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The New Zealand Railways Magazine is on sale through the principal book-sellers, or may be obtained post-free for 6/- per annum.
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Controller and Auditor-General.
2/12/37.
Few visitors to New Zealand have realised the colourful charm of the country more vividly than has Mr. P. Bousfield, the English artist, whose exhibition of water-colours, prepared during a ten-months’ visit to this country, has given the public of Wellington and visitors to the Capital City a new insight regarding the colour contrasts and variations found throughout the Dominion.
More frequently do overseas travellers observe what a correspondent describes as “the marvellous visibility “of this land, and in regard to photographs the clear delineation of details, which the clean, bright quality of the atmosphere assists, has frequently been favourably commented upon.
But Mr. Bousfield has done a singularly important service to the country in the rather daring departure from convention he has shown by painting the colour effects with all the vividness they deserve rather than following the customary plan of letting the more sombre tones take charge of the canvas.
He has delighted, too, in the juxtapositions, found throughout the country, of English trees and shrubs in a purely New Zealand setting of mountains, lakes and rivers. This has enabled him to show in his pictures seasonal changes in appearance and tints not provided by our evergreen native flora.
To the average New Zealander, born to the sunshine and the varied colour tones of his country, the natural richness of colouring to which his birthright makes him heir is in nowise remarkable until he has a chance to compare it with the lower range of tints displayed in other countries he visits. A sidelight on this aspect is provided by the comment of a New Zealander who, on a first voyage away, and with mind buoyed up for startling beauty by the rhapsodies of writers and poets regarding the glories of colour found in tropical vegetation, after a fortnight at sea approached Panama, only to discover that the greens of the hills and forests were “just like those of New Zealand.”
Here the whole range of prismatic colours are found in infinite variety, and any artist might “work for an age at a sitting, and never grow tired at all” in the endless attempt to do justice to one of New Zealand's greatest charms—its richness of colouring.
The past month has seen evidence of railway expansion in many directions, among the signs being the record week of high railway revenue (week ended February 5th) when, without any special cause other than the natural increase in business, the gross revenue reached a point higher than in any previous week in the history of our Railways, not excepting Christmas and other special occasions. A further sign was in the running of the first ordinary passenger train on the newly constructed East Coast Railway between Napier and Wairoa (5th February).
Additional evidence came directly under my personal notice in a daylight rail-car trip from Auckland to Wellington. On this line, so many necessary track improvements are under way at present that, like all work of a similar kind where active operations must be maintained, they inevitably cause some temporary slowing up of traffic movement until such time as the major and permanent improvements they bring about are effected.
Amongst those causes which have imposed some temporary slowing up of speed in train movement until the works which are spread over the 426 miles between Wellington and Auckland are completed, are the construction of overbridges and subways which are to replace level crossings at several points on the Main Trunk, repairs to structures, and track improvements at several points. All of these works are reduced to an absolute minimum, and they must be proceeded with according to programme.
Although the rail-car, “Arai-Te-Uru,” on the occasion I refer to did the through journey of 426 miles in 9 hours 25 minutes, there were actually 19 points on the line at which speed restrictions ranging down to 6 miles per hour were in force, slowing up the normal speed over a total distance of 10 miles.
The cumulative effect of this series of speed checks, averaging about one in every 20 miles, on fast express trains will be readily understood by any motorist who has experienced similar speed checks when a main highway is under repair or reconstruction. With the completion of the work the temporary disability, which is quite unavoidable, is soon forgotten in the light of the lasting benefits obtained.
Hence, despite adverse comment on the occasional late running of some trains, I consider that the staff concerned, in endeavouring to maintain time-table schedules, has done very well in the circumstances which also included a record expansion of traffic coincident with the temporary checks imposed by track and road improvements of greater dimensions than usual.
When, however, the major works referred to are completed, the working of traffic will be greatly expedited, which will certainly give relief to the operating staff and considerably improve the position from the passengers’ point of view. The completion of the biggest work, the duplication of the main line on the Papakura-Ngaruawahia portion of the Auckland—Frankton run, has become particularly pressing, as this 87 mile section now carries a density of traffic amounting to over 4 million gross tons per mile of track per annum—actually 33 per cent, more than the average carried in the years 1931 to 1934, and 700,000 gross tons per mile more than in the previous record year 1929/30.
Then there are the Plimmerton-Paekakariki duplication and Kakariki-Greatford deviation which will bring about considerable operating benefits when completed.
This brief summary of conditions at present affecting train operations on the North Island Main Trunk line provides an explanation of what is being done to remove the difficulties created by operating trains over a single line of track with grades and curves probably without parallel in the world so far as a main line system is concerned.
General Manager.
I First saw Kehu at the home of the pioneer Pakeha-Maori of Taumarunui, in the heart of the King Country, a good many years ago. She was nearly fifty, with more than the remains of much youthful beauty. She was tall and straight, with a generous depth of bosom. I could easily believe what her old friends had told me, that twenty-five years back, or thirty, she had been the beauty of Taumarunui.
Kehu's greatest beauty was her hair. It was long and shone gloriously in the sun, for it was fair, almost golden, a coppery golden. In Kehu you saw the ancient fair-haired type that persists in the Maori race, a relic of the ancient lighter-skinned people that the Maoris of the Tainui and Arawa and Aotea historic migration found living in New Zealand when they arrived here. The ancient people were called in these parts the Whanau-a-Rangi—the Children of Heaven. Her name described her. Kehu is short for Uru-Kehu, which means Fair-Hair. There were several other uru-kehu women at Taumarunui; one of them was Kehu's cousin, and wife to my old friend, the Pakeha-Maori. But Kehu was the handsomest and fairest of them all, and so her name. She was of the Whanau-a-Rangi.
I was sitting one night with the greybeard Pakeha-Maori and his family in their comfortable little house of pitsawn timber which stood on the banks of the swirling Ongarue just above the meeting of the waters, the junction where the Upper Whanganui came snoring in over its gravels from the far-off gullies of Tongariro and the snows of Ruapehu.
Taumarunui then wore a very different face from what it does to-day. There were no railway trains, no motorcars, no wheel roads, no bustle of traffic, no shops, commercial travellers, boarding-houses, schools, policemen, and other blessings of civilisation. It was a purely Maori kainga, very quiet and peaceful, far removed from the world. The Pakeha-Maori was the one white inhabitant; he had lived there since the middle Seventies with his Maori wife. He had been a soldier and fought in the wars. Now he had taken to the blanket, and was content with his dozen or so of pretty half-caste children around him. A happy valley, too, this green basin of Taumarunui. The crystal rivers that met here made murmurous music all day and all night long, and added to that music was the song of many birds. The hills and the dark rimu forest shadowed the valley, and the tui and the bellbird rang the angelus of the bush. But now they have flown to other retreats, the bush is ruined, and the place is full of the honk, screech and clatter of the busy pakeha.
As we were sitting there, in walked Kehu. She shook hands with me, the stranger. She looked frankly out of her deep, shining eyes, and said in Maori, “Welcome, welcome to the nest of the bush-owls.” Kehu sat down on a mat by the fire. In repose her face settled into an expression of sadness. She sat for a long time, gazing into the fire, speaking no word. At last she rose, and with her cousin went into an adjoining whare, which was used as a storeroom and larder. She presently returned with a large and bulging flax basket, strapped with flax leaves. She bound a handkerchief about her head, drew her long shawl around her and said, “Now I am going. Remain you here, friends.”
“Won't you stay till the morning, Kehu?” asked the Pakeha-Maori.
“No,” said the woman, “I must go. I am not afraid of ghosts. Besides, it is moonlight.”
“We'll see you off,” said the old soldier, and he beckoned to me to come with him. Kehu gave me a quick, half-frightened, half-appealing glance.
“It's all right, Kehu, he's a friend of mine,” he said.
Kehu's manner puzzled me. I followed her out to the bank of the river with the Pakeha-Maori and his wife.
She descended the bank, cast loose a small canoe tied up to a stake, and placing her kit of stores carefully amidships, she seated herself in the stern and pushed off from the bank.
“Haere ra, haere ra!” we called to her: “Depart, depart, O Kehu!”
“E noho ra koutou, e noho!“ cried Kehu, without looking back. “Remain there.” she bade us. Her paddle dipped and rose and dipped again, making silver splashes in the moonlit water. Her strong strokes soon took the light canoe across the river.
I thought I saw a figure come down to meet Kehu on the opposite bank, but the shadows and half-lights were deceptive.. Next moment Kehu had melted into the blackness of the bush.
“Was there some one waiting for her?” I asked the Pakeha-Maori's wife.
“Waiting for her? It must have been her shadow you saw. This person, Atarau, the moonlight, plays tricks with one's eyes sometimes.”
Later I learned something of Kehu's history. And as her story struck me as a remarkable and romantic one I now set it down here much as I heard it from the lips of the Pakeha-Maori and his wife; and bear in mind, please, that this is not fiction. Kehu is no creature of the imagination.
* * *
Kehu, being a beauty as well as a rangatira girl, was made a great deal of by the people of Taumarunui, and as she grew up and her charm developed she won many young Maori hearts by her deftness and grace in
poi action song and in the lively dance of the kanikani. Many a young Maori longed to take her to his whare, but she was not for them. She was destined to become the wife of a chief of the Maniapoto, the warrior tribe of the King Country. The couple had been betrothed while they were yet children. It was to be a state marriage, arranged by the parents of the girl and boy. Kehu's consent was taken as a matter of course.
But to the surprise of the tribe—the two tribes, in fact—Kehu displayed not the slightest interest in her aristocratic betrothed. When he came to visit Taumarunui with a cavalcade of friends and followers and a string of pack horses, bearing loads of presents for the Wanganui people, seventeen-year-old Kehu would hardly look at him. She said she did not want to marry any one yet, she'd wait a year, or perhaps two, perhaps three. What did it matter?
When the fair free-hearted Kehu was eighteen or so, it befell momentously that her parents took her with them to Lake Taupo, on a ceremonial visit of condolence to the Heuheu family, the great people at the south end of Taupo, who were holding a wake over one of their dead. It was a glorious wake, a very great tangi, for there were hundreds of Maoris there, from east, west, north and south, and there was much wailing and wardancing, and, above all, much feasting, for the Tokaanu tribespeople had piles of kumara and potatoes and pakeha flour and sugar, and storehouses full of bark baskets of preserved birds—tui, pigeon, kiwi, weka—and scores of fat pigs, and many calabashes of preserved whitebait, and long strings of koura, crayfish. It was at that tangi that Kehu first set eyes on Jack Hard-wick, the big, fair Englishman.
Hardwick could almost have been called a giant of a fellow. He stood some inches over six feet, he was broad, and thick through of chest, and strong as a bullock. He had blue Saxon eyes, and hair and beard that were nearly golden in colour, like some of those big blonde Scandinavian sailor-men we used to see in Norwegian and Swedish sailing ships. Hardwick was a wanderer. He had carried a carbine awhile in the Armed Constabulary; now he was pit-sawing in the bush for a European who intended to put up a weatherboard public-house in Tokaanu.
Kehu and Jack Hardwick soon came to an understanding. The white man who had kept aloof from Maori girls lost his heart to Kehu the lissom and full-breasted, the maid of the Shining Hair. And Kehu—she couldn't help admiring the tall, straight, fearless-looking pakeha, with the beard that was nearly the colour of the kowhai flower, and the eyes that were like the blue of Taupo Moana. They met in the whare-puni, and sat side by side listening to the speeches and watching the dancing. Hardwick didn't know much Maori, and the girl hadn't a word of English, except one or two swear words, which she used quite innocently, until Hardwick laughed. Then he was sorry for her, and began to teach her English.
Hardwick taught Kehu well, and she in her turn schooled him in Maori so quickly that the pair of them were missing from the village one morning. So was Hardwick's horse, also a packhorse he had borrowed from the other white man in Tokaanu.
* * *
In a valley deep in the forest to the west of Mount Tongariro there was a well-hidden bush camp. Through the gully a stream rippled to join the Whanganui headwaters. High rocks, shrub-grown, rose on each side, and behind the little level ground the grey volcanic cliff leaned outward, overhanging. At its base was the little bush bower, a wharau, as the Maoris call it, of saplings and ponga fern-fronds. Beneath the shelter the ground was covered with layers of great fern-leaves, and on this sweet-smelling couch were spread blankets. Against the rocky wall outside stood a double-barrelled gun and an axe. In front of the wharau burned a camp-fire, with a tin billy swinging above it, and there sat the two lovers, Kehu and her white man.
Kehu was happy. Now she knew what love was, and she sang softly to herself a little song about a bird—not the tui that gurgled and fluted above her in the trees, but the bird of spring, the ocean-crossing shining-cuckoo, the pipi-wharauroa; and she mimicked its summer cry of gladness and rejoicing—“Kui, ku-ui! Whitiwhiti ora!”
And when their evening meal was over, and the shadows deepened in the bush, and the tui rang its good-night bell, and the melancholy morepork cried its “Kou-kou” to the moon, the lovers sat by the fire with their arms around each other, and Kehu spoke English to Tiaki and Tiaki talked Maori to Kehu, and they laughed and were altogether insanely happy. They entered their fern-frond bower. Such was the honey-moon of Kehu and her white man. Their marriage was Edenic in its simplicity. Kehu would have summed it up in three words, in the direct fashion of the Maori: “Kua moea taua.”
That night was the seventh after the elopement, and so far the lovers had been unmolested. They knew the people must be out searching for them, and that there would be trouble when they were discovered. Hardwick had designed to work out quietly to the Hawke's Bay side, but this would be a weary journey, for long detours would be necessary to avoid the Maori settlements. For the present this bush retreat was safe enough, and would do as long as there were birds in the bush to be shot or snared. That day the white man had shot a brace of pigeons. It was imprudent, because the sound of a gun might bring prowling Maoris down on the camp. But the risk didn't trouble him.
* * *
The fire in front of the wharau had burned nearly out. The lovers lay asleep. And softly, as if stalking an enemy on the war-trail, a band of Maoris, ten or twelve of them, crept out from the bushes, keeping in the shadow of the cliff, creeping towards the camp. They had been making quietly towards the fire all the evening from their look-out on the opposite spur.
The foremost Maori, creeping along on hands and knees, laid a hand on the
The Maori ripped out a yell, and the party sprang from the ground and dashed into the wharau. The frightened girl was dragged out into the open, naked, just as she sprang from the blankets and her lover's arms. Hard-wick was hauled out too, punching and kicking in a Baresark rage. He was literally a Baresark as he struggled there, with half a dozen yelling Maoris on top of him. They soon mastered him, tied his hands and feet, none too gently, with their flax belts, called him a lot of hard Maori names, and all the pakefya bad words they knew—and then set to work to build up the fire again and look for something to eat.
Poor Kehu sat there, covered with a blanket now, a captor on each side of her holding her by the arms. She wept, not for herself, but for Tiaki, for she feared they would kill him there in the forest.
The Maoris had been sent out by Kehu's father with orders to continue the hunt until they had found the couple. They were not to harm the white man, so they were enjoined, because it might result in inconvenient enquiries from the Government, and even in a visit from a force of Constabulary. But they were to bring Kehu home.
This was done. The girl was taken to Tokaanu, thence through the great forest to Taumarunui. As for the white man, they suffered him to return to Tokaanu with them. He went to his camp at the sawpit, feeling that he would see Kehu no more.
The poor girl was shockingly berated by her father when she made her home-coming. She was forced to appear before the tribe in the wharepuni and listen to many abusive speeches. She sat there with bowed head, her shawl gathered about her shrinking shoulders. The speakers reviled her lover as a tutua, a low-born fellow who stole other men's property. And she—she had put the tribe to shame. What would those Ngati-Maniapoto people have to say now? The name of Kehu of Taumarunui would be a by-word throughout the land.
At last Kehu turned. She rose and faced them, furious. She was of noble blood, so was her lover, Tiaki, the white man, and she would never give him up. She would never marry that pig of a fellow in the Maniapoto country, never.
Kehu's stubbornness did not pass from her. She refused to listen to anything more. “I have told you,” she said, “I love Tiaki and I shall marry him and no one else.”
Kehu's father shut her up in a small raupo hut next to his own. The door was securely fastened on the outside; only the tiny window was allowed to he opened for water and food to be passed in to the prisoner. The hut was guarded day and night.
Kehu refused all food; she took only the calabash of water from her attendant. Day after day passed, and not a morsel of food would she take. In the depth of pouritanga, the soul of darkness, she was starving herself to death.
The old chief went to the hut each morning, pushed back the sliding window and cried gruffly, “E Kehu, are you there?”
“Ae,” the girl answered from the gloom of the whare.
“Will you give up the white man?”
“No, never! I will die sooner than take any other man!”
Bang! The sliding window was slammed to again.
This went on until the fifth morning, when Kehu did not reply to the usual call. The old man, alarmed, pushed the door open and entered the hut. Kehu was lying motionless on the mats. He carried her out and laid her on the grass. She was seemingly without life. The old man with a cry of grief bent down and pressed his nose to his daughter's and wept over her. He greatly feared that she was passing to the Reinga.
The girl opened her sad dark eyes. “I want Tiaki,” she said.
Her father, weeping, bent down again and said, “I shall bring your white man to you.”
Kehu sighed and smiled a pitiful smile and whispered, “That is well, but make haste.”
Messengers were sent off to Tokaanu, with orders to bring Tiaki the white man to Taumarunui at once, and if he would not come willingly to tie him up and carry him.
But Hardwick needed no compulsion. He was soon at Taumarunui, and Kehu was weeping over him and tangi-ing to him, and there was a ceremonious talk in the council-house, and long speeches from everyone of consequence, and with songs of jollity and the merry poi dance, the happy Kehu was handed over to the white man, together with many other gifts. And Tiaki made quite a good speech himself, and so completely won the hearts of the Taumarunui folk that he could have had half a dozen other wives had he wanted them. But he had Kehu. So matters were agree-ably adjusted, tribal etiquette was observed, and tribal honour satisfied. Everything was “tino tika”—shipshape, and altogether correct.
Now had this been an imaginary affair of hearts, all the canons of orthodox romantic literature would have been satisfied by the valedictory announcement that the lovers loved exceedingly and lived serene untroubled lives. Unfortunately, however, this is a true story, so the action must go on to the end that the Fates mercifully conceal from puppet mortals.
(To be continued.)
At first glance the small Maori village near Mangaroa, on the shores of the Bay of Plenty, New Zealand, has nothing to distinguish it from the typical native settlement. Everything appears normal about the nikau whares, with their corrugated iron chimneys, as the wahines engage in the purely feminine pursuits of washing clothes, cooking and gossiping. Everywhere roam sturdy brown children and innumerable dogs. The men are busy about their tasks—some ploughing the fertile loam of the rich Bay of Plenty lands, others, perhaps, in a small group discussing the merits of the outlaw horse which one of their number is in process of breaking in.
Suddenly the quiet, almost sleepy, appearance of the village is changed as if by the stroke of a magic wand, and somnolent figures are galvanised into action. “Coo-ee, coo-ee,” a call finding its origin perhaps in the hardy Australian whalers of a century ago, comes faintly down the wind. Every eye turns toward the headland from which the cry originated and where a long manuka pole with flag attached is now waving vigorously. Every tongue repeats the call, which is bandied around and about the settlement, mingling with the yelping of startled dogs and the squealing of pigs in a startling cacophony of sound.
Horses harnessed to ploughs and mustered sheep are left to fend for themselves. Cows being bailed for milking must await the ministrations of others’ hands. The everyday tasks of the native are forgotten, and, animated with a single thought, young and old, strong and infirm, rush to the beach. That stirring coo-ee can have but one meaning—whales in the bay!
On the beach lies a sturdy whaleboat, some 20 ft. long, similar to a ship's boat. When the crew of nine, the strongest men of the settlement, already long picked in anticipation of the incident, have mustered, men, women and children lend a hand at the launching. Down the white, sandy beach she is rolled and into the gently breaking Pacific swell. Erect at the stern stands an old chieftain whose ancestors before him have hunted whales in similar fashion. He, of all the crew, is the only man with wrinkled, tattooed face. The rowers, all magnificent specimens of their race, bend to their task willingly. Through the narrow opening in the reef the boat flies, on toward the spot where the whale was seen spouting, the old helmsman shouting advice and encouragement as the muscles of the oarsmen ripple on naked brown torsos.
Whales at that time of the year are apparently content to laze and play through these waters, delayed perhaps by the slowness of their calves, but the crew must not dawdle if a kill is to be made. Eager eyes scan the sea for a glimpse of the quarry. Frantic cries from the wahines at the lookout station seem to indicate that the boat has gone too far. It is put about and presently the whale spouts again. “There she blows,” cries every excited member of the crew. Getting into their swing, every brown, perspiring body moving in a symphony of perfect rhythm, the old boat shoots forward. All the excitement and frenzy of the haka is written on the grimacing face of the chieftain. The order, “stand up ready,” is given to the harpooner in the bow, and at the right moment the barbed steel is driven home with all the force at the command of the most powerful man in the pa.
Then the fun begins. With the rope whizzing over the gunwale the whale sounds deeply. Then, returning to the surface, it makes off at great speed. Now the rope is made fast and the intrepid whalers, preparing for a war of attrition, are towed
The sport over, the arduous task of towing home the catch begins. In its run, the whale may have dragged the boat many miles from the shore, and sometimes two days are occupied in the slow return journey.
Many and varied have been the tactics employed in the hunting and killing of whales since the days when it was first realised what profit could be made by the capture of these huge mammals. The Maoris use methods which have survived unchanged for a century, but in other parts of New Zealand, all the modern refinements of the industry are employed. The Perano brothers, of Picton, whose whaling ground is Tory Channel, were the first in the Dominion, if not in the world, to abandon rowing boats and hand harpooning. Sometimes a whole day was required to make a kill, the victim eventually dying probably from loss of blood flowing from many gashes in its body. The Peranos conceived the idea of employing fast launches, armed with harpoon guns, to pursue the quarry.
When the geyser of water that betrays the spouting whale is sighted, the speedboat, manned by engineer and gunner, dashes in pursuit, cutting through the water at a speed of 30 knots. Hump-back whales generally come to the surface to spout three times at intervals of two minutes; their next submersion continues for nine minutes, and when they reappear they may be miles distant from the spot where they dived. The whalers shoot the mammals usually between the second and third blowings, but they do not shoot to kill. Eighty-five per cent. of whales sink when killed outright. The procedure therefore is to incapacitate them with the first shot of the harpoon bomb and then to force air into their bodies through a tube. When sufficiently inflated to ensure floating they are killed with a charge of shot behind the head.
Whaling under such circumstances has all the thrills of the earlier, more primitive form of chase. Those who are fortunate enough to witness these launches in action are amazed at the skill of the helmsman, apparently flirting with death as the speedy chaser manoeuvres around the stricken mammal, often in a fairly choppy sea, to allow the gunner to place first the harpoon bomb and then the killing shot. Knowledge of the habits of whales seems to be a sixth sense with these men and the accuracy with which they determine the direction a whale will take after sounding seems to the uninitiated almost uncanny. Once sighted by these craft the quarry seldom escapes.
The Perano brothers are not the only New Zealand farmers who devote themselves to whaling for three months of every year. James Jackson, of Jackson's Bay, is another of a line of farmer-whalers who hunts the waters of Cook's Strait in the winter whaling season. His father and grandfather before him, for over half a century, have engaged in many an exciting hunt, but the open whaleboats and hand harpooning of the earlier years have yielded place to speedy launches and modern guns. Even with these the chase is not without its dangers. On one occasion a cow whale repeatedly charged a launch, smashing in several planks of the hull with terrific blows from its tail. Another whale, charging a launch, fore a hole in the hull 6 1/2 ft. by 2 1/2 ft., pushing its nose into the engine room. Both launches got safely back to Picton for repairs, the special bulkheads with which they are equipped preventing them from sinking.
If it were not for the migratory habits of the whales, the industry would not exist in New Zealand waters. During the Antarctic winter the mammals move north to the warm tropic waters, and there the cows calve. Coming up the eastern coast of the South Island, many pass through Cook Strait, where they are profitably hunted, and thence up the Australian coast. Others continue their northerly course up the east coast of the North Island. In October and November they are returning to their feeding grounds on the fringe of the ice, and it is then that the Maoris take their toll.
Whereas the Maoris continue to use the methods their forebears learned from the whalers of a century ago, and the Cook Strait farmers lead the world with their speedboat chasers, the old whaling station at Whangamumu, near Cape Brett, has covered the whole gamut of known whaling methods, as well as introducing tactics unique to that area. Founded in 1892 by an oldtime whaler, Captain Cook, who, even in his retirement, found the call of the sea and his ingrained love of the chase too strong to resist, the equipment at first was modest. Open whaleboats, manned by Maori crews, chased the whales in the age-old manner.
With the virtual extinction of whales in the Arctic regions, commercial interests paid increasing attention to the southern feeding grounds, and the intensive methods of the Norwegians, with their factory ships and fleets of chasers, resulted in the slow-breeding whale flock being decimated in a few years. Fewer and fewer whales were caught at Whangamumu. Captain Cook, loath to renounce the
Nets 60 ft. square were fashioned from 2 1/2 inch manila rope, with a 6 ft. mesh, and, floated by 20-gallon casks, a series of nets were spread across the tracks most favoured by the whales. After many trials, and when patience was almost exhausted, a whale was sighted one day acting most peculiarly. It was neither finning, breaching lob-tailing or fighting killers, but apparently doing a bit of each. It was so busy fighting to free itself from the ensnaring meshes of the net that it did not see the approaching whaleboat and was easily despatched. Many whales were secured in this manner, but finally, in 1910, a modern, Norwegian-type steam whaler was introduced.
The tactics of the steam whaler are to get more or less friendly with the whales, so that they come up almost alongside to blow. The lookout in the crow's nest sees the whale rising and the boat is steered toward the spot he indicates, sometimes getting so close that the spout of air sent up may blow over the harpoon stand. Then the gun speaks, harpoon and line hurtle through the air, and the chase is over.
In the last year of his eventful life Captain Cook turned again to the methods of his youth. The change was made for the purpose of revealing to the vast audience of the film world all the exciting details of the chase and kill in the open whaleboat. Hardly had the film been made than the old whaler passed on, and with him died the North Auckland whaling industry, which had existed from the earliest days of settlement.
London's passenger traffic increases by leaps and bounds. The annual report of the London Passenger Transport Board for the twelve months ended June 30, 1937, has recently been issued, and this shows that in the period in question no fewer than 3,636,000,000 passenger journeys were undertaken by patrons of the Board's rail and road services, while taking the combined passenger journeys made in the London Transport area over the Board's own system and the main-line railways, we have the phenomenal figure of 4,231,000,000, an increase of about 16,000,000-over the previous year's record. Gross revenues of the Board for the year were £31,901,760, and working expenses £23,917,085.
The underground and tube railways included in the London Transport group form one of its most important assets. Because of highway congestion, more and more people are taking to using the underground and tube railways in preference to surface transport, this move being especially noticeable during the morning and evening rush hours. Actually, on the Board's railways no less than half of the day's traffic is concentrated within four working hours, the other half being spread over sixteen hours. Employees of the London Passenger Transport Board total 81,765. Extreme care is taken in the selection and education of the staff, and working conditions are good. The whole of the Board's operating staff with one year's service or more receive, annually, a fortnight's holiday with pay. There is a comprehensive superannuation scheme covering both male and female staff and the various social services include 560 employee messrooms, 81 fully staffed canteens, and ten sports grounds.
Record passenger business to and from the principal holiday resorts is anticipated by the four group railways of Britain during the next few months. The big vacation season of the year commences at Easter, and the railways are leaving no stone unturned in their efforts to cater to the holiday-maker's needs. Faster and more frequent passenger services are being arranged. In particular, the train accommodation provided for the holiday-maker is being improved, and numbers of new dining and sleeping-cars are being introduced on all the trunk routes. Buffet cars, which have proved so popular with excursionists, are being placed in service in increasing numbers, while big betterments are in course of progress at all the railway-owned hotels and guesthouses.
Last season, an outstanding success was achieved by the camping car arrangements developed by the four group lines. It will be recalled that this arrangement provides for the letting out to small parties of holiday-makers of discarded passenger coaches, which, while unfit for further active service, make remarkably comfortable holiday homes when suitably furnished and equipped, and anchored on some sidetrack convenient to a popular holiday-haunt. A very modest rent is demanded for the exclusive use of these caravan cars; all furniture, bedding, crockery, etc., is included; and the only stipulation made is that everyone using the car must travel on the outward and return journeys by the rail route. Because of their immense popularity last year, the number of caravan cars is now being largely increased.
Selling rail transport is an activity in which every employee of the modern railway—no matter what his job—should take particular interest. In this connection it may be noted that the London, Midland & Scottish Railway has recently issued to its staff ten thousand copies of a new sales booklet, crammed tight with useful hints on the subject of selling transport. The booklet is part of a big sales campaign launched by the company, which includes a “Quota” competition, whereby freight and passenger districts compete in friendly rivalry. All grades of the staff are entering enthusiastically into the scheme, and much new business is thereby being gained. Incidentally, the chief commercial manager of the L. M. & S. sets out in the new sales booklet the qualifications
The railway industry is now well over one hundred years old, and travelling over the Home lines one secures abundant and striking evidence of the thorough manner in which the pioneers tackled the engineering problems of their day. Actually, there are innumerable engineering structures, such as bridges, viaducts and tunnels, which have been serving us for a hundred years or more, and in a recent run over the Great Western system the writer renewed acquaintance with several of these century-old structures.
A most interesting viaduct, constructed exactly one hundred years ago, is the Wharncliffe Viaduct, at Hanwell, near London. This is 896 feet long and 65 feet high. It consists of eight semi-elliptical brick arches of 70 ft. span, springing from piers each composed of twin stone-capped pillars united by a heavy architrave. Originally built for two tracks, the Wharncliffe Viaduct was widened about fifty years ago, to take four tracks. Another ancient structure, not very many miles further west, is Isambard Brunel's famous brick bridge over the Thames at Maidenhead. This consists of two main arches in brickwork, 128 ft. span, with a rise of only 24 ft. 3 in. The design is most unconventional, the flat arches in brickwork being a constant source of wonder and admiration. In Devon and Cornwall, there were, until recently, many century-old timber viaducts in use. Most of these structures, however, have now been replaced by steel and stone.
Goods traffic handled by the Home railways continues to expand, and the fullest use is being made of the elaborate road collection and delivery services, of which the four group lines were world pioneers. At the present moment, the stock of motor vehicles in service on the Home railways stands at about 9,200, while there are also employed—mainly for city collections and deliveries—about 13,000 horse-drawn vehicles. A relatively new development is the country lorry service. This links up railheads with outlying farms and villages. Shippers dispatch in bulk to the country lorry depot their commodities for farmers, and there they are split up for delivery by the railway motor lorries. At many railheads, manufacturers of farm needs hold permanent stocks from which the railways make regular lorry deliveries to order. Country lorry services, operated in conjunction with railway goods trains, also form a coordinated road and rail service of particular value to farmers and others engaged in agriculture, as they facilitate the rapid marketing of produce. In this manner, areas more or less remote from the railway are provided with transport facilities equal to those enjoyed by the industrial centres.
An important responsibility of railways everywhere is the handling of postal mails of all kinds. In Britain, the L. M. & S. Railway carries the heaviest postal mail traffic, and to meet the needs of increasing business there have been constructed recently in this company's shops three new Post Office sorting cars of striking design. The length of the underframe is 60 ft., and length over all 63 ft. 8 1/2 in., the body being 60 ft. I in. long and 8 ft. 8 in. wide. The underframes and bogies are of steel. The latter are four-wheeled, with 9 ft. centres, and of welded construction. Teak framing forms the body, the outer sides being sheeted with steel panelling. The floor timbers are of jarrah, supporting galvanised steel sheeting carrying fireproof composition flooring. Inside, the new coaches are fitted with one registered letter desk, seven letter sets, two newspaper sets, drawers, etc. There is the usual pick-up and delivery apparatus for mail bags while travelling at speed, and the exterior of the new postal cars presents a very attractive appearance.
The world is in itself a dream place, but we are only human and so we dream of dream places that are infinitely more desirable. For many of us the dream place of our hopes is the hereafter—“the eye hath not seen, neither has the ear heard, nor has it entered into the heart of man … .”
Yes, I have dreamed of this hereafter but I have also dreamed of the material heaven upon earth. Surely, this heaven, granting we have the physical perfection to appreciate it to the full, must be found somewhere on earth. Our mind fixes on some coral island and the picture comes back to us from the R. M. Ballantyne of our boyhood days. It is there in clear delight. The green, green tropical isle surrounded by the blue, blue sea. The temperature is always broken down to suit the moment as though it were a bath regulated by some super conscientious steward on an ocean liner. Luscious tropical fruit, turtle's eggs, wild pigs (everyone as tender as a sucking pig), glorious trout in the mountain streams—in short, Nature's larder stocked to capacity with the finest fare for the island table. Yes, it makes a nice picture but a very lonely one. A pleasant week or two and we would be longing for company. Even if we have this companionship, we would, after a few weeks, be yearning for all the comforts of civilisation. We would want an outboard motor boat for fishing in the lake, a 1938 sedan car with a few hundred miles of bitumen thrown in, a ten-valve wireless set, the latest talkies and so on.
No, we must leave aside the coral island as a dream place. Anyhow, it's bound to be infested with mosquitoes and other pests with a score or two of sharks hanging about hungrily in the water.
The dream place must be a peace place, but is it possible to find peace in this world?
To dream is to sleep and sleep is of a few hours’ duration, unless one wishes to go into a trance and that prolonged state of insensibility must have its end—even if that end be death.
And, I am afraid of death. This sleep that is coming on me now may end in death, but I must sleep for I am tired as I was never tired before. Somehow the tiredness seems to come from my heart. There is no pain, simply a dull, peaceful feeling of a heart that is running down. My eyes close slowly, ever so slowly. Even that film of dark that the closed lids envelop me in fades away to nothingness. The tick of the timepiece of life ebbs away faintly, and yet more faintly, and then ceases …..
Peace has come—there is naught but a vast impenetrable silence. Seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing—doing nothing …..
I am in a long narrow box. Voices, and I think the sound of sobbing, come to me from far, far away. My body is cold. I cannot move, but there is still an instinct left—the dim realisation of the vastness of the great eternal peace.
I sense my narrow wood-lined bed being lifted. I am being carried forward. After a long time there is a further murmur of voices. My bed is being lowered—I sense it is into the ground. For a moment I hear vividly. Something, as of lumps of clay and sods of earth, is falling on the roof of my wooden chamber.
I realise at last that I am dead—I am being buried …..
Once more all sense of feeling fades from me except the great peace. So I lay without pain, without pleasure, yet there is a something within me that still endures. Several hours pass and then a strange warmth of ineffable sweetness steals slowly over me. I feel that something within me is leaving that cold, cold body. The feeling grows like the crescendo of a grand burst of music. Then there is one mighty effort and I am free.
I dart upwards through that cold, dark clay. The light of a glorious day envelops me. My eyes almost bewilderingly clear drink in the undreamt of beauties of the world I knew but a few hours before. But what a different world! I look upwards and see the glories above the roof of the sky. I look around me and see Nature's body unclothed. I breathe such sweet savours from plants and flowers glorious scents that I had never known before. The air is soft with the music of movement. I find I have but to wish and what I desire is before me.
So it is that a feeling for companionship brings kindred souls about me. There are familiar faces I knew in life;
And where is the God of it all? Instantly I am in His presence and then my joy is great indeed for He smiles on me, and smiling, speaks a wealth of wonderful words and thoughts. The greater joy of seeing Him endures. I have reached the ultimate pinnacle of peace and happiness, and it is to continue for ever.
Yes, it is the same world, but intensified a thousand fold with rarer beauty.
I wish for the sight of sea and I am there in an instant on the fringe of an illimitable ocean of joyous waters. In it I bathe with effortless content, others by me even as I think of them.
Then I think of our New Zealand bush and our birds and I am there on the green, green grass, drinking in the colour tones of the foliage, of the flowers, and a newer beauty of bird music. I am aloft on the highest branches and I raise myself and am floating in that blue sky.
The snows of Mt. Cook, of Tongariro, even to the highest peak, caress me. I drink of the snow and it is both deliciously cold and warm, and tastes of nectar ineffable.
And then a city appears at my bidding, and it is a city good to look upon and its pleasures are desirable and clean and there is no bitterness anywhere.
Not because I am tired of play but because this world of dreams is seemingly illimitable I think of work, and the work I desire comes to me, and there is a grand harvest to be gathered from it.
But where are my beloved books? Ah, in a trice I am seated in the grandest library of my dreams. Here there is a soft, oh, so peaceful, light filtering through curtains of soothing colours revealing row upon row of all my best loved writers.
R.L.S. in an edition that is an exquisite pleasure to handle. In every volume he has written some new thought greater and more noble than ever he penned in life. And the Dickens set—oh, what a glory it is, and, of course, the original illustrations are in it, so lifelike that they almost move and speak. And the poets—their music sings from the pages as never before. There is one special super de luxe edition of Francis Thompson's “Hound of Heaven,” and every word shines forth like diamonds. Transcending even this edition is my Thomas a Kempis and as I opened the pages he is at my side to read to me in noble tones his inspired lines. I look for lighter, more worldly fare, and sure enough Richard Le Galliene is there and dear old Leonard Merrick. Yes, and there is a shelf of Bernard Shaw, but some of the volumes are missing, and the library seems a better place because of this. Barrie has a shelf to himself and, of course, “Margaret Ogilvie” heads the beautiful line of tomes. I seem to stay among these books for years.
Suddenly I think of food and drink and I am seated at a banquet undreamt of even by Epicurus. And the wines, and the liqueurs and the cigars that stud the banquet table are sublime. I never reach satiety in this feast. All that follows is a sleep full of wondrous dreams.
Yes, everything in this after world is peace and joy. It is the dream place—the dream place of eternity.
In a recent letter to the “Otago Daily Times” a correspondent pays tribute to the Railway Department's Refreshment Rooms at Oamaru, in the following terms:—
To The Editor. Sir,—
One can criticise much in the Government railways, but I would like space to compliment the management and staff of the Oamaru dining rooms. To-day (Saturday) was a very hot and dusty day, and there was a very full train.
For lunch at Oamaru the tables made quite a picture—hothouse tomatoes, beet-root and lettuce salad. The cold lamb, the new potatoes and the vegetables mentioned above made a delightful meal for a hot day. The stewed apricots were perfect. I often think that in Otago we get the best flavoured and the most wholesome food in the world, but railway dining rooms—like many of our eating houses—can make a sad mess of it.
It is a pleasure to give a word of praise when it is due, and Oamaru is certainly to be complimented on its successful management and on the courteous and efficient girls who serve the meals.
This expression of thanks is prompted by overhearing several say: “That was a good meals.
I am etc.,
Constant Traveller.
Such a horror of tobacco-smoke had “Victoria the Good” that those of her guests at any of the Royal palaces who chanced to be smokers were compelled, if they craved a whiff, to indulge in their bedrooms after retiring for the night, with their heads up the chimney—lest perchance the tell-tale fumes should give them away! This seems almost incredible to-day when both sexes smoke and even exalted personages puff away freely and unashamedly, and sometimes even to excess. Excessive smoking, by the way, is not always wise, but it needn't worry Maorilanders because “toasted” is always at their service. It's the tobacco full of nicotine that does the harm. But there's very little nicotine in toasted. It's cut out by the toasting. So you run no risks with these beautiful tobaccos, so sweet, pure, cool and fragrant—and so comparatively harmless. Five brands only of the genuine toasted: Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cavendish, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold. But take care what you buy. Worthless imitations are on the market.*
Mountaineering, says the popular belief, is a form of insanity. Once accept that view and the railway mystery excursions stand condemned. For they are making mountaineers. Inevitably so. Because almost every tramper has in him the stuff of which a mountaineer is made, awaiting such contact with the high hills as the mystery tramps provide.
Trampers who feel the urge to step up to higher things have a glorious opportunity this holiday season. They will not find the step as big as they might fear. True, there are important ways in which mountains differ from the element in which the tramper usually moves. There is a lot more rock; often there is snow and ice. But if the mountaineer has acquired a greater poise and judgment such as only experience can provide, the tramper yields him little in general endurance.
Scores, perhaps hundreds, of trampers have graduated to the climbing class in Canterbury in the last few years. The writer is one instance. He acquired a love of climbing almost by accident, and not very well equipped, made his first ascent under winter conditions at Arthur's Pass. With seven others, several tyros like himself but most of them proficient mountaineers, he climbed Avalanche Peak (6,003 ft.) in two hours—at that time supposed to be a winter record. And although “Avalanche” is one of the most notorious peaks in the National Park, all of the inexperienced trampers were in the first bunch on the summit ridge, apparently as fresh as any members of the party.
Arthur's Pass provides the best and most accessible training ground for the climbing enthusiast in Canterbury; and summer is the best time to make a start there. The lower peaks are then practically free of snow, and the newcomer may scramble almost at will, getting the “feel” of the mountains and the joy of first achievement, while risking few of the dangers with which mountain-climbing is usually associated. Though that does not mean that he should not first ask the advice of some competent climber, and take such precautions as are necessary.
The accessibility of Arthur's Pass is a strong point in its favour; it may be reached in about three and a-half hours from Christchurch, and at the cost of only a few shillings. It is the recognised headquarters of mountaineering in Canterbury, and in holiday season especially there are always experienced men at hand to offer any needed advice or guidance. Then the variety it offers would alone be sufficient to make it popular. There are bush and river trips of all kinds, while the climbs proper range from hills of 3,000 feet or so, to Rolleston, not the highest, but certainly the first big peak which young climbers aspire to conquer. Nor is it necessary for the tramper to buy a lot of expensive equipment for his first summer season. An ice-axe is useful, and it is good to become used to one; but well-nailed boots, and the inevitable pack, are sufficient to see any fit person to the top of “Avalanche.” Any climber will tell him where he may not go unarmed.
Whether the newcomer to the mountains essays such first ascents with others of his class, or with experienced men, they are adventures he will not easily forget. They will be the trips on which his feeling for the mountains will be sharpened. He will remember, and rightly, that 6,000 feet is—well, a long way above sea level, and a good deal higher than most New Zealanders have climbed. And Rolleston, he will console himself, is only 1,450 feet higher, merely in fact the next step to anyone who works hard to acquire climbing experience.
Those moments of realisation will be born, not in shouts of ecstasy, but in the long periods of silence in high up resting places, drenched (one hopes!) in sunshine. Maybe the climber will suck an orange, or he may munch a mouthful of raisins or nibble a cheese sandwich. Each man's thoughts, though unspoken, will be the same; for thus early has the climber's creed been adopted. “Always a little further.”
And that creed? Is it a madman's creed? Is mountaineering only another name for insanity—or suicide? So sober men say. But then they have never climbed mountains.
Smoking was a perfect craze with the great ladies of two hundred years ago. There were no cigarettes in those days so they smoked pipes. Pictures of the period are full of interest. One is of a girl walking along a garden-path followed by a maid bearing a tobacco-pipe. Another depicts a lady of quality smoking her pipe in her bath. A third shows a pretty girl, her trim waist encircled by the arm of her lover. He is evidently devoted but she has eyes only for her pipe at which she is fondly gazing. How these fine ladies and their cavaliers would have revelled in “toasted” with its exquisite purity and delightful aroma. Toasting it is that rids this incomparable tobacco of its nicotine. But that is only one of its charms. The five brands of the genuine toasted, Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cavendish, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold owe their wide popularity to sterling merit. There is no tobacco to compare with them. They are unique!*
I was admiring the pavilions and buildings at the Solway Show Grounds, in Masterton, when I saw a small procession of happy youngsters making it way to the main gates.
I found that they had been on an instructional visit to the fine piece of native bush which has been reserved by the wise public body which runs this branch of human activity in Masterton. The enthusiast responsible for this instalment of education in the sunshine, said that he had named and described for the children's benefit no less than twenty-eight varieties of native flora in that morning journey.
This seemed to me the most important happening in my visit to Masterton and Carterton. Then there was the bold forward move in the conjunction of technical and arts educational facilities as seen in the new Wairarapa High School, an institution which will have the appearance and the scope of a junior university.
The story of the world is the story of its youth, and perhaps in this pleasant land known as the Wairarapa, there is going to emerge an intelligent and sympathetic treatment of the young. Progress in the future might then make even the achievement of the doughty pioneers of this rich district seem a mundane affair, and show that ideals may become fairer and human happiness richer with each succeeding generation.
The Wairarapa Lake had the colour of washing blue as our rail-car wound into Cross Creek; and the smooth streamlined hills in the background shimmered in the heat. The change had exactly the effect of a fresh drop scene in a well produced stage drama. From Kaitoke, once famous for the best ham sandwiches in New Zealand, the journey is a revealing panorama of the size and difficulty of the mountainous rampart that walls off Wellington from the great, rich plain lying to the north. We got out at Kaitoke; the sandwiches are still fresh and appetising as are all railway sandwiches to-day, and the next hour of the journey takes in the world-famous Rimutaka incline. I could not help wondering what the old settlers would have thought of this easy-going way of sliding through wild scenery. I remember hearing one of the finest of sportsmen and pastoralists of the Wairarapa telling of the task it was to get a birthday present piano up from Wellington to the station homestead only sixteen miles from Masterton.
The mountain pass crossing took three days, and the haul from Master-ton a full day. I rather think that Paderewski himself would have had some difficulty in doing the best with his “Minuet in G” on the instrument when it arrived. However, it was a delicious surprise and was just in time for the birthday. I thought when I was being told the story, not so much of the hardships of those pioneers, but of the fine living fact that in that field of grinding toil and daily tediousness there still grew the flower of the love of beauty. I can imagine how the practical and the parsimonious among the neighbours would regard this exceedingly unpractical domestic gift. It is, however, just that spirit that has made Masterton a harmoniously lovely town. I am afraid, though, that the lawny and leafy loveliness of much of the place owes something to the accumulated wealth which has made possible the profusion of homes like miniature palaces set in small models of public gardens.
Of course, the Wairarapa Plain is a pastoral goldmine. Lord Bledisloe pointed out more than once that the world's wealth is derived in the first place from its grasses. The Wairarapa is a grass golconda, a pastoralist's paradise.
I travelled two long journeys, once with the late J. A. Gilruth, who went from the leadership of the Agricultural Department here to be administrator of the North West Territory of Australia. In his racy and incisive Scotch accent, he emphasized the fact that New Zealand was unique in its extraordinary juxtaposition of hills on which to grow sheep and plains on which to fatten them.
He said that the triangular area of the Manawatu and the long pointed plain of the Wairarapa were the best two instances of this in the world. Is it any wonder that this great plain created by dozens of rivers wearing through the hills and building up flats of rich soil, should carry swarming and apparently innumerable flocks of sheep? Dairying, of course, plays its part, and so we have Masterton, Carterton, Featherston, Greytown and Martinborough, a quintette of substantial centres that serve the needs of this busy land of growers.
There is a note of warning that I must strike before proceeding to tell you of the unqestionable merits of the two largest of this group of towns, Masterton and Carterton. As the Mayor of Masterton, Mr. T. Jordan, has pointed out, there are actually fewer people in these rural areas than there were twenty years ago, and the whole area of this land of promise and prodigal richness only carries two-thirds of the average population density of New Zealand.
The words of this chief magistrate of a handsome town are saddening, and this definite shrinking of country numbers calls for something more than pious wishes.
In the Masterton Council Chambers, hangs a copy of the first written petition for the incorporation of Masterton as a borough. The settlement had just come to the period when a young man throws his party and gets his latch-key; it was twenty-one years of age, and so, in 1877, it assumed a full grown man's part in self government. Already, astonishing changes had taken place from the days when Mr. Masters had his Wellington meeting, and, turning down Sir George Grey's offer of plenteous land at Port Ahuriri, formed the Masterton Small Farm Association. The town acres (title included) cost twenty-five shillings each, but the cannier souls, guided by the principles of sound finance, dodged the sections with two frontages because there was the added expense of fencing two boundaries. That was a famous day at the Crown and Anchor Hotel, and the forty acre blocks were quitted at the risky price of ten shillings per acre. That was in the turbulent early Fifties. The borough was the successor of the Masterton town district, created in 1873, and portioned out from the million acres or so controlled by the Masterton Highways District Board. This body with the ornate title had a small wooden office, and two of a staff, in the bush track even then slowly starting to look like a street—Queen Street. It should be mentioned that the cultured Mr. C. R. Carter, after whom Carterton was named, was of great assistance in the formation of the original settlement of Masterton.
I should like to take Messrs. Masters and Carter now for a stroll along Renall, Cole and Essex Streets. I doubt if any of our cities has a street of houses more impressive and gardens more opulent than Essex Street. Masterton is a city of trees, from the huge Lawsonianas whose 100 foot spires dominate the spacious park, to the ten miles of planted avenues. Orderly, tended, symmetrical trees line both sides of a full quarter of all the streets in Masterton.
In addition to this, the park has twenty acres, most of which is wooded, and the spacious garden areas round the greater proportion of the homes give the whole town the effect of a tree bower. From any surrounding height, the roofs and spires of the buildings seem floating in a lake of dark green foliage.
The business part of the town is solid, clean, and the buildings have a uniform air of costliness and strength. There are no shabby interruptions to the long double line of handsome premises in Queen Street, and there are intersecting streets of commercial premises of imposing proportions.
However, I think the essential charm of Masterton is best realised in our picture “The Crossing.”
This takes its wayward way from Essex Street to Cole Street, and is a thing of beauty unlike any everyday short-cut street.
I pause to say that the town stream is the most obliging rivulet in the world. It wanders between streets as if to oblige dozens of houses with back or front benefits of little bridges, decorative pools, sloping banks and all the rest of the distinctive beauty conferred by running waters.
Masterton's impressive feature is the large proportion of homes which rejoice in large and well-planned gardens. Everyone has a garden in this fortunate town, and dozens are of the proportions and formal beauty of a public pleasaunce. The final touch of arboreal embellishment is added by the double lines of gracious trees. Even a walk to the railway station is an aesthetic pleasure.
A sight-seeing tour really does confirm the first impression that the town is the visible expression of the inner beauty of rural life. There seem to be universal growth and greenery, leaf and blossoms, creeper and tall tree.
Then there are the schools, of which there are a full dozen. We show just one, Solway College, which has its own atmosphere even to the white sheep in the foreground. It is a place of distinction, and has the peace which makes for the best educational environment. There are other fine edifices devoted to education, and there is the vast congeries of buildings standing in noble playing fields and grounds, known as the Wairarapa High School. This has the proportions of a university and represents an experiment of surpassing importance to the culture of our country. We saw three Children's Homes where youngsters who are the victims of economic or family disaster, can grow in conditions that not only fit them for the struggle of life, but give them now something of the joy of youthful life, possibly far more important.
There are eleven churches, and no less than nine public halls.
Masterton's parks are the natural emanations of the town's natural environment. Man here proves what Nature in her richest forms of largesse can do to the minds and hearts of everyday, busy, pre-occupied humans. Mawley Park is an exquisite cross-section of natural scenery, well equipped, cosy and sheltered, and, of course, full of fine trees. But the central park is nothing less than magnificent. New Zealand is a land of parks, and it is difficult to select any particular set of ornamental grounds for notice. Here, the remembered loveliness of rural England has been re-created in hundreds of places from hamlets to cities. However, the sweet, the spaciousness, the planned and varied beauty of this Masterton pleasure ground, make one think that it belongs to a city of half a million. There are twenty acres in all; the famous Oval, sheltered and surfaced like a billiard table, is a spectacle in itself; there are ornamental lakes; large aviaries, walks, gay flower beds in profusion; there is a riot everywhere of every hue of leaf and bloom. Finest of all are the tall trees. One towers 114 feet, and in this park there is ample room for the greatest giant to reach full size and majesty. My friend with the camera was at a loss; he saw a new picture every minute, and would have cheerfully stayed until dusk. In case I am making Masterton appear to be a town of retired garden lovers, I should mention that it has many successful industries. I am in favour of the growth of industries in such towns as Masterton. The work is done by folk whose living conditions cannot be reproduced in crowded cities, and there always exist intimacy and community feeling, matchless except in country centres.
It is obvious that Masterton should have factories devoted to the manufacturing of goods from the wool which comes in thousands of bales from the surrounding terrain. I saw one modern and completely up-to-date plant engaged in the making of hose of all sorts. It should be ten times the size.
This compact provincial capital has, of course, large stock firms and many Government offices. The municipal block is a handsome pile of definite architectural value.
It is a matter of repetition to recount the amenities and modern facilities available to the Masterton citizen. They are equal to those of many famous capitals; gas, electric light, paved roads, five golf courses, two bowling greens, four theatres, up-to-date aerodrome, deep drainage. The administration of the borough is efficient and in every way a model of civic enterprise.
The rail-car trip to Carterton is a matter of pleasant minutes. Settlement is close and continuous. Rich lands with splendid homes springing to the eye lie all the way.
Garterton is a pretty and attractive town named after the studious and enlightened giver of the well-known Carter Collection. I should say that Carterton's main characteristic is modesty. It is a compact, neat, sweet and busy borough. Here again the fortunate citizens rejoice in a standard of municipal comfort which is on a parity with that of a European capital.
The business premises have an air of well doing, and many of them are of imposing dimensions. The head office of the Wairarapa Electric Power Board is here with handsome showrooms. The borough runs its own gas installation, and the gardens everywhere are witnesses to the plentiful water supply. The water metre in the council show-room was recording 125 pounds of pressure when I was there. Here are many fine homes, and the gardens are rich with choice and rare plants, calculated to make an amateur gardener from the city envious and full of despair.
The Memorial Square is in the middle of the town. It utilises every natural advantage and could well be given a more decorative name… . Lit at night, it is a fairyland. There are good schools, golf courses, football grounds and other playing fields. Carterton is an example of extremely sound municipal management. The rates can hardly be noticed. I have said before that life in a New Zealand country town is the most pleasant available to man on this earth. In Carterton all the sound methods of recreation and entertainment cost next to nothing, and are available in profusion. Shooting, fishing and other forms of outdoor recreation are thrown in for good measure. There is a splendid municipal library. They are indeed fortunate folk who dwell in Carterton.
In every red-blooded being there lies a latent gipsy or a dormant desperado who would a'wandering go across the mighty main or into the wild and woolly waste.
In the heart of the most mousey man there lurks a bad bold buccaneer with a scarlet bandana bound round his pagan pate and a glistening bean-slicer in his teeth. Few can escape for ever the prankish promptings of this ulterior rascal who has passed from father to son since the good old days. Deep beneath the braces of courteous cavaliers of commerce crouches a morganatic Morgan, a hibernating Hayes or a tentative Turpin awaiting that moment which comes to all men when they rebel against the tyranny of the tie and the servitude of the serviette and say, “To heck with pants, petrol-pumps and plumbers—let's hit the horizon!”
For twenty years they may cock a deaf'un to the wheezy whisperings of their atavistic lodger. They may ignore him when he mutters on Monday mornings, “C'mon! Let's hop it. The world's wide and there's lots to see.” But the day will come when a seagull will give them the raspberry or they will sniff a burst cocoanut while passing the fruit market and for the nonce they will be running up the Jolly Roger off Callao or hunting wild men in Borneo.
Then their vagabond varlet, their nomadic nostalgia will pounce upon them and possess them. The name of their tempestuous termagant is Sir Footloose FitzFreedom, and when he shakes the cobwebs off and blows down the barrel of his trusty rusty blunderbus it's time to pack the old port-sam and say goodbye to home and mother. His answer to each pale protest is “To horse!” or “Yo ho!” which are the ancient equivalents of “Step on it,” “What time does the train go?” or “If you don't stop trying on hats, Annie, we'll miss the boat.”
It's useless to kick and squirm when old Sir Footloose has you in a travelholt. He wheezes in your ear of surf bursting over distant reefs with the primitive abandon of an explosion in an ice-cream factory. He speaks of cocoa-coloured maids with googly eyes, of the husky whispering of cocoa-nut husks in the lonely Cocos, where the tom-tom calls eerily to its paw-paw. He tells of the delights of the doldrums where it's so still that all you can hear is The Hotcha Kids of the Hotel Neurotic, New York, on the saloon radio. He exhorts you to try it once, to sip the cup of derring-do ere the cup goes dry; to rule off the ledger, to dump the overdraft, to shake the gold-dust of civilisation off your Bostocks and run the easting down.
With the result that one evening you return to the connubial roost and say, “Semolena, how about a trip round the world, or—ahem!—as far round as the old brown sock will take us.” There is an “up-boys-and-at-'em” glint in your eye and a roll in your gait. Semolena has seen it before and determines to count your loose coin as soon as you are asleep. She objects that the only round trip you can afford is on a hurdy-gurdy. She has ninety-nine other objections which you trump with
Your friends murmur, “Fancy the MacMildews! How do they do it!” Your office boy says, “Old wire-whiskers is off at last. I hope the ship goes down.” Your creditors go cross-eyed with apprehension, but what do you care? Sir Footloose FitzFreedom reminds you that your great great great grandfather was a merry old sea dog, a jolly old water spaniel, who had a way with creditors until they caught him and suspended his activities from the yard arm. In this manner are most travel decisions born.
The unthinking imagine that you are carried away by enterprise and enthusiasm; the knowing know that you are led away by that submerged old rascal who, ever since your deluded parents said what a lovely baby you were, has been waiting to get you where he wants you.
Once having had your mind made up for you you get down to business.
It is every man's ambition to “travel light,” and every woman's determination to take everything except the grand piano.
Thus Scene 1, entitled “packing,” may be described in the script as follows:
“Room in wild confusion; fifteen trunks and seven hat boxes strewn willy-nilly and all-to-glory. Wife enters, leff, and dumps armful of clothes in trunk. Husband enters, right, and undumps them. Wife explains why they are necessary. Husband explains why they're not. Conversation swiftly moves to topics of a painfully personal nature. Dog walks in, left centre, and goes to sleep on clothes. Scene closes with husband repacking all clothes in all trunks.”
Briefly, that is the story of the packing, but there is more to it, far, far, more. Many a man has resisted the call of the wide open spaces solely because he has dreaded the call of the wide open suit cases. Most men could travel to Tartary and back with nothing more than two pairs of socks, a toothbrush and corkscrew, but when they take their wives—well, you know, brothers, you know!
Packing, like woman's work, is never done. When a man has finished rolling on the floor trying to snap a latch-scissors on a trunk whose lid flies up at every wrench and jolts him under the chin; after he has wrestled mightily with bags that bulge like Willie after the party, when he has jumped on lids that won't close and striven with catches that won't open he naturally thinks the job is done. But he has only begun. His wife says, “You didn't pack my hair crimper!” It appears that he did, but he doesn't know where.
“But I can't, I simply can't do without it,” she wails.
So he unpacks all the bags and asks himself if it wouldn't be easier in the long run if he stayed home and took a job on the wharf. But everything is all right when the crimper is found — on a shelf in the bathroom.
Dear Elizabeth,
As we have travelled about 300 miles since I last wrote, and as the country through which we have passed has been so varied, I'll have to sort out my impressions into some sort of order before I can hope to give you anything like a coherent recital of our wanderings.
First of all, although I'm not going to dwell on it because you know it so well yourself, I must say how much I liked Rotorua and simply must mention one place in particular. You haven't spoken of Te Wairoa so I take it for granted that you haven't been there. Mount Tarawera, as you know, erupted in 1886 and buried Te Wairoa in its ashes and its mud. Recent excavations have revealed the pitiful relics of that tragedy.
We left Rotorua one bright morning, our goal being Opotiki. A twisty road took us past the three famous lakes, Rotoiti, Rotoehu and Rotoma. We couldn't decide which was the most beautiful. There were poplars growing near the water and pohutukawas and ratas just breaking into blossom. On the terraced hills were evidences of older Maori civilisation in the form of ancient pa sites and fortifications. I noticed, by the way, an old Maori meeting house complete with modern windows and typical pakeha lace curtains. Incongruous in one way, but in another typical of the manner in which the Maori, while adopting the white man's manners and customs to a certain extent, still maintains his own individuality and the characteristics and emotions of his own race.
When we finally left the Lakes we were soon climbing towards the summit of the Otitapu Range, some 1,200 feet above sea-level. Then down again to the country where the almost perfect cone of Mt. Edgecumbe soon dominated the landscape. This mountain which rises to a height of 2,946 feet, is an extinct volcano which has played its part in Maori history.
The country around here is inclined to be monotonous after the varied procession of bush, lake and mountain which we had recently passed through, but when we realised that it was once part of a 100,000 acre swamp—the delta of the Rangitaiki River—and that Governments, from 1911 onwards, spent upwards of £555,000 on a drainage scheme, we began to “sit up and take notice.” Now instead of fetid swamp land there are acres and acres of maize fields.
Whakatane was our next port of call. It is a sea port, and is the centre of a rich dairying, stock-fattening and maize growing district, but against all the very modern business of shipping and shops there is an historical background which is well worth investigating. The little town is set between the sea and the hills. On the hills can be found what is left of one of the oldest pas in New Zealand—that of Kapu te Rangi. Skirmishing took place in Whakatane in the Maori Wars, and Te Kooti raided it in 1869. We would have liked to have stayed longer in Whakatane, but our time-table did not permit, and after passing through the beautiful Waimana Gorge we were soon skirting the shores of Ohiwa Harbour where we had a good look at White Isl nd.
We followed the road by the sea for many miles over what is the loveliest marine drive I have yet seen in New Zealand. First there were the hills on our right, then the white road, and then —pohutukawa trees. Mile upon mile of them, gorgeous flaming things, flaunting their scarlet banners between us and the golden sand and the grey-blue, endless sea. The sand they had made crimson with their fallen petals and the tyres of our car were dyed the same hue. Many lands are known by their flowers. When we read of avenues of cherry blossoms, or of dark-eyed maidens with hibiscus blossoms in their hair, we have no need to wonder in what country the story develops, because these flowers have become so much a part of the land they adorn. I have seen neither the hibiscus of the southern seas nor the cherry blossoms of Japan, but I am certain that the long row of pohutukawa trees in bloom on that lovely sea road is just as worthy of becoming a national symbol.
We camped the night at Opotiki, after exploring the town. Opotiki, which is bounded by the sea and by the Otara and the Waioeka Rivers, has quite a pretty camping spot close to the small but extremely busy wharf, and here again we passed over ground which has figured largely in New Zealand history. In a side street stands a little wooden church with a tall bronzy-greeny steeple. This was built by the Rev. K. S. Volkner, in 1860. The church is very little changed since that date, although it has witnessed the fury and blood lust of a fanatic, the death of a very brave gentleman, and has withstood seige.
The road from Opotiki to Hicks Bay has been opened very recently, and it is looked upon by tourists in the light of an ogre in a fairy tale—something rather big and angerous and generally to be avoided. Running out of Opotiki we passed over the Waiou River bridge and were soon spinning over a long, straight road which seemed to be heading directly towards the mountains, but which somehow never seemed to get there. Two lupin covered hills now lay
The road (which was so far, very good) bad now climbed above the sea, and we saw the water far away below us on the horizon. We had left the bush miles behind and the land was, if not so pictorially interesting, somehow, more essentially New Zealand. Here was the real, solid backbone of the country, where man watered his stock, milked his herd, grew his grain. Here was the home of the man of the soil, hardy, persevering, deep rooted, wholesome as bread, working out his destiny in a tiny farmhouse so far away from the life that you and I know. We passed through little settlements, mostly native, comprising usually a schoolhouse and a store. The road ran on and on. Now into the hills, now climbing, and then all at once out and down by the sea once more, when again we saw the steam on White Island. The sea was very blue and the beach, log-strewn. We felt like pioneers. Now we were actually on the beach itself, with Cape Runaway in front of us, beckoning us on.
A few miles on, at Maraenui, the road left the sea-front and made for the hills again. At the summit, before turning inland, we stopped and looked back. The coastline stretched far behind us. It was a clear, still summer day and each tiny bay and inlet with its complement of rocky foreshore and fringe of pohutukawas, made a picture we will not quickly fdrget. We still saw White Island, with its plume of steam and its background of deep blue water, and could actually pick out Mt. Edgecumbe, which must have been a good forty to fifty miles away.
All along the route we passed little wooden storehouses for keeping maize, each surrounded by the drying husks of the corn cobs. The road meandered over the hills for a time and then dipped shorewards again. All along the route hereabouts are old pa sites. Te Kaha, the next settlement, was once a whaling station, but all that is left to remind us of the fact is a mouldering whale boat and an old try pot. Then came Te Keru. At one time the Te Keru river was spanned by a massive and substantial bridge. Now, however, although still massive and substantial, it no longer spans the river but lies at the mouth, a veritable lone, lorn, Mrs. Gummidge of a bridge, with the silt of the river bed almost covering it. The rivers on this coast very quickly change from peaceful streams to raging torrents, and if a mere bridge happens to be in the way—hey, presto!—and it isn't!
Our next ford of any consequence was the Raukokore River, after which no river gave us any real trouble, though we could see that wet weather would tell a different tale, and we were soon spinning merrily along towards Hicks Bay. All the way, so far, the road had been excellent, even better in many places than many of the better-known and more frequented routes through which we had passed.
It was just getting dark when we arrived at Hicks Bay. There are two stores at Hicks Bay, and two petrol pumps, also quite a large school. The Bay itself is a perfect semi-circle, where the blue waters of the Pacific roll thunderously onto yellow-grey sands. There is less bush than we expected and the countryside is more rugged than we had anticipated, but it has an appeal and a grandeur which is none-the-less because of this. At the north end of the bay is a tiny wharf which is laden with great bales of wool ready for shipment. We have been here three days and have seen in the time, three busy little coastal steamers plying up and down.
I am writing this at the door of the tent. There is a soft breeze coming across the water and the sun is shining on the sands. All around green high hills frame the bay. Two Maori boys, white of teeth and merry of eye, have just passed on their way to bathe. We leave here to-morrow and I shall be sorry to say good-bye to Hicks Bay and the friendly folk we have met here. However, we are now bound for Gisborne, through Ruatoria, Tokomaru Bay and Tolago Bay, which ought to prove most interesting. A rabid Scot, just before we left Napier, on hearing of our projected tour, told us that the country down the East Coast reminded him, just a bit mind you, of the Scottish Highlands. And if you know a rabid Scot, you'll realise that this isn't damning with faint praise at all, but sheer screaming enthusiasm!
So heerrrre's hoping!
“I Always thought I had a heart of stone,” wrote one of New Zealand's British Empire Games team to a friend in Wellington, “but when Cecil Matthews mounted the victory dais after winning the three-mile event and the band played the New Zealand an-them, I had a lump in my ‘swallow.’ I guess if I am lucky enough to mount the dais, I'll break down and cry!”
Even the most phlegmatic are stirred by the pageantry and symbolism of the Empire Games opening and victory ceremony, but the man who visualised the great gathering died before he could see it staged on the patch of ground he knew so well—the Sydney Cricket Ground.
To Mr. R. W. (“Dick”) Coombes) formerly athletics editor on Sydney “Referee,” is credit due for the suggestion which brought about the Empire Games. Dick Coombes, first and only president of the Australian and New Zealand Amateur Athletic Union, was well-known in New Zealand for his interest in track and field sport, coursing and rifle-shooting.
When plans were being made to celebrate the Coronation of King George V, in 1911, Mr. Coombes brought forward the suggestion of a Festival of Empire Games. Through the columns of his paper he kept hammering away with the suggestion, and he was a proud man when the scheme was adopted.
At that Festival of the Empire, Australia was represented by five athletes and New Zealand by four. The team, a composite one, competed for Australasia, the New Zealand track sport at that time being controlled from Australia.
Only three countries competed at the meeting—Great Britain, Canada and Australasia. In exciting competition the Games championship was won by Canada by one point from Great Britain and Canada thus became winners of the Lonsdale Cup, a silver trophy standing 30 inches in height and weighing 340 ounces. This cup was won outright by Canada, who generously suggested that it should become a permanent trophy for the British Empire Games. As by the rules of the Empire Games there is no “winning country” it was at first decided that the cup should be held by the British Empire Games Federation.
When the cup arrived in England, it was found to be so large that it would have become an embarrassment to any custodian and was covered with engraving without space for further inscription. Lord Lonsdale and Mr. M. M. Robinson (manager of the Canadian team in Sydney this year) concurring, the original cup was melted down and the silver contents made into a principal cup of reasonable dimensions to be held by the Federation, with smaller cups to be presented to countries which had formed British Empire Games Associations.
Lord Lonsdale, donor of the cup, is England's best known sporting personality, and it was fitting that he should send a message to the athletes assembled for the Empire Games in Sydney when more than 400 young athletes, of both sexes, met on the field of athletic endeavour.
Lord Lonsdale is President of the British Empire Games Federation and President of the Council of the English branch of the organisation. His message to the English team read:
“On the eve of the departure of the competitors to take part in the celebrations to commemorate the 150th anniversary of the founding of Australia I wish to send a message to all concerned to wish them health and happiness.
“I know they will do their utmost to uphold the true spirit of sportsmanship and whilst trying to excel in the Games, will also by word and deed promote friendship with their fellow Britons in the great Dominion of Australia.”
New Zealand has another link with the Empire Games in that Sir James Leigh-Wood, K.B.E., C.B., C.M.G., chairman of the British Empire Games Federation and commandant of the team from Great Britain, married Miss Turnbull, sister of Robert Turnbull. Sir James's son, Roger, was in New Zealand a few years ago and it may interest readers to know that Roger was one of England's best quarter-mile hurdlers and track athletes. By the time these notes appear, Sir James may have visited New Zealand.
On persuing the results at the 1911 Games I am struck with the paucity of events staged. The track side embraced five contests: 100 yds., 220 yds., 880yds., one mile, and 120 yds. hurdles. These events were won as follows (this year's winners and times in parenthesis): 100 yds., F. J. Halbaus (Canada), 102/5 sec. (C. B. Holmes, England, 97/10 sec.); 220 yds., F. J. Halbaus (Canada), 23 sec. (C. B. Holmes, England, 211/5 sec.); 880 yds., J. M. Hill (Great Britain), 1 min. 583/5 sec. (V. P. Boot, New Zealand, 1 min. 51 1/4 sec.); one mile, J. L. Tait (Canada), 4 min. 481/5 sec. (J. W. Alford, Wales,); 120 yds. hurdles, K. Powell (Great Britain), 16 sec. (J. Lavery, South Africa, 14 sec.).
Harold Hardwick, Australia's great boxer-swimmer, won the only boxing title contested in 1911—the heavyweight —and also won the 100 yds. free-style swimming event. Only two swimming races were held, a race of one mile
But the seed had been planted, and in 1930 the British Empire Games were held at Hamilton, Canada, with a full programme of 21 track and field events, eight boxing contests, three lawn bowling contests, five rowing races, nine swimming and diving contests for the men, eight swimming and diving events for the women, and seven wrestling contests. There were no track and field events for the women at this gathering, and cycling had not yet appeared on the programme.
The Empire Games movement became established at that gathering and New Zealand did well to score wins with W. J. Savidan, in the six miles, S. A. Lay, in the javelin throw, and the coxswained fours rowing race. Both Savidan and Lay put up fine figures, Lay's throw of 207 ft. 1 1/2 inches still remaining as an Empire Games record, one of the few not broken in Sydney! Savidan's run of 30 min. 49 3/5 sec. stood as the record until Cecil Matthews ran 30 min. 14 1/2 sec. at Sydney.
Four years later the Games were held in London when cycling and women's track events were included for the first time. Rowing, however, was dropped from the programme.
With the exception of the win by Jack Lovelock, who set the Empire Games mile record of 4 min. 12 4/5 sec., New Zealand failed to gain a win. Harold Brainsby, of Auckland was third in the hop-step-and-jump, and Frank Grose, of Canterbury, filled fourth place in three cycling events. Sixteen countries were represented as follows: Australia, Bermuda, British Guiana, Canada, England, Hong Kong, India, Jamaica, Newfoundland, New Zealand, Northern Ireland, Rhodesia, Scotland, South Africa, Trinidad and Wales.
The New Zealand team comprised: J. Lovelock, T. G. Broadway, N. Crump, L. Smith, W. Whareaitu, H. K. Brainsby and F. Grose.
This year the New Zealand team comprised 71 representatives, made up as follows: track and field 18, rowing 17, swimming 8, boxing 7, cycling 7, wrestling 7, and bowling 7.
New Zealand's athletic mana stands high in the British Empire as the result of the excellent running by our distance runners at the Empire Games in Sydney.
Cecil Matthews, in the three-mile event, was the first British Empire athlete to break 14 min. for three miles—a feat not equalled by runners other than those from Finland. The success of Matthews since he was at the Christchurch Technical School, where he won the one - mile championship from a field of 200 starters in 4 min. 29 1/5 sec.—to set a schoolboy record for the British Empire—until his most recent great performance, may be traced to conscientious training and a determined effort to improve on an almost perfect distance-running style. Matthews runs in a relaxed manner, he never seems to be making hard work of his racing, and, even when tired, never “ties up.” It is this coordination of mind and muscle that makes the Finns so powerful in distance races.
When Perasalo and Sippala, the Finnish athletes, were in New Zealand in 1935, they expressed the opinion that summer in New Zealand approximated the summer in Finland and that the events in which Finnish athletes excelled should prove the best for New Zealanders to concentrate on. This has more than a little truth to back it up and, when a survey is made of the performances of our distance-runners, we must come to the conclusion that it is in that field of sport we may find our champions in world competition.
Matthews ran three miles in the Games at Sydney in 13 min. 59 3/5 sec. The world record for three miles stands to the credit of Lauri Lehtinen, who won the Olympic event of 5,000 metres ((3 m. 188 yds.) in 1932, and finished second in the Olympic event in 1936. The merit of Matthews's run will be better appreciated when it is pointed out that Paavo Nurmi, considered to be the greatest of all distance-runners, never broke 14 minutes for three miles. His best time—a world record—was 14 min. 8 2/5 sec., made in 1922. Nurmi had previously broken the record with 14 min. 11 1/5 sec. Prior to Nurmi running that time the world record stood to the credit of Alfred Shrubb, with 14 min. 17 3/5 sec., made in 1994.
The three-mile New Zealand record stood at 14 min. 49 sec. by W. F. Simpson, a railway employee, for 24 years until Randolph Rose, running against the diminutive Australian George Hyde at Wanganui, won the 1925 New Zealand championship event in 14 min. 45 1/5 sec. Rose subsequently lowered this time to 14 min. 29 1/5 sec. at Wellington in 1927. In 1934, Billy Savidan ran the distance in 14 min. 27 1/5 sec. at Auckland and broke the figures set by Rose.
Then came Matthews! At Christ-church, on February 11, 1936, Matthews ran the twelve laps in 14 min. 18 3/5 sec. and established his claim to be the greatest three-miler we have produced. It should be borne in mind that Rose and Savidan were competing at the same time and had some great duels together—notably at the Australasian championship and 1929–30 meeting at Wanganui—and this should have brought fast performances.
At Auckland last March, Murakosa, the Japanese Olympic athlete, who was responsible for the fast pace at the Olympic Games when a world record was made in the 5,000 metres, ran a wonderful race to break the New Zealand record with 14 min. 11 3/5 sec. Murakosa had the benefit of early pacing from Reuben Wilson, of Wellington, and then went on to run the balance of the race, by himself, to make really remarkable time.
At that time, it was thought that Murakosa's figures would stand the test of time, but the remorseless Matthews came out this season fully recovered from the effects of travelling to the
Surely he could not be expected to do better than that on a grass track? But the best of Matthews was yet to come—in fact after his run at Sydney it is problematical if we have yet seen the best of him!—and he competed in the Empire Games trial against the strongest distance runner England has ever produced, P. D. Ward, the man who is invited to compete at Oslo next season in a special attempt on the world figures for 5,000 metres; the man who succeeded in finishing a close second to Gunnar Hockert (Olympic champion) in a special race at Oslo last season.
Once again Matthews was unassisted by pacing and had to make his pace. Lap after lap he kept the lead, with Ward on his heels. Lap after lap he set a blistering pace. There are some who would have it that Ward did not play the game by not taking his share of the pace, but those who know Matthews best know that he is never happier than when out in front calling the tune. Ward merely followed accepted track tactics—he should not be condemned for letting Matthews adopt what many thought would be suicidal tactics.
When Matthews decided to “give all he had” he left Ward standing and ran home a comfortable winner in the British Empire record time of 13 min. 59 3/5 sec. The best performance by a New Zealander (it was by a railway employee, W. F. Simpson), stood at 14 min. 49 sec. as late as 1925—although made in 1901, and to-day it stands at 13 min. 59 3/5 sec.—made by a son of a railway employee. The Service should be proud! Cecil Matthews has all his best years of racing ahead of him—the Olympic Games of 1940 should see him nearing his peak—but already he has made the following international and national records:
Three miles: British Empire record, 13 min. 59 3/5 sec.; Australian record, 13 min. 59 3/5 sec.; New Zealand record, 14 min. 7 sec.
3,000 metres: Australian record, 8 min. 42 7/10 sec.
Two miles: New Zealand record, 9 min. 17 3/5 sec. (not accepted due to delay in securing certificates).
Four miles: Australian record, 19 min. 37 sec.
Six miles: Australian and British Empire Games record, 30 min. 14 1/2 sec.
Matthews, making his first competitive appearance in a race of six miles, won the British Empire title in an impressive manner. His time was 30 min. 14 £1/2 sec. When Billy Savidan won the title in 1930 he set the record of 30 min. 49 3/5 sec., but in fairness to him it should be mentioned that he stopped with a lap to go—under the impression that he had won the race—and had to make another start. Under the circumstances it is reasonable to suggest that Savidan could have materially reduced his time had he not made that error. Matthews did not start in the one-mile event, in which he would have had a chance of winning the final.
Another outstanding athlete at the Games was V. P. (“Pat”) Boot, who won the 880 yards in 1 min. 51 1/4 sec., time only bettered by three athletes in the world last season. Boot will probably receive an invitation to compete at the Princeton track meet in America next July. In the past, Lovelock and Shore (South Africa) have been invited to compete against the leading Americans in special races, and in view of Boot's remarkable running on the grass track at Sydney it is felt that he will be singled out for this honour.
Boot has been New Zealand's outstanding half-miler for two years, and is improving with age. Trained by a capable man in R. A. Drury, he is not allowed to overdo his racing, and there is no reason to suggest that he has reached his best.
Boot's run of 1 min. 51 1/4 sec. for 880 yards would have been a world record in 1932! To trace the history of the world record for the distance is to delve into the pages of an almost forgotten past.
To the younger generation, the name of J. E. (“Ted”) Meredith does not convey much, but he was a champion middle - distance runner, whose record of 1 min. 52 1/5 sec., made in 1916, stood until broken by the great German athlete, Dr. Peltzer, in 1926.
Frank Scurry Hewitt ran a half-mile on the Riccarton Road, Christchurch, in 1871, in the record time of 1 min. 53 1/2 sec., but his figures were never recognised.
For the benefit of readers who are able to recall the champions of 50 years ago—and there are many who have not forgotten Lon Myers, the great American all-distance runner—I will start my review of the half-mile record from 1885, the year in which Myers ran 1 min. 55 2/5 sec. to set the world record. To show the class of Myers, I will point out that in one week he won the 100 yds., 220 yds., 440 yds., and 880 yds. American championships, and the 100 yds., 220 yds., 440 yds. and 880 yds. Canadian championships! Although Myers held the world record for 880 yards it is reasonable to suggest he would have done even better time had he concentrated on that distance instead of racing all distances.
Following on Myers came F. J. K. Cross, an Englishman, who broke the world record with a run of 1 min. 54 3/5 sec. in 1888.
At that time the other English stars were Bredin, Horan and Pollock Hill. Bredin, three times winner of the English half-mile title in 1 min. 55 1/5 sec., 1 min. 56 4/5 sec., and 1 min. 55 4/5 sec. was the most consistent half-miler of the period.
In 1895 C. H. Kilpatrick, in the first international meeting between English and American athletes, broke the world record with 1 min. 53 2/5 sec. in a race contested by F. S. Horan and C. H. Lewin (England), and C. H. Kilpatrick and H. Lyons (America). Kilpatrick was trained by the most famous of all trainers, Mike Murphy, from whose athletes came the origin of the crouch start and the spiked shoe—the most revolutionary changes in track sport.
Murphy exuded confidence and assured Kilpatrick that he was the best man in the world, and if any of the English athletes should be near him at the entrance to the straight, Kilpatrick was “to think of his mother,” and race full out!
For twenty years, Kilpatrick's record stood. Then a little-known Italian, Emilio Lunghi, running the distance in 1 min. 52 4/5 sec., captured the honour.
In 1912 the world had a vintage crop of half-milers, and the 800 metres (875 yds.) at the Olympic Games saw the following finalists: Meredith, Sheppard, Davenport and Caldwell (U.S.A.), and Hans Braun (Germany).
Meredith won by a yard from Sheppard in 1 min. 51 9/10 sec., and the fifth man ran 1 min. 52 3/10 sec. Braun, who was deemed unlucky to have to race against a full American team, was killed during the Great War.
Meredith set the world record figures of 1 min. 52 1/5 sec. in 1916, and even to-day is considered to have been one of the most brilliant middle-distance athletes of all time. His record of 47 2/5 sec. stood for 16 years until beaten by Ben Eastman. Meredith's competition was limited by the War intervening, and he had to confine his activities to racing in America.
The intervention of the Great War prevented much interest being taken in athletics, except in America, where Earl Eby was the outstanding half-miler. Eby, by the way, was defeated by New Zealander Jack Mason at the Inter-Allied Games in Paris immediately after the War ended.
A. G. Hill was the outstanding half-miler in 1920, and then came Douglas Lowe, of England, who won the Olympic 800 metres in 1924 and 1928, His best performance at the Games was 1 min. 51 4/5 sec. in 1928, when he defeated a classy field comprising Lloyd Hahn (America's best), Sera Martin (world record holder for 800 metres), Englehardt, Edwards (Olympic finalist in 1928, 1932 and 1936, and Empire Games champion in 1934) and Bylehn.
In 1926 Lowe and Peltzer met in a thrilling duel in the English half-mile championship at Stamford Bridge. Peltzer won by a narrow margin in 1 min. 51 3/5 sec., displacing the record made by Ted Meredith in 1916.
Peltzer's record stood until beaten by Ben Eastman, “the Blonde Cyclone,” who also held the world record for 400 metres, 440 yds., and 800 metres.
Eastman ran 1 min. 50 3/5 sec. in 1932 and later brought it down to 1 min. 49 4/5 sec. That is the official record, although the American Elroy Robinson has a run of 1 min. 49 3/5 sec. waiting official recognition.
Tommy Hampson, England's winner of the 800 metres in 1932 with the world record time of 1 min. 49 4/5 sec. —–since equalled by Eastman—has been the only outstanding half-miler produced by England in the last six years, and he retired in 1932.
The world's best half-milers to-day are Elroy Robinson, America (1 min. 49 3/5 sec.), Johnny Woodruff, America, Olympic champion (1 min. 50 3/10 sec.), V. P. Boot, New Zealand (1 min. 51 1/4 sec.) and V. Palmason, America (1 min. 51 1/2 sec.).
Boot's run was made on a grass track with a short finishing straight, but even so, it ranks with the three best runs recorded in 1937!
At various times I have advanced the opinion that Boot is not a great miler—an opinion I still held after he had qualified for the one-mile Empire Games final. It was this expression of opinion that raised much criticism prior to the selection of the New Zealand team for the Olympic Games in 1936, when I stated that Boot's chances over the half-mile distance were limitless, but that he did not have sufficient “racing brains” or track tactics to do well in a mile race. Beaten by a small margin into third place in the Empire Games mile by Alford (Wales) and Backhouse (Australia), Boot ran better than I anticipated and with more racing against classy opposition over that distance he might do even better. Class competition makes champions, and a series of races against men of the calibre of Alford, Backhouse, Graham and Pullar might see the young Canterbury half-miler reach high company. But, for all that, I feel confident that he will never rank as high among milers as he does among half-milers.
Alford, winner of the one mile, broke Lovelock's Empire Games record with a run of 4 min. 11 £1/5 sec., Lovelock's record being 4 min. 12 £3/5 sec.
Arnold Anderson, New Zealand's best hurdler over 440 yards, finished out of a place in the hurdling race won by John Loaring, the Canadian who filled second place in the 400 metres hurdles at the 1936 Olympic Games. Loaring set new figures for the Empire Games with 52 £9/10 sec., and Anderson, with 54 £3/5 sec., chopped £2/5th of a second off his New Zealand record performance. He could not have been expected to have done better than that!
Only one world record was made at the Empire Games, Lavery (South Africa) winning the high hurdles from Larry O'Connor (Canada) in 14 sec. The world record is 14 £1/10 sec. by Forrest Towns (U.S.A.), who has a run of 13 £9/10 sec. awaiting official recognition.
Apart from the successes on the track, New Zealand did remarkably well in a section not given undue prominence in the sporting press—in bowling. F. Livingstone, who had won the singles title at the Australian Bowling Carnival—part of the sesqui-centennial celebrations—filled second place in the British Empire Games singles, Macey and Denison won the pairs and Whittaker, Robertson, Jury and Bremner won the rinks. To secure two wins and a second in three events is most creditable.
New Zealand's best performances at the Empire Games were:
C. H. Matthews, won 3 miles and 6 miles in both races, setting British Empire records.
V. P. Boot, won 880 yards, setting Empire Games record, and third in one mile.
T. Allen, won heat of 880 yards in Australian record time.
S. A. Lay, second in javelin throw.
J. Leckie, third in hammer throw.
Miss Rona Tong, third in 90 yds. hurdles.
J. Brown, second in 100 kilometres road cycle race.
G. Giles, third in 1,000 metres match cycle race.
R. B. Smith, third in single sculls.
Rigby, Boswell, Hope and Clayton, second in four-oar.
F. Livingstone, runner-up in bowling singles.
Macey and Denison, winners pairs bowling championships.
Whittaker, Robertson, Jury and Bremner, winners rinks bowling championships.
D. Heeney, runner-up welterweight boxing championships.
J. Dryden, runner-up heavyweight wrestling championships.
V. Thomas, runner-up lightweight wrestling championship.
P. F. Sharpley, won invitation 220 yds. hurdles in 24 £7/10 sec.—Australian record.
Miss M. Leydon, third in 440 yds. free-style swim — broke Empire Games record.
Miss B. Forbes, tied for second in high jump with 5 ft. 2 in. but placed third on count back.
The following is the final instalment of some rough notes of travel in New Zealand, in 1858. These notes are taken from a small, and now very rare, book published in England, by Mr. Robert Scott, in 1860, and submitted to the “N.Z. Railways Magazine” by P. S. Smallfield.
On October 29th, while I was dressing, a gun was fired intimating the arrival once more of the steamer White Swan. I hastened and got on board early, and safely, this time. Before I sailed a number of the New Plymouth people came with smiling faces to bid me farewell. During the three months I had resided among them I had formed several agreeable friendships. But my anxiety to get to Auckland prevented me from feeling much sorrow at leaving them.
Early the following morning we crossed the dangerous sand bar and entered the Manakau Harbour. By 12 o'clock we were lying at anchor. The passengers were conveyed in small boats from the steamer into shallow water, and then on men's backs to the beach at Onehunga, for which they paid 2s. 6d. They are conveyed from Onehunga to Auckland over a good macadamised road in an omnibus for the same amount. As we drove along I admired the hawthorn hedges intermixed with roses.
The harbour of Auckland is splendid, having the best entrance for shipping in New Zealand. All the captains report that its trade is equal to that of all the other trading ports put together. The accommodation now in progress is perfectly wonderful for so young a colony. The city stands on the south shore of the Waitemata. It contains about 15,000 inhabitants, and is enlarging every day. There are four English newspapers and one in the Maori language published in the Province—the “New Zealander” twice a week. So salubrious is the climate, and so abundant and easy of access is everything in the way of comfort and enjoyment, that several of the wealthy Australian families spend the summer months in the locality.
I soon removed from the city to visit my son Manfred in the valley of Papatoetoe, 20 miles south. The Great South Road continues to the banks of the noble Waikato river, and for 25 miles this road is equal to any English turnpike.
On December 14th we were attacked in the bush by two wild boars. One of them was shot by Manfred, and the other turned and ran away. We dragged home the one we had killed, scalded and dressed him by the light of a bright moon, and having hung him up, retired to rest.
The next day we engaged a small party of Maoris to fell bush. They brought all their piccaninnies, dogs horses, carts, and kai kai. They then built themselves a whare, and borrowed all they could from the “pakeha,” as they call the English. If you are too generous they will laugh at you for being soft. Their horses are worth from £30 to £60 each. But for their best they refused £80, which I offered, their price being £100.
Oh! what awful plagues the mosquitoes and sandflies are! All my exposed skin was swelled and itching dreadfully from their bites. Felling and burning timber in the bush with sandflies, mosquitoes, spiders, centipedes, black stinking wood-bugs biting voraciously, are decidedly unpleasant to “new chums.”
One of Manfred's steers ate three window curtains, a cotton dress, and a pair of cotton stockings; and a calico sheet was half-way down its throat when we caught it in the act, and pulled the sheet back.
A farmer near Papakura who followed the trade of a brickmaker while in England, made all his cheeses of the size, and in the shape, of bricks. He sold those readily which he had made of new milk, but his skim-milk ones were so bored full of holes by tasters that they resembled perforated bricks, and became altogether unsaleable. He, therefore, as he was an ingenious and economical person, built a house with his unsaleable skim-milk cheese, and placed beer barrels one upon the other for a chimney. He contrives to reach his sleeping apartment by means of a waggon wheel in lieu of stairs. When any guests honour him with their presence he never fails to introduce new dishes and plates. This he does by marking with his hatchet on the trunk of a kauri tree the shape and quantity required; and when the bark is peeled away he has a new clean spacious and respectable dinner service. His drinking cups are always new-made, and very tastefully, from flax leaves.
On Christmas Day, which is mid-summer in New Zealand, I rode 20 miles to dine at Auckland. After dinner I was invited to witness a Maori entertainment, on the north shore of the Waitemata, given by Paora Tuhara and his followers to welcome and honour the commander, officers and members of the scientific expedition sent out in the ship Novara, under the instructions of the Government of Austria, to collect geological specimens, and report on the topographical position, take water-colour sketches, maps, and photographic views, under the direction of Dr. Hochsetter and others.
On New Year's Day I rode 20 miles to the Auckland racecourse. The event was well-attended and well-conducted. Visitors, both men and women, came on horseback. There was no difference in style or management from our races in England.
By this time I had become accustomed to the sandflies, and never felt their bites. I am sure I killed 2,000 fleas in six weeks, and I accordingly got pretty free of these back-biters.
The daylight in New Zealand is two hours longer in winter, and two hours shorter in summer, than in England. Although the heat of the sun is 12 degrees stronger than in England, we never felt too warm.
The climate will grow figs, oranges, peaches, melons, etc. Peaches are so plentiful that the pigs are fed on them. A very nice fruit is cape-gooseberry. The cattle are very fond of it, and devour it whenever it falls in their way. Unfortunately large flies blow woollen goods, such as clothing and blankets. Unless great care is exercised, these things become filled with thousands of maggots. The Great South Road is being covered with scoria. To effect this most desirable improvement, the landowners tax themselves one shilling an acre to raise half the funds, and the Government furnishes the other half.
I attended the courthouse to listen to a trial. A Maori had stolen two fine horses and sold them to a farmer. A reward of £20 was offered for their restoration. The Maori then went and stole them from the farmer, and restored them to the advertiser as having been found by him, and received the £20. He was, however, found out and brought to trial.
The increased value of land about three miles from Auckland will appear from the following:—At the sale of Mr. Williamson's property, the corner bit, which was fenced-in only four months ago, at the junction of the roads leading to Onehunga and Otahuhu, sold at the rate of £2,000 an acre.
Every time I visited Auckland I was surprised and delighted with the vast improvements going on. It is at present a thriving city, but the extent of its future prosperity no one can calculate. It promises to be a centre of no small importance and influence.
The names used in this story are entirely fictitious. The incident described, however, and the method used for stealing sheep from the large mobs which were driven via the East Coast of the North Island, in the early days, may, perhaps, be recalled by many of the older generation.
The three homesteads lay on the west side of a small valley which divided the road from a low range of hills covered with scrub and light bush. The three pioneers had agreed to run a fence parallel with the valley, leaving plenty of room for a frontage road out to the main highway some three miles distant, knowing that these hills, which the road cut off, were of very little use. The main highway, which was scarcely more than a track in places, was very narrow especially where cuttings had been made to protect stock from going over cliffs into the sea below. Sometimes when the wind and tide were suitable, the drovers divided the flock and drove half of them along the beach, thus easing the congestion in the narrow places on the main highway.
One day when it was decided that all hands should go for a picnic to the beach (the valley road was always used on such occasions) Monty was late, so he decided to take a short cut over the hill. To his surprise he found that in several places there had been landslips, leaving perpendicular walls of about six feet high at the edge of the road. These walls were hidden from the road by ti tree, the tops of which stood about three feet above the ridge, and served to confine stock to the road. The congestion in the narrow parts forced the sheep to the edge of the slip and serrations on the edge showed Monty that many had been perilously near falling into the scrub below. How easy it would be, he thought, to stand concealed and pull the sheep over as they passed! The idea became an obsession; the obsession became a determination to try it out. What an opportunity to obtain something back from the man who had swindled his father out of some thousands of pounds!
Monty knew that most of the sheep coming north were owned by one Pete Lowney, the man who had left his, Monty's father, with barely sufficient to keep his promise with Jeffreys and Chadwick to take up the land in Valley Road. The worry and anxiety had certainly shortened Mr. Carden's life, and Monty had never forgotten or forgiven the one who had been the cause of it.
His thoughts ran on. The sheep could be left to find their way about and collected as soon as the drovers were well away. He argued that up to 200 would not be missed out of large mobs numbering 5,000 and upwards until they were tallied, which may not be until they reached their destination.
During the summer months large droves came through from Gisborne— and even further south—within two or three weeks of each other. This would give him ample time to dispose of the sheep between droves. His method of disposal was carried out in accordance with the plans already shown.
He did not forget that when shortages became known the drovers in the future would check up, perhaps five or six times on the journey, until they narrowed down to the area where the shortages occurred. However, he decided to go on while the going was good —small lots at first and gradually increasing—always allowing a mob now and again to go through without molestation.
He calculated that if one drove got through and answered the tally, there would be less outcry and vigilance with the next, but occasionally it would be varied.
Monty's first year's operations were successful, and now he had started again. Although suspicion might be aroused and eventually he might have to give the whole thing up, he was quite confident that his methods and planning were such that there was little fear of actual detection. No one ever saw him dragging the sheep over the cliff and it was done so quickly that there was practically no disturbance among the sheep.
With the right hand he manipulated the ti-tree with the bushy top, bending it outwards as he dragged the sheep down, and immediately putting it back so that no gap appeared. He collected
Early one morning Monty noticed someone riding along the road towards Chadwicks. Unable to make out who it was, he brought his telescope to bear on the rider. It did not take him long to decide that it was a mounted policeman.
“I wonder what is up?” he said to himself. “I think I'd better have a look around and see that everything is shipshape. He may give me a call on his way back. Well, we have got to meet inquiries some time or other, and this visit, if it's anything to do with sheep, may be the means of pointing out any of the weak spots in my deceptions. I think first I'll divide up the sheep in the decoy paddock as I don't want to lose the lot by having to explain that I found them scattered about and brought them in to save them from straying. Anyhow,” he chided himself, “I may be all wrong and this mounted gentleman may be on an entirely different mission.”
* * *
Sergeant Kelly met Mr. Chadwick at the gate, and was cordially invited in for a cup of tea.
“Anything important, sergeant? You don't often pay us a visit, so I suppose it is important,” and Mr. Chadwick looked inquiringly at the sergeant.
“It's not too pleasant, but I haven't called on you as suspect,” Kelly said, laughingly. “The fact is there are some exceptionally heavy shortages in the Valley from some of the mobs passing here to the north. It has been going on some time, and naturally the drovers have been doing their best to find out where the losses occur. It seems that numerous tallys on the road have checked down to about fifteen miles either side of the hill road. The Auckland people seem to think that the drovers, for the sake of easier going, have taken to the beach and the sheep have been drowned. The drovers, who are absolutely reliable, emphatically declare that only when the wind is blowing off the land and the tide is going out, do they ever use the beach. I have combed twenty or thirty miles of the beach and have found only one sheep that must have been there for months. The captain of the scow trading here says that you, Jeffreys and Carden, ship fat lambs in the season and, occasionally, fat sheep. I've gone through the manifest, and it appears this is only a replica of what you all have been doing for ever so long, with one exception which I will not mention. You three old pioneers came out here, built your homes, turned a wilderness into some of the finest farms in the province, and have left nothing but respect for your names and families. As the latter are carrying on the good work, it is terribly difficult for me to come here on such business. It is not usual for me to enter into lengthy details, and as far as you are concerned—for that matter, Jeffreys, too—it would be unwarrantable for me to cause you a moment's unpleasantness; but I thought you, with your knowledge of the country, might give me some valuable ideas which might lead ultimately to the apprehension of the culprit or culprits.”
“In the first place, sergeant, I thank you for your consideration, but living as we do at the end of the valley, we don't see anything beyond our own boundaries. Of course, the ladies go out riding a good deal, as do also the cadet and Sam Wilcox, our farm hand. They occasionally ride to Te Oko, and if anything out of the ordinary had been seen, they would have told us at once. However, it is only fair that you question the hands, and that we muster the sheep immediately so that you may go through them.”
“That is exactly what I expected, but it is not necessary. With your knowledge of the country, Mr. Chadwick, is there any place within the distance mentioned that large numbers of sheep could break away without being noticed?”
“Yes. At the junction of the Valley Road and the Main Road, but if sheep did break away there, it would be in such numbers that they would be noticed by the drovers, and even so, they would wander down the valley road to find a mouthful and be noticed by some of us. Possibly they might be held until the next mob came along and the drover notified, but so far, to my knowledge, this has not happened. I'm afraid that is all I can suggest. Our front boundary fences are sheep proof right along the road and sheep couldn't get in unless they were deliberately put in. I'm afraid my information won't help you much, although it may eliminate some unnecessary cl.annels of investigation.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chadwick,” said the sergeant, rising as he spoke, “I'll be getting along then; and thanks also for the tea.” With a warm handshake Sergeant Kelly took his departure, promising that he would let Mr. Chadwick know how things were going.
Jim Jeffreys was taking a refractory stump out of his front paddock when the sergeant rode up.
“Mr. Jeffreys, I believe?” said the sergeant.
“That's so,” replied Jim. “What can I do for you?”
“Join the Force,” laughed the sergeant, as he took in Jim's splendid physique.
“I'm afraid I've expended all my strength in trying to get this stump out,” said Jim ruefully.
“Mr. Jeffreys, I am sorry to say I'm on very serious business,” the sergeant went on. “Some hundreds of sheep have disappeared within fifteen miles of here, and I'm trying to find where they've gone to.”
“You don't mean to say that any of us valley people would know anything about them without notifying the owners or drovers? This is a staggerer.
Since our father came here nothing has ever happened to disturb the feeling of absolute trust we have in one another. A dishonourable action of any kind is unthinkable, and I'm afraid you'll have to look farther afield.” Then with a keen look at the sergeant: “You couldn't have paid this visit though without having had some suspicion?”
“You're quite wrong, Mr. Jeffreys. I've only come to try and get some information that might lead up to a discovery,” replied the sergeant. “You are so much above suspicion that I won't even ask you to muster. Have you seen any stray sheep on the valley road?”
“If any had been seen they would have been rounded up and paddocked until the owner was found,” said Jim.
“Mr. Jeffreys, what sort of a man is Mr. Carden?” asked the sergeant suddenly.
“As fine a man as you would wish to meet.”
“Do you see much of him?”
“Mostly in the evenings—we very often all go up to Chadwick's.”
“What does Mr. Carden go in for mostly?”
“Sheep and pigs,” Jim replied “When he seems short of pig feed he buys any culls from Mr. Chadwick.” The sergeant wrote busily in his notebook.
“Do they always keep him going?” “Why yes, but Monty is too good a farmer to be without swedes or turnips at any time of the year.”
“He has a bone mill and boiling - down shed?” asked the sergeant looking keenly at Jim.
“Yes, but why the question?” asked Jim. “You can see Monty himself, and you'll come back agreeing with me that he's one of the best.”
“Of course, I'm in duty bound to call on him also,” said the sergeant snapping his notebook together as he spoke, “and as it is so late I had better get along.”
“You can have a bed here—you will be welcome and can continue your visit in the morning. It's 5.30 now. Tea at six, then we can have some music and cards.” The sergeant gratefully accepted.
“Have a wander round, or would you prefer to come inside until tea time?” asked Jim, then: “Mumsy, here is Sergeant Kelly of the Mounted Police. He is going to stay the night. Where's Phil? I know! Let's send Bill up to ask Mabel, Hilda and Fred, down, and we'll make a jolly evening of it.”
Mrs. Jeffreys came forward smiling at Jim's exuberance, and gave the sergeant a warm welcome.
Jim was worried. He had a premonition of evil, yet if he were asked he could not tell why, but it seemed to him that Monty must be involved, in some way. Was it possible that he was the cause of this visit from the sergeant? Did he know that tomorrow he would receive a visit from this guardian of the law, and if so, would it matter? Monty was above any kind of suspicion, yet little incidents of late showed some difference from the past frank friendship. There had been restraint. After all this was natural, he told himself. Monty was also in love with Mabel. No! that was not it, there was something else. He remembered the last loading of the scow. There was not the usual interest taken in his friend's consignments. They had always chaffed each other and speculated as to who would get the best prices. Jim could not fail to notice two bales of pelts of Monty's that day: “By Jove, Monty,” he had said. “You must have been a long time getting that lot together?”
“I have been,” Monty had replied, “and as you see I'm trying the English market direct.” Jim had never given it another thought until now. I must send word to Monty that the sergeant is here, he thought, and that he will visit him in the morning. Perhaps, though, it would be better to ask Monty to come over this evening. He straight away sat down and wrote a note which read:—
“Dear Monty,
Come over and spend the evening. Sergeant Kelly of the Mounted Police is staying to-night. I have asked Mabel and Hilda to come, and I thought we would have a jolly evening. The sergeant has called on the Chadwicks also, and is looking in on you in the morning.
Yours,
Jim.”
“Tom! Please take this note over to Mr. Carden. Either take the pony or go across the paddocks whichever you think easiest.”
Jim returned to the sitting room. He and the sergeant were alone.
“Excuse me, Mr. Jeffreys, but I overheard you asking one of your men to take a note to Mr. Carden. A policeman has many nasty things to do, but the acceptance of hospitality and even friendship must never prevent him from doing his duty, however unpleasant that duty may be. It's my duty now to ask you what you put in that letter?”
In a moment Jim's misgivings came to him afresh—otherwise he would have informed the sergeant in very plain words whaé he thought of him. Instead he said: “I'm afraid you're not rewarding my attempt to give you a pleasant evening by demanding to know what was in a private note. However, I asked Mr. Carden to come over and spend the evening—that the Chadwicks were coming and that he would have the pleasure of meeting you. Since you have asked me what was in the note it's only fair to ask you why did you want to know its contents?”
“Because you can easily have made my investigations much harder,” said the sergeant.
The advent of tea precluded any further conversation on the subject.
(To be continued.)
* * *
* * *
* * *
Probably you know the story of the American who saw the giraffe for the first time. He didn't believe it. You may feel like that when you see our glow-worm cave. There is none like it—none. Many countries have caves of stalactites and stalagmites (I am never quite sure which is which) finer, some of them, than those at Waitomo. Limestone formation is fairly common. But nowhere, so I am told, is there a glow-worm cave like New Zealand's. There are, indeed, no such glow-worms anywhere else; you find them only in the Waitomo district. So visitors quite sincerely go into raptures over Waitomo's glow-worms. Some of them, though they may have seen Rotorua and Mt. Cook, the Wanganui river and the southern glaciers, and all our other chief sights, declare the glow-worm cave to be the most wonderful of all. Bernard Shaw said it was worth while coming twelve thousand miles to see it. An American in the publicity line describes it as one of the leading wonders of the world, at any rate among what he has seen, and apparently he has seen a good deal.
In a world so full of advertisement that outruns the object of its devotion, it is certainly cheering to find something that does come up to expectations. After dinner at the hostel you take a short walk and the guide opens a door in the face of a hill; you are reminded of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves and other delights of your childhood. This is a sufficiently thrilling introduction, especially as, just before this, the guide has indicated a bush-fringed stream straight below where you stand, and told the party that they will come out of the glow-worm cave there. The cave itself, therefore, is fairly deep down. It is approached by limestone caverns rich in beautiful and curious formations, lit by electric light. Before you enter the glow-worm cave proper the guide uses his torch to show the party some glow-worms at close quarters—in the cave we shall see only their lights—and explains the habits of this unique creature. The glow-worm of the open bush is a tiny affair, so small and fragile as to be very difficult to capture and examine. This underground glow-worm in the grub stage is quite substantial. You can see him plainly, with his body encased in a transparent sheath and his beautiful gossamer-like fishing threads hanging down. These threads—there are as many as fifteen or twenty to one worm—carry tiny pearl-like globules of mucus. On the grub's last segment is his light. In the dark, insects that breed in the underground river-bed are attracted by the light and barge into the threads. There they are caught by the sticky stuff and held. If he is hungry the glow-worm hauls up his fishing line and has his meal; if he is not, he lets the fish hang there till his appetite returns. In the bush, open to wind and weather, such a system of lines would be impossible. When he saw Pelorus Jack, Mark Twain was highly excited. Here, he exclaimed, was a fishing story that turned out to be true. Well, here's another that's equally true. Go and see for yourself. The worm does not always remain a worm; it turns into a fly. In that stage, however, it has interest only for the scientist. The attraction for the visitor is the light-bearing grub.
The glow-worm cave is on the lowest level. In the darkness a shallow stream runs under a vault lit by myriads of these tiny points of white light. Unlike Shelley's, the glow-worm is not golden. The lights don't twinkle; they are not so friendly. They are steady, passionless diamonds in a setting of black velvet. Apparently the glow-worm has solved a problem that is occupying research workers—production of light without heat. At the water's edge you step into a boat, and no one who has read about the ancient Styx and old Charon the ferryman can help calling the resemblance to mind at once. It is dark save for the glow of electric light behind you, and the star-powdered roof, and it is very, very still. You are asked to be quiet, for noise alarms the glow-worm by way of vibrations that pass up his fishing lines, and he is apt to dowse his light. “Why should I keep quiet?” asked an English tourist, true to the tradition of free speech. There must be a lot of good stories about tourists in these caves, but don't forget, gentle reader, that when you go there, you will be a tourist yourself. I must borrow Pat Lawlor's, of the tourist (like the other, a woman) who asked audibly: “What do these glow-worms do? Do they sing or dance?” Only stern self-control prevented a response by the rest of the party that would have put out all the lights above.
You glide along the stream. Charon does not pull with oars; his hands move over a rope. There is no sound save the softest whisper about the boat. Everyone gazes at the amazing illumination overhead. The world is very far away. Soon the boat is in a faint twilight; you are in the mouth of the stream, where it issues into a bush ravine. Then you go back, slowly as before, under the roof of light, and land, and walk up through the artificially lit halls of marbled quietness, where the water drips gently, occasionally, and eternally, and, still subdued by awe, pass out through the door in the wall, into the world you know, with real stars overhead and the night wind on your face.
After the glow-worm cave, plus its ante-rooms of limestone architecture, the other caves may be a little flat, but if there were no glow-worm cave, there would still be a hostel at Waitomo and
You go back to your comfortable hotel and leave this underground studio to its unceasing modelling. Drip, drip, drip—it goes on for ever. Compared with its aeons, our life is but a watch in the night “Little drops of water, little grains of sand”—perhaps you murmur this as you climb into bed. In the morning you will probably think less about this sobering contrast. The sun is shining and your seat is booked for another stage. Or perhaps you are not tied to time, and you decide that a few days here will be very pleasant. There are outdoor games to be played, and a beautiful countryside to walk over, with its rolling pastures, winding roads, and forested hills. It was thoughtful of nature to place these caves in the bush. And in the evening there is a deep armchair, and perhaps you have the latest Dorothy Sayers in your bag. Rushing from place to place is not the only kind of holiday.
—–When you think of the richest wheat and wool district in New Zealand
—–You think of South Canterbury
—–and The Timaru Herald that circulates to 97% of the people of South Canterbury.
The year has opened most auspiciously for New Zealand verse. Four books of poems have been made available to the New Zealand public, and any one book could take its place alongside the work of leading poets in other parts of the world. I have already referred to one of these New Zealand verse publications in the February issue—Alan Mulgan's “Aldeberan.” This issue I will discuss Eileen Duggan's Poems, published in London by Allen & Unwin, and Professor Wall's “Theme and Variations,” published in elaborate form by Whitcombe & Tombs Ltd., Christchurch. Let me deal first with Miss Duggan's poems. I claim for a start that nothing finer has ever been published from a New Zealand poet. A wonderful tribute is paid to her genius in an introduction written by Walter de la Mare. My only regret is that this book is not representative of all Miss Duggan's work, for all of it is worth publishing. Yet we have the satisfaction of knowing that the latest collection contains the finest of her work. And what glorious poetry it is. Each poem a perfect etching in words, cut deep and true into the metal of sheer art. Let me leave aside my poor words of appreciation and quote Lord Dunsany: “For poetry is not a mere affectation, easily to be produced by drink or drugs, or a dissolute life, but is a rare flower brought to being only by the toil of beautiful strong spirits, such a flower as will give splendour to an age; penetrating men's thoughts with subtlety beyond our definition, as a wild perfume penetrates the air, cleansing and strengthening our visions….” This is applicable in its every word to Eileeen duggen's poetry. Need I say more?
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Professor Arnold Wall, one of our most brilliant poets, has written outstanding verse in the elaborately produced “Theme and Variations.” Opening this volume with its striking dust jacket, enclosing a heavy cover of cloth and gold, one looks for something grand and impressive and there is no sense of disappointment in the reading. There is fine movement in his lines, the outpourings of a mind that sees things in clear, apt and beautiful language. The music of the verse is like the music of an orchestra moving with superb confidence under the baton of a grand conductor. The theme is a worthy one—the mystery of life—dealt with in five variations. The first variation tells of the beginnings of life when “my very being's in dispute.” The second variation takes us through the teeming life of the tree—“one slender body with a million hearts.” And then we see the stallion whose “blood is a surge of glory, his eye a ball of flame.” More vital verse has never been penned in this land. Then we come to primeval man—“love he knows, and loyalties, and a tangle of tribal law.” But he “travels far on the manward road” and so we meet him in the final and most powerful variation. Here “he has plumbed the abyss of his inmost mind only to find struggles and wars.” I have tried tc picture this powerful poetry purely from a craftsman's point of view. How so the morality of it all? Professor Wall leaves poor wan blindly seeking the secret of life.
Next issue I will review Robin Hyde's “Persephone in Winter.”
Of interest to collectors, following on the appearance of Eilein Duggan's poems is the fact that only two collections of verse from the same poet have preceded it. The first, a modest little green covered booklet published by the New Zealand Tablet Co., Dunedin, in 1921, is one of the rarest books of verse in New Zealand. Surely a copy now must be worth its weight in gold. I have never seen one for sale either at auction or at any booksellers. The second collection was a nicely produced brown covered book entitled “New Zealand Bird Songs,” published by Harry H. Tombs of Wellington in 1929. I believe it is still available, but very few copies can be left. The latest collection is exquisitely printed. There is bound to be a second or third edition, so the first edition is worth buying if only from a collector's point of view.
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The Arnold Wall book will also be a very rare volume. It is signed by both author and artist (V. Gould). The format does not follow strict bibliographic lines, but this should not disturb its value. The published price is one guinea.
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I am pleased to hear that Beau Shiel's life story of Sir Charles Kings-ford-Smith (“Caesar of the Skies”) is having a good sale. Apart from being a fascinating and colourful picture of the greatest flying man of his age, the story rings true and sincere. Any body who reads the author's chapters on “the Coffee Royal” affair, when “Smithy” was accused by a noisy minority of stunt publicity, will applaud Beau Shiel's magnificent and complete vindication.
The facts as stated are unassailable.
This is a grand stirring story of a grand man. Beau Shiel, of course, writes with authority as he was formerly “Smithy's” personal assistant. The
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A year ago I referred to the promising literary talent shown by the boys of 4A at Wellington College. I have now received a copy of their 1937 Magazine, “Through the Greenstone Door.” As the title suggests the issue is redolent of this country. In numerous stories, sketches and poems the boys have shown further evidence of literary talent above the average. Congratulations to the editor (A. N. Turnbull) and his editorial committee.
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“The Moa-Hunters of New Zealand,” by T. Lindsay Buick, C.M.G. (Thomas Avery & Sons Ltd., New Plymouth) is the third and possibly most important book our leading historian has written about our mammoth bird. Apart from its great historical value the latest work tells a story full of interest for even the average reader. The main question discussed is whether the Maori knew the moa, and, knowing the moa, did he hunt the bird to extinction? Not as counsel for the prosecution, nor as counsel for the defence, but as a learned judge summing up the evidence, does Mr. Buick appear. And his summing up is decidedly in the affirmative. He quotes from a mass of evidence and then as an unbiassed but remarkably keen and interesting guide he takes us over the moa demesnes of older days and turns the ground there unearthing the moa cooking places, and moa relics and implements of slaughter.
I admire his clean-cut analysis made in sentences so nicely balanced and appropriately worded. He may have critics as to his evolution theories in the opening pages of the book, but all will admit that Mr. Buick's latest work is an extremely valuable contribution to our historical library. The publishers have produced a volume of nice format embellished with many fine illustrations.
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“Out On The Road,” by R. Byers (A. H. & A. W. Reed) is I think the most interesting travel book ever published in this country. The success of the book is largely due to the fact that the author has travelled England and the Continent third class instead of first class. People and places are, therefore, seen from a different angle, the pictures are sharper and more natural. Where the author is not travelling third class he is rattling along in “a paragon of a car” which he purchased for fifteen pounds. In this way he travels with interesting companions through England, Belgium, Holland, Germany, Austria, Italy, Spain, and France. He also gives us pictures of Jerusalem, Cairo, etc. He is always interesting and with sincerity I can use the well-worn phrase there is not a dull page in the book. On one or two controversial matters he quotes authorities but these the reader may accept or reject as he pleases. The book is illustrated and altogether is a well-produced volume. It should have a good sale.
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“Vh-Uxx” is the unusual title given to Captain P. G. Taylor's “story of an aeroplane,” published by Angus & Robertson, Sydney. Elsewhere in this issue I have referred to Beau Shiel's life of “Smithy.” Taylor's story may be referred to as a companion book. “Smithy's” name often enters the narrative which concerns mainly the flying adventures of Charles Ulm. Vh-Uxx was, of course, the ’plane in which Ulm, “Scotty” Allen, and the author flew from Australia to England and back. The author has a fine, gripping style. It is almost uncanny the way in which his power over words gives one the sensation of reality of being in the air in the historic plane and battling through the elements on many a weird journey. You can hear the roar of the engines, smell the fumes of the petrol and shiver at menacing storms. A book to read and keep. There are many fine illustrations.
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Dunedin boasts of the oldest Shakespearean Society in the world
For the first time in book publishing history in New Zealand A. H. & A. W. Reed will issue shortly the novel of a New Zealand film “Rewi's Last Stand.”
The valuer of the library of the late H. E. Fildes, tells me that he has never seen such a carefully arranged and annotated collection of New Zealand books. The library is a very valuable one and should prove of great worth to the students of Victoria University to which institution it was presented
I hear that there is a possibility of a third edition of “Tutira.” I understand that the second edition is completely sold out.
For ten years this woman weighed 15 stone—and one leg was crippled with rheumatism! She couldn't walk when she started taking Kruschen Salts. Now 56 Ibs. lighter, active and happy, she writes:—
“I am 33 years old, and for the past ten years I have weighed 15 stone. I was crippled in one leg with rheumatism, and as I have three children to look after, you will understand what a burden such a weight was to me. When I started on Kruschen Salts I was unable to walk for the pain in my leg, now I am much better in every way. In two months I lost 28 lbs. and to-day, after six months’ treatment, I weigh only 11 stone. My waist meas-ment has decreased 12 inches, my bust 6 inches, and my hips 8 inches. My health is perfect, and I have never been so active and happy as I am now. I am indeed grateful.“—(Mrs.) B.C.T.
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. Allowed to accumulate, this waste matter is turned into layer after layer of surplus fat, and at the same time the victim lays in a stock of rheumatic poison.
The six salts in Kruschen assist the internal organs to perform their functions properly, 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 feel wonderfully healthy and energetic—more so than ever before in your life.
Kruschen Salts is obtainable at all Chemists and Stores at 2/3 per bottle.
March is an annoying month. Summer is still with us, but winter is trying out his breezes just around the corner. To prepare for him, we begin to plan ahead for warm and colourful fabrics.
Plan your winter wardrobe as a whole. Have a basic colour scheme to which may be added varying accessory shades. Is it to be black, navy, brown, green, russet?
If you are “tweedy,” remember brown and russet and the scarves in tawny colours which will add zest to your outfits.
If you do not “sport,” glance at the tantalizing hats. This black velvet toque, with the wide veil of off-white lace, falling from the back and draped artistically under the chin, is not for everyone, but it may be for you. You prefer, perhaps, to carry your summer penchant for the wide brim into winter, with a felt wide and decoratively perforated. Look also at the black felt which is a fitting cap, flattering the brow-line, with an attached halo. This will be a smart season!
Meantime, for street wear, you want a suit, or, better still, a tailored frock or two-piece which will be useful later on under a coat. Keep your eye on coats. Notice the princess line, with little-girl collar of fur; the box-jacket, probably paid, for wear with swinging skirts; the swirling hem-line, banded with fur and reminiscent of a cossack tunic. The general rule is, “Small hats with top-coats.”
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Do you remember when, before Billy was born, you had spoken to Mary about the prospect of having a new baby brother or sister to play with? Mary thoroughly approved of the idea. Another child to play with was one of the greatest goods you could offer her.
And then do you remember the day Mary first came in to see you and the baby? She was excited and a little scared of the hospital surroundings. She found even you a little strange after the period of absence. The baby brother was much smaller than she expected, and obviously was not yet ready to play with her; but she was interested.
Then you went home. Billy was certainly a bonny baby, and so said all your numerous callers. Billy took up a good deal of your time. He was inclined to be delicate at first. Somehow, you did not have as much time for Mary as you wished, but you lulled your conscience with the thought that she was quite a big girl now and seemed to be good at occupying herself with play in quiet corners of the house or garden.
Then, as Billy grew older, and commenced to toddle, you were disappointed at Mary's treatment of him. Mary regarded the minding of Billy as a task, and did not seem to want to play with him much. At times, they would be playing happily together, but if Billy presumed and grasped some toy or upset some arrangement of Mary's, she was angry, pushed him away, and would not have anything to do with him. You pointed out that she was a selfish little girl, that Billy was much smaller than she was, but your words seemed to do no good.
If visitors were there, and Billy, a happy-hearted little chap, was being made a fuss of, Mary would slip away by herself. You were a bit worried that she did not seem to like people.
Even now that Mary and Billy are much older, they are not the good friends you once hoped they would be. Why? Because Mary was jealous! Jealous? What a horrid word! Mary really has a very nice nature, etc., etc. Of course she has. She is a fine child. But you yourself were the cause of jealousy and the spoiling of relations between your children.
When Mary was an only child she received all your attention and care. When Billy came, she did not receive even a half portion. Unavoidable, you say. You certainly could not have given her as much of your time as previously, but you could at least have shown one hundred per cent. interest in her. A little girl-child like that would have loved to share the baby with you, to talk to you and plan with you about it. As long as she knew that her place was as warm in your heart as ever, she would have welcomed the baby brother eagerly. Why didn't you share him with her, instead of making her feel alone, and, to some extent, cast out. She doesn't know why she isn't terribly fond of Billy. But that's why—he's a usurper.
What can you do about it? Nothing. An impression so deep in early childhood is hard to eradicate. But you can at least make sure that your own relationship with her is right, and that she knows of your interest in and love for her.
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Zweisamkeit was the most telling word used by our guest, the Swiss professor, as we stood on the lawn after dinner, while he talked and we listened.
As I gazed at the dark trees or searched the heavens for the familiar constellations, marking them on my fingers as I found them, Orion's belt, the Pleiades, Taurus and the others, drifts of talk came intermittently to me.
“The world is moving towards chaos. Even in my own land men think only of money. This,” with a wide sweep of his hand towards my sky, “the impudence to use this to write advertisements on.”
His voice droned on while I dreamed. I shook myself in the coolness of the night and thought of suggesting going inside. But the Swiss professor was still talking.
“I am alone; einsamkeit. But the loneliness of one is nothing to the loneliness of two—zweisamkeit.” He turned the German word over on his tongue, flavouring it again. I regretted that I had not learnt German, that so exprssive language.
Talk continued, but I was left clinging to a word, realizing in pity for all unhappy people the loneliness of two.
What two? Not two friends, who have quarrelled, and can ease the hurt with the balm of other friendships. Not two lonely ones, who draw together in their loneliness to front a hostile world, such as those two men of middle years whom I remembered on a long sea voyage, years ago, made common cause against the waves of youth and femininity, and at their journey's end went each his way without having spoken once from the soul. But two who have been lovers and are so no longer; perhaps two who, in middle life, have found the friendship of the years finer than ecstasy—and yet have lost it. Bound still by common interests, convention, marriage lines, the two, divergent in thought and feeling, must face a world which considers them, as a pair, self-sufficient. And in pride they continue to give this impression, and dare not reach out for other friendship to replace that which they have lost, Such can be the “loneliness of two.”
The professor's voice carried on my thought. “But when one is there,” pointing with the left hand, “and one is there,” waving into the darkness with his right, “love letters soon pass again. Is it not so? If not, that is the end!”
The end? Probably. Yet if two, who have once opened their minds to each other, separate, and think, and wonder, there is little doubt that they will want to communicate, to explain just what they meant in that last talk, and to show that they were capable of appreciating the other person's argument, and soon—“love letters will pass again.”
A cold breeze was stirring the trees’ branches and the professor's long hair.
“Come. We will go in,” I said; but my heart still shook with pity at the thought of zweisamkeit.
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Retta and John have gone! It is only now, a couple of weeks later, that I know how I will miss her. Of course, it's only for eighteen months; but it was so good to know that Retta was there, and to be able to pop in to see her, and to know that any time she might be rushing in to our house, to show us her latest bargain, or with some plan for an outing, a party, an evening for the new young man in the neighbourhood, “who plays the violin marvellously. We'll have all our musical friends.”
I'll certainly feel very flat with Retta away. She's one of those people that things happen to. She's so eager, so active, so alive, that things can't help moving in her vicinity.
I'm calculating now when her first air-mail letter will arrive. Her mother will, of course, be glad to hand on the news, but I'm rather hoping for a letter to myself.
Dear Retta,—I'm so glad his firm has sent John for that eighteen months in London. Of course he won't be in London all the time, and Retta plans to accompany him on his trips round the country. They hope also to visit the Continent but are vague as to time (depending on John's holiday) and places.
Retta is interested in everything, including even these notes of mine every month. That's why I've rambled on about her—because I've asked her to tell me anything which she thinks will particularly appeal to New Zealand women. I'm hoping much from her letters. Retta loves clothes, and even more, she loves people. As to places, I don't know; it will be interesting to see how she reacts to this storied England of ours.
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Some women perspire freely on very slight exercise. This is not a healthy sign as it usually means that they are “run down.” The hands, too, are often unpleasantly clammy and moist.
This state of affairs means that there is something wrong with diet and habits. A change is called for in the nature of an abundance of fresh air, wholesome food and also open air exercise—graduated walking is the best form of this exercise. In addition, it is advisable to drink freely between meals—water, milk, fruit drinks, etc.
A daily hot bath is another important factor in the desire to feel fresh and clean, and to have no qualms about the impression we give people, we must eliminate the trouble of stale perspiration. If the result of the change of diet and habits is not immediately forth-coming, a good tonic is needed for a few weeks.
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If you try to work after a substantial meal, your digestion will suffer, the brain will work unwillingly, and the work will be poor in quality.
After a heavy meal at least an hour's rest is necessary for digestion. It is therefore advisable for those who have only an hour for lunch, to partake of a light meal.
When we consider the matter, it is easy to understand that when the brain is at work, that organ needs a large amount of blood. When digestion is going on after a substantial meal, the stomach and other digestive organs need a great deal, too.
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Preparing for picnics is considerably simplified by laying in stock plenty of grease-proof paper for packing food and a supply of cardboard plates and cartons. Rubber bands substituted for
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2 ozs. butter, 2 ozs. castor sugar, 2 ozs. flour, 1 teaspoonful baking powder, 2 eggs, 2 tablespoonsful milk, apricot jam.
Beat butter to cream, add sugar, then half the flour and a well-beaten egg. Then add the rest of the flour and the other egg. Mix well together. Stir 1 teaspoonful baking powder with the milk, add to the ingredients, and put in a long tin lined with greased paper. Bake for ten minutes in a good oven. When browned, cut in two, spread half with jam, cover with the other half and cut into fingers.
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Line some saucers with short-crust, into each place two or three small pieces of lean bacon (lightly browned). Allow 1 egg for each saucer, lightly beat them, pour over the bacon, add seasoning and a pinch of mixed herbs for each (or only parsley). Damp edges, cover tops with pastry, press edges well together and bake in a good oven for about 25 minutes.
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Use your favourite pancake recipe. Make a mixture of leftover meat, with seasoning to taste, and heat thoroughly Fry cakes and put a spoonful, of mixture on each, roll up, and serve hot.
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Place cooked macaroni and diced or shredded leftover meat (chicken, veal or pork) in buttered baking dish, cover with cream sauce, sprinkle with grated cheese, and bake in moderate oven until browned.
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Core apples, but do not remove peeling, and slice crosswise into rings about £1/4 inch thick. Fry in butter and brown sugar.
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Half lb. flour, £1/2 teaspoonful salt, teaspoonful soda, £1/2 teaspoonful of cream of tartar. Buttermilk or sour milk.
Sieve the flour, salt, soda and cream of tartar, make a well in the centre and pour in sufficient buttermilk or sour milk to make a soft dough. Turn on to a floured board and pat lightly into shape with the hand.
Make into a round cake about one inch thick, and cook on a hot floured (or the hotplate of a stove), girdle until golden brown.
Turn and cook on the other side until the sides are firm. Split, butter and serve very hot.
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Cook a thick sauce of olive oil, with tomato puree, mushrooms, salt and pepper. For highly seasoned tastes, include several cloves of garlic and onions for flavour, but remove before serving. Cook spaghetti, and cover individual servings with a generous portion of sauce.
Three ozs. butter, 1 egg, £1/2 cup sugar, 1 cup coconut, 1 cup flour, £1/2 teaspoon soda, 1 teaspoon cream of tartar.
Cream butter and sugar, then add egg and, lastly, flour and coconut with soda, etc. Roll out on the oven slide and bake. When cool, ice with lemon icing and cut into squares.
Beard the oysters, and mix with thick white sauce. Flavour with nutmeg and cayenne.
A very definite announcement of the near approach of the 1938 Winter Show and Industrial Exhibition to be held from June 1st to June 9th both days inclusive, is given in the publication of “The Call,” the official organ of the Waikato Winter Show. A new and attractive design for the cover this year, depicts the value of milk in the daily diet.
In keeping with the Association's slogan, bigger, brighter, better than ever, every section has again been thoroughly revised, and where necessary, enlarged, providing competition for practically every phase of production, art and talent.
To further propagate tree-planting, a tree-naming competition has been included for school children, which it is hoped will not only prompt the immediate planting of trees, but bring to the boys and girls of New Zealand, the desire now, and in later years, to see that the beautiful bush-clad mountains of their country are preserved.
A further innovation to “The Call” has been the addition of a classified list of Waikato business and professional firms who support their Show by way of donation to the prize list or by membership.
Copies of “The Call” together with any further information that may be required can be had on application to The Secretary, Box 91, Hamilton.
(Specially Written for “N.Z. Railways Magazine,” by W. F. Ingram.)
Although the Empire Games, and the excellent running of the New Zealand distance runners, took priority of place in the minds of New Zealand's sporting citizens, the performance of the women's cricket team in Australia was so full of merit that it must be chronicled in these columns.
This is the first occasion that a team of New Zealand women cricketers has left these shores, and it cannot be said that they left with the confident support of many people. They returned with the satisfaction of having more than justified their visit to the stronghold of women's cricket, and in future New Zealanders must realise that the standard here is high and worthy of every encouragement.
Five games were played, the results being as follow:—
v. New South Wales juniors, at Sydney, drawn. New South Wales juniors 111 (M. Hollis two for 11, J. Holmes two for 19, R. Martin one for 29, M. Thomas two for 29, P. Blackler for 8). New Zealand, 82 for four wickets (D. Hatcher 55).
v. Metropolitan, at Chatswood, won by 68 runs on the first innings. New Zealand 145 (D. Hatcher 41, P. Blackler 35 not out), and 68 for five (J. Holmes 22). North Metropolitan 77 (M. Hollis three for 18, M. Thomas four for 24, P. Blackler three for 18).
v. South Metropolitan, at Sydney, lost by seven runs. New Zealand 123 (M. Hollis 26, J. Holmes 17, P. Blackler 15, M. Corby 11, R. Ingram 10). South Metropolitan 130 (M. Hollis six for 32, M. Thomas three for 26, J. Holmes one for three).
v. New South Wales, at Sydney, lost by 18 runs. New Zealand 144 (I. Johns 37, D. Hatcher 22, I. Pickering 18, P. Blackler 15, J. Holmes 14, J. Fowler 11, M. Thomas 10). New South Wales 162 (M. Hollis six for 42, P. Blackler two for 30, M. Corby one for 9, J. Holmes one for 8).
v. Combined Country, at Sydney, won by 158 runs. New Zealand 347 for five, declared (I. Pickering not out 54, I. Johns 52, J. Fowler 50, R. Martin not out 39, D. Hatcher 13, M. Corby 11). Combined Country 89 (I. Pickering five for 23, J. Holmes three for 7).
Miss M. Hollis (Otago) was the most successful trundler—or is it trundless? —taking 17 wickets for 106 runs in four matches at an average of 6.2 runs a wicket. She was the only bowler to take more than 10 wickets, the others, Misses Holmes (seven for 50), M. Thomas (nine for 98), I, Pickering (five for 71), and P. Blackler (seven for 114) sharing the remainder of the wickets. Miss Hollis was really brilliant in the match against the strong New South Wales team, taking six wickets for 42 runs. When it is mentioned that this team included six players from the Australian team which had successfully toured England last year it will be appreciated that the New Zealander's bowler did no mean feat.
On the batting side, Miss I Johns (Auckland) topped the averages with three innings totalling 95 runs—an average of 31.6 an innings. The best aggregate was returned by Miss D. Hatcher (Wellington), who made 149 runs in five innings for an average of 29.8.
The match against New South Wales was anticipated to be far too big a task for the New Zealand girls, but they rose to the occasion, against a fast bowler considered equal to many leading male speedsters, and lost only by 18 runs.
Cricket for women is making steady progress in New Zealand, and as the result of this tour the public interest should be made more noticeable. It is not possible to improve the standard to an appreciable extent unless the public enthusiasm is shown by patronage of the game.
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New Zealand is having a real sporting year! A fully representative team has been in Sydney at the Empire Games, our surf life-saving men had a team in Australia for the first time on record, a New Zealander, Frank Livingstone, won the singles at the Australian Bowling Carnival staged as part of the Sesqui-centennial celebrations, and a team of police athletes are in Sydney ready to participate in the Australian Police Games.
This is a new departure for New Zealand—representation in the Police Gàmes by a strong team, although individuals have been competing there previously—and is a trend of the physical welfare movement which is being noted throughout New Zealand. All of the men chosen to represent the New Zealand Police Force are young with bright prospects of success in track and field, and, encouraged by the Commissioner of Police, Mr. D. J. Cummings, they are hopeful that they will perform with credit, and so set
Eight years ago New Zealand had three policemen—Jack M'Holm, Peter Munro, and E. G. Sutherland—capable of holding their own in the best of company, but since then the standard has gradually slipped until to-day, with a definite sign of improvement, New Zealand has no really outstanding policeman-athlete. But Kofoed, a young field-event competitor, has taken the eye of A. L. Fitch, the American coach, and is likely to make his mark in the field of sport.
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The best news hockey players in New Zealand could have received came to hand recently when it was announced that a team of Indian hockey players would tour New Zealand this season. With a team of English women players and the Indians both touring the Dominion in one season, the stick and ball game should be much before the public, and some of the ground which has been lost to basket-ball should be regained.
New Zealand has had visits from Indian hockey teams on two previous occasions, and the standard shown was an eye-opener on each occasion. The mastery of the stick over the ball was nothing short of remarkable, and it is interesting to note that, since the last visit, teams of Indians in Wellington have taken the game up with enthusiasm. Although the local Indians have not yet gined the mastery of the ball to the same extent as their brothers from India, they are certainly making progress, and it will not be long before some of them will be among those worthy of selection as New Zealand representatives.
* * *
I have made reference to A. L. Fitch, the American athletics coach, on numerous occasions in these columns, and have no qualms about once again mentioning his name. Fitch is a great worker and is doing good work among the athletes in Wellington ànd surrounding districts. A great worker, to be sure! Although devoting his time from daylight to dark in coaching athletes, teaching school-children the various phases of soft-ball, and giving illustrated lectures, he has produced a text-book on athletics that is most complete and valuable. I had the pleasure of being associated with him in the production of the book, and feel proud to have taken a part in compiling a book which I feel sure will play a big part in improving the standard of track and field sport in New Zealand. The book is entitled “Success on Track and Field.”
In need of exercise after working indoors for the greater part of the week I have become a keen hiker, and have found a fine little walk from Wellington to the Terawhiti headland. Few Wellington residents know of the marvellous views to be seen from the hills which have been featured in several short stories by Will Lawson.
From the headland may be seen the hills in which gold was found many years ago, but the morning's walk is always made worthwhile by the view of the South Island with its snowcapped peaks.
On a fine day the South Island seems only a stone's throw away, and my hiking companion, formerly a well-known Taranaki distance swimmer, has often gazed across the narrow straits and remarked that his big regret is that he never had attempted to swim from one island to the other. It looks easy, but experienced fishermen can tell stories of the treacherous currents which make the crossing hazardous for swimmers, and it is significant that Miss Mercedes Gleitz, perhaps the greatest of distance swimmers, did not attempt to paddle her way across.
It is interesting, too, to recall that the first publicity received by “Lofty” Blomfield, New Zealand's outstanding wrestler, was when he arrived in Wellington as trainer to Webster who was anxious to swim Cook Strait—but never succeeded.
An engine driver was off duty owing to illness, and when pay-day came round he asked his wife to call at the depot to collect his last week's wages. She was surprised when she saw the amount, and on reaching home mentioned that he had never told her what a good wage he got. He was ready for that. “Ah,” he said, collaring the packet, “but what'll be left when I've paid t’ fireman and t’ guard?”
* * *
The teacher had been telling his class about different coins of the realm, and after the lesson he pulled from his pocket a two-shilling piece and, slapping it on the desk, said, “What's that?” and an immediate answer followed from a boy in the front row, “Heads, sir.”
* * *
Gene: “Say, Pete, I hear your wife still adores you after two years of married life; is that true?”
Pete: “Wal, I reckon it is; she places burnt offerings in front of me three times a day.”
* * *
Bobby (watching his father hammering a nail): “You're like lightning, dad.” Dad: “Why, my boy?” Bobby: “Well, lightning seldom strikes twice in the same place.”
* * *
The teacher wrote on the margin of little Betty's report card:
“Good worker, but talks too much.” Betty's father wrote on the opposite margin when it was returned:
“Come up sometime, and meet her mother.”
* * *
Little Johnny, aged seven, had been taken to the Zoo to see the animals. He stood before the cage of the spotted leopard for a few minutes staring intently. Then, turning to his mother, he asked: “Say, ma, is that the dotted lion that everybody wants dad to sign on?”
“What I want is a smart boy, who is alert, and intelligent. Are you quick to take notice?”
“Yessir—'ad it three times in a fortnight once!”
* * *
Passenger: “Why didn't you sound your horn when you saw the man in the road?”
Driver: “Well — er — I thought it would be more humane if he never knew who and what hit him!”
* * *
Little Betty: “The dentist wasn't painless, mummy.”
Mother: “Why, dear, did he hurt you?”
Betty: “No. But I hurt him when I bit his finger.”
Old Lady (as husband fails to help her up the steps of railway carriage): “Henry, you ain't as gallant as when I was a gal.”
Husband: “No, Lettie, and you ain't as buoyant as when I was a boy.”
* * *
The famous detective arrived at the scene of the crime.
” Gracious,” he said, “this is more serious than I thought. This window has been broken on both sides.”
The slightly deaf old sportsman, feeling run down, consulted the doctor, who after examination prescribed carrot and plenty of it.
“How shall I take it?”
“Anyway you like it, and as much as you like.”
A month later the patient returned in bursting health.
“Capital,” said the doctor, “carry on with the càrrot.”
“The what?—Carrot? Carrot. Good heavens! I thought you said claret. I've been drinking three bottles a day for the last four weeks.”
* * *
Sergeant: “If anything moves, you shoot.”
Sentry: “Yessir. And if anything shoots, I move.”
* * *
A salesman was waxing eloquent about the merits of a certain vacuum cleaner, but a suburban lady wasn't impressed. She suggested that he talk less and show her what the machine could do.
The live - wire salesman snapped into action. He took off his coat, fitted up the cleaner, thrust his arm into the chimney of the open fireplace and brought out a big handful soot, which he scattered over the parlor carpet. He then shoveled some ashes over the rug, adding a big handful of soil from the garden. Then he smiled and rubbed his hands.
“Now,” he exclaimed with enthusiasm. “I'll show you what this vacuum cleaner can do. You 11 be surprised, madam! Where's the electric switch?”
“Switch?” echoed the surprised woman. “We use gas!”
* * *
Sergeant major: “When did you blow in?”
New Recruit: “I came in with the last draft, sir.”
Before it was the commonplace to hear the sounds of living pageantry transmitted in an instant from the pale sunshine of a London day to firesides in the shadow of the earth, I read a pleasing fantasy farseeing a greater wonder. It was woven into an Arcadian story in which a shepherd found among his solitudes a hermit listening to the past.
The hermit's instrument was as delicate as light. His aerials were as fine as a spider's webs. But it would strain ray memory too much to reproduce the conversation of the antique pair. All that remains is the dim fragrance of their thought, their dippings into history and quaint discoveries overlaid with a fanciful philosophy.
The shepherd was described, but more particularly the hermit with his thin, blue-veined hands hovering over the dial of his set. His fingers moved only a little as he searched the ether, and all the cosmic layers beyond space even into time itself, drawing back to the present voices that vibrated with a life long since dead.
These simple men were not entranced as spiritualists are. They had strayed upon the other mystery of a sensitive mechanical invention of which they only had the key. And while the trees stirred in the little breeze within their sylvan glade they heard a lady's taffeta rustle “through the corridors of time.”
If we suppose that sound not consciously transmitted goes on endlessly, as some say the power of thought does, we may imagine it travelling for ever on waves according to the conventional idea of wireless, or we may think of it coming at last, and pausing indefinitely perhaps, not within an air pocket but in a pocket of time, confined within a corridor.
And now I am conscious that my own thought, prompted by the poet's, has overlaid the story of this ancient pair and built around them another fantasy of a place where disembodied voices live.
These two upon their grassy bank heard the shouts of wars and chivalry, and the chanting of nuns in their medieval refuge. They heard all the tones of tragedy or the foils that ugliness makes for beauty. The voices of love, rage, jealousy and gentleness surrounded them, lifting them up as on a magic carpet and transporting them beyond the bounds of their own Arcady. They travelled on them beam that they selected and touched a place where not the sounds only but the sights of history were preserved, though still not clearly seen, because the tuning, the focus was imperfect.
Once when I was in Switzerland I met a Canadian girl holidaying there, who told me, not in fantasy but in fact, that before the wireless was available and without the aid of instruments she heard in a lonely place outside her own city of Quebec, music floating in the air. She was a musician. Yet even to her sensitive ears the music was very thin and delicate.
So it may be with the pictures of places and events in space, had we the faculty to televise them though but dimly.
My two Arcadians when they tapped the place where voices dwell, saw the country as it were dissolved in air and drowned with light. This city was translucent though endless echoes walked through its pure halls. And the echoes had but a vague nebulous outline while giving an almost visible personality to the happy voices that had indeed once lived and expressed the spirit of persons of solid shape.
The towers of the transcendent city were domed like whispering galleries. Its streets were arched with bridges of recurring pattern like the rhythm of a poet's line. A river ran through it, but the sun upon its waters did not flash more brightly than its walls, for they were panelled with mirrors within and without, so that if a wraith of words moving there was lovely it had a dozen lives, if it was murky it smudged all around.
The vision of the dream place is pure fantasy. But I wonder if the shepherd and the hermit could have felt the pulse of human being and all its feeble strivings through the centuries, if they could also have found any city or perhaps a little town, where dwell the voices that have never been spoken in sound but only within the mind itself.
These voices whispered in creative imaginings. They won their cadences from the scratchings of authors’ pens, calling in valleys that never were, to some ideal of beauty.
Ah! If these could be preserved in some remote place, or if they could be caught upon a crest of time, they, too, would be bright nebulae, and they would dwell in a town something like that other city, but built of dry tears and sweat, surely, and mostly sweat.
—Bernice Shackleton.
The publication of this issue of the Magazine (March) completes the twelfth volume. Readers are reminded that they may send forward their accumulated copies (April, 1937 to March, 1938) for binding purposes. The volumes will be bound in cloth, with gilt lettering, at a cost of £5/6 per volume. Those desirous of having their copies bound may hand them to the nearest Station-master (with the sender's name endorsed on the parcel) who will transmit them free to the Editor, “New Zealand Railways Magazine,” Wellington. When bound the volumes will be returned to the forwarding Stationmaster, who will collect the binding charge. In order to ensure expedition in the process of binding, copies should reach the Editor not later than 1st June, 1938.