1840. But ceremonies confined to that year would give no proper picture. It is necessary that the celebrations should portray the essential and unique features of both our history and our present “scene.” In other words, we should show the world, not only how our forebears worked and lived, but also what we have accomplished here and now.
This will entail local celebrations in every centre of the whole Dominion. We have an array of picturesque and
Special glory will be shed upon our season of rejoicing by the participation of our Maori brethren, with whom we live in amity and equality, in a sense that has been far too rare in most countries of the world.
That old Polynesian, Captain Cook Kupe, must not be forgotten, and the seven great canoes that came here neary six hundred years ago are at least as important as the first four ships.
The Whare Runanga at historic Waitangi will be finished by the date of the celebrations, and the gathering to commemorate the Treaty will become one of the word's famous spectacles.
The special genius of the Maori race for organised celebration will be exercised to its full, and it is certain that some of the finest functions of the year will be those for which they are responsible.
The Exhibition at Wellington is a proper idea. The Capital City will naturally be the centre of much of the activity of the whole community, and an exhibition is a convenient method of putting before the world our achievements in all fields of human endeavour. It will be an attraction for tourists and visitors and a display window for the whole Dominion. Here will be the opportunity for some of our great business organisations that have spread all over the world. But possibly the most admired distinction of New Zealand development is its remarkable decentralisation. Here, in contradistinction to so many parts of the world, our country towns and hamlets have maintained their growth. No mighty city monopolises an undue share of our population. Life is as pleasant and the amenities and conveniences of civilisation and modern comfort have the same standard in Timaru as in Auckland.
Our centennial celebrations, therefore, to be a faithful portrayal of our country, will be spread over the whole area of the Dominion. Every element in our history and in the country that we have created for ourselves should be represented. The Ulstermen who followed that flamboyant genius Vosyey Smith to Kati Kati must not be overlooked any more than the gallant seafarers who came to Waipu from faraway Nova Scotia.
The people of New Zealand have gone wisely and well in the task of making the centennial worthy of this “Britain of the South.”
First of all, a National Memorial will be built. Secondly, thorough and authoritative historical surveys are to be made.
This is possibly the most vital work that is proposed, and, let it be remembered, it is, even now, under way.
For all local celebrations, Government subsidies are to be granted. It is from the splendour, variety, richness, and complexity of the local celebrations that the year 1940 will worthily commemorate New Zealand as a country from which that absurd title “young” has forever passed away.
The Wellington Exhibition is being liberally helped, and arrangements are in being for entertaining guests from abroad and for larger expenditure in the Tourist and Publicity Departments.
However, the main cause that emerges from all these activities is this: New Zealand is a country of unique qualities; its racial purity is the highest in the world; its life story is almost without blemish; its foundations were planned, selected, and maintained with scrupulous care; it is a universe of natural wonders; its rich lands, mild climate, and sea-girt terrain, make it a possible earthly paradise; it houses the finest native race in the world; the culture, vision and daring of its early people, have made it famous for social ideals and courageous experiment in the furthering of the ends of social justice and the growth of human brotherhood and fellowship.
The Centennial Celebrations can only succeed in being a suitable commemoration of all these, if the whole community of our fellow citizens work together faithfully to the one end.
(Continued from page 31).
sisted on travelling with him and the overloaded ‘plane crashed at Kaiwarra. The llamas escaped uninjured, but Impskill suffered a bad fracture of his false beard, which he had donned with professional ardour on receipt of the wire from “Gil.”
For this reason “Gil” was left lamenting (should we say lla-menting) alone in Matamata, and he was also left mourning by the graveside, as the body of Pat Lauder was lowered to its last resting place.
“Gil” had a terrible thirst on him that morning, and, unable to wait until he reached the nearest hotel, visited a suburban dairy where he demanded a glass of milk.
“A glass of milk” inquired the dairymaid, with unrestrained laughter.
“Oh, my pretty maid,” cried “Gil.” “You know something!” Even as he said this, he noticed on the counter a dangerous looking bread-knife. He produced Binge's photo of the wound, put two and two together, added seventeen for luck, and sent another urgent wire to Impskill as follows:—“Milkmaid involved in butter scandal stop cable Tooley Street stop Horsey lift your tail up stop butter still rising—‘Gil.’”
Meanwhile, owing to his enforced inactivity at Kaiwarra, Impskill was steadly putting on weight. By the time the ‘plane was repaired he had to discard all luggage, even his clothing. Eventually he caught the ‘plane attired in his false beard (repaired) and a pair of v's.
When he reached Matamata the inquest on Pat Lauder had opened, “Gil” having prepared the whole case.
The first witness was the dairymaid, who tearfully admitted that in a fit of jealously—Pat Lauder having transferred his attentions to another lady (un-named)—she had stabbed her erstwhile lover with the bread-knife (produced). The butter stains (produced) were from the said bread-knife. Although there were indications on the body that deceased had been poisoned, garrotted, burnt alive, kicked to death, etc., etc., etc., witness was positive that the bread-knife was the primary cause of death.
Other evidence of a purely formal nature was given by C. Stuart Bury, who produced his account for the burial and who protested when it was treated as an exhibit; Dan Doolan, whose evidence was ruled as irrelevant as it dealt merely with the quantity and retail value of the beer supplied at the wake; and P.C. Fanning, who gave evidence in rebuttal of Hilson Wogg's supposition that death was due to a blow from a horse-shoe.
Amidst cheers the parcel of fishing bait was admitted as evidence and labelled exhibit Z.
Leslie Binge created a scene when he protested loudly against the non-admission, as an exhibit, of his photo. of the knife-wound. He grudgingly withdrew his protest when the coroner pointed out that, having reached exhibit Z, there was no alphabetical provision for further exhibits.
Just as the coroner was about to give his verdict, Impskill Lloyd rushed into the courtroom waving a dead llama by the tail.
In view of the fact that he was still attired in v's, the coroner ordered his arrest for contempt of court and was about to claim the v's as an exhibit when the milkmaid screamed, and Leslie Binge's camera went off with a loud report.
Then a strange thing happened!
(To be continued.)
Cigarettes, while the annual consumption in England, America, France, Germany and other countries runs into billions, are also becoming extraordinarily popular in New Zealand, where the demand has increased enormously since the introduction of the two famous cigarette tobaccos, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold. These, but especially the former, may be classed as real luxury lines; pure, sweet, fragrant and soothing, they appeal irresistibly to smokers of both sexes, and challenge comparison with anything from overseas. Latterly, sales have eclipsed all previous records. Although so choice in quality, they are yet so comparatively moderate in price that you actually roll ten, full-sized smokes for fourpence! Both brands being toasted, therefore practically free from nicotine, may be freely indulged in without fear of consequences. The same remark applies to the three toasted pipe brands—Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Cavendish and Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog). But the fame of the genuine toasted has resulted in various rubbishy imitations finding their way on to the market. Ask for any of the brands named and you'll avoid being imposed upon.*
Travel to-day is easy, swift and comfortable—too easy for our good, tramping enthusiasts say—but it has lost something, the essential that gave salt and zest and the bite of adventure to life. Look at this lively picture of pioneer days touring in New Zealand as set down in 1850 by a Government Maori-business official of that era, and contrast it with the luxurious mechanised methods that have standardised and smoothed out everything for us. It shows us the Manawatu Gorge as it was, long before railway on one side and road on the other had tamed the once gloriously wild ravine through the mountain backbone, and before deforestation by fire and axe had ruined the wooded loveliness of the ranges. Still, it is sometimes wild enough in flood-time, when the ill-protected butt-ends of the mountains are streaming with water, and the glen has a touch of savagery when that powerful yellow river, charged with soil and gravel from the banks is tearing along, perhaps twenty feet above its normal level.
I take this animated narrative of a Maori canoe voyage up the Manawatu and through the Gorge in 1850 from an unpublished diary of Sir Donald Maclean, one of many Maclean documents sent to me by Lady Maclean of Napier. Maclean (afterwards the great Native Minister) was at that time on his way from Wellington to Hawke's Bay, then a purely Maori region, to make the first purchases of land there for settlement, under instructions from the Governor, Sir George Grey.
The only other pakeha in the party was a Dr. Reed.
The party of Manawatu and Rangitikei Maoris numbered about thirty men and women. The expedition, in three large canoes, started from Moutoa, near the mouth of the Manawatu, on December 3. The first day's work was mostly paddling, then the canoe crews took to the toko, the pole, most of the voyage up the forest waterway.
Maclean's diary proceeds:
“December 5.—The wind and the diligence of our spirited canoe crews got us up to the waha of the apiti (the mouth of the gorge) at 1 p.m., when we dined. The range on the left bank gradually closes down to the river, till you reach the apiti, when the country changes from a moderately tame scene to a wild alpine appearance, with white foaming rapids and streams rolling down the hills with such violent force as if they would resist the efforts of man to pass them. The natives of a country, however, will not be impeded by such barriers—their persevering efforts overcoming all natural obstacles. Our first party, having emptied the canoe of luggage, are now in the white foaming surf of a mountain torrent poling up with savage fierceness, while others are up to the armpits quite naked, hauling with all their might against the stream and screaming loudly for victory over the river that seems to rage with increasing violence.
“One canoe has just passed the danger, and a general shout from all who were pulling seems ample satisfaction for their dexterous efforts. The next is now determined not to be laughed at, and with all their might they dash into the foam, the pole men of the first canoe coming back to their assistance. A strong tug and a long tug! Poor fellows! Just touch and go and she will do it! No! Yes, she will! There comes the help—now! One strong pull and one long pull! No—not yet! The water resists. Into the water, lads! Over she goes, some of the helpers struggling to gain the shore among the heavy boulders and rocks.
“The last canoe now comes. Beautiful, my hearties! Pull and she goes! Heave away, my jolly boys—pull again! Now back for the loads. You have all conquered the water's furious rage! Well done, boys, well done! … New Zealanders, in your own mountain glens you are a fine, happy, animated, cheerful, persevering race! Far from me would it be to wish that the blessings of civilisation should extinguish your race as I extinguished your claims to these wild mountain ranges of your ancestors …
“At the gorge Dr. Reed was looking on intently, with great glee, singing with zest, and shouting ‘Hurrah, my boys! That reminds one of the Chinese junks on the Yangtse-kiang! Go it, lads! There starts the old Queen!—Long live Her Majesty, the Queen of Rangitikei! Into the water, old woman, and cheer on your loyal subjects!’”
The “Queen of Rangitikei” was the wife of Hori Kingi, the chief of Rangitikei. Her canoe crew were all women, six of them, and they slipped out of their few clothes and into the water as naked as the men for that glorious struggle with the rapids that the young Scots official and his friend Reed enjoyed so much from the dry footing on the bank.
A “best slide” competition held by Screens Advertising Ltd., Wellington, recently, drew a large number of replies favouring the slide design reproduced herewith. Some of the comments are distinctly interesting, amongst them being the following:
Why the Slide which advertises the New Zealand Railways is best:—
Because it represents travel, with comfort, warmth, efficiency and speed.
—W. Prestidge.
Because it shows you are perfectly safe, when travelling by rail and it is very convenient, in fact parents can send their children to relations without any fear of them being run over.
—Miss I. Dronfield.
Because: (1) It is pictorial; (2) It has nice colours; (3) It is easily assimilated; (4) It has human interest; (5) And it has a laugh in it.
—Mrs. Hanify.
Because: (1) Of its safety and comfort one has while travelling; (2) Because of the cheapness; (3) Because of its quickness while going from place to place.
—Miss Florence Illing.
Because: (1) It is well patronised; (2) Because it is cheaper by rail; (3) Because it is more comfortable than other services; (4) If you travel by rail it is much safer; (5) You can travel anywhere by rail.
—Miss C. Hawkins.
Because it advertises a public necessity and service. It also shows you the cheapest way to travel. They also ensure you comfort and safety, etc.
—G. L. Marsh.
Because: (a) It faithfully depicts the great service it represents; (b) As an advertising medium it conveys the message it is intended to transmit; (c) The excellence of the colour scheme; (d) The picture portrayed is appealing in its naturalness.
—Mrs. F. E. Richardson.
Because this railway system is useful to everybody in New Zealand. It also teaches people to be economical and travel by railways which is much cheaper.
—Master D Hayman.
Because the smile on the little girl's face shows that she knows she is quite safe when she is travelling by rail. The guard holding the green flag is a sign of safety. The guard being an old man shows that he has been travelling on a train a long time and he is still healthy.
—C. J. Campbell.
Because: (1) It is a national advertisement; (2) Of its attractive display; (3) It has got “pulling” power; (4) It puts you in “Train” for a prize; (5) It expresses popular opinion.
—M. G. Collett.
Because they are safe, comfortable, cheap, fast and airy.
—Mrs. Clearie.
Because the setting is very natural and from the minute it comes on the screen it holds one's attention as there is very little writing. It shows also that the child who is telling her granny not to worry is quite safe and very comfortable. The colouring is also natural and not overdone as many of the slides are.
—Miss Pauline Gray.
Because it is the most realistic and a very good identification of how the Railways are run. Also the Government by advertising show to the people the way to travel.
—W. Ricketts.
Because it represents a service of Dominion-wide interest and benefit, as the increased use of the Railways brings with it a corresponding reduction in taxation. The slide is colourful and cheerful and portrays to advantage the first word of the well-known Railways slogan “Safety, Economy and Comfort.”
—Miss B. I. Petty.
Because it is a whole New Zealand industry which everybody should patronise. It pays to advertise and patrons to the Majestic Theatre wish to travel when they see it advertised on the screen. Myself for one.
Mrs. J. Thompson.
Railway passengers who pass through Mawhio nowadays often fail to notice its existence. There is no station there, not even a siding; just a general store and an hotel set down in the middle of a swampy flat with two or three farm-buildings in the distance and the telegraph wires humming their eternal song as the wind, which is seldom still hereabout, fans across them.
Things were very different in the autumn of 1887, however, on that evening when Frewan Lenzie, riding out of the cutting which had but lately been driven through the rising ground half a mile to the north, found himself confronted by what appeared to him in his innocence to be a veritable city.
On either side of the railway line was a wide expanse of well-trodden clay, baked hard with the heat of summer days and exhaling with every faint stirring of the air above it little puffs and whirls of dust which lent a ruddy tinge to the colouring of the scene.
Red is a heady, wanton colour, the colour of vigorous blood, of romance and danger; and Frewan's emotions as he lounged in his saddle on the threshold of this new life were compounded of these things. How he found them, how he progressed from stage to stage through the corridors of an erratic life is another story, of which this is only the beginning. Suffice it that on this night he gambled and drank rather more than his fill and woke on the morrow to find himself bereft of practically everything he possessed, and the mare, as a result of his misguided trust in the power of an ace-high straight, became the property of his cultured flax-plaiting acquaintance of the rail-head.
* * *
Two years rolled by, the railway crept slowly, by gorge and ravine and the rain-swept limestone bluffs, to invade the precincts of Te Marae. Settlers were coming to the valley in increasing numbers, and Mary Lenzie, now twenty, was to be married to the son of a neighbouring farmer. The day of the ceremony saw a great gathering at the Lenzie homestead, the driveway was lined with the gigs and buggies and saddle horses of neighbours, some of whom had come from fifty miles away. Farming men, jovial, red-faced, sweating with the unaccustomed restriction of starch and broadcloth, their wives in silk and sprigged poplin, whispering together in excited undertones. On the verandah the Maori women smoked and called to each other while their brown babies rolled on the steps into the flowerbeds. Alone in the cool depths of the library the laird waited with the wooden casket containing the Queen's Earrings clasped upon his knee.
Mary Lenzie was married, and after the toasts had been drunk and the pipers in the hall were fortifying themselves for fresh efforts, she changed her bridal dress for a costume more suitable for a twenty-mile drive, and gave the Earrings into Robert's hands as he helped her into the waiting carriage. Robert did not immediately return the jewels to their place beneath the hearthstone; to do so would have meant disturbing the guests, for it required the strength of two men to lift the stone. Instead, he took them to the library, and placing them in their casket, locked them in a drawer of the writing desk.
As he returned to the hall he collided with Frewan, who, unusually sober and aloof, was leaning against the jamb of the library door. He made some jesting remark and passed on, but later he was to recall the incident with tragic significance.
With the approach of evening the homestead glowed like a fairy castle with the radiance of a hundred lamps—the pipes skirled and with the clink of their glasses the ladies forgot their reserve and lifted their petticoats to the measure of reels and schottisches. Threading his way in and out through the dancers, leaving behind him always a blush or a gale of boisterous laughter, went Frewan, no longer sober or aloof, but riotously gay.
All too soon came midnight and the guests with lonely, half-formed roads to traverse, began to depart. By two's and three's the company dwindled until the last wheels had rattled down the drive, and the great hall was empty save for the laird and Robert and the pipers draining a final glass. Frewan was nowhere to be seen; doubtless he was upon some fool's errand of his own, and the laird sighing turned towards the library.
“I put the jewels in the drawer of the desk,” said Robert, “Wait now, I'll get one of the men here to help me lift the stone.” He stopped and stared aghast. The desk was broken open, the window swung wide in the night wind. Robert ran forward, the casket was there but the jewels had gone!
Servants and farmhands were roused, lanterns flashed in the darkness, the search of the house and grounds revealed no sign of Frewan. A search of the stables discovered the fastest horse in the district missing, and dawn found a jewel, one and only one of the Queen's Earrings, dropped in haste upon the grass beneath the library window.
* * *
There is very little bush standing in the valley nowadays, twin rails of steel traverse it from end to end and deeptoned whistles chime for Baker's crossing as express trains sweep through the dark.
Baker's Crossing is the name given to the road that, bearing north from the settlement, turns east across the railway tracks and winds up the hill to the Lenzie homestead. The old house is now separated from the farmlands by trim lawns hedged with privet. On the side sheltered from the shrewd southwind a gnarled medlar tree has grown to great size and here on sunny days old Mr. Robert Lenzie takes the air in a wheel chair.
Until recently he lived alone with his housekeeper and his granddaughter, Mary Craig. Every year Mary, for fear that she should become too rusticated in the peaceful valley, went to stay for a month with her aunt in the city. Her return from these excursions was always awaited with some
One fine summer day Robert Lenzie stowed a cargo of Sir Walter Scott into the flap of his wheel chair and trundled himself from the library into the hall. Here his housekeeper, who, in the absence of Mary Craig, anticipated all his movements, slipped an old plaid ulster about his shoulders and helped him down off the verandah steps. The view from the shade of the medlar tree was very fine, and Robert, who still enjoyed keen eyesight, watched for some minutes the activities of the little township below him. The north bound local train had just arrived and presently the figure of a tall young man appeared striding along the road in the direction of Baker's Crossing. Robert followed his movements with mild interest, and then, finding the glare of the heat-filled valley trying to his eyes, turned his attention to his book.
Ten minutes later he was surprised to hear himself addressed by name, and, looking up, saw the young man leaning his elbows rather insolently upon the top bar of the gate.
He appeared to be a very self-assured young man who wore good clothes and regarded the laird with candid grey eyes.
“Are you the brother of the late Frewan Lenzie of Melbourne?” he asked.
Robert stiffened; “That is as it may be,” he replied, not liking his visitor's manner. “Who are you?”
“His son,” the young man smiled faintly.
Robert raised his eyebrows. “That is not altogether to your advantage,” he said after a pause. “What have you come here for?”
“Not to get a hospitable welcome, it seems,” the young man retorted; then he cocked his head on one side with a quizzical air. “Shall we say,” he added, “that I came to make a deal with you.”
“I don't understand,” said old Robert coldly. “Thirty-five years ago your father alienated himself by a dishonourable act, and his name was struck out of the family records. As his son you have no claim upon my hospitality, and I should be obliged if you would remove yourself as soon as possible.”
He made a gesture of dismissal and returned his gaze to the pages of his book. The gate clicked and he looked up sharply. The young man stood on the grass before him, his right hand was extended and in the centre of his palm, just out of reach there glistened a fire opal set in a whorl of beaten gold, the whole forming a pendant for a lady's ear. Robert's knuckles whitened on the arms of his chair, and forgetting his impotence, he struggled to rise. The young man closed his hand. “I don't have to tell you what that is,” he remarked, and, stepping back a pace, continued, “my father died a month ago, as a result of sunstroke, whiskey, and an unfortunate investment at Moonee Ponds. He was able to speak before he died, however, and told me that if I could beat his creditors to it I should find my inheritance in a safety deposit box, the key to which he gave me. I found this trinket and a note; shall I read the note to you?”
Robert nodded, and the young man drew a paper from his pocket, and smoothing it out read: “This jewel is one of a pair, without the other it is of little value, together they are worth possibly ten thousand pounds. I don't know where the other one is, as I lost it the night they came into my possession. It is just possible that my half-brother Robert Lenzie of Te Marae, New Zealand, may have it. If he has, and you can persuade him to part with it, you will have more than earned your inheritance.”
For some minutes there was silence in the garden, then,
“Frewan was noted for his perverted sense of humour,” said old Robert. “Ten thousand pounds, dear land!”
“It's an underestimate,” the young man retorted, “a dealer in Sydney told me that if it can be proved that they are really the Queen's Earrings the pair is worth half as much again.”
“Did he so?” old Robert nodded. “Tell me, what is your name, lad?”
“Malcolm.”
“Aye—it's a grand name. How old are you, Malcolm?”
“Twenty-eight—have you got the other earring?”
“I have,” old Robert chuckled dryly, “but as your father rightly says, you will have earned more than their value if you can persuade me to part with it.”
“But, good Lord, the things are as good as sold. You'd get over seven thousand pounds as your share, allowing for commission and so on. Don't you want the money?”
“No,” said old Robert gently.
“But,” the young man expostulated, the laird silenced him with upheld hand. “Malcolm,” he said, “You know these gems by their name of the Queen's Earrings, do you know their
“Will you have a drink?” He rang a bell attached to the arm of his wheel chair. “Mrs. Meadow will bring a chair for you.”
“Now,” he said when, some minutes later, the story was told, “You see where you stand. You have no real right to the jewel, but on the other hand you are the only heir bearing the name of Lenzie, which, in spite of the fact that your father was disowned, deserves some consideration. I don't think that under any circumstances you could have laid claim to the jewel at my death; in any case, I don't intend to die for a long time yet.”
He noted the young man's glance towards the invalid chair. “This is only the result of riding a clumsy-footed horse. The position as far as you are concerned resolves itself into one of stalemate.” He paused and regarded the young man thoughtfully. “What do you do for a living, Malcolm?”
“Hitherto,” replied Malcolm coolly, “Father and I managed to get along well enough by selling the wrong kind of stock to the right kind of people, a little judicious card-playing and the ponies. Of course, we had our ups and downs, but the downs were becoming rather too much of a habit before he died. These jewels have all the earmarks of a very substantial ‘up.’”
“It's a great pity,” old Robert mused half to himself. “You're a Lenzie really—you're the Lenzie colouring and build, and I believe that if you'd had half a chance, you'd bear a Lenzie character. Somebody ought to give you a chance—aye—somebody—.” His voice tailed away into silence, and to Malcolm the old man appeared to doze. He roused again in a minute, however, and “Malcolm,” he said, “I think you would find that life you led with your father distasteful at times, distasteful because it carried no stability, no pride of place. I think you must have felt a lack of certain vital things to which you could not put a name, things which are here”—he embraced the house and valley with a sweep of his arm, “and which I promise you, you will find here if you will consent to be my guest for a few days. Understand,” he added, noticing the young man's sudden suspicion, “this is no confidence trick, you are free to come and go as you like and no reference will be made to the jewels until you have had a chance to become acquainted with the conditions of your birthright, shall we say in a week's time.”
So Malcolm, who had come to despoil a treasure, agreed not very graciously, to stay awhile and humour old Robert's belief that the atmosphere of Te Marae could alter his point of view regarding the relative values of hard cash and sentiment. He felt it was dangerous to temporize, but at the moment he could see no other way to achieve his purpose. It was a battle of wits in which old Robert, playing on Malcolm's inherent good qualities, held the dominant position. He planned that Malcolm should work with his hands, read in the library, and become aware of man's kinship with all living, growing things. Perhaps his claims would have been justified and his plan brought to fruition; certainly they were making progress, when, on the second day of Malcolm's stay, the telephone rang with a message that Mary Craig was returning a week earlier than expected, and Fate took a hand in the game.
A week slipped by, a week in which Malcolm and Mary played tennis together, rode together, drove and danced, and in the scented dusk of summer evenings wandered beneath the trees at Te Marae.
Old Robert watched rather helplessly from his wheel-chair, and then late one evening summoned Malcolm to the library.
“Malcolm,” he said, coming abruptly to the point, “it is time for us to discuss that little matter of the jewels. I had hoped to put it off a little longer, but the time for that is past now.” He leaned back in his chair. “I am getting old,” he said brusquely, “if I were not, why should I be trying to order the affairs of younger people. You would call Mary a thoroughly modern young woman, would you not?”
“I would,” replied Malcolm.
“Aye—but not modern enough to be proof against falling in love?”
“I thought this was to be a discussion about jewels,” Malcolm protested.
“It is, and it seems that fortune or misfortune, which ever you like to call it, has thrown them in your way.”
Old Robert lifted a wooden casket from the drawer of his desk, and removed from it the single earring it contained. He regarded it thoughtfully a moment and then, leaning forward, laid it in front of Malcolm.
“But I don't understand”—Malcolm began.
“Neither do I,” old Robert answered grimly, “how I ever came to make the mistake of thinking I could make a gentleman of you. You're your father's son, Malcolm, with all his capacity for mischief. During this past week I have watched you with Mary. Noticed the way you gained her sympathy and affection and, worst of all, noticed the response to your blandishments in her eyes.
“For the past twelve years Mary has lived with me as my daughter, she thinks and lives as I do. If she knew what you really are and why you are here it would break her heart. I won't have that and I believe it is not too late to save her pain on your account. I have not the money to buy you off, so I am giving you this lesser treasure on the understanding that you leave at once.”
There followed a tense silence, in which Malcolm glowered at the old man with the blood of anger in his face. Presently, however, he lowered his eyes from the cold grey stare and rose to his feet. He matched the jewels thoughtfully in his palm and then slipped them into his pocket.
“I'll say good-bye now,” he said shortly. “I can catch a train from the Junction at daylight.”
The laird made no sign that he either saw or heard him, and Malcolm, glad to escape from his accusing presence,
An hour later Mary Craig woke in the darkness of her room with an unreasoning sense of fear. The night was very still, and it seemed to her that stealthy footsteps crossed the verandah. Then a creak and the click of a latch. Mary rose swiftly, and throwing a wrap about her shoulders, stepped into the hall. The library door was ajar and a stooping figure appeared blackly silhouetted against the lighter square of the window beyond it. The figure moved, and Mary, her heart beating tumultuously, crossed the hall and felt for the light switch behind the library door.
“Malcolm,” she gasped, as light flooded the room, and then, seeing what he held in his hand, “You—a—a thief!”
He straightened himself with a shrug, and the Queen's Earrings tinkled upon the desk top.
Slowly as though drawn by some hypnotic impulse, Mary crossed the room to his side. The jewels glinted redly against the dark wood.
“Two,” she whispered. She took them in her hand, and lifting the lid of the Maori casket, dropped them into their velvet bed. “Perhaps you had better go now,” she said, raising tear-filled eyes to Malcolm’s.
He turned and had taken no more than a step towards the French windows when a familiar voice bade him stop. The laird faced them in his wheel chair.
“Give me the casket, Mary,” he said. “I think we both owe Malcolm an apology. I gave him these jewels not an hour ago because I believed him capable of stealing; he was not as you thought, stealing, Mary, but returning them,” he paused, and glanced quizzically from one to the other, then grasping the wheels of his chair, turned himself about.
“I don't think, lad, that you'll be in time to catch that early train,” he said over his shoulder, “and besides, I'll be needing a strong man to help lift the old hearthstone in the morning.”
* * *
Travellers by any one of the night expresses might have noticed not long ago that the old house upon the hillside to the east of Baker's Crossing was brightly illuminated. Had the train stopped they would have heard the skirl of pipes and the shuffle of dancing feet, for there was a great gathering at the Lenzie homestead. The driveway was lined with the cars of neighbours, some of whom had come from fifty miles away, to the marriage of Malcolm Lenzie, whose bride wore in her ears the Queen's Earrings.
In the September number of this Magazine the story of the historic Mahuhu canoe was told. This vessel's crew from Hawaiki settled at Kaipara Heads, where there was then a low-lying island named Taporapora; it was destroyed by a great storm, and only sandbanks awash at low tide mark the place. Several generations later, when the land on the Kaipara and Northern Wairoa shores was peopled by two rival tribes, the Ngati-Whatua and the Ngati-Awa, a war arose over a woman which led to the complete conquest of the Kaipara country by the former tribe. The original tradition of this romantic and tragic episode in ancient Maori life was sent to me by Mr. George Graham, of the Akarana Maori Association, Auckland; he is the leading authority on the early history of the Northern tribes. He heard it from the old people of the Kaipara nearly fifty years ago.
At Ripiro, on the West Coast north of Kaipara Heads, there was a fortified pa of the Ngati-Whatua. In that pa, said the story as narrated to Mr. Graham by the old men of the Ngati-Whatua, the conquerors, there lived the young chieftainess Te Hana. She was a puhi, a girl debarred from the transient love affairs of the village; she was betrothed by her elders to a relation, a young chief named Rangiwhapapa.
There came on a visit to the pa at Ripiro a party of warriors of Ngati-Awa to make peace with the invaders from the north. Their chief was named Rangi-taurewa (to avoid confusion with the other Rangi I shall call him Taurewa). He had already seen the beautiful puhi, and he greatly desired her as his wife. As she was to all intent a sacred girl, tapu to all but her intended husband, he could not ask her people for her, so he resorted to the ancient device of casting a love-spell upon her.
This charm for love the Maoris call Atahu; it consists of obtaining some
portion of her garments, her hair, or anything else belonging to her, and reciting certain prayers over them. Taurewa contrived, in the tribe's meeting-house at night, to pluck off some of the huka-huka, the hanging thrums or twisted threads of her woven flax cloak, and also to touch her with the blade of his wooden weapon, the taiaha
When he returned to his home at Okahukura, on the shore of Kaipara Harbour, he gave the thread and the taiaha to his tohunga, the wise man and magician Hawai.
This useful man performed the ritual to make the atahu successful. It was Hawai, in fact, who had advised him how to secure the affections of the lady, and that actually was the reason for his visit to Ripiro. The peacemaking mission was only a pretext for getting close to the girl on whom he had set his fancy. When all this was made known in the after time, the cunning lover's name became a kind of byword among the people, and the proverbial expressions, “Nga mahi hangareka a Rangi-taurewa” (“the deceitful deeds of Rangi-taurewa”) signifies all manner of masculine tricks and beguilements.
The atahu was successfully cast. The young woman Te Hana was seized by an irresistible impulse of love for the chief who had secretly and magically set his seal of possession on her. She stole away from her home in the night, taking with her one companion, her servant maid. She travelled across the sandhills to the shore of Kaipara. Coming to Tauhara, she laid her garments on a flat rock (papa) at the foot of the pa there; that rock is still known as “Te Papa o Te Hana.” Then she and her companion entered the sea to swim across the harbour to Manu-kapua; that was Taurewa's home.
“Do not look behind you,” said Te Hana to her servant when they began the swim. But when they were far out in mid-harbour on that long swim, the young woman disobeyed, and looked behind at the shore they had left. For that act she was turned into stone; she instantly became a rock, and there that rock stands to this day out in the harbour.
Te Hana safely reached the shore and joyfully joined her lover who had so skilfully made her his own. There they lived together, defying all the Maori laws which guarded a puhi. Te Hana's people, of course, soon missed her, but they found only her clothing on the rock. They knew she had not been drowned but had swum the harbour to join her man.
But the lovers were not left undisturbed for long. The chief to whom Te Hana had been betrothed, the young warrior Rangi-whapapa, raised a large fighting party to avenge the insult and the injury and regain his promised wife. He invaded the district of Okahukura and captured many villages of the tribe to which the wife-stealer belonged, the Ngati-Awa, or Ngati-Rongo. At last he reached and besieged the stockaded village at Manu-kapua where Te Hana was living with Taurewa.
The pa was assaulted, and when the chieftainess saw that it would very presently be captured she climbed up on the roof of the carved meeting-house called “Tutangi-mamae.” She sat there, astride the ridge pole, at the front of the house above the porch. She called to the people, who were rushing about in terror and despair, to run in beneath her and take refuge in the house. Her act in bestriding the entrance ensured safety for all in the house. In accordance with custom all these were spared by the conquering hero Rangiwhapapa. As for Taurewa, the too-cunning lover, he was killed there, desperately defending the gateway in the stockade.
Thus was the atahu spell destroyed. Te Hana turned to Rangi-whapapa, and the two became man and wife, as was destined from the beginning. The unlawful love romance had caused many slayings and great destruction and it was to cost more yet, for the Ngatiwhatua did not rest until they had completely conquered the country on the shores of Kaipara Harbour. Later they extended their wars to the south and they successfully invaded the Tamaki country, where the city of Auckland spreads over the hills and plain.
TheMaheno has breasted the swell of the South Pacific for the last time; on the sands of Fraser Island, off the Australian Coast, the remains of her once familiar hulk are being slowly pounded by the waves she so often conquered. But in the hearts of many people the world over, she still holds a warm spot; as a participant in the Dominion's economic development her name holds a proud place in New Zealand history.
Built at the Clyde yards of Wm. Denny & Bros., Dumbarton, a firm which has constructed so many well-known ships of the Union Company's fleet, the Maheno was launched in September, 1905. A steel ship of 5,323 gross tons and 6,000 Indicated H.P. developed by direct turbines and three propellers, she had a length of 400 feet, beam 50 feet, and depth 33 feet 6 inches. On the trial trip she ran 17.5 knots. The Maheno had the distinction of being the first turbine steamer to cross the Pacific, and she was only the second to arrive in Australia, the first being the Loongana, built by Dennys in 1904 for the Melbourne-Launceston service.
The Maheno’s arrival in Australia caused somewhat of a sensation. After a fast run across the Australian Bight, her engineers prepared her at Melbourne for a speed test to Sydney. On the 14th November, 1905, she swung into Port Jackson, having completed the 570-mile run from Melbourne in the record time of 29 hours 54 minutes. Not content with this performance, she immediately left Sydney and crossed to Wellington (1,189 miles) in the phenomenal time of two days 23 hours. It is only in recent years that the Maheno’s figures have been lowered, and that was by the Monowai, and within the last month by the new liner, Awatea. The Tahiti, which was one of the Union Co.'s fastest turbines, never came within less than an hour of the Maheno’s time.
Up till the Maheno's arrival, the record for the run across Cook Strait from Wellington to Lyttelton was held by the Union Co.'s ocean greyhound of former days, the Rotomahana, with 10 hours 35 minutes for the 173 miles. On the 15th December, 1905, the Maheno slipped across in 9 hours 11 minutes, a record which stood for many years, but which has now been lowered by both the Wahine and the Rangatira, and also by H.M.S. Dunedin and H.M.S. Diomede.
With performances such as these to her credit, the Maheno's entry, in 1906, into the Vancouver-Auckland-Sydney service was naturally a notable one. For years she ran with the greatest regularity, at times on the All-Red route to Vancouver, and at other times on the San Francisco run.
The Maheno is probably best remembered for her War-time service as one of His Majesty's New Zealand Hospital Ships. In 1915 the people of New Zealand subscribed a fund for the purpose of fitting out a hospital ship for use in the Gallipoli Campaign, and for bringing back badly wounded soldiers to New Zealand. For this purpose was required a ship which was fast enough to avoid possible merchant-ship enemy craft, was a comfortable seaboat, and on which the wards would be airy and well-ventilated. The Maheno was selected as being the most suitable vessel available, and the task of re-fitting her was commenced. The then Governor-General, Lord Liverpool, was personally interested in this work, and no effort or expense was spared in ensuring that her equipment was complete, and that the wounded soldiers she was to carry would have the very best of comfort and attention.
The Maheno received five different charters during her War service. On the 11th July, 1915, commenced the first charter, when she steamed slowly out of Wellington Harbour on her way to Anzac. After 10 weeks' work at Anzac and in the Mediterranean, the ship proceeded to England, returning again after having been placed in dry dock. At Mudros it was necessary to repair the X-ray equipment, which had been damaged during a severe storm in the Bay of Biscay. Leaving there the Maheno picked up and took in tow a disabled hospital barge, arriving at Anzac once more on the 11th November. Here the ship filled up with patients and left for Alexandria, where orders were received to proceed to New Zealand. At Port Said a full complement of New Zealand patients was embarked. After an uneventful voyage, the Maheno arrived at Auckland on New Year's Day, 1916, and proceeded to disembark patients there, and at Wellington, Lyttelton and Dunedin.
On the 26th January, 1916, the ship left Wellington on her second charter, arriving back again about the middle of April with 326 invalids. On the 28th April she left Port Chalmers and proceeded to Southampton. For about four months, the Maheno was employed between French and English ports transporting British wounded who were arriving in train loads from the big Somme offensive. On these trips the ship was filled from stem to stern, the decks having been converted into wards by the hanging of canvas screens all round the ship. The usual complement was over 1,000 patients. After embarking 380 New Zealand sick and wounded,
Maheno had a busy time, crossing the channel 40 times. The constant danger from enemy mines and the frequent altering of the course through the presence of the British minefields, made navigation of the 120 miles from port to port a strenuous and trying task, which placed a heavy strain on the sailing staff of the ship. The Marama, which had by this time been commissioned as a hospital ship, was also engaged on this work; and during this period the Maheno was occasionally in port alongside the famous Cunard Transatlantic liner, Aquitania, which was the largest hospital ship afloat.
On the 18th January, 1917, the Maheno was re-commissioned at Lyttelton on her third charter. After some work in Mesopotamia, she arrived at Liverpool in March. The weather was intensely cold, icicles hanging everywhere. After embarking 379 sick and wounded the ship sailed for Auckland. Through the carelessness of the pilot, the ship ran aground in the Suez Canal, and was stuck fast in the mud for about 17 hours. After three weeks at Port Chalmers over-hauling and refitting, the Maheno left on the 30th May for England via South Africa. The day before sailing, orders were received that, in accordance with War Office instructions, no nurses were to be carried on Hospital Ships, and the nursing staff, very reluctantly, had to leave the ship. At Sierra Leone a raider was encountered, but was easily shaken off. Throughout her commission, the Maheno received a number of messages regarding enemy raiders, but the crew were happy in the knowledge that no merchant ship raider could catch the Maheno. On the 8th August, 378 patients were embarked and the ship sailed for New Zealand via Panama, arriving at Auckland on the 16th September, having established a world's record of actual steaming time from New Zealand to New Zealand round the world in 76 days 12 hours.
The fourth charter commenced on the 20th October, 1917, when the ship left Port Chalmers for England via South Africa, arriving back in Auckland on January 18th, 1918. Leaving again on the 1st March, she arrived back at the end of May.
On the 7th July, the ship left Port Chalmers, on the fifth charter, for England via Suez, arriving back in New Zealand on the 20th October. Leaving again on the 15th December for Southampton, the ship returned via Panama to New Zealand, arriving on the 22nd April, 1919. Port Chalmers was reached on the 26th April, and here the vessel's last commission in His Majesty's service ended when she was placed in dry dock for re-fitting prior to being handed back to the Union Steamship Company.
Since the War, the Maheno was engaged mainly on the inter-colonial service. In 1929, when a weekly Dunedin-Bluff-Melbourne service was recommenced, she was placed on this run in conjunction with the Manuka. This ill-fated service was short-lived, and ceased when the Manuka was unfortunately wrecked at Long Point in December, 1929. In January, 1931, the Maheno was laid up at Port Chalmers, where, on account of the prevailing depressed shipping conditions, she remained for nearly four years. The Melbourne Centenary celebrations gave an incentive to the re-establishment of the Dunedin-Bluff-Melbourne service, and the Maheno was re-commissioned for this purpose. After an extensive overhaul and re-fit, she presented a bright and gleaming spectacle as she left Port Chalmers on October 30th, 1934, on her first voyage in the revived service—but it was to be a term of short duration.
Good ships, like all good servants, must one day retire, and in June, 1935, after nearly 30 years' valuable service, an announcement was made that the Maheno had been sold to shipbreakers in Japan. Thus, on the 3rd July the vessel, stripped of most fittings, left Sydney on her last voyage. It was also her last battle with the elements, for in a hurricane off the Queensland Coast, she broke her moorings and piled-up on Fraser Island.
In the Carillon at Wellington the ship's bell and nameplate may be viewed, two appreciated souvenirs of one of the pioneer greyhounds of the Pacific.
I was turning out an old trunk filled with faded odds and ends which belonged to my grandmother, who, by the way, was among the first if not the first white child to be born in New Zealand. She was born in the Bay of Islands. Some of these old possessions were wrapped in newspapers, and curiosity prompted me to scan them—yellow with age as they were. I found they were London papers, and one arrested my attention. A letter from a colonist is as follows:—
“May 6th, 1867.
“Dear Sir,—Having sojourned in Wellington for three years, we have now settled in Whanganui, and it may be that some friends in the Home country may like to hear of us in our new country in these far-off islands, of busy colonial life and prosperity. Whanganui is from Wellington about twelve hours steaming, by land the coaches twice a week perform the journey of 150 miles in a day-and-a-half, not travelling in the night. There are often two or three steamers moored at the wharf alongside the main street, and large quantities of cattle and other provisions are taken from this fruitful district to the wild and rugged regions of Westland, which is reached in about two days. The population of the town is about 2,500. There is a good public school, a Church of England, and a free Church of Scotland. The country is exceedingly fine. Among the settlers are some families who, some years ago, moved from New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, and some hundreds of persons from other colonies, and settled in Waipu, in the north, where they now have a flourishing colony. Many of these excellent people I know well; some are nearly eighty years of age and emigrated from Scotland when in their teens. They are among the best colonists, thrifty, clever, ingenious. One family in Whanganui are now on a visit to North America, and there is a movement on foot for forming a party, purchasing a ship by shares, the shareholders to come on here in their own vessel to settle with their old friends in the more genial colony of New Zealand. Poverty is hardly known by twenty inhabitants, and these are either women (deserted by their husbands) with small children, or worthless idlers whom nothing could raise to independence. In the outskirts, you would suppose from the smallness of the dwellings that the inmates were day labourers, but on close acquaintance you would find that some of them were carriers who remove goods from the wharf to the merchants' stores, others supply the town with milk, while with a few exceptions all live on their own freehold and are owners of property to the value of £200 to £1,000 or £2,000. The country is well adapted to support a large population extending sixty or a hundred miles north or south, and there will no doubt be, after a few years, a populous town and ample farms in abundance. We are about to lose the remainder of the troops, and no one appears at all anxious as to what will come when they are gone, although we are within fifty miles of the worst tribes of natives. But they are not likely again to try their strength; and if they should be so reckless the colonists will come smartly upon them and soon silence them. Among our remote settlers there is hardly more thought of danger than in the quiet farms of England. The war is past, and groups of eager land seekers are constantly penetrating the country, ready to pay from a pound to three pounds per acre for country quite in the state of nature.“—“Jasmine.”
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An interesting feature of modern life is the increasing popularity of pen-friendship between erstwhile strangers. This method of communication is all to the good for a country like New Zealand—cut off from the rest of the world.
There is no other medium to equal personal correspondence for imparting a true knowledge and appreciation of the actual conditions prevailing in those parts of the world which are only read about by most of us.
A few people write in Esperanto, and their number is steadily increasing. Good progress is being made by the British Esperanto Association. Next year, 1937, will be the fiftieth year since Dr. Zamanhof introduced Esperanto to the world, and a special Jubilee Congress is to be held at Warsaw, where Dr. Zamanhof lived and died.
Many New Zealanders are planning to go Home for the Coronation. There is yet time to learn Esperanto and join the group for a thrilling holiday in the quaint old Polish town. Fancy, meeting one's pen-friends from all over the globe!—“Artful Dodger.”
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One autumn day the North wind which had been asleep all the summer, suddenly woke up and began to rage through the trees and round the cottage on Pudding Hill. Leaves and twigs went flying from the trees, windows rattled, and all the animals retreated into their nests and burrows as the gusts grew fiercer and fiercer.
Mr. Tom and Jock ran round to the back door of the cottage, and as soon as it was opened scuttled inside and presently were dozing in front of the fire.
Miss Amelia, the tortoise, who always became sleepy and rather dazed when the weather turned cold, crawled in amongst the broken flower pots under the tank stand, and drew her head under her shell. She was very uncomfortable and knew there was a much warmer place somewhere, but she couldn't remember where. So she just stayed where she was and said over and over to herself, “You'll be alright, dear, it isn't going to rain,” and the North Wind went “Wheeeeee” all round the tank stand and picked up a handful of dust off the drying green and threw it in at Joe's front door up in the gum tree.
“Joe, as you know, was the Morepork, and a fine temper he was getting in with the silly tricks the wind was playing.
He liked to sleep during the day, but sleep was out of the question, for the tree groaned and swayed, and every now and then his front door blew open with a bang. Every time it opened, Joe had to get up and shut it, and at last he put his table in front of it, and on the table he stood his chair and his alarm clock, and the bowl that he had his breakfast out of.
“Now,” he said to the North Wind, “see if you can blow that in?” and he went back to bed chuckling to think how clever he was.
And the North Wind went “Wheeeooo,” and the door flew open and knocked the table over. The chair fell down with a clatter, and the alarm clock ran all round the room saying “buzz-buzz-buzz—it's time to get up!” and the breakfast bowl went straight up in the air and came down on Joe's head like a helmet.
Joe scrambled out of bed and shook his fist out of the door, and very comical he looked with the bowl still stuck on his head and his feathers all blown endways. “You think that's funny,” he shouted, “well I won't shut my door any more, you see, then you won't be able to—.” Here he stopped shouting because a dreadful sight had caught his eye. Peter Possum, who lived lower down the old gum tree had been out on the end of his branch when the wind started to blow, and now he couldn't get back, and as Joe looked it seemed as though the North Wind was trying to tear him loose and send him flying away over the hill tops.
But Peter was hanging on with all his claws, and although he could hardly open his eyes the North Wind could not move him, which made it very angry, so that presently it stopped trying to blow him straight off and shifted round first to one side and then the other. Peter Possum still hung on tight, but the branch lashed up and down and from side to side until, suddenly, it went “crick”—and then “Crack”—and to Joe's horror broke off altogether and went whirling away over the hill with Peter still clinging to it.
When Joe saw that happen, he dived straight out of his doorway without stopping to think about anything except that he must tell the other Animals to go to the rescue of Peter Possum. Perhaps the North Wind was surprised at his boldness—or perhaps it thought it had done enough damage for the moment—at any rate it did not blow quite so hard for a few minutes; although Joe who had been flying for years, said afterwards that he had never been out in such a gale. He flew round the corner of the cottage and bumped his head against a window-pane, and because he was still wearing his breakfast bowl he went straight through into the room where Mr. Tom and Jock were sleeping in front of the fire.
Mr. Tom jumped up with his back arched and his fur all on end, and Jock who had been draming about a tennis ball, barked and ran under the sofa to kill it. Presently, however when they found it was only Joe they quietened down and listened to what he had to say.
“This is serious,” said Mr. Tom, “which way did he go?”
“South east by south,” answered Joe, “help me to get this thing off
While the people of the cottage were clearing up the mess where Joe had come through the window, the three of them ran outside and Joe flew up into the air, and was whirled away by the wind in a south easterly direction. As he went, he said to himself, “My goodness, I shall never be able to fly back against this.” But he kept a very sharp look-out, and presently, after he had crossed the top of Pudding Hill, he spied the branch of the old gum tree caught in the fence that bound the edge of a stone quarry on the other side. He swooped down towards it and found Peter Possum still on the branch, but no better off, for the end of the branch over-hung the edge of the quarry, and poor Peter was too tired and frightened to do anything but cling to the end of it.
The North Wind could not blow so hard down here, because it was sheltered by the top of Pudding Hill, and Joe flew round the end of the branch and said, “Hold on tight Peter, the others will be here soon,” then he settled on the bank by the fence and tried to cheer Peter up. But Peter wasn't very cheerful. “I'm afraid the North Wind will shake the branch loose,” he said, “and then where shall I be?”
Joe peered over the edge of the quarry; it certainly was a very long way down—for one who couldn't fly.
“Well,” he said, “we must try and look on the bright side,” and he went on talking about other things.
Every now and again the North Wind would rush down the hillside and give the branch a shake, and once Peter Possum tried to crawl up the branch to safety, but it wobbled and shook so much that he gave up the idea.
At last, after what seemed to Peter a lifetime, they saw the other Animals coming over the hill top. Mr. Tom and Jock came first. Jock held the end of a piece of rope in his mouth, and then Horace, the Hedgehog, and Sam, his son, and a lot of other little Animals that kept on being blown over, which they knew must be the Field Mice, and a long way behind everybody else, Miss Amelia, going very slowly.
When they arrived, Joe flew out with the rope and Peter took the end of it in his mouth, then the others pulled as though it were a tug-of-war, while Peter, very cautiously crawled along the branch. He had nearly reached the bank and was just about to let go of the rope when the North Wind suddenly howled down the hill and the branch gave a sort of groan and dropped down into the quarry.
So there was Peter hanging over the edge of the quarry like a spider on its string, and there was nothing to keep him from following the branch down below except the Animals pulling at the other end of the rope.
Luckily for him they kept on pulling. They pulled with their eyes shut and their teeth set. They pulled until Peter reached the firm ground, and they went on pulling after he had let go of the rope. Then they all sat down hard, and somehow or other the Field Mice were underneath everybody else, which was bad for them and the other Animals because they pinched and nipped and scratched until they were able to breathe again.
Then, when they were all sorted out, they started home again, and on the way they met Miss Amelia who was still coming down the hill, so they turned her round and Joe walked with her because the North Wind was much too strong for him to fly against.
When they at last got back to Pudding Hill, the people of the cottage put Peter to bed in the wash-house, because his own home was blown away, and Joe and Miss Amelia went to sleep there too. And the North Wind, when it found that it could not do any more damage, soon blew itself out, for which everyone was very thankful.
Something in the nature of a real treat for New Zealanders is promised this summer; something of a sporting and—more important—educational nature. New Zealand is to be honoured by the visit of an Australian Surf-and-Life-Saving team. How many times have we sat in the gloom of a movie-theatre and thrilled at the masterly marching, marvellous physique and healthy appearance of the surf-teams parading on Bondi Beach? And soon the opportunity of seeing Australia's best surf-men in action will be given New Zealanders. We in New Zealand have a great heritage in our beaches and sometimes insufficient thought is given the self-sacrifice of time and pleasure of those who voluntarily patrol the surfing sections. But are the Australian surfers better than our own local product? The test will come at the New Zealand Surf and Life-Saving championships which will be held at Lyall Bay on February 13th and 14th.
The Olympic Games movement has been termed “The International Brotherhood of Sport,” and supporters of the ideals of the Olympic gatherings have claimed that there is more likelihood of everlasting peace being attained through international sport than by any political pacts.
An amazing example of what attitude can be adopted towards the Olympic is given in “The Amateur Athlete,” the official publication of the American Amateur Athletic Union. Here is an extract from an article:—
“Germany, which came along so tremendously in the 1936 Olympics, already is preparing assiduously for the 1940 Games in Tokyo.
“Four special airships have been ordered to be constructed, so that athletes will be transported to far-off Japan in three days instead of three weeks.
“In addition, all firms with eight employees or more are establishing funds to send a number of workers to the Olympics in Japan. Germany expects to have 25,000 followers at the Games in Japan.
“Incidentally, the Games cost Germany 775,000,000 marks. Originally the Organising Committee had only asked for 18,000,000 marks. Even as to the original amount there was a divided opinion between the mass and specialist groups as to whether Germany should go ahead.
“Chancellor Hitler, however, asked for the figures on what a single battleship cost and was informed that the price was approximately 1,000 million marks. Whereupon he declared that the Olympics were worth more than a single battleship and should be done up in style. He reconciled both groups and the drive was on.
“The upshot has been an unbelievable athletic renaissance in Germany.”
New Zealand can never hope to organise athletic exercises on the same grand scale as that which characterised the 11th Olympic Games, but there is one matter in which a little attention may bring forth bounteous results. I refer to the encouragement, the proper systematic encouragement of the Maori race in sport.
In Rugby football the prowess of the Maori players needs no stressing, but what has been done by our coloured brothers in Rugby fields could easily be eclipsed in other branches of sport.
A certain amount of organisation has been done by the swimming authorities, and the rise to the forefront of Billy Whareaiti and the juvenile star, Nawe Kira, should serve to impress on officials the real talent available. Maoris are at home in the water, and what a great advertisement it would be for the Dominion if New Zealand could send a fully representative team of Maori competitors to the Olympic Games in Japan in 1940.
Four years hence! Four years soon pass by and before we know it the Games will be here again. In the meantime there is room for organisation in sport.
What the swimming world can gain by encouraging the Maori competitors applies equally as forcibly to the track and field section. Maoris are blessed with that mysterious “something” that eludes most European athletes—balance and rhythm. Watch a Maori compete in the hop-step-and-jump and you will see the perfect example of timing and synchronisation. Even if he has never had ten minutes of instruction he will have an advantage over the other competitors. Many years ago I saw Maori athletes getting within a short distance of the New Zealand record for the hop-step-and-jump—and they were jumping without any assistance from spiked shoes!
There is a chance that field hockey at the Olympic Games will see New Zealand representation for the first time. To assist in securing funds for the sending of a team it is suggested that a small levy be made on each player in the Dominion. This step was adopted by amateur athletes in New Zealand many years ago and the shillings soon amount to pounds.
When the New Zealand cricketing authorities lost a considerable sum of money as the result of bad weather
One of New Zealand's most promising pole-vaulters, M. V. Blake, who won the National and New Zealand University Championships last season, has left New Zealand to link up with the Royal Air Force in England. Blake may come under the eye of Captain F. A. M. Webster, well-known athletic coach and father of Dick Webster, English champion pole-vaulter, in which case he will be fortunate. Captain Webster has a soft spot in his heart for New Zealanders and played a big part in the improvement made by Stan. Lay in throwing the javelin. Under Webster's tuition, and within a fortnight, Lay added twenty feet to his previous best javelin throwing figures!
New Zealand will soon be entertaining Jack Lovelock, her first Olympic track and field victor. Lovelock has come a long way to say “Hello” to his folk—has, perhaps, competed in his last race—and is assured of a hearty welcome. There is a chance that he will return in the future to take up an important Government appointment having to do with the welfare of the physical condition of young New Zealanders. New Zealand has on many occasions been accused of failing to offer remunerative positions to her Rhodes Scholars on the completion of their studies, with the result that they have been compelled to accept positions abroad. In Lovelock's case it seems that something may be done to atone for past errors.
A problem to be faced with the introduction of the 40-hour, five-day week, is that of finding sufficient space to carry the number of people who desire to participate in outdoor sport. In particular does this apply to tennis. Take Wellington as an example. It is almost impossible to link up with a tennis club—there's no vacancies in the waiting lists and few vacant sections (except on the sides of the hills) where courts may be built. The Municipal courts at Miramar, many miles from the City, are crowded every week-end and would-be players willingly—more or less, but willing all the same—await their turn to get a game. The same applies in the winter to golf. With the introduction of Daylight Saving and now the 40-hour week, our political administrators have set a problem which will have to be faced—where are the citizens going to spend their leisure?
New Zealand has been well to the fore in the cables during recent months. What with Lovelock winning at the Olympic Games, Clouston occupying a prominent position—at one stage—in the Johannesburg air race, and Jean Batten setting new figures for the England to Australia air route these little islands have been in the limelight.
“Bai Jove, old thing, your cigarettes are weally top-hole, doncheknow.” Thus the young new chum in the plus-fours to his friend in the opposite corner of a first-class “smoker.” “Ya as, weally, honah bwight. Where chew say you bought them, deah boy?” “I didn't buy them. I roll them myself.” “Not weally? Then what's your tobacco, old chappie, if I may ask? I'd like so much to get some, donchew-know.” “No difficulty about that,” smiled his cobber. “Any tobacconist will supply you. Ask for a tin of River-head Gold. It's one of the toasted brands.” “Well, I've nevah smoked any cigarette tobacco that I like bettah.” “There isn't any better, Algy,” replied his friend. “But why toasted, old man?” “Toasting eliminates the nicotine, so you get a clean, fresh and fragrant smoke. Harmless, too. Also cheap. I can make ten full-sized cigarettes for 4d.” Just fancy! “Buy moah toasted brands, old sport?” “Yes, four, Desert Gold (another splendid toasted blend), and three for the pipe, Cavendish, Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), and Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead).”*
“Yes. Coming! Lend me a handkie, will you? I've another glove somewhere—”
Rummaging frantically, Meg achieved the glove, incidentally rumpling a pile of freshly-laundered undies. Half-shutting the drawer, which dripped a disconsolate stocking, Meg glanced with distaste at the littered dressing-table—hair clips, jars and their tops, a golf tee, two pennies, last night's corsage posy, a pink Wool-worth ticket. Deciding that she hadn't a minute to tidy the mess, she sped down the stairs and arrived at the front door seemingly unruffled, cool and fresh as the spring day itself.
To Meg, outings always seemed to start with a rush. One engagement came on top of another, and in between she never seemed to have that extra minute or two for collecting herself and her belongings. As now, there was always the intention of “clearing up” later, before the evening engagement, but usually the rush of preparation lasted until a ring at the door-bell announced the arrival of her escort. Another despairing look at the signs of her progress, a mental note to “tidy up” before bed, and Meg was off again. And, of course, at bed-time, tired youth longed only to lay her head on the pillow, after the necessary attentions to teeth, complexion, hair, had been paid. After all, she would feel fresher in the morning! And so on!
I am not inveighing against untidiness, but against the unnecessary strain Meg imposes upon herself. The last minute rush, the idea at the back of her mind that she should catch up on things, her natural hatred of disorder, combine to weary her, mentally and physically, far more than she realizes.
Method is the only cure, as any busy person will tell you. She must re-adjust her time schemes to allow for adequate preparation for any social occasion. To rise a few minutes earlier improves the time-table for the whole day. She must impose on herself a rigid discipline as regards things and places. Just as she would never dream of retiring without first removing cosmetics, so she must regard as impossible the throwing of an evening frock over a chair with the vague idea of hanging it up next morning. Her evening bag must be placed in its drawer—not a drawer, but its drawer.
This drawer business is very important. Hunting for handkerchiefs among nightgowns, disentangling scarves from stockings, is a nerve-racking business. Drawer space should be allotted according to plan. Toilet requisites should be kept in a top drawer, and not scattered over the surface of the table. Beads, ear-rings, clips, etc., should have their own box or boxes. Handkerchiefs, collars, belts, scarves, gloves and stockings (neatly rolled) should each occupy a set place. Lower drawers should be kept for lingerie. Once positions are decided, an effort for a week or two will make the returning of everything to its place, immediately after use, habitual. The test of drawer perfection is the finding of any article, without fumbling, in the dark.
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Flowers are everywhere—artificial ones. Real flowers are lovelier, but they droop and look unhappy, so most women seem to have abandoned them to gather joyfully the products of art—daisies on the front of a shallow-crowned, wide-brimmed leghorn; a Victorian posy in a lapel; carved wooden flowers for buttons; “flower” buckles on belts; flowers on evening gowns, vivid shoulder sprays, roses of organdie or velvet in “plastron” effect, a posy tucked negligently in the belt; flowers from the frock material appliqued on coats and capes of net or plain material.
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Noticed among the hats—picture hats, adaptations of the sailor, the breton, the shovel, the bowler and the ubiquitous toque; flat crowns, sloping crowns, folded crowns, flowered crowns; wide brims, narrow brims, no brims at all, brims tilted or rolled, graceful or rakish, of cellophane or wisped with veiling; trimmings of flowers, of velvet, of ribbon, tails down the back or veils down the front; leghorns, pedal or sisal straws, jack tars, weaves coarse or fine, shiny or dull. Hats, this season, for all tastes.
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Frock materials are manifold. Cottons carry on the work of peaceful penetration begun last season into the heart of Fashionland. Linens must be included in all wardrobes, as summer suits and as sports frocks. The silklinens (also anti-crease) rival the dull finish in popularity. Among more dressy materials are printed georgettes and crepes. Dull crepes may show lacquered designs or a rainswept effect. Cloque materials are marvellous for evening frocks, hostess gowns and even for suits.
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Style points to be noted this spring: The jacket influence is seen in clothes for many social occasions. If Madame leaves her suit of fine wool or of dull-surfaced silk cloque in the wardrobe, it is to don a frock with a basque or maybe a jacket dress. Jacket necks are interesting. There may be a small upstanding Chinese collar or none at
As an occasional change from jackets, one sees the three-quarter coat, semi-swagger. One smart model had detachable pique cuffs (frequent laundering necessary, of course). Wool tunics to slip over thin frocks are smart and sensible. The slim, wool coat to wrap over gay frocks, will be of use all through the summer.
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A final note of the new season is variety in accessories. Even tennis frocks may be adorned with gay piping, buttons or belts, though to my mind trimming looks better on the stand than on the courts.
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It was a cinema, a newly-decorated palace of colour, complete with gilded pillars, trellised and flower-bestrewn orchestral pit, and gay boxes, where no one ever sat, but which were got up to resemble a child's idea of the garden in Wonderland—I believe there was even a fountain with sparkling drops permanently suspended for the admiring gaze of audiences.
The effect on most people was one of pleasure at the gaiety of the scene. The ostentation of it satisfied the power instinct. They, John Smith and Mary Brown, were able to procure for themselves such surroundings; they felt closer to Hollywood immediately on entering the foyer. The mixture of styles and colours conveyed by medium of the eye the subtle excitement provided through the ear by jazz.
* * *
Despite the feeling of pleasure, I would suggest that colour excitement and sound excitement are not beneficial to city dwellers. In this neurotic age the average person needs to be soothed, mentally, rather than over-stimulated. Intricate colour designs present themselves in daily life without our seeking. It were well, therefore, in our hours of leisure to seek those colour harmonies which, according to the experiments of the psychologists, have the effects we need.
* * *
The indication is escape, whenever possible, from urban surroundings. Among the hills, in country valleys, by the sea, the long-distance sight, so little used in this machine age, is exercised. The peace of nature, nature in its tonings of green, soothes the mind; sunshine, the golden glint of sands, of gorse, of burnished leaves, warms the understanding; the eyes are lifted and the blue of the heavens, the reflected blue of the sea, inspire the whole being. This is so; these colours have these effects; the men in clinics as well as the men ploughing fields or driving motor-caravans have proved it. For unhealthy colour stimulation, the garishness of cities; for cure, green hills lapped by blue waters, and sunshine over all.
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Washing-up is a household task which is never entirely pleasant. The only seeming advantage connected with it is the soothing effect in cold weather of laving the hands in hot water.
Christopher Morley once portrayed a man who was the household washer-up and who, to mitigate the irksomeness of the task, fitted up a bookstand over the sink. I don't remember his mentioning how the difficulty of turning pages with wet hands was overcome. Reading at the sink is not a recreation many would advocate; but I do consider that any person whose occupation requires intense mental activity should offer to wash the dinner dishes at night, the idea being to use this as a time for relaxation: with the hands moving gently in the suds, consciously to purge the mind of worries, eliminate strains.
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Before one can pay attention to relaxing the mind, it is necessary to have washing-up rationalized. Method is the thing. Dishes should be stacked according to size after having been carefully scraped and, if necessary, rinsed under the cold tap. Silver and cutlery should be collected in separate piles. If plenty of hot water is available, have the spoons and forks standing in a basin of hot water with a dash of soap-powder added. A stir round later will cleanse them.
Keep the soap-powder packet handy so that the necessity for shaking the soap-saver wildly in order to make a lather may be obviated. The hygienic dish-washer has a double-sink, one part for rinsing. If a second sink is not available, have a basin of hot water for the final dip. By rinsing of tea-towels every morning, the perfect housewife will see that plenty of clean towels are ready for the hot dishes—or perhaps there is a rack.
To avoid the wiping or scrubbing of a wooden bench use a tray for draining.
By method and by conscious relaxation, a hated household task becomes a useful mental exercise.
Excess fat is unhealthy and unpleasant—for both men and women. It should be got rid of whenever it appears, whether early in life or late. This man, for all his three score years and ten, determined to reduce his weight.
“A few years ago I felt I was almost finished. I was as round as a barrel, for I am not very tall, and with my protruding stomach I looked deformed. My weight was 15 stone 10 lbs., and on top of it all, I suffered so badly with rheumatism that I was no longer able to work. I started taking Kruschen Salts, and now both rheumatism and fat have disappeared. My weight is now 12 stone 8 lbs. I can dig my garden, and do my own work, in spite of my 70 years.”—V.R.
Overweight and rheumatic poisoning almost invariably arise from the same source—a system loaded with unexpelled waste, like a furnace choked with ashes and soot. The six salts in Kruschen assist the internal organs to throw off each day the wastage and poisons that encumber the system. Then, little by little, that ugly fat disappears—the pains of rheumatism cease; you look better—you feel better—you are better!
Kruschen does not aim to reduce by rushing food through the body. Gently, but surely, it rids the system of all fat-forming food refuse, of all poisons and harmful acids which give rise to rheumatism, digestive disorders and many other ills.
Kruschen Salts is obtainable at all Chemists and Stores at 2/6 per bottle.
In these days of extensive advertising of household remedies one would imagine that there is “no ill to which the flesh is heir” that cannot be cured by something from bottle, tin or carton!
However, when one undertakes one's own diagnosis and treatment, care and caution must be exercised lest one be treating symptoms only, thus neglecting removal of the cause, which is, or should be, the basis for the treatment of all cases. Take for instance the host of “cures” for so-called indigestion. Now indigestion is but the symptom of a gastric disorder which can originate in any condition varying from an error in diet to cancer of the organ. Naturally it follows, there is no one remedy capable of curing such a variety of causes.
Next, let us take the common symptom “lack of energy.” This may arise from anything varying from over-work to tuberculosis of the lungs.
Similarly, constipation may be due to irregularity of habit or to a growth in the bowel. Headaches may be due to a stuffy atmosphere or to a tumour in the brain.
These examples will suffice to demonstrate the impossibility of one remedy dealing with all the causes which may give rise to one common symptom.
As household remedies, ointments are very much abused by many people. Into ointments are dispensed a very wide variety of drugs, each one capable of acting beneficially only in its own sphere, hence the utmost care must be exercised in their application. Much harm may be done by rubbing an ointment over a pimple with a “mattery” head. This matter is usually pus trying to come out, and as pus finds difficulty in emerging through grease there is grave risk of the pus spreading in its endeavour to find an exit.
Gargles must be carefully selected and carefully used, for if too strong, there is risk of injuring the membranes, lining and guarding the passages of the mouth and throat.
Lotions are much the same as ointments, as they contain various drugs. A lotion which will cure one trouble, will most likely aggravate another.
Pills must be treated with equal respect as so many of the so-called “tonic” pills lead to constipation.
Now please do not think that this short article is a general malignment of all household remedies, as most are good for something, but please avoid indiscriminate use which may lead to harmful results.
What we wish to impress upon you most of all, is the necessity for locating the cause of your trouble and dealing with its removal in a rational way. Avoid all “Slap-dab—Here goes.”
Form thin slices of ham (or German sausage) into rolls and fill with a mixture of whipped cream and horseradish. Keep together with toothpick.
Boil the eggs hard and cut them across; take out the yolks and mix with butter and enough anchovy sauce to taste. Fill the whites with mixture and place on rounds of fried bread or on lettuce leaves. Season to taste.
Asparagus tips, with a dash of cayenne, on thin strips of hot buttered toast, make a very simple and tasty savoury.
Three ounces grated cheese, one ounce butter, pinch dry mustard, few grains cayenne, sauce to taste. Mix above ingredients with anchovy. Spread on strips of hot buttered toast.
Prepare small squares of crisp, hot buttered toast, half an inch thick and 1 1/2 inches square. Spread thickly with anchovy paste. Then place two olives on each square.
Moisten with mayonnaise equal quantities of finely-chopped chicken and olives.
Chop apples finely and mix with equal quantity of chopped nuts.
Chop equal quantities of dates and walnuts. Moisten with a little cream.
To a quantity of cream cheese, add half the quantity of minced olives and quarter the quantity of chopped pineapple.
Peanut butter and chopped ginger make a tasty filling.
Place thin slices of peeled tomatoes, seasoned with salt and salad dressing, between lettuce leaves. Make into a sandwich with either white or brown bread.
Grated cheese, 4 oz.; milk, 1/2 pint; butter, 1 oz.; flour, 1 oz.; salt and pepper to taste; buttered toast.
Method.—Melt the butter, stir in the flour, remove and stir in the hot milk. Return to the fire and cook, stirring all the time for ten minutes. Remove from the fire and stir in cheese and seasoning. Serve on hot buttered toast.
Grated cheese, 2 oz.; ripe tomatoes, 4 oz.; eggs, 2 oz.; seasoning; mixed mustard, one-quarter teaspoon; hot buttered toast.
Method.—Dip the tomatoes in boiling water, remove the skins and slice. Add eggs and seasoning. Stir over gentle heat till the mixture thickens. Add cheese. Serve on hot buttered toast.
The literary event of the month has been the appearance in book form of the keenly awaited “The Hunted,” by John A. Lee, M.P. When the author's first book, “Children of the Poor,” was published anonymously a few years ago it created tremendous interest. Later, the identity of the writer was revealed, also the fact that he was busy on a sequel which now appears under the title of “The Hunted,” from the publishing house of Werner Laurie Ltd., London. It is one of the most vivid books ever written by a New Zealander. I must confess that when I read some of the preliminary publicity emphasising the fact that the stark candour of the book would do a tremendous amount of good, I was sceptical. After reading, however, I am convinced of the author's sincerity and his amazing fearlessness.
Albany Porcello, the boy who is committed to an institution and who spends his time scheming for just another escape from it, is a powerful and at the same time a pity inspiring creation. The Institution Manager is worthy of Charles Dickens. The awfulness of those repeated and apparently hopeless breaks for freedom is depicted with heart-stabbing realism.
Milly Jones, too, is an artistically etched little portrait. She values material stolen sweets more than the sweets of love Albany would bestow on her. I read this book at one sitting. I feel certain that mine will be one voice among many in the congratulations to be heaped on this gifted New Zealand writer. Whitcombe and Tombs Ltd., are the New Zealand agents.
* * *
There is sincerity in the verses included in “Stray Thoughts,” a booklet of poems by Duncan Hardie, of Westport. Nothing here for future authologies, but that is no disgrace for the writer. After all, it is sincerity that counts, and because of this Duncan Hardie and others will find pleasure in his simple melodies.
* * *
I have received a note from Angus and Robertson, Sydney, asking me to submit something for a collection of Australian plays they will be publishing shortly. However, as I am a New Zealander, and therefore debarred, I pass on the information to any Australian play writers resident in New Zealand. Commenting to me on the forthcoming volume, William Moore, the veteran Australian art critic and repertory enthusiast suggests that the time seems opportune for New Zealand to have its own book of plays. “Australia and the capitals have done a good deal for its drama,” he observes, “but in the country—nothing. In New Zealand the development of drama in the country has been remarkable. If a publisher could work in with the New Zealand branch of the Drama League something might happen.” Recently, Mr. Moore wrote an article on Drama in New Zealand for the “B.P. Magazine.”
* * *
New Zealand short story writers will be interested in the fact that the Sydney “Bulletin” is offering £55 in cash prizes for the best short stories submitted to the paper before January 31st next. There is a first prize of £30, second £15 and third £5. A special prize of £5 is to be given to the best story of 1,000 words or less. This coupled with the fact that “The Bulletin” recently commenced a special New Zealand page, should provide a further outlet for the New Zealand free lance writer.
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Several attempts have been made in the past to run a children's magazine in New Zealand. They have failed mainly because their promoters have not realised the class of reading matter and illustrations appealing to the kiddies. The appearance of the first issue of “The Junior,” published in Dunedin, suggests a children's magazine that has come to stay. It contains all the necessary ingredients—mystery, adventure competitions, and last, but by no means least, coloured comics. It is the official journal of the popular Cococub League, which is run by Cadbury Fry Hudson Ltd. No advertising is included in the magazine which fact will be appreciated by its youthful readers. “The Junior,” is published monthly, the annual subscription being 2/6.
* * *
As far as production values are concerned publications issued by the State are often uninspiring documents. It was therefore an unexpected pleasure to see that an artist had been at work in a booklet, “The Story of Printing,” recently published from the Turnbull Library and printed by the Government Printer. The publication appeared in conjunction with an exhibition of ancient and modern books held recently at the Turnbull Library. Hand set in Gramond type, on antique paper, and in a format that lends appearance to the pages, the whole set off with a green cover to accord with the late Alexander Turnbull's armorial colours, the booklet will satisfy the bibliophile. Congratulations to the editor, Mr. C. R. H. Taylor.
* * *
That enterprising young New Zealand writer, Warwick Lawrence, has compiled an anthology of short stories by “young New Zealand authors.” The collection appeared in print last month in a neat little booklet from the publishing house of Thomas Avery & Sons Ltd., of New Plymouth. After reading the names of the writers represented one wonders whether the adjective “young” has been correctly applied, and of the work, as to what is really a short story. Several of the short stories are mere sketches, in cases, be it said, artistic ones. Those represented include Lawrence himself (and justly he may be described as youthful), “Robin Hyde,” Gloria Rawlinson, Eric Ramsden, Misses Eve Langley, Ngaio Marsh, Sheila Quinn, Phyllis Fitzgerald and others. The book includes a charming frontispiece drawn by Miss Hilda Wiseman.
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“More Maoriland Adventures,” by J. W. Stack (A. H. & A. W. Reed, Dunedin), should be assured of a warm welcome by virtue of the success attending the first volume, “Early Maoriland Adventures.” A portion of the latest book concerns the adventures
“Inheritance,” by Brian Penton (Angus and Robertson, Sydney) is a sequel to “Landtakers,” published about two years ago. It is a stronger, better written book than “Landtakers,” not that this is any reflection on the first book. It is just that Penton has since emerged as a powerful novelist. Although I admire the power of the book, it depressed me with the grim tragedy that stalks through its pages. It is not a cheerful book. If it is true to life, then God help those unfortunate folk in Australia who lived during that period. Were the men, and the women too, of that time little better than beasts? It is not a good book for young people to read. Forgetting all this, however, and looking at this book as a piece of literary architecture, Brian Penton may be placed as one of the greatest novelists ever produced by Australia.
Derek Cabell haunts every page of the story like an arch demon. We hate him just a little more than his illomened brood of children. Murder, violence, lust, rapine and degradation are the ingredients of their life history. Cabell piles up his illgotten millions, loading his shoulders with their evil weight. And he dies, as he lived, defying everybody, even his God.
“There's A Porpoise Close Behind Us,” by Noel Langley (Arthur Barker, London; Whitcombe & Tombs, Ltd., New Zealand agents), is an ultra modern novel of the London stage. It is only the cleverness and sheer audacity of the author that prevents the unpalatable nature of the plot from becoming positively nauseous. By way of excuse for opening up a sewer of sex abnormality, Mr. Langley produces several normal healthy folk holding their noses and gazing in disgust down at the sewer people of his creation. While there are green trees about and a blue sky above, however, the healthy ones remain healthy—thank goodness! I trust, however, that the author's story of the life and habits of the people of the London theatrical world is not by any chance founded on fact. I would like to see his admittedly brilliant pen dipped in more wholesome ink.
“Let's Go Home,” by Dr. Noble-Adams (H. Duckworth, Blenheim), is a breezy account of the author's journey to England for the late King's Jubilee and of his return via the Continent. There is no pretence at fine writing, in fact the author displays a very thorough knowledge of current slang. For this reason the book should have a wide appeal. The author is a watchful observer of the manners and modes of the various cities visited, has a lively sense of humour and a capacity for recording interesting detail. The book is nicely illustrated and well produced.
“The Principles of Treatment for Diabetic Patients,” by H. Bolydon Ewen (A. H. & A. W. Reed, Dunedin and Wellington), is utterly beyond me as a reviewer. I have great confidence, however, in the innate conscientiousness of the publishers.
“Robin Hyde” (Miss Iris Wilkinson) has left Auckland for Dunedin. She is to carry out there some literary research work. Her two latest books (a volume of poems and a phantasy) are to be published in London shortly.
Published in Oamaru, “The News Wave” recently made a first appearance. It is the product of several young men of the town. The editor is Mr. J. E. Meikle.