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Controller and Auditor-General. 2/12/37.
When “Romance brought up the nine-fifteen”-45 years ago—steam held undisputed sway as the ruling motive power by land and sea. To-day it is being pressed hard by petrol and electricity on these two elements, and it is not even a starter in the air.
Steam has, in fact, got nowhere in land transport except with the aid of rails, but it still helps Romance to “bring up the nine-fifteen.” Its main job, however, is to do the hard work of the railway world, leaving the lighter part and most of the entertainment to its daintier rivals or associates.
A railwayman's loyalties in these days have to be divided fairly between various sources of power and modes of travel. First there are the claims of the steam locomotive with its “few live coals in a pot,” its wisps of steam, its panting Westing-house, its hissing and puffing, its aura of power, impatience, and romance. Then there are the practically noiseless movement and easy grace of the rail car, the electric locomotive, and the electric multiple unit. He must be tolerant, too, of the road motors, for they feed his trains and carry his passengers where railways do not run, and they frequently fill in conveniently the gaps between his train connections.
To make the best arrangements for using all these resources in the ways and means of transport to the mutual benefit of all is no small problem, and certainly dwarfs the problems of railroading in the days when steam and the rail were both unchallenged.
The new romance of transport consists in its infinite variety and the intense activity in mechanical adaptations and improvements to make travel for the individual safe, quick and comfortable, and the transit of his goods reliable and fast. Already no part of the globe is truly inaccessible. Though they have not yet scaled Mt. Everest it has been flown over, and the poles themselves are no longer remote.
Transport is a maker of markets, a wealth producer, an outlet for industry and human and mechanical energy. Its further development is an aid to education, to the fullness of life and to the possibility of greater happiness.
The young man of the present day is not disturbed by the broader outlook upon transport matters that is his. He is himself the vehicle of new ideas and has developed at liking for mechanism, and an easy understanding of the powers that produce, propel and sustain the vehicles of transport. He is entering and possessing new lands of thought, where transport for all plays an intensely engrossing part, and the places and interests of the whole world are coming increasingly within his reach through the transport developments the younger generation are themselves helping to bring about. And—
In this message I desire to impress upon all members of the staff the obligation of the Department to the travelling public in assuring as far as is practicable the punctuality of all trains.
In addition to the train crew and the stationmaster or officer-in-charge of the station, the porter, the shunter, the signalman, the train examiner, and the clerk-in-charge of the ticket office can all help in keeping the train,“on time,” or to regain lost time, by the value they place on minutes. The chain of operations associated with the movement of a train, say from Auckland to Wellington, resembles a cable wherein the weakness of any link affects the efficiency of the whole chain.
If time lost on the journey by any one train through lack of adequate preparation, or any other avoidable cause, concerned that train alone, the position would be bad enough. But when such delays react unfavourably upon other trains and related services—as they do—the whole time-table may be disturbed over a very wide area and for an appreciable length of time.
The difficulties associated with the operation of important train services over a single track are fully recognised and these difficulties have become intensified in recent years through the greater, density of traffic that is being handled. This makes the saving of minutes all the more necessary, for the opportunities to recover any time that may be lost are reduced as the volume of traffic increases.
Slips, floods and mechanical failures add to the difficulties of train operation but the public appreciate that occasional delays due to these causes are inevitable, and are prepared to make generous allowance for them. But delays caused through lack of preparation or organisation, or neglect in such matters as the prompt booking of passengers, the waybilling of parcels or goods, the labelling and proper placing of luggage prior to a train's departure, are not excusable, because by an adequate appreciation of the value of time and method such delays can be avoided.
Care and judgment in the stowing of vans to facilitate the discharge and loading of parcels, luggage and general road-side goods, at points en route is also necessary.
To all railwaymen I would commend the last four lines of Kipling's “If,” for that eminently practical writer may have had them in mind when he wrote these lines:—“If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty second's worth of distance run … .”
If you can, then you are likely to be a good railwayman and a good servant of the public, as well as a good mate in the railway team trying to do its best to keep faith with the travelling public by running trains to schedule.
General Manager.
(Rly. Publicity photos.)
In come masses of figures every day to the Accountancy Branch at the Wellington Railway Station. It takes more than 13,000 square feet of floor space, a staff of 120 (including 60 women and 44 machines) to cope with that invasion. An onlooker may think of the place as a parade ground on which all manner of figures are assembled. They are inspected, drilled, formed into platoons, companies, regiments, divisions, corps. Those figures soon know why they are in the big building, and are quickly moved into the right positions to tell the true story of railway business to the owners, the general public.
Ponder for a few moments on some of the totals for the year ended 31st March: A gross revenue of more than £8,600,000; 13 million train miles; 7 1/2 million tons of goods; 22 1/2 million passengers by rail and 5 1/2 millions by road; £5 1/2 millions in salaries and wages for a staff of more than 22,000; £3 1/2 millions in purchase of stores.
The carrying of II million sheep started a train of thought. If Shakespeare's Macbeth, who murdered sleep and in the dreadful night heard a voice cry “Sleep no more,” had tried counting sheep to induce slumber, a tally of II millions, at the rate of two a second, the round of the clock, would have taken him 58 days, without stopping a moment for a drink or a bite of a pie.
Anybody who is fond of playing with figures, has plenty of scope for the pastime in the huge totals of the railways.
When the Wellington Branch of the New Zealand Society of Accountants recently arranged to begin its winter series of lecture-meetings at the Railway Station it had several pleasant surprises. The first was an attendance of about 250, the largest in the history of the branch; another was in the quality and quickness of the Refreshment Branch's service in one of the big social halls; the third was in the demonstrations of modern accounting and statistical machines.
After the Chief Accountant (Mr. W. Bishop) had given a clear exposition of the scope of operations in the Branch, he invited his hearers to ask questions when they were watching the machines. Well, they took full advantage of the invitation, and found the operators ready with the right replies. They had expected some thrills from those machines, and their remarks indicated that high expectation had been surpassed by reality.
Altogether in Wellington the Accountancy Branch has 44 machines, comprising key-punchers, sorters, tabulators, calculators, adders, book-keepers, addressographs, a multigraph and one known as a “ditto.” This name is due to its ability to give fifty or sixty good copies of one large sheet of closely-typed tables. The copies, from one striking of the ribbons, are in perfect alignment, in three colours.
No doubt a modern poet somewhere could write some smart lines about the girls who work those machines with such quick cleverness, but perhaps a better tribute could have been paid by one of the old-time bards.
“Old Bill” is, of course, the waybill of ancient lineage, dating back to the stage-coach days. The waybill is the basis of accounting for goods and parcels, becaùse it is a complete record of a consignment—its designation, weight, journey, charge, consignor and consignee. This information is transferred to a tabulated card by a machine which punches holes in the appropriate places. In an hour a skilled operator can make 350 waybills tell their stories to the cards, which are then ready for various kinds of magic in other machines. At the rate of 300 a minute the cards can be sorted for any category desired, and then the tabulators will carry on the good work at the rate of 100 cards a minute. One sees wonderful deals of cards.
A Start from Guards’ Dockets.
Apart from the big machine-room,
Yes, a train-guard has to do much more than punch tickets, blow a whistle and wave a hand. A small boy's ambition to be a guard, to enjoy all-day rides in trains all the year round would vanish with a vision of the figuring on those dockets.
There is no figuring merely for figuring's sake in the Railways Accountancy Branch. “Our endeavour is to produce live figures and not merely historical records,” remarked Mr. Bishop. Indeed, after a tour of the rooms, one feels that the figures have to earn their living. It is mentioned officially that the statistical returns now prepared by the Department are in conformity with the modern developments in operating statistics on British, European, American and Australian systems. In designing the statements special attention has been given to the practical needs of the New Zealand system. The various operations and data relating to the cost of train-working are segregated in such a manner that the information available will provide useful tests of efficiency and accurate records of working results. Executive and administrative officers are supplied with up-to-date figures, summarised for each district and section, dealing with every phase of the work under their control.
A feature of all the railway accounts and cost statements is that the figures are always shown for the four-weekly period and the year to date, with comparisons for the corresponding periods of the previous year. This practice ensures that a comprehensive view of the movements of the various items of revenue and expenditure is obtainable at a glance.
“Look before you leap” is a proverb which is never out of mind in the Accountancy Branch. There is no issue of “guessers’ licenses.” The budget system, which is advocated by leading accountants in England, is in operation at the Railways Head Office. Budgets are prepared by District Officers four-weekly for their anticipated expenditure for the ensuing four weeks. These budgets are submitted to the respective heads of Branches for perusal and revision, if necessary. A Committee consisting of the heads of the operating Branches and the Chief Accountant then meets and the various estimates of increases and decreases are discussed. If the Committee is satisfied that the budget is reasonable, it is passed for submission to the General Manager for approval. The great benefit of the budget is that District Officers and heads of Branches are kept constantly in touch with the many items of expenditure and are in a position to reduce any proposed expenditure which is not considered essential. The actual results are also reviewed by the Budget Committee.
Probably the Railways Department has a more extensive system of cost-accounting than any other enterprise in New Zealand. The consumption and cost of materials, train-running, labour and all else are always under accurate observation and “form-at-a-glance” tabulation.
To ensure an equitable spread of overhead charges to the various jobs in the workshops, each shop is divided into departments, and the overhead charges for each one are separately computed. These charges are loaded on to jobs on a productive man-hour basis. It is actually a daily costing system, as the entries to jobs for wages and material are made daily and up-to-date information of progress of any work is always readily available. The foremen in charge of the various jobs are furnished with daily and weekly statements showing the man-hours debited against each job and account. This enables each foreman to keep closely in touch with his job, and also links up the costing and budget systems. One imagines that the motto of a job is “watch me grow.”
Whenever I see a guard punching a ticket my mind will turn for a moment to the ticket-sorting section of the Accountancy Branch. Tickets from all lines of the North Island come into that room, but they are not fed into machines. They go into the hands of girls who show a skill which any professional. pitch-and-tosser might, envy. Each girl faces rows of boxes, each about six inches by six inches, bearing the names of stations. Flick! A ticket flies into a box as smartly and as surely as if it had been fixed to it with a strand of rubber, stretched out and released by the girl. Well, one feels rather ashamed to confess it, but one was more astonished by this nimble cleverness of fingers than by the magic of machines. I was invited to fossick in a box for a ticket that might have gone astray, but the search failed. It reminded me of a cry which I used to hear as a boy at A. & P. Shows, “every time a coconut.” Well, well, I can declare solemnly and truly that I have never been as clever in any of my tasks as those girls were in theirs.
This sorting makes the final check on tickets for auditing.
When Mr. Bishop was speaking to the visiting accountants he praised the skill of Mr. F. B. Freed, officer in charge of the machines, who—he declared—would not allow a machine to wear out. The modern workshop gives new life to many things, ranging from stop-watches to slot-machines, as well as the accounting machines. Mr. Freed is more than an ingenious repairer; he is a successful inventor. One of his products is the dating press used at railway stations and elsewhere.
At present, when the “hospital” duties allow him time to think about other things, he turns to another innovation, a machine which will give correct change, but will conserve the small coins, as far as practicable. Existing types of money-changers, such as those in the Telegraph Offices, lack that conservative touch.
Work on the plans of the new Railway Station at Christ church has reached an advanced stage,” states the Minister of Railways, Hon. D. G. Sullivan, in a recent announcement through the Press. “When the building is completed,” said Mr. Sullivan, “it will produce an imposing and convenient solution of the problem and should fulfil its purpose for many years to come.
“The site of the building is north of the present site; two-thirds of the building being nearer the Lyttelton side, and the remaining third occupies the site of the existing building. The total frontage is 564 feet, the maximum depth being 104 feet.
” The building will be of steel frame, with reinforced concrete floors and roof, and the external walls will be of brickwork with a bluestone base and plaster dressings. The entrance features will also be faced with blue-stone. Covering the entrances and the pavement in front of the centre mass of the building, there will be a cantilevered verandah 220 feet long and 18 feet wide, the footpath being set back under this verandah to give cover for motor cars arriving or departing from the station.
“The building will be three storeys in the centre, with two storey wings finishing at the ends with a one storey portion. The building is designed in the modern manner with large windows to all the offices where maximum natural light will be obtained. A monumental effect is given to the central feature by setting back the windows and obtaining deep piers between the windows, thus giving the effect of a row of columns. Buttressing up the central feature is a large clock tower, 104 feet high, which should look very effective. The water tanks are placed in this tower.
“There will be two main entrances each having six glazed bronze doors communicating directly by broad lobbies 28 feet wide with the concourse which has an area of over 10,000 sq. ft. Opening from both of these entrance lobbies will be the booking and waiting hall, nearly 5,000 sq. ft. in area, with a ceiling height of 30 feet. Both the entrance lobbies and the booking hall will have their walls faced in marble for a height of about 13 feet, and all metal work will be bronze. Round the booking hall will be grouped the ticket boxes, reservation office, ladies’ waiting room, large enquiry office and shop. The ladies’ waiting room, which has a lobby opening on to the concourse, is over 800 sq. ft. in area. Also opening off the lobby are the ladies’ lavatories and bath rooms. Both the enquiry office and the shop also open on to the concourse. The enquiry office is made large enough to provide for tables where passengers may attend to their correspondence while waiting for their trains. Telephone boxes, local and long distance, are also provided in this room. At various points of the building used by the public several more telephone boxes are provided.
“The south main entrance lobby gives access to the restaurant and the refreshment room and also has a door into the shop. Placed convenient to the restaurant and refreshment room is the free luggage room. The restaurant, which has an area of 2,050 sq. ft., will seat 140 people in comfort and more in an emergency. The refreshment room has a counter 45 feet long, as well as ample space for tables. It covers 1,200 sq. ft. The kitchen will have all the latest equipment, and it will be able to handle comfortably the biggest Christchurch crowds using the station. Together
“The balance of the southern wing is taken up with accommodation for the coaching foreman, porters and guards. An ambulance room is also provided in this end.
“Opening conveniently on to the north main entrance lobby is the checked luggage counter. The luggage and parcels space fills the whole north wing of the building, over 10,000 sq. ft. with counters for handling luggage and parcels totalling 140 ft. There are six loading docks.
“Owing to the nature of the site, in that trains arrive at both ends of the station and the luggage department is at one end, all the luggage from the southern end is to be taken from or to the platforms under the building in a tunnel, so that the trucks will not interfere with the people congregated on the concourse during the arrival and departure of the trains. Lifts will be provided at each end of the tunnel to handle several luggage trucks at one time.
“Storage rooms for old records, the heating chamber, ventilation chamber and luggage staff lavatories are in the basement under the northern end.
“At the southern end is a large bicycle store approached from the outside and connected up to the interior of the building by stairs. Under the centre portion of the building and approached from the concourse are the men's lavatories. All the public lavatories are to be air conditioned.
“The first and second floors accommodate the district railway offices and they are approached by separate entrances adjacent to the main entrances, thus avoiding any confusion to the travelling public. Electric, passenger lifts are provided to each office entrance.
“The building is to be heated by hot water radiators. The public rooms are to be ventilated by mechanical means, the machinery for which will be placed in the basement.
“I am pleased to be able to announce that the design also provides for a children's nursery on the roof, in the centre of the building, similar to that at Wellington Station, where the facilities provided have proved so immensely popular with mothers.”
The plans are prepared by Messrs. Gray Young, Morton and Young, registered architects of Wellington, and the erection of the building is to be supervised by Mr. W. H. Tren-grove, architect of Christchurch.
“As part of the rearrangement of Christchurch Station yard,” said Mr. Sullivan, “the present ‘B’ goods shed at Christchurch will be demolished to make room for sidings, and in its stead a new goods shed will be erected at the corner of Mowbray Street and Waltham Road.
“The plans and specifications,” said the Minister, “are nearing completion, and in a few weeks’ time tenders will be called for the construction of the new goods shed by contract.
“The structure will be built of steel and concrete, and will be 402 feet long and 130 feet wide, with cantilever verandahs 12 feet wide for the full length on each side. Electric overhead cranes, four of two tons’ capacity and two of three tons, will be provided for the expeditious handling of goods.
“Up-to-date offices and comfortable accommodation for the staff will be other features.
“This modern goods shed will enable goods to be handled with, the greatest economy and despatch, and will, I am sure,” concluded the Minister, “prove of very great benefit to the farming and business community of Canterbury.”
The great Edmund Burke of whom a cynic raid that “his words were always golden but his logic often brummagem,” uttered a great truth by accident in one of his tremendous onslaughts on the French Revolution. He said this: “The Age of Chivalry is gone. That of sophists, economists, and calculators has succeeded, and the glory of Europe is extinguished for ever.” It was profoundly untrue that the glory of Europe was over, but it was exactly correct to say that the age of economists and calculators had arrived.
The distinction between modern civilisation and the great cultures of the misty past, is that we have learned to use figures. A railway engine might possibly have emerged in Athens or Babylon, but a railway time-table could neither have been planned nor understood by the most scientific mind in Greece or Assyria. In other words, we have lately learned to calculate. This advance is recent, and the use of calculation is daily taking fresh form. The ordinary person has no trouble in finding the answer to questions which baffled the best mathematical minds of ancient times, and the time will come when Einstein will be easily understood by boys and girls of the middle standards. New Zealand has just produced a brilliant example of the fusion of mathematical and literary statement in a survey of social research, and this article will try to trace a little of the history of the science on which, in Julian Huxley's words, “depends the progress of any democratic society.”
The modern science of mathematics has arisen from the needs of everyday life, and has grown up day by day with the everyday life of the world. Intelligent social planning will have to use mathematics more and more, and the study of mathematics will have to be pursued with more and more ardour. In the words of one of the greatest of all English writers, the aid of mathematics is needed “by every intelligent youth from fifty to ninety who is trying to get the hang of things in the universe.”
First of all let me try to explain the definition of mathematics, cleverly devised and reduced to simple terms by the great Professor Hogben. He says that mathematics is the language of size as distinct from the language which describes the sorts of things. The rules of mathematics form its grammar.
The first men had a form of talking; they had to convey their ideas to each other by sounds, and the ideas mostly dealt with the description of things, or emotions.
“The language in which people describe the different sorts of things there are in the world is vastly more primitive and more conservative than the size languages which have been multiplied to cope with the increasing precision of man's control over nature.” Moreover, it is abundantly clear that the language of mathematics has other notable qualities; it is international; it is rationally planned; it has no place for sentiment or national prejudices; it has no social distinctions, and no inheritance of emotion.
It is not an overstatement, then, to predict that it is in the study of mathematics, and the diffusion of the knowledge of pure mathematics, that will lie the solution of the world's countless troubles.
We have a reasonably accurate knowledge of the methods of counting used by several of the older cultures, and the story of how and why men first learned to count, is as fascinating as a good thriller.
Some one said in reply to a scoffing critic who claimed that science did not give a true picture of the world, that “Science is not a picture of anything. It is an ordnance map to direct our efforts in changing the world.”
Obviously, the ordnance map is of no possible use without understanding the figures on it.
The tale of man's first effort to count is an exciting one, but stranger still is the romance which surrounds his first efforts to record the results of his counting.
You will see in our illustration samples of four of the ancient scripts, used in civilisations that had reached lofty-heights of culture. They are easy to understand. After them came the Roman system and the Etruscan variation. This idea involved the use of different letters as symbols. “V” stood for five. “L” for fifty, and so on. This, as you will see, was derived from the number of fingers on one hand. Six is represented by “VI” which is five followed by one. With the use of “X” for ten, “C” for one hundred, “D” for five hundred, and so on, a script for numbers, or rather a writing method for figures had arrived, and was a fairly useful medium.
It is certain that counting commenced when men started to collect flocks and herds. Its next development was caused by the need to estimate days and seasons, and then, of course, came all the necessities arising out of the trading with goods.
Now there is a fatal defect in all these ancient methods of putting calculations on record. None of them allow of such a statement as 1/1000 or 9.998. Imagine the simplest time-table to Palmerston North expressed in any of the scripts shown in our picture!
The ancient Greeks, with all their superb culture and extraordinary powers of thought, had the whole of their scientific investigations limited by this fact; they had no workable method of division; they had the abacus, the bead frame for doing additions and simple multiplication, but it also refused to go beyond a limit of numbers. Division has insuperable difficulties. All the mental processes of man are limited, naturally, by his social background, and more, by the mechanical aids to calculation which are available to him. One authority says that this difficulty was “the Nemesis of Greek culture.”
It led to the most ludicrous misapprehensions. Having no apparatus or any device to express such a number as 1,000,000,000, Greek thinking stopped at numbers which seem ridiculous to us today. Anaxagoras was thought guilty of blasphemy when he asserted that the sun was probably as large as the mainland of Greece.
The sides of the counting frame, or abacus, actually formed a prison for the shining minds of that great land of thinkers.
Relief was to come from a strange quarter. The Hindus starting far behind the Greeks in cultural standards, had evolved a series of symbols for numbers which could be used without mechanical aids. The most amazing and effectual discovery of all was the symbol “o.” With a method of representing all the numbers up to nine, and a separate symbol for “o,” or zero, all modern arithmetic became possible.
Laplace, the great astronomer, says of this revolution that “it was a profound and important idea which appears to us so simple that we ignore its true merit …. we shall appreciate the true grandeur of this achievement when we remember it escaped the genius of Archimedes and Apollonius, two of the greatest men produced by antiquity.
When the Mohammedan civilisation swept through Africa and established itself in Spain, this script went with it, took charge of Europe, and modern civilisation, modern science and all the works of man's mind, became possible.
Perhaps the most important effect of all this was to clear away the mystical nonsense about numbers. Pythagoras and a number of successors right on into the Middle Ages erected an imposing priesthood of numbers. Numbers were invested with all sorts of magical significance and even were given sex and profound qualities of good and evil.
Even Plato regarded the study of mathematics as the privilege of the learned few. Now it is the common mental stock of mankind. In other words mathematics has been put to work. Even the Alexandrians realised this; they listened and thrilled under the highbrow erudition of the high priests of Mathematics but they used geometry to build their temples and warehouses. To-day we are on the same road, with an infinitely wider vision.
Cobbett, the great reformer, answering a query as to whether the labour of learning grammar was worth while, pointed out that without the knowledge of the grammar of a language, no effort towards the gain of human freedom could ever be placed on record. Without the grammar of mathematics, further progress towards human liberty and happiness is impossible.
Without further labouring of the subject, it is to be said that the analogy between the grammar of a language and the grammar of mathematics is almost exact.
Modern developments in such branches as algebra, trigonometry, the calculus and other branches of higher mathematics, have given the science, adverbs, verbs, adjectives and propositions for the expression of every finest shade of meaning.
The final glory of the language of numbers is still to be stressed; it is completely international. (a-b) (a+b)=(a2 - b2) is intelligible to Russian or Chilian, the French or the Italian schoolboy.
The language of mathematics represents an emancipating force, freeing intellects and setting free influences which pass over national barriers.
From the study of its eternal truths, from the appreciation of its beneficence of discovery, its inescapable exactness of conclusion, will come the ultimate realisation of happiness for all mankind.
This being so, I am proud to be able to instance a recent New Zealand book which is a notable example of the use of modern statistical research methods. “Littledene” is the study of a small New Zealand community. It combines a personal and human knowledge of the people with an exact set of figure calculations relating to production, social activities, and the general economic pattern of the whole entity. This is the combined method described with so much zest in Bell's great book, “The Search for Truth.”
The author, Mr. H. C. D. Somerset, is a schoolmaster with an equipment of profound scholarship and the ability to write in a way which is denied to most authors of such books as “Littledene.” He lived in the district, worked there and entered fully into the life. His observations are made from inside the sitting room, not peeping in the window of the kitchen, armed with a notebook. Listen to this account of the Jubilee Procession: “It was decided to hold a procession in which every organisation could take part. Most people found that they were eligible to take part on half a dozen counts. There was much preparation by all concerned. When the day arrived the procession was half a mile long; everybody was in it. First came the brass band, playing a march; behind the band the various lodges in full regalia. Then a float, representing Britannia and her colonies. There followed the displays of the Farmers’ Union, the various sports clubs, the Women's Christian Union and so on, and so on. The Salvation Army brought up the rear with its blood and fire banner. But few loyal Littledenians saw the procession; everyone participated so fully that the writer of this survey and a few latecomers were the only ones privileged to see it pass by.”
Those of us who know our New Zealand, will recognise and appreciate that picture at once.
But the marvel of the book is this: on page 8 there is a graph showing “Animals per average 100 acres, according to Size of Farm.” This is at once understood by any reader, but it would have been completely beyond the grasp of the great Democritus; it could not have been shown, either, under any system of Greek writing.
On page 81, there is a table showing the percentages of occupations adopted by the ex-pupils of the school. This is perfectly clear to anyone who has passed the fifth standard. Plato, however, would not have been successful, nor had the Greeks of his time any method of picturing such a calculation.
As one reads this fascinating survey, “Littledene,” it becomes increasingly clear that mathematics is the base of it. The truth shines clear through its pages because the language of figures which help in its expression, lets in the light.
The farmer at Littledene is measuring his field for ploughing and sowing, perusing his stock company accounts, and reading his daily paper, with a background of mathematical knowledge denied to the most profound thinker of the days of Imperial Rome. His wife uses feats of memory and skill to do her feats of cooking but her recipes are based on exact mathematical calculation, and the watch or clock that she uses for timing would represent an amazing and unintelligible piece of mechanical wizardry to Archimedes.
By the way, I must digress to quote from the book on the subject of cooking.
“It is impossible to take one sunset, some skill, and abundant leisure to make a picture. The farm wife takes a pint of cream, six eggs, and the spur of the moment while the meat and potatoes are cooking, and lo! a cream sponge-cake six inches high, with two inches of whipped cream in its depths. The cookery section of the Littledene Agricultural and Pastoral Show is like a confectioner's heaven. And experts agree that the cookery book produced by the Women's Division of the New Zealand Farmers’ Union would do credit to a Paris chef.
It is as well to remind ourselves that in the leisurely days of the ancient civilisations, there was not a device for counting time which measured smaller units than the time needed to cook some object. Hours were known, but not seconds.
It is the harnessing of mathematics to human needs, its removal from the sphere of lofty and mystic realms of thought, that makes human progress possible.
“The sellers of cars, radios, electric light and telephones can revolutionise the work and play of a community in a way that the philosopher with his reasoning can never hope to rival.”
But all those instruments of human enlightenment and recreation were only possible of creation through the evolution of mathematics.
But there is something more important than the mere bringing of these instruments of human culture within the reach of mankind in general.
It is at once obvious that the statement that 7 plus 5 is a truth which is different in essence from countless other assertions which claim to be final truths. It is in this pure quality of mathematical truth that its helpfulness finally resides. An English scientist has pointed out that no word is so loosely used as the word “law,” particularly in such phrases as “laws of Nature,” “laws of economics,” and so on. One use of “law” is to describe “observed regularities in nature.” In other words things which have happened millions of times at regular intervals may be predicted to go on happening. When the word is lifted and applied to developments of human society and human motives, it is a definite misuse. It wrecks in the opinion of many the value of much of the writing by economists. Professor Hogben says that, if the word “law” in this connection, must be retained we had better call them “Bye-laws,” implying our right to repeal them.
This confusion is impossible in the realm of pure mathematics. The fact that the language of mathematics is a planned and rationalised language, means that each term has its permanent and distinct significance. It is safe to predict therefore that to the mathematicians can be entrusted the task of where we are heading and of finding us the direction chart to show where we ought to go.
But there is a step to be taken. In the words of Bertrand Russell, “we must remove mathematics from the remote regions of apparent uselessness.” In other words we have each and all of us to learn the Arithmetic of Social Progress. We have to realise that learning about science or the art of living means mainly learning more about mathematics. Put shortly, mathematics has to be democratised. Out of that diffusion will spring the men of genius who will collate and put in order the thought of the community. Robert Burns would not have produced his magic poetry unless he lived in a community of poets, of people who worshipped and practised the art of verse making. The work of Isaac Newton, Lord Rutherford, Madame Curie and Einstein was possible because they dwelt in a world emancipated from the intellectual prisons of the earlier centuries. It is not absurd to suppose that as the centuries go by, the mathematicians and scientists of the future will bear the same relation to Lord Rutherford and Einstein as those two giants of achievement bear to Pythagoras or Archimedes.
As Cobbett said, Prynne would not have been able to impeach Archbishop Laud if his command of grammar had not been sufficient to make himself understood. When the common men of the world have universally a command of the grammar of mathematics, there will arise from them greater men still, more profound thinkers, who will conduct the impeachment of the evils that infest our world.
It is a vision of comfort and of glory.
In the days when Judge Tomahawk made and administered the common law in New Zealand there was a small square-rigger by the name of the
In April, 1845, the brig was a British transport for a run which must be about the shortest trooping voyage on record. There was an alarm of Maori raids in the Hutt Valley, and Major Richmond, commanding the troops in Wellington, ordered out a detachment of fifty men of the 58th Regiment to garrison the newly-built stockade, called Fort Richmond, at the Lower Hutt. The Bee happened to be lying off Wellington town, ready for sea. She was commandeered for urgent service. The soldiers were sent on board and she made sail for Petone beach, six miles away, and landed the heavily equipped Tommies there, to march the remaining mile to the stockade. It saved the 58th warriors a weary trudge along the rocky beach road from Wellington. The trouble had been begun by the military authorities who evicted the Maoris of the Makahi-nuku village, and destroyed the cultivations and burned down the pa. In natural retaliation the natives raided the settlers and looted their homes.
There was a certain cruise of the Bee that had no official approval. It is a story of her unregenerate days and of an owner who appears to have had all the makings of a first-rate pirate.
In the year 1833 a Hobart Town man named William Cuthbert was owner of the little brig. He is said to have been a time-expired convict, and he was commonly known as “Lincoln Bill.” How he obtained sufficient money to buy the Bee is not in the records, but at any rate he acquired possession of her, and off he sailed to the land of the Maori to trade for flax and pigs, oil and general produce which at that time of day included smoke-dried tattooed heads (trade term, “baked heads”). He seemed to have made a name for himself as a hard customer, the toughest of the tough. Back in Hobart Town again, he sailed so close to the wind in the matter of certain commercial transactions that he was arrested. The charges concerned goods that he was accused of stealing, and debts evaded, and he was lodged in gaol. It looked as if Bill was about due for another spell in the chain-gang.
The brig, which was lying in Adventure Bay, had been seized by the authorities for debts owing by Cuthbert—sails and stores—but presently was cleared at the Customs for Sydney by Captain William Stewart, whom Cuthbert had engaged in New Zealand as navigating master. This was done on order from Cuthbert just before his arrest.
“You get to sea, and wait for me off Maria Island,” said the owner when he went on shore. “I'll get an extra boat Business in town.” That business as it developed, ended in an engagement at the lock-up, but Mr. Cuthbert was a very clever man.
Captain Stewart made sail out of port. He was lying-to off the island rendezvous four days later (September 2, 1833) when a boat under sail was sighted approaching before a fine fair breeze.
“Owner's in her, sir,” said the mate, Mr. Clementson, after a long look through his spyglass. “Four men with him.”
“Extra hands, or passengers maybe,” said the master.
The boat was soon alongside, and when the men were out of her she was hoisted up and stowed inboard.
“Here's a gentleman from Hobart Town who is taking a cruise with us for the good of his health,” said Cuthbert, with a jerk of his thumb at one of his companions.
Captain Stewart was puzzled to see that the gentleman who was bound on a health trip was clothed in the uniform of a Hobart Town policeman. The gentleman, moreover, looked very hot and angry.
“If you're the master of this ship,” the bluecoated stranger said in a high excited voice, “I'll have you know this is an outrage; it's piracy! I'm an officer of the law, and this man is in my custody! I'm responsible for him, and I must demand that you take the ship back into Hobart Town and set me on shore with my prisoner. What's more, he's brought three convicts with him.”
Lincoln Bill laughed loud and long and slapped his leg. “D'ye hear that, Mister Stewart?” he said. “What d'ye think of that for a joke? He says I'm in his custody! Does it look like it, Mister?”
The brig was under all sail now, slipping along to the eastward. Stewart and his mate had a look at the three strange hands who had come on board with the owner and a man of the law. They had got rid of some parts of
Owner Bill laughed again. “These gentlemen,” he said, “are my friend's official staff. They're his ay-de-congs, as you might say. You might find some gentle exercise for them for'ard in the meantime.”
Perhaps had Captain Stewart been a strong character he would have put the brig about and steered for Hobart Town. But it is extremely doubtful whether his orders would have been obeyed. Half the crew were ex-convicts, and there were the three escapees to side with their deliverer from the chain-gang and the lash. So Stewart followed the path of least resistance, and when Lincoln Bill asked him to set his course for Cook Strait, New Zealand, instead of for Sydney, he fell in with his owner's wishes, privately reserving right of action till later on.
This Captain Stewart was a mariner of some celebrity in the New Zealand trade. Stewart Island was named after him. In 1809 he was first mate of the sealing ship Pegasus, which sailed around the island and so first established its insularity, and he mapped the coast for the commander, Captain Chace. In 1826, he was master of the schooner Prince of Denmark, trading for flax and sealskins. He must not be confused with the notorious Captain Stewart, of the brig Elizabeth, old Ruaparaba's transport from Kapiti Island on an expedition of treachery and slaughter and cannibalism to Banks Peninsula in 1831, an affair almost as shocking as the horrors of modern civilised warfare. But there was a link between the Bee and the ship of illrepute, for the mate, Clementson, had been mate of the Elizabeth on that cruise.
The Bee sailed through Cook Strait before the fresh westerly, and put in at Port Underwood, a snug haven for the traders and whalers, on the southern coast. Then she sailed up along the East Coast of the North Island and presently looked in at Tauranga Harbour. By this time Lincoln Bill had quarrelled with the mate Clementson, and he determined to get rid of him. “I think we have seen enough of each other, Mister,” he said. He put a pistol to the mate's head and ordered him on shore. So there we leave Mr. Clementson, dumped on the beach of the Dangerous Land, with barely more than the clothes he wore. From a Ms. narrative left by Hans Tapsell of Maketu, I am able to fill in his few years of life in Maori Land. Tapsell engaged him to trade at Matamata with a stock of goods buying flax to be shipped from Tauranga to Sydney. He and another adventurer were drowned down the coast trying to cross over the bar at Matata in a whaleboat.
“Lay your course for the Society Islands, Mr. Stewart,” was Cuthbert's next request, when the anchor was got up and the brig steered out into the Bay of Plenty. “We'll have a look at the Kanaka girls, and then we'll see if the Bee can't make a little honey along the Spanish Main.”
It was a bacchanalian little Bee from now on. Lincoln Bill made merry with his convict friends. He sent bottles of grog forward, and got out his fiddle and played while the barefooted scoundrels danced on the deck. The round and jolly moon came up, like a great golden melon. The silhouetted black brig, with its capering crew, looked a thorough pirate ship.
“At it you go, you rascals!” Bill shouted as he sat at the break of the poop and sawed away at jiggetty tunes for the slapping soles. “Heel and toe! All we want now's a few black-eyed Susans, but we'll pick ‘em up in Papeete all right.”
Drinking and fiddling, with now and again a fight among the forecastle hands, the Bee buzzed on through the tropics, the south-east Trade making a steady leading wind for her.
The East Pacific island of Rurutu came in sight on the starboard bow early one morning in October. The brig hove-to off the little mountain-isle, and lowered a boat at the entrance to the lagoon. Now Mr. Cuthbert gave two of his erstwhile boon companions a surprise. These runaway convicts he ordered into the boat. “Get your dunnage and off with you,” he said. “I want no lags in this ship.” He landed them on the beach, blithely told them to go to hell, bought some fruit from the islanders, and got under way again. How the marooned pair fared I do not know, but their lot in Rurutu would conceivably not be hard. A stray white man in Rurutu would at any rate not be cooked and eaten; it was an isle of pleasant hospitable Polynesians.
A few days later the Bee anchored in Papeete Harbour, Tahiti. There, after a lively week, the owner got rid of the stolen constable and the remaining convict member of the “staff.” He kept them on board until he had sufficiently refreshed himself and his crew, then just before the anchor was lifted he sent them on board the American whaling ship Erie, which was lying in the lagoon. It was a mutually convenient arrangement between him and the Erie's captain. The whaleship wanted men to replace some runaways before she resumed the cruise. Half an hour later the brig was slipping through the reef entrance.
“Where away now,’ Mr. Cuthbert,” asked the sailing master.
“Oh, I think we'll try the Sandwich Islands,” said the owner. “I still have my trade to sell. There's more chance there than on the American coast.”
So up into the North Pacific buzzed the Bee, steering for Hawaii. Three weeks later she was in Honolulu Harbour; it was more widely known then
Captain Stewart now saw his way to get clear of Lincoln Bill before he became more deeply involved in the owner's doubtful cruisings. He wrote to the British Consul stating the facts. The Consul arrested the brig, but Bill got away in a schooner for the American coast, he slipped off at daybreak just in time to avoid capture and the calaboose.
And here Mr. Cuthbert, the potential pirate, disappears from our ken. There was a report on the New Zealand coast a year or two later—it reached Tauranga and Tapsell's station at Maketu—that he had been hanged in Peru. But it was never confirmed.
The Bee was sent back to Sydney by the Consul under the command of the much relieved Captain Stewart. There she was sold for the benefit of Cuthbert's creditors, so that they got something of their own back after all. Captain Stewart was back in the New Zealand trade again before long—but not in the Bee.
As for the abducted constable, it may be that he reached his beloved Hobart Town safely after all his troubles, richer in experience at any rate, with a taste of blubber-hunting in a hard Yankee ship to remember for the rest of his life. I do not know whether he ever saw the coast of Tasmania again; but if he did it is extremely unlikely that he received promotion for his exploit in getting run off with by Lincoln Bill of the Bee brig. It is even possible his superiors summarily put him into the hard-labour gang. A constable's life was not far removed from a prisoner's in the bad old days of Convict Land.
Have you ever, when “hiking”—“on your lonesome”—found yourself in some spot remote from shops or pubs, with not a soul in sight (or likely to be) and suddenly had a hankering for a smoke—only to discover you have but one match left? With what care you strike that last match and shield the flame with your cupped hands! With what relief you get your pipe aligh—perhaps? By the way, the best tobacco you can have when hiking is “toasted”—the genuine article—because it burns away to the last shred and you can smoke for hours without getting a sore tongue or irritated throat. It is, moreover, of delicious flavour and rare bouquet, and being practically without nicotine (eliminated by toasting) it is safe smoking. No wonder the five (and only genuine) toasted brands, Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead) Cavendish, Navy Cut No.3 (Bulldog), Riverhead Gold and desert Gold appeal so irresistibly to the smoker, whether he is hiking or “lazing,” afoot or astride, afloat or ashore, at home or abroad.*
My Uncle August used to say, “Work, if thou be God's curse, what can His blessing be?” but apart from this there has never been any actual insanity in our family. For this reason, I suppose, I have never been able to have splendid dreams about the unattainable.
At least, not since the age of five, when I wanted to be the circus lady who did the trapeze work.
But looking back on the boy who had the same name as myself, I can hear now quite plainly the voices of older people saying to him: “Don't dream,” and “Wake up, dreamy,” and “God bless my soul, the boy's always dreaming.”
That, thank goodness, seems a very long time ago.
There are people who are always dinning into one's ears that one's childhood days were the best in one's life. They are frightful liars. It is no fun for any boy to have people roaring in his ears all day, “Wake up, dreamy,” and “Don't dream,” or to hear them say in an impersonal way as if you weren't in the room, “God bless my soul, he's always dreaming.”
This, to my mind, is the chief advantage of becoming an adult. Then you can do the roaring. But you lose something too. It's like the whole scheme of existence, planned with a kind of superb low cunning to ensure that what you make up on the swings, you lose on the roundabouts. For when you grow up, you can do the roaring but you can't do the dreaming.
At least, not nearly so well.
When I sat down to this article, I set out to find my dream place. I found I had one. It was Fiji, but I had been there.
It is a bit perturbing to find a dream come true. It leaves a little less to live for. No doubt the happiest one is he who is still single-mindedly chasing his dream until the moment he dies.
For years my dream place eluded me, and though often I ate my heart out in disappointment, I had all the thrill of the chase. It was only a matter of time, I knew, until I got close enough for the kill.
And then, one winter day, I sailed proudly third class, being hard up, from Auckland. The big mail steamer cut swiftly through the waters away from rain and cold into the endless sunshine. There was the blue of sea and sky and a breeze played on our cheeks. Inwardly I had strange romantic stirrings. I was going to the place of sunshine and laughter and flowers.
After five days, we landed at Suva. But it was not, I soon found, my dream place. For Suva is a town rather like an army composed of colonels.
There is little hemp-spun humanity amongst the European people there: it is all superfine cloth. The baths custodian was a retired hotel proprietor; the man who went round with the town rubbish lorry looked like an ex-army officer; the caretaker of the sports-ground spoke with all the refinement of a prince of the blood.
The police were exquisitely bred young men, but if you called a police officer “Constable,” you would probably have been arrested.
For Suva, it soon appeared, is the Home for Lost Dogs with Pedigrees, and the white man is very much the Lord of Creation.
Besides, it was damp. Lord, how it was damp!
So I went in a filthy packet boat called “Andi Thakabau” to the other side of the island. Being the only white passenger on board, I travelled saloon with the aristocracy—a Chinese, a babu Indian, and two half-caste Fijians.
Up on deck there were Indian coolies and traders, Fiji boys and women, half-castes, bearded Sikhs and Punjabis. At night the Indians took off their turbans and combed their long flossy black hair, twisted it into a pigtail with twine, and tied it in a neat knot on the crown of the head.
In the evening they unrolled mats and slept on the deck or sang wailing Indian songs or chanted Fijian tunes to the
The sky was clear and dry with a heat altogether different from the moist cotton-wool of Suva. All afternoon we wound in and out of coral reefs.
On the skyline, where the blue of sea and sky met and lost each other, small coral islands seemed to float between heaven and earth. All the time the garrulous Indians yapped.
We puffed malodorously through heavenly waters, past gleaming yellow backs of coral islands just pushed up from the sea, past coral islands overgrown with palms, and past beaches that were really golden.
Two days later I caught a sugar train, stepped off at a lonely small bay and climbed up to the Sahib's white bungalow—the only European habitation for fourteen miles around—on the hill.
From the verandah you looked straight down the steep hillside on to the light blue water of the bay. Tail coconut palms fringed the shore and fifty yards out was a small coral island.
In a wide semi-circle, the creamy reef was thrown around the mouth of the bay, and all day and all night the waves roared as they smashed themselves on it into foam. For a space inside the reef the water was lilac, but outside it was darkest blue.
In the garden, bright red and pink hibiscus flowers and brackets of golden flowers that they call God's candles, just stirred in the breeze.
They were long, lazy days at the bay, objectless days with no thought of the future. You lorded it there. You sat in a long canvas chair and called for the Indian servants—for Siroot the Strangler, Gug-Raj the Rogue and Ramchiren the Fool. They came at your bidding like the slaves in the Arabian Nights.
“I milk fifteen cows,” the Sahib used to tell me proudly. It was false; he never milked one. The cows were milked by Gug-Raj the Rogue and Ramchiren the Fool.
“I am going to dig up some of my potatoes,” the Sahib used to say, and he would go into the garden and watch Siroot the Strangler use the spade.
He called it work, watching the boys do these things, but I don't think my Uncle August would have thought so.
Evening would come. You sat on the beach to watch the sun go down. It left the western sky the colour of rose, and covered the surface of the bay with gold leaf.
Two Fijian boys, fishing on a catamaran, bent motionless over their lines. Away on the left, the gray breakers rolled on with the roar of a timeless train.
The dark closed in, and the moon rose at the full. The leaves of the coconut palms glistened in the moonlight as if they were wet with rain.
For three months it was like that.
Until, once again I seemed to hear those very familiar voices saying, “Don't Dream,” and “Wake up, dreamy,” and “God bless my soul, the boy's always dreaming.”
So I came back again.
Although it was published some months ago, I have not seen many New Zealand reviews of Margaret Macpherson's travel book “Antipodean Journal,” a signed copy of which recently reached me from Corsica where Mrs. Macpherson was at the time of its despatch. It is just the manner of book one would expect from this versatile and much travelled woman—full of talk of interesting places and personalities, particularly in the world of art and letters. It is also one of the finest advertisements for the Dominion, not that the writer indulges in fulsome flattery, for here and there are some very pertinent and critical observations. There are several comments with which I disagree. For instance, her contrast between Auckland (“flaunting her jewels on a genteely curved finger”) and Wellington (“not caring a fig for such gewgaws”). But then, Margaret has spent much of her time up Auckland way and “Shibli” is a Wellingtonian to the core. Also I cannot see eye to eye with Margaret when she writes: “Let us put our architectural beauty into schools and colleges, not churches.” The book as a whole gave me great pleasure, as it will to many others. It has been nicely produced by Hutchinson's, London, and is beautifully illustrated. Part 1 deals with New Zealand, Part 2 with Australia, and Part 3 with other parts of the world.—“Shibli Bagarag.”
He'd been having what medical men call “a general overhaul” When the Doctor was through—an hour's work—he said: “Nothing much wrong, but I think you're smoking too much. What's your tobacco?” The patient told him “Ah,” said the Doctor, “I know the brand! used to smoke it myself. Poisonous with nicotine. Tobacco like that's sure to get you sooner or later, so I gave it up, and took to ‘toasted’ and if you're wise you'll follow suit. ‘Toasted's’ not only the purest tobacco but by far the best. I don't know how the toasting is done, but it's wonderfully effective, for the five brands, Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Cavendish, Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold are comparatively free from nicotine, they all have a really fine flavour and a peculiarly grateful aroma. Throat irritation is common enough with smokers, so is burnt tongue. You don't get either with ‘toasted'.” The patient, much impressed, said he'd certainly take the Doctor's advice. “You won't regret it if you do,” smiled the Doctor. He never did!*
The enthusiasm aroused by the commemoration of the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the establishment of the first British settlement in Australia was given added interest here in London by reason of the christening, by the London, Midland & Scottish Railway, of one of its powerful “Jubilee” class express passenger locomotives, “New South Wales.” The naming ceremony at Euston Station, on 26th January, was performed by the Agent-General for New South Wales. A happy note, in more senses than one, was struck by the presence of a detachment and band of the Royal Navy. The Admiralty's welcome contribution to the proceedings was in recognition of the fact that Captain Arthur Phillips, R.N., was in command of the brig “Supply,” from which was effected the first landing of settlers. Transport — and especially rail transport—has played a more important part than any other factor in the striking progress made by Australia in the past one hundred and fifty years. Despite break-of-gauge, and other difficulties, railways have virtually changed the face of the continent, and one and all engaged in Australian rail transport may well take pride in their contribution to this development.
Locomotive and train naming adds greatly to the romance and interest attached to the “Iron Way.” Our pioneer locomotive builders set the ball rolling by selecting names like “The Rocket” and “Sans Pareil” for their products, while one of the earliest named passenger trains was the “Southern Belle,” London-Brighton express of the London, Brighton and South Coast line, now embraced in the Southern Group. The “Flying Scotsman,” the “Cornish Riviera Limited,” and the “Atlantic Coast Express” are other Home railway-named trains whose fame is world-wide. Across the Atlantic, America long ago realised the desirability for train-naming. What better-chosen train names could one have than, say, “The Golden State Limited,” “The Scout,” or “The Twentieth Century Limited”? On the continent of Europe, we have the famous “Blue Train,” linking Paris with the Mediterranean resorts; the “Eidelweiss Express,” serving Swiss mountain centres; the “Orient Express,” of film and novel fame; and a score of other named services. Africa gives us the “Union Limited” in the south, and the “Star of Egypt” in the north. All this business of locomotive and train christening represents excellent publicity, and train naming, in particular, is now the recognised thing in Europe. Visit any of the big London termini at any hour, and there, alongside the platform you are sure to find at least one named train. King's Cross probably has more named trains running in and out than any other metropolitan station, for all the long-distance expresses of the L. & N.E. line to-day carry distinctive titles.
A feature of passenger travel at Home is the cleanliness of most of the stock employed in main-line service. This year the group lines are paying greater attention than ever to the interior cleanliness of passenger trains. An innovation is the appointment by the L. & N.E. Company of special travelling train attendants and cleaners, whose duties are to accompany the principal expresses and excursion trains, and to maintain the compartments, corridors and lavatories in a scrupulously clean and tidy condition. The cleaners accompany the train throughout the journey in most instances. They are provided with full equipment, including brushes, towels, soap, and a canvas bag for the collection of refuse. The idea seems an excellent one, for while most main-line passenger trains are scrupulously clean at the commencement of the journey, there is often a tendency—especially in the night services—for the interior of the cars to become dirty and untidy towards the end of a long run. This, inevitably, gives an unfavourable impression to the traveller joining the train at some intermediate point.
Early this year an interesting new electrification was opened by the L. M. & S. Railway, electric traction on the Wirral Section lines coming into operation on 14th March. The routes covered are those between Birkenhead Park, West Kirby and New Brighton, the total route mileage electrified amounting to a little over 10 miles. An important feature of the scheme was the introduction of through electric train services between both West Kirby and New Brighton and Liverpool (Central) Low Level, in conjunction with the Mersey Railway Company. With the introduction of electric train services in this busy area, the time-table has been entirely re-modelled, providing more frequent train services at regular intervals. Nineteen 3-car train sets of the most modern construction have been introduced by the L. M. & S., each seating 141 third-class and 40 first-class passengers. During peak hours, however, six-car trains are employed. Features of the new trains include the use of light high-tensile metals, and the provision of air-operated sliding doors to save time at stations. The electrification, which has been carried out under the Government Loan Guarantee Schemes, is on the third-rail system at 650 volts.
Although the L. M. & S. Railway possesses one locomotive that is still performing light work 72 years after it was built, this record of longevity is easily eclipsed by two railway engines that have never moved a foot from their positions for over a century apiece. Totalling between them 218 years’ continuous service, these two veteran stationary engines are employed at Middleton Top (Derby) and Swannington (Leicestershire) respectively. Both are still used for hauling wagons up and down steep inclines unsuitable for locomotives. The engine at Middleton Top is 113 years old, and is a twin-cylinder, low pressure, condensing-type beam engine, built for the Cromford & High Peak Railway in 1825 by the Butterley Iron Works. A treasured relic is the Swannington engine, for it was installed in 1833 to the instructions of George Stephenson, engineer of the Leicester & Swannington Railway, which was opened 1832–33, and was the first railway in the Midlands. Originally used for hauling up wagons of coal from various collieries reached by the Swannington Incline, the engine is now employed only for lowering wagons of coal required by a colliery pumping-plant at the bottom. The Swannington engine was made by the Horsley Coal and Iron Company, and is of the long-stroke (3 ft. 6 in.), single-cylinder, simple expansion type, the steam pressure being 80 lbs. per sq. in. It is capable of hauling six empty wagons up the incline (half–a-mile long and rising at 1 in 17) at a speed of 9 m.p.h.
Freight business continues brisk on the Home lines. Improvements in goods train services and terminal working are constantly being introduced, and an overnight service between points 400 to 600 miles apart is now general. These accelerated goods train services are high in public favour, and they maintain a wonderful punctuality record. The old idea of a goods train, lumbering along at fifteen to twenty miles an hour, and constantly being shunted to permit the passage of other trains, is now almost a memory. The problem of the large versus the small freight train always arouses considerable discussion, but in Britain relatively light goods trains, booked at express speed, are largely increasing in number.
Not only are goods train services being accelerated on every side in Britain, but particular attention is being paid to the elimination of careless handling of small consignments.
America is the land of the digest, despite the alleged prevalence of dyspepsia in that exhilarating country. One such digest came the way of the present writer, and it caused him to think. This particular tabloid was named “Globe.” One imagines it was written for the instruction of those who partake of tours in the luxury liners.
“Globe” consists of a string of cameos, each cameo a rhapsody in this rosary that would encircle the earth like Puck's girdle. Someone had gone ashore from a luxury liner at Auckland, and had “done” his New Zealand in the space of a few days. In reading the impressions of this writer one was reminded of a story by Ian Hay. It told of a young Scottish student who went to Edinburgh, and thought, until he came upon the mystical word “Exit,” that the entire city of Edinburgh was comprised in the Railway Station. His appraisal of New Zealand was entitled “Glow-worm Glories,” and induced a doubt in one's mind if this teller of a traveller's tale ever found the way out of the pleasurable labyrinth prescribed for him by the beneficent powers under whose governship the tour was made… It is a truism that your visitor knows more of the advertised attractions of a country than the natives of the place. Like all truisms it is vulnerable.
One is, of course, edified to learn what were Mr. Bernard Shaw's impressions of the Waitomo Caves and what were those of Mr. A. P. Herbert. Such men stamp their own individuality on any impressions they may register.
Mr. Malcolm Macdonald and Dr. Hugh Dalton have both told the New Zealander something about this country from the point of view of a Labour statesman on holiday. Some day Mr. Wells, who, one is told, always greets Miss Nelle Scanlan with “Hallo, New Zealand mutton,” when he meets the New Zealand novelist at a foregathering of the P. E. N. club, will, perhaps, visit New Zealand, and then we shall see what he shall see. As one who has never seen the Waitomo Caves the present writer would record his satisfaction on reading the account proffered by Mr. Alan Mulgan in a recent number of the “Railways Magazine.” This is, we are aware, the work of a man who was not likely to make the mistake which the Scottish student made. Mr. Mulgan knows his way out of Waitomo. He knows his way to places of delight that do not come within the scope of the personally conducted tour. What do they know of New Zealand who only Waitomo know? It is the wont of the New Zealander to bewail the lack of indigenous New Zealand literature. At the same time he is often distrustful of books just because they are produced locally…. The old bogey of commercialism rears its head. We are snobbish in matters of the intellect if in nothing else, and some of us still think a little less of Millais for having painted “Bubbles” for Messrs. Pears, or of Mrs. Humphry Ward for having written “Canadian Born” for the Canadian Pacific Railway. There are, of course, guidebooks and guide-books.
Someone, no doubt, has covered the ground between Godstow and Tring in Buckinghamshire, which Robert Louis Stevenson covered when he took that autumnal walk, and lay the night at Wendover—or was it Great Mis-senden? But that same painstaking, topographer who followed in Stevenson's wake could not have given us “An Autumn Effect.“… A country cannot be written about too much by men and women who are poets and essayists by temperament. The gentleman who wrote “Glow-worm Glories” gave no evidence in that lucubration, at all events, of being either.
It seems that New Zealanders, or some of them, are becoming
We associate the word “Literature” with a season of quietude, with a space wherein it is vouchsafed to one to turn over in the mind the very being of an author's style. The style is the man, wrote Georges Buffon, the naturalist, and whether he was right or whether he was wrong it is unquestionable that such names as Nathaniel Hawthorn, Richard Jefferies and Walter Pater do induce in the mind something akin to a fragrance. I have no doubt that there are many writing in New Zealand to-day who are capable of imparting the authentic pleasure which Hawthorn, Jefferies and Pater each in their several ways impart. Only we are deterred from enjoyment of them by that hard-boiled convention which, paradoxically enough, leads to a cleavage between those who over-praise and those who over-detract.
It may be asked “What has all this to do with the glow-worms?” Mr. Mulgan quotes Shelley in the course of his article on the “Waitomo Caves..” There is a pregnant phrase in the poem from which he quotes, to wit the “Ode to the Skylark”:
Chorus hymeneal Or thiumphal chaunt
Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt,
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
The hidden want of which we may be aware in a guide-book will elude definition, for no two readers agree precisely as to literary values. It may suffice for one that a scene is described as “colourful” or “mystic.” These two hard-worked epithets may arouse the purist to faint protest, or to something not quite so faint… It may suffice for some that the Waitomo phenomena be summed up succinctly in the simple monosyllable.
“Gee!” which has much to commend it… Perhaps if the gentleman who wrote for “Globe” had appended “Gee!” to his alliterative title, and left it at that one would have saluted him as the one man who has ever dealt with the subject adequately. None-the-less, one is very glad to have Mr. Mulgan as one's representative at the perpetual festival of the glowworm.
* * *
The names of people in this story are wholly imaginary, though the incidents referring to some of the employees as being refugees from the Law are true. In the early days the remoteness of some of the mills made it quite possible for “wanteds” to hide in seclusion for many months.
John Kay was the owner of a large tract of country in the North Island of New Zealand. It could be counted one of the best areas of bush in the province, abounding with rimu, totara, matai, kahikatea, and in some places, valuable kauri. The land was fairly flat so hauling was at minimum expense.
John Kay worked his bush with a system. Before any milling timber was touched, the area calculated to supply sufficient milling for six to nine months was under-scrubbed, the small trees also being cut down.
At suitable times a chain-wide ring around the under-scrubbed portion of the bush was fired so that when the proper season for burning came, the fire would not affect the standing bush.
In a few years’ time there was sufficient grass to combine farming with his milling activities, Kay believing by these methods to prevent the spread of noxious weeds—always so evident where trees had been felled—and thus enhance the value of the land, whereas before it had timber value only.
The mill was situated as near as possible—consistent with safety—to the homestead and workers’ dwellings and, with an eye to the future, the latter were built so that when the time came they could be converted into farm buildings.
Including the bush and hauling hands, employment was found for about sixty persons, and generally, they were a happy lot. In addition, there was the mill manager, an accountant, and a clerk, who lived at the homestead with Kay and his daughter, Cushla. The latter was a bright, vivacious brunette twenty years of age. She knew as much about timber as anyone at the mill and was also an adept at the typewriter. Consequently when business was very brisk, she assisted in the office, thus relieving William Jasper, the clerk.
William Jasper, who it was thought had seen better days, was about forty years of age, and somewhat portly as to body. He had a pleasant, open face, and invariably had a jolly smile. He was absolutely conscientious and thorough in his work and his behaviour generally was all that could be desired; nor was he lacking in courage, as events will show. But what Cushla liked most in him was his love for the beauty which Nature had supplied with a lavish hand in the surroundings of their bush home.
The accountant, John Wynder, who had been with them for about three months, was a tall, broad-shouldered man and handsome — although he sometimes wore a sinister and hard expression which betokened ill to any who opposed him. Cushla often wondered as did her father what had made a man of Wynder's undoubted ability and address seek employment away in the backblocks. He was cultured, and his knowledge of a great variety of subjects added to the many pleasant after-dinner discussions.
“A clever man that, but I can't understand what brought him here,” remarked Kay to his daughter one
“Well, dad, you have a first-class manager anyhow. Loyalty and honesty simply radiate from his grey eyes, although his face is so sombre,” said Cushla.
“I grant all that, and we are lucky, but honest old Hawkins would be left if it came to a matter of balance sheets and finance. Hawkins knows what timber every log will cut and will work his flitches to the minimum waste. His accurate measuring and selection of timber required for orders has made the business what it is, but his work would be wasted if we hadn't efficiency in the office.”
It must not be thought that it was all work and no play at Kay's Mill. Nobody knew better than the owner the difficulty of obtaining trained labour for his business. He paid the highest wages, yet it was essential to occupy the men's time in the long summer evenings and on Saturdays and Sundays. Games, especially cricket were, therefore, encouraged. Under the instruction of Jasper two tolerably good elevens met every week-end, and for those who did not care for cricket a billiard room with two tables was at the men's disposal. A large swimming pond was made by constructing a dam in the small stream running nearby; a decent library was installed and by permission of the Government a Savings Bank was opened. There was also a Post Office, operated by Jasper.
It was sixty miles to the nearest Bank and though motor-cars were a great luxury—Kay bought one as he thought it too grave a danger to keep more than one week's wages about. There was certainly a telephone, and although a party line lessened to a degree the remoteness of civilisation, the trip to town was made every week. Jaques Martin, whose character was without blemish, had courage combined with physical proportions which made him a most suitable person for the lonely drive there and back; added to this he was an engineer and thus was capable of dealing with any mechanical failures on the journey.
Cushla Kay thought for a change she would ride along the road and meet Jaques Martin coming back, but instead she met a very handsome young man on a tired horse which was also weighted with two well-filled saddle bags. He raised his hat, drew rein, and asked Cushla if he was on the road to John Kay's mill.
“I'm Mr. Kay's daughter,” she answered, turning her horse round. “You are on the right road and the mill is only a mile further on. I wasn't going anywhere in particular so I'll ride back with you.”
“I'm afraid I can't go out of a walk—my poor old gee is done—so I hope your father won't set me off to the North again before Ginger has a good rest and a feed.”
“Oh, we're not as bad as that. Travellers are very rare, but when they do come they're looked after,” answered Cushla.
“Mr. Kay is a great friend of my father's and I dare say you have heard him speak of Max Kingswell?”
“I should say so, he handles all our timber in Auckland,” replied Cushla. “I'm always typing letters to him—and so you are his son?”
“Yes, Miss Kay. My name is Lynn Kingswell and I've come all this way to look for a job.”
“Good gracious! if Dad does employ you I'll have to teach another raw recruit.”
“I won't mind that, Miss Kay, the only thing I might want is to be a recruit too long,” Lynn said smilingly.
They met John Kay at the office door. He looked somewhat surprised at seeing his daughter approaching with a young man. However, she did not give her father any time for questions.
“This is the son of your great friend, Mr. Kingswell,” Cushla announced.
“Great Scott! and you've ridden the whole way? Cushla, take his horse down to the stable and tell Jack to look after it well—here, hold on, let's
“I hope, Mr. Kay, I've come for more than a few days,” replied Lynn, and he drew a letter from his inside pocket and handed it to Kay.
“That'll keep until we go to the house,” said Kay. “Come along, you'll want something to eat, a bath and a change,” and he led the way. While Kingswell was changing Kay opened his friend's letter. It read:
“Dear Old Friend,
I am sending Lynn along to you with a hope that you can find him something to do about that big mill of yours. I have two reasons; in the first place he seems to lack an outlet in the city for his surplus energy—and there is little doubt that such an outlet would be found in a timber mill. But it is not only for physical reasons I have sent him. He has passed quite a number of examinations and holds a diploma for accountancy; his knowledge of timber extends only to measuring up, classing, and variety.
“He has been helping me for the last twelve months at the timber yards, where, as you know, I handle the greater part of your output.
“You may smile when I tell you my second reason. For some time I have been troubled about you and Cushla so far away, surrounded, as it were, by a fairly mixed gang, and though the majority may be loyal and would stand by you, there are bound to be some whose characters are very questionable and who have sought the seclusion of the way backs until things blow over. I am sure it requires a watchful eye. Lynn, although my son, I can say with truth is absolutely reliable. His knowledge of accountancy may be useful to you, and if my surmises—gathered from possibilities only—by chance prove correct, you will not regret listening to an old friend's suggestion. Don't think I am butting in, old chap, but I have recalled that some months ago it was reported that a very dangerous criminal had landed in the city. He came from London by the ‘Aotea,’ but in some way had escaped arrest. It was thought that he was in Australia. This person is described as a well-educated man, tall and dark, and he came out as Colonel Biddix.
“There are also one or two criminals of a lower type who are wanted for burglary. All the information I could get about them was that one was a dark, foreign-looking man. You are noted the province over for your predilection to helping lame dogs over styles. Look out that some of these lame dogs don't turn round and bite. Fortunately Lynn has a good knowledge of character—he was a member of the Mounted Police for two years in Australia. If he warns you, take his advice. Of course, there may be no occasion to do so, but seeing how you are situated I would not be much of a friend if I had not acted as I have done. Lynn knows his job—if you give it to him—which is to protect you and yours if necessary. Your sincere friend, Max Kingswell.”
Kay did not know how to take his friend's letter and was a little inclined to resent it as unwarrantable interference. However, on more mature reflection he decided that there must be something at the back of his friend's mind which made the warning necessary. Acting on impulse he handed the letter to Lynn who, after glacing through it, returned it with a smile.
“It does seem as though dear old dad had your interests at heart, doesn't it?” remarked Lynn. “Of course it now rests with you if I go or stay, but from what I gathered from dad your work keeps you employed in the bush. Your manager is fully employed at the mill and judging from the amount of timber you are turning out, your clerks must be well occupied. There appears room for the employment of a hand who may be useful in any capacity.”
“I believe you are right, Lynn. I cannot ignore your father's letter and there is room for an extra hand. Supposing I give you a sort of roving commission, leaving it to you to find from the manager, foreman, and Mr. Wynder, the accountant, where your services are required. You can always fall back on the timberyard for something to do when not wanted elsewhere. You will live with us and have your own room—you won't find the life so bad, as I have a fine lot of men. I, myself, come in contact mostly with the men working in the bush as the contour of the country allows us to run the trams close up to the logs and it takes me no time to run down to the scene of operations.” Kay turned at the sound of a cough: “Hello, Cushla, didn't notice you come in. Let me formally introduce you to Mr. Lynn Kingswell now in my employment, so I hope you two will be friends.”
“I sincerely hope so,” said Lynn.
“And I don't see any particular reason why we should not be,” replied Cushla with a smile.
“Cushla, what about your taking Kingswell over and introducing him to Mr. Jasper, Wynder, and Hawkins?”
“All right, dad,” agreed Cushla. Then, “Come along, Lynn.”
Chatting brightly as she went Cushla led the way. Presently, they came within speaking distance of Jasper, who turned at their approach.
“Hello, Mr. Jasper,” greeted Cushla. “Let me introduce Mr. Lynn Kings-well, the son of a great friend of my father's.”
“How do you do, Mr. Kingswell,” replied Jasper. “You're from the city?”
“Yes, Mr. Jasper. My dad couldn't do anything with me so sent me out into the country to reform.”
“Well,” said Jasper, “you have come among beautiful surroundings as you can see—and which my worthy boss is devastating year by year.”
“Notwithstanding that the beautiful trees are the means of supplying his livelihood, his heart nearly breaks at every log that comes in,” put in Cushla.
“Not quite as bad as that, Miss Kay, but you have admitted the sacrilege of destroying the beauties God has given us and which cannot be replaced.”
Cushla changed the subject and asked if Mr. Wynder was in his office.
“Yes, Miss Kay. You'll find him buried in papers, ledgers, and other books of all descriptions.”
Cushla knocked at the door and entered, followed by Lynn.
A man looked up at them.
“Mr. Wynder,” said Cushla. “I've brought Mr. Lynn Kingswell to make your acquaintance. Father has taken him on as a rouse-about.”
Both men acknowledged the introduction. Then: “Just what are the duties assigned to you, Mr. Kings-well?” asked Wynder.
“To help generally when and where my services, may be required,” replied Lynn. “I've had a varied experience both in New Zealand and Australia.”
“A sort of rolling stone that gathers no moss?” suggested Wynder.
“That, of course, remains to be seen,” Lynn answered, looking straight at Wynder. “Anyhow it seems by your surroundings I might be of some use to you.”
“No thanks. When two men tackle a one-man job they generally get in one another's way. Don't you think so, Miss Cushla?”
“I think, Mr. Wynder,” she answered, “that you have a terrible lot to do, and if it gets behind it'll take no end to pull up, but you always seem to like work. We are keeping you back.”
“I'm sure Mr. Kingswell and I will be friends,” said Wynder.
He remained standing after Lynn and Cushla left his office. “Now I wonder what the game is,” he thought to himself. “And what is the great idea of Kay employing a man like this. There's something in the wind and I must be careful. He does not look like a young man one could take liberties with.”
The moment Lynn saw the manager he liked him. There was something in his manner which attracted confidence. A straight look in the eye as he shook hands or spoke. Not a very big man, but wiry and muscular—a man that one could rely on in a pinch, was Lynn's mental summing up, as he and Cushla took their leave. When they were outside Cushla asked Lynn whom he liked best.
“Why, Hawkins,” he answered. “And there's something about Jasper I like.”
“What about Mr. Wynder, Lynn?”
“I don't know he is a fine stamp of a man, but I should think he would be a bit awkward if he were angry or took a set on anyone; but I've no doubt he is splendid with the books, which after all is what your father employs him for. Thank you very much for the introductions. I understand we all meet again at dinner. In the meantime, if you'll excuse me, I will step down to the swimming pool you spoke of—a dip would be just the thing.”
(To be continued).
(Continued.)
Although the early Railway Acts contemplated in no case a cost of more than £5,000. per mile, at the end of the first decade the cost of open lines had risen to approximately £7,000. This discrepancy was due to a number of factors:
(1) In response to pressure, politicians had caused too many stations to be constructed.
(2) The stations and sidings that were provided on the main lines nearly all proved inadequate for the traffic; and as early as 1878 new stations were being planned at Lyttelton, Christ-church, Timaru, Oamaru, Dunedin and Bluff, as well as at other less important places. The Auckland-Drury line cost 6 per cent. in excess of the estimate—solely on account of the traffic offering requiring an amount of rolling stock greatly above the estimate; and a new station in Auckland was found essential as early as 1883.
(3) The original 40 lb. rails proved too light for the traffic, and had to be replaced in the very early ‘eighties by at least 53 lb. rails on the main lines. Now 70 lb. rails are in general use on main lines.
(4) Certain materials and labour rose in cost.
(5) Contrary to original anticipations, many lines had to be fenced and tunnels lined.
(6) There was much faulty selection of materials—in some cases as a result of political interference with the engineer's recommendations. Thus many lines had to be reballasted because of the use of unsuitable metal. Rimu soon proved itself an undesirable material for bridges, and various local timbers used for sleepers had, as early as 1882, to be replaced by jarrah.
(7) There was failure to make sufficient allowance for flood conditions, with the result that many culverts had to be replaced by bridges, and many low-lying lines by embankments.
(8) Occasionally the engineers made bad mistakes; e.g., several furlongs of track near Moeraki had to be abandoned, both the Government and the contractors’ overseers being replaced.
(9) Owing to the bush-covered nature of much of the country (e.g., between Foxton and Wanganui) accurate estimates were difficult to make.
Operating costs were also unduly raised by the early skimping in capital costs:—
(1) The light equipment and track quickly wore out or required repairs—so that there were excessive maintenance charges.
(2) The engine power on some sections was so small that time-tables had to be slowed up as traffic increased; e.g., on the Auckland Section in 1883. This state of affairs was remedied by ordering six J locomotives in the following year, the most powerful engines previously operating on this section having been of the L and Fairlie types.
(3) Lack of adequate equipment (e.g., water tanks) led to excessive shunting.
The fatal accident wherein part of a train consisting of one H (Fell) engine, two four-wheeled cars, one ordinary van, one Fell van, and two loaded covered goods wagons was blown over a precipitous bank on the Rimutaka Incline (1 in 15 grade) on 13th September, 1880, was also partly due to the light construction of the vehicles and the absence of any provision of breakwinds—later provided—at points such as Horse Shoe Valley that were subject to exceptionally heavy gales.
On 24th October, 1884, the Minister of Public Works, the Hon. E. Richardson, was able to say:—
“By reason of … additions to the opened railways during the past few years we have now got 1,400 miles of railway complete and equipped—not of a description such as was proposed in 1870 when the Scheme of Public Works was inaugurated by my colleague, Sir Julius Vogel, but lines of a much higher class, and of such a nature that high speeds can be run and much greater traffic than was anticipated can be carried.”
Considering the numerous obstacles met with, the progress of railway construction was remarkably rapid right up till difficulties occurred in connection with raising loans on the onset of depression, following the continued drops in export prices that had begun in the late ‘seventies.
The chief of the obstacles militating against still more rapid construction was probably the fewness of competent surveyors and engineers. Thus, the first rough survey of a route from Canterbury to Westland was not made till 1874; it was not till 1883 that the Arthur's Pass route was decided on as the best, and not till 1900 that the length and gradient of the summit tunnel were closely determined. The first flying survey from Picton to Christchurch did not take place till 1875. A systematic survey south from the Waikato towards Wellington had to wait till 1885. Even then it was far from complete. It was 1877 before the various routes to Cromwell (Central Otago) were surveyed and a decision was arrived at in favour of the Taieri Gorge Route as giving reasonable
grades together with the shortest distance from Dunedin—as compared with routes from Kingston via Kawarau, Waipahi via Ettrick, Lawrence via Ettrick, Palmerston via Macraes, Palmerston via Shag Valley, and Duntroon via Kyeburn. A route from Wellington to Foxton was not surveyed till 1878, and it was 1879 before the superiority of the via Johnsonville route over various routes striking west from points on the Hutt Valley was demonstrated; and then, after the Government had spent £33,000 on this line, it was abandoned to private enterprise on the adverse report of a Royal Commission in 1880. Flying surveys north of Helensville and between Whangarei and the Bay of Islands had to wait till 1880, while final decisions as to details of routes in those areas had to wait a third of a century longer.
In certain cases difficulty in deciding the most practicable route held up construction progress. Few such problems were met with on the Canterbury Plains, the route being mainly determined by the most convenient places for crossing the numerous snow-fed rivers from the Southern Alps—usually the place where the river was narrowest near the mouth. As already mentioned, however, difficulties in the way of discovering a good route out of Dunedin to the North held up construction there till 1874, and similar delays occurred in connection with the Wellington-Wairarapa Railway. As early as the beginning of 1879 the railway between Christchurch and Bluff was, however, open, the last two sections to be completed being from Wai-Kouaiti to Palmerston South (September, 1878) and from Balclutha to Clinton (January, 1879).
The appointment, in 1878, of two separate engineers in charge for each Island in place of one Engineer-in-Chief, no doubt helped the situation as regards the overworking of the engineering staff, as did also the separation in the same year of the construction of railways from the management of working railways.
Shortages of labour had also militated against more rapid construction of new railways. Maoris were proved inefficient as early as 1871, and the importation of Chinese was canvassed as early as 1872, but frowned upon by the authorities. This problem was gradually overcome by the introduction of large numbers of immigrants from Britain and North-Western Europe.
In many districts the rate of progress was considered by the inhabitants to be far too slow, and companies were formed to build railways. The Dunedin, Peninsula, and Ocean Beach Railway Company was incorporated in 1875; and, having received provincial blessing, at once proceeded to construct tracks and then to ask the Government to sell or lend it rails for its lines out of the Government surplus stocks—only to be informed by the Government that incorporation was not enough, there was no common law right to run so potentially dangerous a thing as a railway, or to assume that the Otago Harbour Board and the Government would permit the company at one point to cross the foreshore below high-water line, or to use the Government railway tracks—all of which were contemplated.
Recriminations ensued, and when the correspondence was published the veracity of at least one leading local politician was gravely impugned. This matter was eventually adjusted only by the passing of the Railway Companies Act, 1875 (replaced in 1877 by the District Railways Act). All private railway projects had to receive prior Government approval, and only a 3 ft. 6 in. gauge was to be allowed. Under the 1877 Act interest for fifteen years up to 7 per cent. per annum from the date of completion was to be guaranteed, 2 per cent. by the Consolidated Fund and the balance by local authority rating. Other private railways of this period — some of them constructed under special Acts—were:—
Waimate Gorge Railway (started 1879; opened 1883; bought out by Government, 1885).
Rakaia and Ashburton Forks Railway (opened 1880; bought out by Government, 1885).
Waimea Plains Railway (Gore Lumsden) (commenced 1878; completed 1880; bought out by Government, 1886).
Thames Valley - Rotorua Railway (bought out by the Government in 1885 on the eve of completion from Morrins-ville to Putaruru and Lichfield in the following year).
Kaitangata Railway (special Private Act, 1875).
Duntroon and Hakataramea Railway (commenced 1879; opened 1881; bought out by Government, 1885).
Other railways in this category were the Wanganui Heads Railway; the Nightcaps Railway (Southland); and the Fernhill Railway (near Dunedin).
An Act to facilitate the reclamation of Lakes Forsyth and Ellesmere and the construction of a railway from Christchurch to Akaroa was passed in 1876; but to this day all that has been done is for the Government to construct a railway to Little River.
(Cont. on page 41.)
(continued from page 39
).
Under the provisions of the District Railways Act, 1882 direct powers to levy rates had been granted these railways and these powers were actually exercised by a number of them (e.g., Waimea Plains).
The Royal Commission of 1879–1880.
The end of the year 1879 rather marks a milestone in the history of railway construction in New Zealand; for, with the onset of depression consequent on progressive falls in the prices realised by New Zealand's staple exports abroad, lines were on the average earning only 2 1/4 per cent. per annum on capital and costing over 5 per cent. A situation had arisen both as regards the lines in operation and those not completed which seemed to warrant the appointment of a Royal Commission of five leading men drawn from throughout New Zealand.
At this date the following lines or portions of lines were open, dates of completion of the last section being given in brackets in each case:—
*Napier. The Commission's main findings were:—
(1) A number of stations then manned should be reduced to flag station status.
(2) The number of trains run should be reduced.
(3) Wages should be reduced.
(4) A number of charges should be reduced and rigid uniformity of tariff throughout the Colony should be departed from.
(5) There had been too much political pressure on the departmental heads and an independent Board should be substituted (e.g., pressure from sectional interests was impairing the efficiency of the system by leading to the provision of unnecessary stops for long distance trains; so that, although 10 hours 55 minutes had been allowed in 1878 for the Express between Christchurch and Dunedin, this had to be raised to 12 hours 40 minutes in 1880, and in 1882 it was still 11 hours 30 minutes).
(6) Many railways had been constructed too far in advance of settlement.
The Vogel plan of railway construction had been a comprehensive one, involving the completion and extension of lines already begun by the Provinces, so as to make ultimately two main trunk lines running the length of both islands, with feeders into the interior wherever a profitable traffic could be developed. But the pressure of local influence had proved so great as to compel many deviations from the original plan. In some districts railways had been built far in advance of requirements, while in others people had waited long for lines that might have been immediately profitable. Railway construction activities were also too diffused to give the economies of concentrated expenditure, and capital was. in consequence locked up for too long a period in incomplete lines.
As regards the uncompleted lines, they were arranged by the Commission in four classes. A number were recommended for completion to points where their earnings might be expected to be substantial; while others were recommended for prosecution when conditions proved more favourable. Certain others were wholly condemned; while still others were regarded as possibilities for the future. Amongst the lines adversely reported on were: from Wellington to the lower reaches of the Manawatu River, the Akaroa Line beyond Lake Ellesmere, the Otago Central line, and all save the Oxford-Sheffield section of the 85-mile long “Canterbury Interior Line”—to run from Oxford through Wad-dington or Sheffield, Methven, Spring-burn, and Geraldine to Temuka; which had been originally proposed in 1878, on the ground that short branch lines from such towns to the main line would all require separate services very costly to work. Actually the only portion of this line ever constructed (Oxford - Sheffield—completed 1884) carried much less traffic than the short spurs to the main line. For most of its life it called for only two trains per week and then did not pay; it was finally closed to traffic in March, 1933.
Naturally these findings were not favourably received in many parts of the Colony, and considerable impetus was given to the construction of private railways—either under special legislation or under the Railways Construction and Land Act, 1881; which provided for the construction of railways and/or the working thereof by joint stock companies; grants of Crown Land to such companies being author-
The most important railway constructed under this Act was that of the Wellington and Manawatu Railway Company Limited. This Company was formed as a result of a public meeting held in Wellington on 30th September, 1880, when it had become known that the Commissioners had reported against the line from Wellington to the Manawatu River. The Company was registered in 1881 and commenced construction in 1882, the last spike-being driven at Waikanae in 1886. Its line, 84 miles long, ran from Wellington to Longburn on the Manawatu River, there connecting with the Government line from Palmerston North to Foxton. The rails were mostly 53 Ib. to the lineal yard, but 65 Ib. rails were laid on most of the steeper gradients; of which one was as severe as 1 in 36. The land allotted this Company under the Act was some 215,000 acres. In 1900, the share capital was £170,000 and there were 51/2% debentures outstanding to the value of £680,000. The Company had paid £31/2% in 1891, and thereafter dividends of 5%, 6% and then 7% per annum were the order of the day till the Company was bought out by the Government for £933,759, on the completion of the North Island Main Trunk Railway in 1908.
The next most important company formed under this Act was the New Zealand Midland Railway Company Limited (formed to link Belgrove in Nelson with Springfield in Canterbury through Westland). This Railway was taken over by the Government in 1895 after 75 miles had been constructed at a cost of about £1,300,000, litigation on the matter dragging on till the end of the Century.
Not all private railways authorised under the 1881 Act have seen the light of day (e.g., the Tauranga, East Coast, and Hot Lake District Railway).
On 30th October, 1884, a resolution was passed by the House of Representatives in favour of purchasing most of the smaller of these railways. The majority of the negotiations were completed in 1885, though it was 1886 before the negotiations with the Waimea Plains Railway Company Limited were completed. The Kaihu Valley Railway-another private railway in North Auckland-was not taken over till 1893, it having defaulted on its debenture some time previously.
(To be continued.)
This interesting and informative booklet, recently published by the Engine Drivers, Firemen and Cleaners’ Association, for the information of its members, is dedicated to the memory of the late Mr. R. E. Robertson, who, up to the time of his death in August last, was the Department's Westing-house Brake Inspector.
The late Mr. Robertson was a recognised authority on all matters pertaining to the Westinghouse Air Brake, and the present, high standard of this equipment throughout the rolling stock of the New Zealand Railways, is largely due to the conscientious labours of Mr. Robertson. He had a special gift for imparting his knowledge, in clear and simple language”, and inspired with his own enthusiasm all who came to seek his help and guidance-always so readily given. In the publication of this booklet, the locomotive men, who held him in high and affectionate regard, fittingly perpetuate his memory.
It's great to have a good memory; it must be satisfying to say, right off the jump, “Certainly, darling, of course I remembered to buy the fish”-and get away with it. It must be great to remember where you put your other sock and where you left the hammer after you repaired the hen house last Saturday week.
There is nothing like the gift of memory-unless it's the gift of forget-fulness. Sometimes I think a perfect memory is a perfect pest. It keeps you constantly on the up-and-coming trying to catch up with the things you remember to remember. On the other hand, when you forget, and then completely forget you've forgotten, you save yourself wads of worry.
Of course there are pettifogging purists who strive to remind you that you've forgotten to remember; but a proficient forgetter has no difficulty in remembering to forget. There will be repercussings and “mournings after” but, with a no-parking notice on your brain, and a one-way track from ear to ear, memory need hold no horror. Your life will be as varied as an ostrich's breakfast; you will flit from job to job with the celerity of a fly in a jam factory. You will spend more time on the mat than a professional clutch merchant and be on the rocks as constantly as a barnacle; but you will enjoy the perfect peace of the mangel-wurzel without the danger of being bitten by a cow.
Nevertheless, one must admire those recollective wizards who can remember, word for word, such important things as what Caesar tipped off to Brutus, without resorting to the American version, “Sez U, Brute.”
One must envy the man who can go up to a six-by-four policeman and say, “Hullo, Fish-face! I remember you in the fifth form at St. Swelter's. I remember how you swiped the can of ice-cream at the Sunday ‘School picnic in 1903.” It must be nice, too, to approach Throttler Grapple, the wrestling cyclone and resurrect the careless days of boyhood with such words as, “Squirt Grapple, I believe? Do you remember how I used to twist your arm at school and rub onion in your eye? What a miserable wart you were!”
But, no-perhaps it wouldn't be so nice. Memory has its dangers as well as its joys.
One cannot but envy and admire people who can nonchalantly quote such cultural cracks as the population of Pernambuco, the weight of Carnera with, and without, socks, the number of legs owned by a centipede, the inventor of Wellington boots, the girth of the earth measured in postage stamps, and “Lincoln on Liberty” in the original American. One wonders why such people do not become professors instead of bores. But the strange thing about professors is that they forget entirely without effort. Whether they are subsidised by the funny papers to do so is a mute point. But it requires genius to forget so thoroughly that you can eat your hat in a restaurant and go out wearing a pie. Forgetfulness which enables you to chain up the baby and put the dog to bed borders on the sublime. It is the final victory of mind over what doesn't matter.
But memory has its blind spots. I knew a man who remembered historical facts so sickeningly that he could ring off the dates upon which every king was crowned, whether with a symbol of sovereignty or a brick, from the first king of Scotland to the last king of Ireland (who got it in both ways)., He was an authority on crowns but his memory didn't cover half-crowns-notably the one he bor-
There are many excellent aids to memory. One of the oldest is to tie a piece of string round your thumb. When you look at your thumb, you are instantly reminded that there is something you should have remembered. Failing in this you try to recollect where you put your note-book in which you wrote why you tied the string on your thumb. Then you rack your brain to remember which suit you were wearing when you made the note in your book about the string on your thumb. Then you sit biting your finger nails until you remember that it's Friday, which is an unlucky day for nail-biting. Thought of bad luck reminds you that your aunt Tightwad is coming to stay for a fortnight. That reminds you that you have to meet her at the train at four-thirty-unless Providence intercedes. And that reminds you why you tied the string round your thumb; which proves how efficient this aid to memory is.
There are other methods just as reliable. You can remind yourself by wearing only one sock. When your foot becomes so numbed that you can't feel it you're sure to see if it's still in your boot. If that doesn't do the trick, you'd better have your foot amputated at the ankle. Other methods are to wear your coat inside out or your trousers upside down. In extreme cases you can go to business in V's; by the time your relatives have bailed you out you will have had plenty of time to remember.
Involuntary mental suggestion is a valuable aid to memory. The sight of a haupuka in a fishmonger's show-case may remind you that your cousin Blott is getting married on Thursday. The five o'clock siren may prompt you to remember the baby's medicine. A pneumatic road drill may remind you of an appointment at the dentist's, and an advertisement of The Prisoner of Zenda that it is your wedding anniversary on the thirteenth.
Science has supplied many memory aids. I received a letter the other day from a man who offered an absolutely reliable and unavoidable contrivance with which you couldn't forget even the things you hated to remember. He offered it at absolutely no cost or obligation, except that you buy a memory course in seven volumes at twelve pounds ten, by instalments. But I figured that if I could remember to pay the instalments I wouldn't need the course, and if I couldn't remember to pay the instalments the course wouldn't be any good. So I wrote offering to sell him a course on how to forget. He probably knows, for he hasn't replied.
There used to be a little book entitled “Where is It?” in which you noted where things were. But it failed because it was only in one volume. There should have been another entitled, “Where is the ‘Where is It'?”
It's difficult to understand why so much attention is paid to memory. You never forget to collect your salary; you never forget to buy your cigarettes. You never forget the things you want to remember. It looks as though this memory stuff is just a gag to make you efficient and thoroughly unhappy. There is an old song entitled “Tis folly to remember, ‘tis wiser to forget.”
No wonder the old songs never die.
“Now” said Michael, “we'll put it just opposite the door.”
“It” was an old drawing board of Barbara's which had chalked on it in bad spelling and irregular lettering, “Mr. Willum Wigins of the Crasy Cotige.”
“Won't he get a shock when he sees that,” said Peter, who had forgotten all about his little argument with Michael.
“Rather!” exclaimed Michael.” There! How's that?” He placed the board against the side of the cottage. The four children admired the effect from a distance.
“Let's wait until he comes back and see what he does,” suggested June. Once a week, on a Wednesday, the little man went into the township to do his shopping and as that day happened to be a Wednesday, the children felt safe in coming to the cottage.
There were clumps of bushes a little distance away and the children hid behind them. They did not have long to wait. Along the road came the queer little man wearing a wide-brimmed hat pointed at the top. His long shoes flapped up and down as he walked. He was carrying a basket full of parcels.
Straight up to the cottage he walked, looking neither to right nor to left. With a little key he opened the door, appearing not to notice the board. The door slammed behind him. Then a minute later the door opened and a bony hand stretched out and with one swift pull the board disappeared within the cottage and the door slammed again. The children looked at each other, their heads just peeping above the bushes. Peter, who had not seen the little man before, was the first to find his voice. “Gee! He's funny, isn't he? I wonder who he really is? I do wish we could find out.”
“I know,” said Michael, “wouldn't it be fun if we could come down here one night and try and get inside the cottage through that little window on the roof.”
“Oh, goody!” shouted June, “Do let's do that to-night!”
And so the plot was hatched.
That night the children were too excited to sleep. It was about eleven o'clock when Michael jumped out of bed. “It's time Barbara,” he whispered. Barbara needed no second bidding. They dressed quickly and tiptoed down the stairs and out of the house. They crept through the hole in the fence and there, waiting for them on the lawn of the house next door, were June and Peter.
“Listen,” said Peter, “we can't get up to the roof without a ladder. There's a small one round by the side of the house and some rope, we might need that.”
“Good,” said Michael. “Let's get them.” They hurried round the corner of the house and soon returned struggling with the ladder. So with the rope wound round it, the four children started off along the road carrying the ladder shoulder high.
When the yellow cottage was reached, the children set to work quietly-unwound the rope and placed the ladder against the wall.
“It's creepy here at night, isn't it?” said Barbara with a shiver.
June, who had been looking about with wide open eyes, gave a scream and pointed with a shaking hand at the clump of bushes.
“Look! Look! It's over there!”
“What ?” exclaimed Michael.
“There it is again! It ran from behind the bushes!” shouted June excitedly. “It's-it's a goblin!”
“Why, yes!” shouted Peter, “I can see it!” He ran over to the bushes. A minute later there came a faint squeal and Peter appeared triumphantly from behind the bushes, holding in his hand, a biting, kicking, little goblin.
“Let me go! Let me go!” screamed the goblin in a squeaky voice, struggling to free himself with all his might.
“Oh, isn't he lovely!” exclaimed June.
“What shall we do with him?” asked Michael.
“Let me go! Let me go!” screamed the goblin again.
“No fear,” said Peter, “I'm going to take you home.”
“You can't! You can't!” shouted the goblin, almost beside himself with anger, his little green cap jogging from side to side.
“What are you doing here?” asked Barbara.
“I won't tell you! Let me go!”
“If you don't,” said Peter, “I'll dash you to the ground.”
The poor little goblin stopped biting and kicking at that threat and began to tremble like a leaf. “Y-you- w-ouldn't d-dare!” he said.
“Wouldn't I just,” said Peter, and held him up in the air as if to throw him to the ground.
“Oh, Peter, don't hurt him,” said Barbara, “He's only such a little thing.”
“I will if he doesn't tell. Will you?”
The goblin looked up at Peter. “All
“Live here!” exclaimed Michael, “Where ?”
“There in the cottage,” replied the goblin, pointing with his tiny finger at the yellow cottage.
“Not with Mr. William Wiggins ?” asked Barbara.
“Mr. William Wiggins!” exclaimed-the goblin in puzzled tones. “Who is he ?”
“You know,” put in June, “the man with the bald head and tremendously large shoes.”
“Oh,” the goblin, stopped for a moment and a grin spread over his tiny wizened face, “You mean the goblin's friend. Mr. Wiggins is not his name.”
“What is his name, then?” asked Peter, “Come on, tell”-But he did not finish the sentence for the goblin, who had been waiting his chance to escape, had managed to put his hand into his tiny pocket and taking out a thorn needle, had thrust it sharply into Peter's hand, and as Peter released his grip, he had jumped to the ground and darted away.
“Ooh ! The little beast!” exclaimed Peter, sucking at the palm of his hand, “That hurt!”
“Well, I suppose you were hurting him,” said Barbara.
“Let's see if we can find him,” said June, eagerly.
But though they hunted high and low, the goblin could not be found. He had gone for good.
“I wonder what he meant when he said that Mr. William Wiggins was the goblin's friend,” said Michael.
“Perhaps,” said Barbara, “That is why he built this cottage so that it would be easy for the goblin to go and see him!”
“I wish we knew. If we could only find out his name,” sighed Peter. “I've asked everyone in the town, and no one knows it, or knows anything about him-where he comes from or anything,” he finished.
“It's no good waiting round here and doing nothing,” said Michael.
“All right, then,” said Peter, “I'll go up the ladder. I'm dying to see what's inside the cottage.”
Without wasting any time he began to climb the ladder and was soon standing on the sloping roof.
“Careful,” said June in a voice just above a whisper.
“Throw up the rope, Michael,” said Peter, “and tie your end onto the ladder.”
The rope soared through the air and Peter caught it. “Is the rope tied?” he asked.
“Yes,” whispered Michael.
“Righto, I'm going to see if I can open the window.” He knelt on the roof and tried to lift the window with his hands, but it was stuck fast. He took out of his pocket his brand new pocket knife which his father had given him for his birthday a fortnight previously. He scraped underneath the ledge of the window and levered it up. At last there was a faint creak, and the window opened. He pulled it wide and peered into the darkness below.
“Can't see anything,” he said, leaning over the roof and looking onto the children below. “I think I'll go in.”
He sent the rope down into the cottage and slowly put his foot over the ledge of the window. He then slipped hand over hand down the rope into the darkness.
The children waited for him anxiously.
Five minutes-ten minutes went by with no sign of Peter.
“I think I'll go in after him,” said Michael. He began to climb up the ladder and was half-way up, when bang! the window had closed and the rope which had been dangling through the window into the cottage fell off the roof onto the ground. It was very much shorter for one end had been cut off.
Michael scampered down the ladder. “Peter-Peter's been taken by the goblins!” he stuttered. “I know he has! He's in there and can't get out!”
“Oh! Oh! sobbed June, “I wish we hadn't come! I'll never, never see Peter again!”
“The goblins have taken Peter because he caught that goblin to-night, but we'll get him out of the cottage somehow,” said the more resourceful Barbara, though inwardly her heart was quaking. She had heard stories about people being captured by goblins and it was awfully hard to get the captured person free again. You must have something belonging to the captured person at the time he was taken prisoner, then you had to throw it into a ring of goblins and that broke the spell.
“We must get something belonging to Peter,” she said, “I've read stories all about goblins capturing people. I know what we can get!” she exclaimed. “His knife! I'm sure it's up there on the roof. Go up and see, Michael.”
Up the ladder scrambled Michael, and there sure enough, gleaming in the moonlight was Peter's brand new knife.
“Now,” he said, when he was safely on the ground again. “I'm going to make them come to the door.”
He went and banged at the door. No answer came from within. And though Michael continued banging and they all shouted together, “Let Peter out! Let Peter out!” several times, there was no sign of movement within the cottage.
“Oh,” sobbed June, “What are we going to do ?”
“I think,” answered Barbara, “That we really should tell Mummy.”
“Yes,” agreed Michael, “and we'd better go quickly. I wonder what Mummy and Daddy will say when we tell them where we've been to-night.”
“Oh! Oh!” sobbed June, “I want Peter!”
And so the children, feeling very miserable and leaving the ladder and rope behind them, hurried homewards along the road.
(To be continued.)
— 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.
Photos By The Author
At the southern gateway to the Lakeland of Waikaremoana, the Urewera forest—home of the Tuhoe folk, Wairoa is to-day charming all who pass through its lovely town. Yesterday, a long yesterday of over half a century, the approach to the town by sea or by land was anathema to comfort-loving travellers. Nor was the town inviting. First settled by whalers, men of chance, soldiers of fortune and adventurers, only imperative necessity forced the journey upon those who came later. This was no holiday route. Gradually, from Maori tracks over the ranges and across the gullies, a road was formed. The bullock teams and brave coach horses almost dying in their efforts to move their burden along the terrible ribbons of mud, are memories of that era which in passing has given way to highways built to national standard. Two parallel lines of steel have meanwhile crept through the hills, and over the gorges, bringing the iron horse. Matahoura, Mohaka, and Maungaturanga, no longer bar the way to merchandise. Mighty viaducts of steel tracery have bridged these great natural barriers. Meanwhile, born of two unlovely things, the town itself has become lovely.
In the twinkling of an eye in 1931, and again in 1932, came chaos through upheaval. A new town arose. In years of depression Wairoa wisely used its surplus man power to clean up her own front door, and from the unlovely river frontage of rank grass, weedy trees and accumulated rubbish, has created a beautiful parade.
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An oleander blossom on a lady's bosom, and an old Maori dug-out canoe, contrast to remind us that our Dunedin friends have come and gone. Three days of a North Island camping holiday they spent in Wairoa. We found them in the Camping Ground. It was evening, and the tide was full. Had they been fishermen they would have had a line out right in front of their tent, for kahawai go well upstream. But the man said to me, “I love that old canoe”—deliberate use of the affectionate verb. His lady said to my lady Wandafar, “Don't the oleander trees grow beautifully in Wairoa.”
We sat on the old canoe, accidentally discovered in the mud of the riverbed near the Awamate creek mouth, this ancient seventy foot relic was brought to its present resting place to remind all passing travellers that Wairoa's ancestors were Maoris. While we talked, the last rowing crew, late home from their practice scull, passed by the rowing shed, four men in a craft of brown paper thickness on one of the finest rowing courses in the Dominion. As the pall of night descended the lights of the town made shining pathways across the water to our very feet. Wairoa will charm the world with its reflections. The town has opened its heart and purse to Neon lights, and viewed from North Clyde on a still night the scene is Venetian, with even the headlights of moving cars reflected and making each vehicle an amphibian, for the moment.
Wairoa is also proud of its bridge, spanking new, for the old one disappeared into the river with the earthquake of 1931.
If you walk to the cemetery on the hill you will see two tombstones which tell the story of the eventful early days. The earlier is a carved totara cross with the carved inscription,
In Memory of George Annesley McDonell, Sub-Inspector of the Armed Constabulary Force Who Died at Te Wairoa, Oct. 8th, 1872.
Aged 38 years.
Under the shadow of that cross, memory takes us back to the days of Te Kooti. Your tour will be the more interesting if you glean the highlights of the career of this ill-advised Hau Hau before you visit Wairoa. The second grave concerns the first bridge. The tombstone is a jagged piece of steel, part of a cylinder in which men were working when the gases of the riverbed caused an explosion. Both were buried in the same grave on the 1st day of March, 1888. From that grave look out to sea, and before your eyes is a splendid view of the mouth of the river with its fickle bar. Both fickle and tragic! Long is the list of lives that were lost, and many were the brave ships that were wrecked on that fatal spot between river and sea. The bar, the river, and the bridge, are all features in Wairoa's march to accessibility.
First came the Ngati Kahungunu to oust the Moriori. His wakas were drawn up on the sand, and he made a fort on the hill just above the bar, and gave the fort the name of Rangioua. It was from this fort, perhaps, that wonderment and fear came to the Maori. A shark's fin cut the horizon, white sails appeared in view, and that day new names were given to the coastline; Cape Kidnappers, Young Nick's Head, and Poverty Bay. Came the whaler, established at Waikokopu in 1833, and at Wairoa in 1845. The first few dwellings were established at Kaimango, now Spooner's Point. Toha Rahu Rahu became the first bar pilot, and was followed in 1872 by the famous “Davy” Jones, who kept his locker, made and presented to him by the Harbour Board, on top of Rangioua. Two examples of the fickleness of the bar may be given. In 1866, the “Huntress,” a vessel of 200 tons was kept in the river for six months owing to the mouth being unworkable. When the passage to and from the sea was blocked for any length of time, the town would grow short of commodities, prices would soar, and the natives, particularly, would feel the pinch of short commons. The second incident concerns the experience of a Wairoa lady who visited Napier for the purpose of farewelling her adopted son, who was to journey to Ireland to study for Holy Orders. The young man departed and the lady, wishing to return immediately, made daily visits to the ship at the wharf. But the Wairoa bar had become unworkable, and as the overland route was also blocked by slips, she had perforce to remain in Napier, and while there actually received a cable informing her of her son's safe arrival in Ireland. Yet the distance between Napier and Wairoa is only 38 miles!
To-day the sturdy little “Tu Atu” still makes weekly trips from Napier to Wairoa, bar permitting. Is she to be the last, the very last, of the gallant coastal craft that served Wairoa as well as they were able? For a year now Wairoa citizens have used the phrase, “Coming up by transport”; and “transport” means huge trucks that carry the necessities and luxuries of life which speed up the Devil's Elbow (no longer a jesting place of his Satanic Majesty) and over those great ranges to Wairoa's retail houses. But even the magic name of “transport” is challenged. The planning of engineers, the plotting and graphing of surveyors, and the toil of navvies, by the sweat of the brow in summer's heat, or with muffled throats against winter's southerlies, have been the birth-pangs of the coming of the iron horse. Already the railway goods traffic has assumed considerable proportions. Another chapter has been written in the romance of the rail. The cemetery on the hill is also hallowed ground for all who have toiled with mind or muscle in the construction of the East Coast line, for here lie, but recently interred, and side by side, seven of the twenty-two victims of the Kopuawhara disaster.
Now come with us again to the centre of the bridge and we will show you much. Almost on the site of what is now the approach to the bridge lived Father Regnier, beloved first priest of his own faith. Close by can still be seen a huge apple tree planted by his hand, while he it was who planted the first briar rose. If he made a mistake that was costly to the district, his pioneer colleague of the Church of England, the Rev. Hamlin, made a far more costly one when he introduced the blackberry to Wairoa's fertile soil.
Now look downstream. To the left rises Te Uhi hill. It has three landmarks. The yellow gash up its flank is the Gisborne Highway. Follow this road to the summit of the hill, and less than 200 yards off the road you will find the earthworks of the century and a half old Paho fort. Te Uhi's third landmark is also an earthwork, but one such as the Maori never knew. From the bridge it shows as a great V-shaped cutting through which passes the parallel lines of steel that carry the railway rolling-stock to the Port of Waikokopu, and which line will eventually link Hawke's Bay with Poverty Bay. Below Te Uhi is the Pa which is still the home of the Ngati-Kurupakiaka sub tribe. Blackberries hide the old fort on this historic ground.
Now turn and look upstream. Rising above the river but half a mile away is the recently completed house of Timi Kara. It was a labour of love to build this magnificent Whare-runanga to the memory of Wairoa's greatest son, The Hon. Sir James Carroll, M.L.C., K.C.M.G. Decorated with tuko-tuko reedwork, and adorned with tremendous carved facades of totara, grotesque but symbolic, this house will be opened with a great Hui in the near future. The haka will welcome Maoris from all over New Zealand. Speeches will be heard
marae, the twirl of poi will keep time to the music of the steel guitar, there will be music and feasting and dancing. But there will be many who will make a quiet trip to another spot also held sacred to the memory of Timi Kara. On the downstream side of the bridge, and perhaps a mile away, is the railed-in palm lily tree beneath which our hero was born. Up to their waists in water beneath the tree, if the tide is favourable, you will see wahines jagging herrings, or hauling in an occasional kahawai.
Assuming that you will come from Napier, you will find three roads leading out of Wairoa. Almost every hill and valley of these roads has its own story or tradition. Fighting and fearing, wooing and winning, land of the inaki or the bird spear, this was the land that the Ngati Kahungunu roamed. The pakeha learnt the Maori tracks, but the natives were expert in ambush. In the telling of the clashes between dark and pale braves let us in fairness at least, desist from describing the Maoris’ victories as massacres, for not all of them were such.
These roads will also lead you to beauty. Take the Rotorua highway, and Waikaremoana will be at your feet for much of the journey and you will be clothed around by the magnificence of the Urewera forests. Take the coastal highway to Gisborne and you will sec Morere, the thermal gem of the coast. Wander in its aisles of loveliness and behold nikaus such as you will see nowhere else in the island, softened by light golden tawa. Bathe in its open air bath, floodlit in the evening, or try the curative properties of the three other baths, each enclosed in its own house. Or simply go to Morere for its beauty and peace.
Finally, if you take the inland route to Gisborne you will see the great falls of Te Reinga. This was the scene of the death leap of Princess Rakahanga, by all accounts a maiden of surpassing charm. Her beauty was her doom, for after being courted by a very large number of suitors at one time, she was abducted by the ugliest. The pursuit that followed came to an end at the crossing above the falls. Legend has it that her greenstone ornaments lie in the pool below. This pool in the dark gorge was also, doubtless, the home of a taniwha of no mean size and power.
The Wairoa of to-day is not the Wairoa of yesterday. No longer is it inaccessible and parochial. The town has awakened and is beckoning. Wairoa is conscious and anxious, conscious of its own importance and charm, and anxious to share with all, the settler, the visitor, the tourist, the fisherman and stalker. Wairoa is to be the gateway to Lakeland loveliness, and storied tradition and legend, with scope for the energetic, and peace for those whose desire is rest.
IHope to review the latest anthology of New Zealand Short Stories (“Tales by New Zealanders”) in the July issue. Meanwhile it is interesting to note that among the lesser known contributors appears the name of Constance Player-Green, who is identical with a young Blenheim lady named Constance Green, now living in Greymouth. She has contributed verse to the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” under the nom de plume of “Prentice Player” and has also had poems and stories published in several other well-known periodicals. Most of the other contributors to the anthology are wellknown in the world of letters. I believe that several other prominent writers would have been represented but for a misunderstanding as to the terms under which stories would be included in it.
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After a long silence word has come through about “Robin Hyde” (Miss Iris Wilkinson), who left Auckland some months ago on a trip to Japan, Russia and elsewhere. According to a letter received by Gloria Rawlinson, “Robin Hyde” is in Shanghai and has placed some stories and articles in Hong Kong and is now being sent by the Far East correspondent of the “Manchester Guardian” (Mr. Timperley) on to Canton to gather material for a book about the war and to write some articles. The editor of “Asia,” who is Pearl Buck's husband, is at present handling some of her work also.
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Due for publication this month is Pat Lawlor's first novel, “The House of Templemore,” the story of an Irish colonial family in Wellington during the early part of the 20th century. The publishers are Messrs. A. H. & A. W. Reed.
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“Japan Reaches Out,” by Willard Price (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) is a powerful, unbiassed and singularly calm analysis of Japan and the Japanese by one who has spent some years there studying the history, geography and mental outlook of its people. Although it is not a book about the war in China it enables us to view the turmoil there in the right perspective. As Willard Price observes, “the present war in China is but an incident in an immutable policy.” The guiding text of this immutable policy was voiced by Emperor Jemma many centuries ago— “we shall build our capital all over the world and make the whole world our dominion.” Giving further voice to this policy the Japanese military text book, known as the Army Reader, states: “This rescript has been given to our race and to our troops as an everlasting categorical imperative.” The history of the last half century bears this out, for in that time the area under Japanese control has increased five times. And so Willard Price makes this grim statement: “Japan is impelled by a vision that is sometimes almost a frenzy. From the Japanese standpoint the Dutch Islands, Australia, New Zealand and the Phillipines are a unit.” I do not think for a moment that this book has been written by a “copy” creating alarmist, but by a sober, well-balanced writer who has made an international reputation as a student of world affairs. One has only to read a few chapters to be impressed with the sincerity of the writer, his keen analytical brain and his powers of observation. It is not heavy reading, for apart from the shadow of its international aspect, it is as interesting as a travel book and gives one an all-embracing view of Japan and its people.
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“An Ulster Plantation,” by A. J Gray (A. H. & A. W. Reed, Dunedin and Wellington) is an historical review of the Kati Kati settlement, that interesting colony of Ulsterman founded many years ago by George Vesey Stewart. As Alan Mulgan observes in his introduction the story of Kati Kati is well worth telling, and I might add, is well told by Mr. Gray. Thank goodness he avoids any controversial matters and tells a plain interesting story full of valuable historical detail. One must admire the determined spirit and outstanding ability of George Vesey Stewart who might have become a great national figure but for certain defects in his character. This glorious gem of a settlement has been cut and polished with the years, until to-day, as Mr. Mulgan remarks we find “prosperity wedded to loveliness—a little enclosed world where in variety of landscape and colour of sea and land, dreams have come true.” The dreams did not come to reality without long struggle, tragedy at times and the patient persistent toil of the pioneer. The story of it all is well worth reading.
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“Ballade in G Minor,” by Ethel Boileau (Hutchinson, London), is a sequel to “Turnip Tops” which has had
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“Atoms, Men and Stars,” by Professor Rogers D. Rusk (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) is physical science without tears. I am not exaggerating when I state that I found this book, dealing with electrons, atoms, the quantom theory, transmutation and electrodynamics, nearly as interesting as a detective thriller, and hundreds of other readers will find it the same. Most of us are painfully ignorant of the extraordinary progress that has been made and is being made in modern science. What scientists have sorted out and are utilising from the elements in the great universe and what they are now glimpsing is told by Professor Rusk in the most interesting and understanding language. Baffling problems are unveiled before us in a fascinating manner. We stand beside the famous men of science (even our own hero of science, the late Lord Rutherford) in their laboratories, and see and understand the seeming miracles of the earth and the heavens. The titles of the chapters give us just a faint idea of the many subjects touched upon: “Machines of Man's Future,” “When Science Turns Savage,” “Seeing with X-Rays,” “Radioactivity,” “Heavy Water,” “Transmutation,” etc. Finally the author discusses, in a non-committal manner, “God and the Scientists.”
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“Wild Nature in Australia,” by Charles Barrett, C.M.Z.S. (Robertson & Mullens Ltd., Melbourne) tells in story and beautiful illustrations of the wonder animals and birds of the Commonwealth. Nature has been bountiful to Australia, and one sees some of her most remarkable fauna in the book. The platypus, the cocus, green lizards, the wombat, white ant citadels, the ant eater and the giant earth-worm are just a few of the subjects, and there is a story and picture for every one. Re this great earthworm—one is pictured taller than the six-foot Australian who had “captured” it.
* * *
“Riders of the Sea,” by Anne Hepple (Hutchinson, London), is a love story in which love comes to the two central characters only after many vicissitudes. Alternately they hate and despise each other, and to overcome certain obstacles arrange marriage “on a purely business-like basis.” Most of the action takes place during a sea voyage. The plot is unusual, the interest in the story never fails and— thank heavens—it is a wholesome love story.
* * *
Douglas Stewart, formerly of Eltham and whose book of poems, “Green Lion,” received such favourable reviews, is now with the Sydney “Bulletin.”
I hear that “An Ulster Plantation,” reviewed in this issue, is already in its second edition.
Gloria Rawlinson is busy on still another book. Her latest, “Music in the Listening Place,” is selling well.
D'Arcy Cresswell, the Auckland poet and essayist, is going to England shortly.
Here is a remarkable instance of the manner in which damp weather can affect the joints of one who is subject to rheumatism.
“I had been suffering from rheumatism very badly,” a man writes, “and had such pains in my joints that I could hardly bear it. It used to be terrible on a wet day. I did not know how to use my arms, and when I was at work it was real torture. I tried two different remedies for rheumatism, but I was still as bad after the treatment.
“Then I was told to try Kruschen Salts, and after using one jar I found relief. So, of course, I have kept on with it, and am now thoroughly better and have never felt so fit for years. I used to feel so miserable and sluggish, but now it is a pleasure to be able to work, instead of a dread.“—S.B.
The system of the rheumatic subject is a producer of that dangerous body-poison known as uric acid. If you could see the knife-edged crystals of uric acid under the microscope, you would readily understand why they cause those cutting pains. And if you could see how Kruschen dulls the sharp edges of these crystals, then dissolves them away altogether, you would agree that this scientific treatment must bring relief from rheumatic agony.
Moreover, Kruschen so stimulates the organs of elimination that every trace of uric acid-forming waste material is regularly and completely expelled. Kruschen keeps your inside clean and serene. And your whole system—body and brain—responds to its purifying force.
Kruschen Salts is obtainable at all Chemists and Stores at 2/3 per bottle.
I Had to dash into town before going out to Vera's for the weekend. There was little in the fashion line to be seen, but raincoats showed that they were following umbrellas in the trend towards colour. Oiled silk capes and hoods, and oiled silk coats, hats and kerchiefs (for the head) are beautiful in their printed or plain semi-transparency. They cannot take the place of a real “weatherproof” in downpours, but they are useful in showery weather, and have the advantages of weighing light and folding small.
Several women were wearing zipped boots warmly lined—an excellent idea, especially in avoiding splashed stockings.
By the time I had dodged in and out of shops, from one dripping verandah to the next, and strap-hung for twenty-five minutes in a tram full of moist fellow-creatures, and walked for ten minutes through a miserable downpour trying to hold my umbrella over an attache case and a couple of parcels, it was a cross and dripping specimen who finally tottered on to Vera's porch and pressed the bell.
“Oh, you poor thing! Come in!”
“How can I?” I said fiercely gazing at the hall rug (Indian) and the immaculate gleam of boards round it. “I'll go round to the back.”
“No! Wait there. I'll get something.”
I laid the parcels on the dry doorstep and gingerly removed my coat and hat and hung them on a handy peg. That felt better. My cold fingers fumbled with shoe-fastenings (buckles are not as easy as buttons) and I kicked off my shoes. By this time Vera was back again.
“Here's a towel to wipe your face. And your skirt's wet! Take it off—and your stockings. Here's a gown and some slippers.”
Comparatively dry, I stepped into the hall, snuggling into Vera's very best house-coat—a soft crimson woollen with wide rounded revers, a fitted waist and full tucked sleeves. I preened myself before the hall mirror. The waist and sleeves were definitely flattering.
“Come on, vanity, here's a fire.”
There was, and I stayed by it for hours, intermittently admiring Vera's industry in knitting an oatmeal angora jumper in lace pattern.
That evening, the weather clearing, Vera rang a friend for bridge. The friend, a nice girl, beautifully fair, wore, over a plain black frock, a jacket I immediately coveted. It was in gold and black brocade, with wide rounded revers (rather like those of the house-coat), a fitted waist, flared hips and slim sleeves. Its chief beauty had to be pointed out to me. It was lined and interlined. To keep her hair tidy out-of-doors, the visitor wore a black veil fastened round the head by a wisp of gold, and with its gold-trimmed edges floating free.
Not to put me out of countenance, Vera had changed into a very simple frock of dull black crepe with a little pointed collar of coral shade, fastening high. There was a glimpse through the front opening, round which the bodice was gauged, of coral vest. Very plain—but very attractive.
At supper time, Vera brought out her latest birthday present—a new type of handbag, like a hold-all in shape. I handed round Retta's latest letter, and George, the husband, who had made an adequate fourth at bridge, but who was not interested in women's clothes chat, perked up at the mention of rock gardens.
Vera laughed. “George will be inspired to get some fresh catalogues—and we're sure to have an alpine lawn.”
Here is the garden part of Retta's letter.
“We were given tickets for a flower show at the Royal Horticultural Society's Hall. These shows, which take place fortnightly, are great advertising for the exhibitors, and a grand opportunity for garden lovers to order just what they want.
“I was particularly impressed by a large oblong tulip bed near the entrance doors. The tulips, in massed colourings, were arranged so that they rose to a rounded cone in the middle, and to smaller ‘hillocks’ near the four corners. The effect was beautiful—far more interesting than that given by a flat flower surface.
“At this season, of course, ‘blossom’ made a wonderful show.
“I was surprised to learn from an attendant at a daffodil stand that Cornwall is a great bulb-growing district. Some of the most beautiful daffodils have typically Cornish names—St. Ives, Pencoys, Coverack, Treffry, Trevithian. Some of the flowers I took a fancy to were terribly expensive—up to £5 a bulb.
“What charmed me most was the rock-garden display. Though I had just looked at the most glorious orchids with their long and graceful
“I'm writing to friends in Auckland to tell them to root out the grass turf which grows here and there in their rock-garden, and to plant instead an ‘alpine lawn,’ consisting of a close sward of Thymes and other carpeting plants. This ‘lawn’ is more interesting than grass, and never requires mowing.”
From a newspaper article: “It is not generally known in Europe—possibly I have been carried away by some misunderstanding—that in every considerable American city, large gatherings of mature, prosperous, well-dressed women are in permanent session. They sit in wait, it seems, for any passing notoriety, and having caught one, insist ‘on a few words.’ This year they are all wearing black hats. These hats stick in my mind. Ultimately of the most varied shapes, the original theme seems to have been cylindrical, so that the general effect of an assembly of smart American womankind of 1937 (New Zealand winter 1938) is that of a dump of roughly treated black tin cans.”
London,
Dear Helen, 13th April, 1938.
London has had a record March—the warmest for a hundred years. Every lunch time, the parks, the gardens, the converted church-yards (such as that charming open space by the Royal Chapel of the Savoy, so surprisingly hidden just off the Strand) have catered for the crowds of workers, mostly young, who come bareheaded, carrying their lunch packets and perhaps a newspaper, book, or fancy-work, to spend every available minute in the open. Each day, it seems, one can notice the further budding of the trees. The flower procession is more marked than in New Zealand. First there were the crocuses, which I saw first on a sheltered slope at Kew. Then suddenly they were in the parks, nodding their white and gold and purple heads at the strollers in the sunshine. All at once, two or three weeks ago, a glory of daffodils had taken their place, blooming simultaneously, as if each bulb had said, “This week we will blossom. All together now—ready!” Last week the daffodils in the square near here were browning. But everywhere the tulips are in bud, beside the curving entrance to Hertford House, near a gateway to Lincoln's Inn Fields, and in all the other gardens where I haven't been.
It's exciting. I'm wondering what will happen next. Last week I found out what is happening in the country. We took train from King's Cross to Hertfordshire, and then walked by a circular route for ten miles or so along footpaths and lanes. Twice only did we cross great North Road, with its strings of cars and horrid odour of petrol.
Surprises? Violets were still in bloom on banks beside the way; in a wood I saw my first English primroses, growing there so gaily and casually among the tree stems.
“What next? What will come after the primroses?” I asked our guide.
“At the top of this little hill you'll see.” We went up a narrow path, scuffling brown leaves with our feet, and then on either hand were dark green spikes, and, further in among the trees, the first blue-bells. It was wonderful, intoxicating.
We came, via public footpaths, through a park belonging to Lord Brocket, to the village of Lamford. Cottages, two hundred years old, nestle there. There is no village green with pump (we had passed by several) but we found a tea-shop, with its charming cream and green paintwork hardly dry, in the “upstairs” room raised above what had been the old village smithy. Bread and butter and strawberry jam and cups and cups of tea, while we sat at a green-topped table and gazed at the green of the park across the way. How we enjoyed it, and what a truly New Zealand thirst we quenched! Price? Sevenpence each!
Though I have read about the English spring and the English countryside, I had not realised its beauty. If I never come back to our bright, rough, new land of New Zealand, it will be because the English countryside has claimed me.
Yours,
Retta.
It is essential that every household should possess a First-Aid box, containing: (1) Roll cotton wool; (2) bandages; (3) packet of sterile gauze, or soft old linen which has been sterilized; (4) bottle of iodine; (5) bottle of methylated spirits; (6) pair of scissors; (7) safety pins; (8) a small enamel basin; (9) boracic acid powder; (10) bottle of carron oil; (11) castor oil; (12) milk of magnesia.
Burns and Scalds.—Apply oil immediately, and exclude the air. Carron oil should be used, and failing that, olive oil. Bi-carbonate of soda is also efficacious, if the oil is not available.
Cuts and Abrasions.—Clean the injured part thoroughly at the earliest opportunity. Use cold boiled water or a lotion made of one teaspoonful of
Common salt makes a useful antiseptic used in the proportion of one tea-spoonful of salt to one pint of boiling water.
Bites and Stings.—Application of ammonia. A solution of bi-carbonate of soda. Methylated spirit or eau-decologne usually give immediate relief.
Sprains and Strains.—A sprained ankle, knee-joint or wrist must be attended to immediately to save trouble later. Apply a cold compress and renew frequently. Alternate cold and hot compresses are also beneficial. Bandage firmly.
The above advice was given to a woman who persistently overdrew her Health Account, and was steadily going on towards a definite crash that would mop up all her resources. She would not realise that she was 20 h.p. and was always urging on towards a greater h.p. If the 20 h.p. faithfully did her work she would accomplish far more than having the spasmodic greater volume to her credit. This would be offset by the lesser volume which would ultimately be debited to her Health Account. It is absolutely no use urging a tired body to keep on either working or playing. It is not fair to oneself or to one's family.
Moths in the Carpet.—When a carpet has been attacked by moths, if a damp towel is put over the part affected, and this ironed with a hot iron, the heat and steam will destroy both the worms and the eggs.
Leave the oven door open after roasting or baking to allow the moisture thus caused to escape. This will prevent rusting.
Rub window cords with melted candle grease occasionally. This will strengthen them and stop them wearing out so quickly.
One tablespoon of vinegar, added to the water in which cauliflower is soaked will help to prevent any odour while cooking.
Let your scissors stand in a bowl of water for a minute or two before using them to cut out flimsy materials. This enables them to give the material an even, clean edge.
To store oranges and lemons, hang them up in a net. By keeping them from contact with shelves, they remain sound much longer.
Although eggs are not at their cheapest—far from it—at this time of the year, they are still the housewife's favourite standby when a light, nourishing meal is required.
It is quite surprising the various tempting meals that can be concocted at short notice with a few eggs, a little butter and milk and the usual seasoning.
Here are a few hints for the omelette maker:
Don't beat the egg yolks and white separately, except for a souffle omelette.
Don't be afraid of the omelette.
Don't use a thin frying pan.
Don't wash the pan out. It should always be wiped clean with soft paper after use.
Don't cook the omelette until it is time to serve it.
Don't forget to stir in a dash of cold water at the last moment before cooking.
Having in mind all these “Don'ts,” a perfect, puffy omelette should be the result.
Two eggs, I oz. butter, salt and pepper, dash of cold water. Put the omelette pan on to heat gently; wipe it out with buttered paper, then put in the butter and let it get hot gradually.
Beat the eggs lightly, add pinch of salt, a dash of pepper, and about half a tablespoon of cold water. When the butter in pan is really hot pour in the eggs quickly. Have the light under the pan fairly high. Stir the eggs vigorously with a fork; shake the pan over the flame. When the edges begin to set fold them towards the centre. Tip the pan over the flames so that the liquid egg mixture can run underneath and get cooked. When all the mixture is set and a delicate brown underneath, fold the omelette lightly over once, and slip it on to a hot dish.
Another “Don't.“—Don't overbeat the eggs.
Father: Now, Bobby, play with those other children and don't get into mischief while I have a bathe, and when I come out I'll give you twopence.
Bobby: An’ if you don't come out, will mummie pay me the twopence?
* * *
Judge: Prisoner, it is your right to challenge the jurymen you object to.
Pugilist: All right, my lord; I reserve the right until after they make their decision.
* * *
Negro Patient: Doctor! doctor! I was playing de mouth organ, an’ swallowed it!
Doctor: Keep calm, sir, and be thankful you were not playing the piano.
* * *
A cockney and his wife were visiting the Royal Academy Exhibition, when they came to a painting called “Hawking in the Olden Days.”
“'Awking’ in the Olden Days,” exclaimed the Cockney. “My, they didn't ‘arf do it well—on ‘orseback an’ all!”
“But what were they ’awking, ’Enery?” asked his wife.
“Blessed if I know,” replied the puzzled Cockney, “unless they're trying to sell them blooming parrots!”
* * *
The wife had been put on the budget plan. At the end of each month she and her husband would go over the accounts together. Every once in a while he would find an item “L.O.K., 3s.“, and a little further on, “L.O.K., 6s.”
Finally, he said: “My dear, what is this—'L.O.K.'?”
“Lord Only Knows,” she replied.
* * *
Wife (trying on hats) : Do you like this turned down?
Husband: How much is it
Wife: Five guineas.
Husband: Yes. Turn it down.
Foreman: What ‘ave you done today?
Absent-minded New Hand: The first two favourites, mate.
Foreman (indignantly): Well, you go to the office and get your money!
Absent-minded New Hand: Lumme! ’Ave they both won?
* * *
Tom: “Dad, I've got good news.”
Dad: “Have you passed your exam.?”
Tom: “Well, I didn't exactly pass, but I was top of those that failed.”
Caller: “I would like to see the judge, please.”
Secretary: “I'm sorry, sir, but he is at dinner.”
Caller: “But, my man, my errand is important.”
Secretary: “It can't be helped, sir, His Honour is at steak.”
* * *
First Customer: “Waiter, bring me a plate of hash.”
Waiter (calling back to the kitchen): “Gentleman says he'll risk it.”
Second Customer: “Waiter, I'll take the same.”
Waiter (calling back to the same kitchen): “Another sport!”
Gentleman: Are you really so hard up?
Tramp: Hard up? Why, sir, if suits of clothes wuz sellin’ at a penny apiece, I wouldn't have enough to buy the arm hole of a vest.
* * *
“Waiter, these are very small oysters.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And they don't appear to be very fresh, either.”
“Then it's lucky they're small, ain't it, sir?”
They were sitting on the verandah in the moonlight. No words broke the stillness for half an hour. She began to yawn.
“I say,” she said, suddenly, “suppose you had money, what would you do?”
He threw out his chest manfully.
“If I had money,” he said, with great enthusiasm, “I'd travel.”
He felt her warm, young hand in his. He closed his eyes and sighed happily. When he looked up again she had gone.
In his hand lay a threepenny-piece.
* * *
She was interviewing an applicant for the position of cook.
“Well, Jane, you seem suitable in every respect, and I have decided to engage you. The work will be light, and you will find the master is very easily pleased.”
“Yes, mum,” replied Jane, “I thought that the moment I saw you.”
* * *
Young Man (to her little brother): Johnnie, it may be cruel to tell you, but at the party last night your sister promised to become my wife. Will you forgive me for taking her away?
Johnnie: Forgive you? Why, that was what the party was for.
Leaving New Zealand without any flourishing of trumpets, the New Zealand polo representatives more than justified the high opinions formed of their ability, and succeeded in vanquishing the best teams Australia could field. Particular praise was given the New Zealand ponies which were said to be faster and more clever than the steeds used by the Australians, but due credit was also given the skill and combination of the players.
Boxing in New Zealand has more ups and downs than a lift attendant! About twelve months ago it seemed that there was going to be a regular boom period for the men of the padded glove, but a lull set in and things drifted back to a parlous state. Now there seems to be a reaction and, although the standard of professional boxing may not be as high as would be desired, there are numbers of tyro professionals getting chances of fights and from the number of boxers available it should be possible to unearth another Johnnie Leckie, Charlie Purdy or Tommy Donovan.
Another success scored by New Zealand in Australia was the win of Miss Jean Hahn, of Christchurch, in the New South Wales waltz skating championship held recently. Miss Hahn won her right to represent New Zealand by winning a competition which saw the provincial winners in action and her success abroad demonstrates just one other sphere of athletic endeavour that has not been given much encouragement in the Dominion. It is understood that a move is on foot to include roller-skating championships on the Olympic programme—ice skating has long been a feature—and if that day should come, New Zealand should not be long in taking its place among the leaders.
More than one New Zealand cricketer has been given the opportunity of big cricket in England and abroad by the good offices of Sir Julien Cahn, who specialises in finding remunerative employment for promising players so that he has always a good cricket team at his disposal.
News has been received in New Zealand that Sir Julien Cahn's team will make a tour of New Zealand in February and March of next year and New Zealanders should see cricket at its best. A suggestion—and a good one, too—has been made that the first match by the tourists should be one against a team of New Zealand schoolboys. Many of New Zealand's cricketers have been at their best while attending school—M. P. Donnelly secured New Zealand representation while attending New Plymouth Boys’ High School—and this opportunity of giving young and promising players experience against proven players should have a most beneficial effect.
The spirit of adventure is not yet dead! When the New Zealand Lawn Tennis Association decided against sending representatives to compete at Wimbledon, the Mecca of all tennis players, there were many disappointed New Zealanders, but none more so than A. D. Brown (who had made a phenomenal rise, to top flights) and D. Coombe (who had just returned from England where he had made a good impression). But this pair did not sit down and cry. They made arrangements to get positions on a steamer travelling to England and in the most humble capacities worked their way to the Old Land where, if Dame Fortune rewards their enterprise they will add lustre to New Zealand's tennis name and follow in the footsteps of the immortal Anthony Wilding, Alan Stedman and Cam Malfroy. New Zealand tennis players, those who have gone abroad, have shown that they have the necessary ability to reach the top flights—all they need is the opportunity.
This year's president of the New Zealand Rugby Union, Mr. A. M. Ongley, is a man of enthusiasm for both cricket and Rugby. Born at Oamaru and educated at St. Patrick's College (Wellington), Mr. Ongley represented North Otago, Hokitika, and Manawatu on the Rugby field and for his services to Rugby in the Manawatu district was elected a life member after many years in the office of president of that Union.
On the cricket field, Mr. Ongley represented Hawke's Bay, West Coast (taking, eight wickets for 36 runs against “Plum” Warner's team), North Island (playing in the first contest between the North and South Islands) and Manawatu (captaining the district team against Melbourne Cricket Club). For the past 15 years he has been selector of the Manawatu teams and for a similar period has chosen the Country team to play against Wellington.
His was the guiding hand that brought about a reconstitution of the New Zealand Rugby Union, a move that should bear fruit in the years to come.
In civic interests, Mr. Ongley has not waited for others to do the work. For seven years a Borough Councillor in Feilding, he later served six years as Mayor of that progressive town. If he carries the same enthusiasm into his new role he should go down in history as a “big man” in New Zealand football.
New Zealand Rugby players will, sooner or later, be including Japan in the list of countries to tour. Already a New Zealand University team has played in the Land of the Rising Sun, and on return to New Zealand reported that the Japanese players have a clear conception of the game, but that they
When Messrs. Alan Good and Samuel Wilson passed away, the Grim Reaper recently took away two men prominently associated with the history of New Zealand Rugby football.
Mr. Good, one of four brothers prominent in New Zealand sport — each brother had fine track performances to his credit—represented New Zealand on the Rugby field in 1893, being one of the first three Taranaki players to win an All Black jersey. He toured Australia that year, but in 1888 had played against Lilywhite and Shrewsbury's first English team to visit New Zealand. In 1928 he accompanied the All Blacks on their tour of South Africa.
Mr. Wilson was president of the Canterbury Rugby Union for many years, and represented New Zealand at the International Rugby Conference held in London in 1924, at the time the “Invincible All Blacks” were winning their matches. A life member of the Canterbury Rugby Union, Mr. Wilson never won representative honours in New Zealand, although he won a New South Wales representative cap while living in Australia. In addition to his interest in football, Mr. Wilson served for several years as an executive officer on the New Zealand Cricket Council.
Addressing schoolboys in Canterbury not long before his death, Mr. Wilson gave the lads this sound advice: “Boys, I want you to do this for me: See how much you can put into the game, and not how much you can get out of it, for as an old man who has played football I can assure you that the more you put into it the more pleasure you will take out.”
New Zealand's move to improve the physical well-being of its inhabitants has advanced another step by the appointment of a Council to carry out the policy of the Physical Welfare and Recreation Scheme. In selecting the key officials, Hon. W. E. Parry has made a wise choice and all sections of the community are represented. Although sport—competitive exercise—is likely to play a big part in the scheme it is noted that many of the members of the council are prominent in social activity as distinct from competitive sport, and it will be by the alliance of sport and social work that the best results may accrue.
C. S. Dempster, who was selected among the five best cricketers of the year following the New Zealand tour of England a few seasons ago, distinguished himself by topping the score in Leicester's second innings against Bradman's touring Australians last month. Although he failed in the first innings, after being struck by rising balls, Dempster compiled an excellent 105, to score the first century against the tourists.
Ken Uttley, former Wairarapa High School student and later a pupil at Southland Boys’ High School, has been awarded the Redpath Cup for the most meritorious performance by a representative in the major New Zealand cricket associations during the 1937–38 season. Uttley, in his earlier days, was a prominent competitor at the Secondary Schools’ athletic championships in Wellington and although not much higher than the hurdles he could keep the champions scampering in those events. In the broad jump he was particularly effective.
Uttley played six innings in representative cricket games last season, captaining Otago. He scored 419 runs for an average of 69.83. His highest score was 138. Uttley has also represented Otago on the Rugby field.
Among the boxers chosen to represent New Zealand at the Empire Games in Sydney, is noted the name Darcy Heeney. The Christian name recalls memories of Australia's greatest middleweight boxer, Les Darcy, while the surname is known in boxing rings in New Zealand, Australia, England, South Africa and America. Darcy Heeney, fighting son of a fighting father, is a nephew of Tom Heeney, who fought Gene Tunney for the heavyweight boxing championship several years ago. Darcy's father, Jack Heeney, held the New Zealand professional middleweight championship for many years. As an amateur Jack Heeney won the welterweight championship of New Zealand in 1914—twenty-three years later his son brought the title back to the family!