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The New Zealand Railways Magazine is on sale through the principal book-sellers, or may be obtained post-free for 6/- per annum.
Employees of the Railway Department are invited to forward news items or articles bearing on railway affairs. The aim of contributors should be to supply interesting topical material tending generally towards the betterment of the service.
In all cases where the Administration makes announcements through the medium of this Journal the fact will be clearly indicated.
The Department does not identify itself with any opinions which may be expressed in other portions of the publication, whether appearing over the author's name or under a nom de plume.
Short stories, poetry, pen-and-ink sketches, etc., are invited from the general public upon New Zealand subjects.
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All communications should be addressed to The Editor, New Zealand Railways Magazine, Wellington.
I hereby certify that the publisher's lists and other records disclose that the circulation of the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” has not been less than 24,000 copies each issue since April, 1938.
Controller and Auditor-General.
10/11/38.
This is the time of year when the spirit of thankfulness and good-fellowship has the freest play, and one thing that New Zealanders can be truly thankful for is that they have the good fortune to live on the choicest portion of this lovely world.
Looking at matters globularly, instead of nationally or internationally—a perfectly reasonable thing to do seeing that the world was here before we were—it can be seen that the lower half of the globe is the happier half, and that is not necessarily because there is more water in it. But the modifying effect on climate of so much sea has doubtless much to do with the more genial and tolerant natures of our southern peoples.
The attitude of the south is expansive in the true spirit of Christmas—it would make all the world its friend. It sees that, just as supreme art of any kind is appreciated the world over, and as some universal epidemic—the measles or the “fluzols”—makes the whole world kin, so at rock-bottom all mankind is just one form of life on this planet of the sun, and might better be happy than miserable, healthy than sick, helpful than hindering, friendly than hating, during the little span of life allowed to each.
There is more than humour in the two schools of philosophy lately evolved here—the compulsory astronomists and the compulsory micronomists—one school holding that if people were forced to see how small the world is in relation to the universe they would not feel so self-important; the other believing that when men realise how large they are in comparison with the infinitely smaller and lower forms of life, and how great are their opportunities, they will be big enough to give the rest of their fellows a chance.
The true exponents of these philosophies pay tribute to the loveliness of this world. They know that it becomes lovelier as the days go by, and that human senses are becoming more appreciative of the exquisite joys the world has to offer, taking the place of those grotesque terrors which arose from ignorance and oppression in the past.
Consider the sense of motion, a sense that has developed more in recent years than those of taste, smell, touch, hearing or sight. This sense has been with us from the time the monkey fell from the tree, followed right along through the rocking-cradle and rocking-horse stages and has seen us down to the old rocking-chair. But now we outfly the fastest bird, and anything that lets us cover more ground or sea or air with speed and ease is a perpetual source of interest and delight.
In all ways we contrive to beat nature. Our machines over-power the strongest elephant, our artists outpaint the fairest flower, whilst our buildings are more architecturally sound than the Alps.
The spirit of Christmas lies in giving; but all life consists in givings and doings which, under the universal law of compensation, are balanced by receiving—and enjoying. As man is naturally a very active fellow and the making of things his chief artistic outlet, the doer and the giver have the best of this lovely world in the long run.
With the approach of the festive season the Hon. D. G. Sullivan, Minister of Railways, desires me to again express to all members of the Service, to all clients of the Department, and to all readers of the Magazine, his best wishes for a Happy Christmas and a bright and prosperous New Year.
In associating myself with the Hon. Minister in these seasonable greetings and good wishes, I would like to add that much of the pleasure of the Christmas period lies in the opportunities presented for maintaining the traditional family reunions which do so much to hold together the bonds and sustain the joy of home life. In the movement of the people throughout the festive season the Railways are called upon, year after year, to do the major portion of this work, and the spirit and efficiency in which this is done are important contributing factors to the happiness of the principal vacation period of the year.
The personal feature of our service is a most important one, and the present is an appropriate occasion on which to remind all members of the staff who come into direct contact with the public how much their attitude towards the customers of the Department can do to help in maintaining that spirit of happiness with which the Christmas season is so conspicuously associated.
Courtesy at all times in dealing with their many phases of contact with the public, accuracy in the supply of information, and care in the handling of luggage, are matters which members of the Service should constantly keep in mind, even in the busiest moments of the holiday season, in order that the good name of the Department, and its personnel, for transport efficiency may be upheld and enhanced.
In particular I would ask for every consideration to be extended towards the elderly and the infirm, and that special thought and attention should be given to mothers travelling with young children.
By doing these things which mean so much for the comfort and enjoyment of those who entrust themselves to our care, members will not only be carrying out their obvious duty towards the travelling public, but will also be adding to their own happiness and materially assisting towards that truly Christmas spirit which the Minister and Management desire to see reflected throughout the Service.
General Manager.
The New Zealand version of “Great Oaks From Little Acorns Grow,” is that trees mature here in ten years; they grow up in a third of the time taken in any other country. By way of coincidence, “The Railways Magazine” is a month or two older than twelve years, and it has indubitably grown up completely. It was a slender but healthy sapling when it was first planted in the thick foliage of New Zealand's magazine shrubbery, and since 1st May, 1926, it has followed our country's best characteristics in the matter of speed of growth and development.
I have spent mornings of close research lately which topped off years of browsing through back numbers. This article will endeavour to give a little of the history of “the Railways Magazine,” which I find, by the simple process of inspection and comparison with others of a similar type published in other parts of the world, can be said, in all modesty, to be the best Railway magazine published anywhere.
The green - covered bound volume of the first year of “The New Zealand Railways Magazine,” 1926–1927, reposes in a glass windowed set of book-shelves on the fourth floor of the splendid new Wellington Railway Station Building. All the staff of the Railways Publicity Department must be poets—they cannot help it. From their windows there is a daily scene of matchless rhythm, colour, movement, mystery and magic. Here every day is the spectacle of the friendly and docile powers of the mighty mechanisms of transport bringing joy, comfort and usefulness to the lives of humans.
The deep blue of the electric multiple-unit, the warm red of the rail-car, the innumerable red-brown shades of the carriages and wagons, the shining black and red of the locomotives, white smoke plumes, shimmering hazes of vapour—all these are colourful manifestations of the majesty of harnessed forces; but, by way of a prodigal helping of pigments, there are the clothes of the moving crowd, an intricate and changing kaleidoscope; the blue pianore of the skipping two-year-old off for a holiday; the black bowler and grey suit of “Dad” coming back from his business trip; white summer sports suits; frocks of every hue; and travelling bags of even more colour variety. It is a ceaseless, bank-to-bank torrent of folks streaming along the platforms, forming swirling pools in the concourse, assembling, thinning and breaking into winding rivulets taking their way out and in, and always and ever with a surface gleam common to all. This comes from the cheeriness born of travel, a sort of joyous Oversoul. If you do not believe that a K loco, can smile, watch him on a sunny day as he comes to rest at Platform Number 9 and sees the gay crowds hurrying by.
However, for the reason which shows that we humans have not learned final wisdom in spending our daytime hours, the Magazine staff do not stand draped about the windows looking out; they plug along steadily “getting out” “The Railways Magazine.” When I took the first small green volume out of its shelf I could not help casting back in my mind to the place where it had been originally planned and made—the annexe to the old Head Office building. Then came a move to the wooden building which now houses part of the Air Department; some of the later
The first editorial is worth quoting. I wish I could use it all, as a small masterpiece of condensation: “The other day we had the pleasure of a trial run on one of the Department's new power units. There was a strong team of experts aboard to watch proceedings, besides a Driver to make it go, and a Fireman to keep it going. Notes were taken of its appearance, comfort and equipment and stop-watches were out to time the speed up-hill, down dale, and on the level. By the end of the run, there was nothing about that outfit which had not been discovered, discussed, dissected, praised, passed or condemned.”
The editor anticipates the same sort of scrutiny and says: “We therefore hasten, while eyes are turned our way, to paint, in prime colours on the billboard, a list of purposes for which the paper has been created and of principles upon which it will be run.”
It is worth while mentioning here that every issue of the magazine, without exception, has carried an editorial from the same clear pen, and in the workshop of letters, the pen is the working tool of a mind. These editorials, adapted and collected, would make a first-class treatise, not only on the utilitarian philosophy of a transport system, but also on the operative principles of fellowship in industrial organisation.
However, the twelve annual volumes have a remarkable content, apart from the editorials. If by some holocaust, all the printed matter in New Zealand except these volumes of “The Railways Magazine” were obliterated, the historian of the future would still be able to get a reasonably complete picture of the settlement and development of New Zealand, and an adequate idea of how we worked and lived in the twentieth century. Proof of this claim will emerge more clearly as we go on. I had intended to take a quick, but methodical run through the books, but over and over again, I found myself reading on, without recking the time. In the very first issue there is an interesting account of the exhibits at the Dunedin Exhibition: “Standing in all her mechanical majesty, the huge ‘A.B.’ engine ‘Passchendaele’ rivets the attention.” It represented the acme of locomotive achievement in New Zealand at that time. Alongside stood the “Josephine,” with the photographs of her first driver and fireman, still alive at the time, and both over eighty years of age.
Next I was struck with an article on “Poster Originality,” by the late Stanley Davis, who wrote nearly as well as he drew. It started: “Develop originality and you will be locked up.” This beloved artist had more than local fame. One New York visitor took his poster “Life” all the way back to the States to enshrine it in the well-known Brooklyn collection of great posters. His famous cover design showing the contour of New Zealand taking shape in the midst of a Rugby crowd, was rated by Charles H. Dickson, Art Editor of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, as “the best poster in a decade.” The tradition of Stanley Davis is still preserved in the striking cover designs which make the magazine shine out like a jewel on the news-stands.
By the way, I must not forget to record that in the second issue, 1st June, 1926, the “Wit and Humour” feature came into being to “stay put” till this day, forming a reliable source of pilfering for the after-dinner speaker. The first joke printed in the paper
In the October issue, 1926, there is a picture giving a curious flash-back on the eternal patience in experiment of the railways engineering designers. It shows the “Clayton” steam rail-car on the Kurow branch, and the caption says: “The car, which seats 56 passengers, is proving very popular with the travelling public.”
In the December number of the same year, there is a striking picture of the Railways and Publicity Departments’ exhibit at the Palmerston North Show. The tenth issue of the magazine, however, showed the pace that was on in the evolution of the new periodical. The issue of 27th February, 1927, celebrated the visit of our present King and Queen, then the Duke and Duchess of York. The four-colour cover design is a masterpiece of original symbolism, and the letterpress was of such strength and value that it was used in schools all over the Dominion. There was a logical outline of British history; an illustrated tabloid series of biographies of outstanding British sovereigns from Alfred the Great to King George V; a series of little biographies, of the Empire's great statesmen; a remarkable literary survey, “Britain's Pageant of Prose and Poetry.” Another article was an eclectic summary of reformers, soldiers, scientists and thinkers who had moulded the Anglo-Saxon Commonwealth. It was a great effort. It was a fitting prelude to a happy visit in which our Royal kinsmen had nothing but praise for the perfection of railway transport arrangements. The magazine, too, did not leave its readers in doubt on this point.
The Editor opened the second year (issue of April, 1927) with this: “In stoking up for the second year's run of our magazine, the question of fuel, its choice, quality, weight, power and source, calls for more than passing attention.” Evidence of scientific and purposeful management on these lines is soon plain. The first London Letter appeared in May, 1927, and since that time, Mr. A. L. Stead has delivered, every month, an interesting, brightly written, succinct and newsy article on the latest developments in railway matters in the older lands of the Northern Hemisphere. By way of implementing my claim that these volumes contain a broad panorama of people and events in New Zealand I will mention odds and ends of gatherings I made as I prowled through the early issues.
There is a delighted letter from the great Paderewski, who travelled New Zealand in a Railways Department private car. In the letter is a phrase that should be adopted by local patriots, “You have not one place that is not beautiful.” On the 1st March, 1928, Mr. G. G. Stewart, the Editor, gave a radio lecture at 2Ya on railway matters, and I for one would not have thought that radio had been with us for more than a decade.
In the October issue of 1927, the first double-page spread appeared of the proposed new Auckland Railway Station. Foreshadowings of the imposing project had been seen before, but this was the first convincing illustration.
Perhaps one of the most exciting debuts of 1928 was that of Mr. Ken Alexander, whose illustration of the “Railsitter” in the December number was a choice sample of this profuse and facile humourist's torrent of quips and whimsies. It is the description of the purchase and trial of a motor car for a holiday trip, and concludes with the solemnly stated moral, “Travel by rail and put your surplus in the bank.”
Early in 1927, James Cowan's “Romance of the Rail,” previously written for The Railways Department, was commenced in serial form. Only this doyen of New Zealand writers could have handled this engrossing history of the making of the North Island Main Trunk Railway. The new iron road passed through the regions where “Jimmy Cowan” knew every skyline contour, every stream, every bush track, level plain or deep gully, and, moreover, every legend about them.
The riches of his historical knowledge, the knowledge drawn from a lifetime of intimacy with the folks of this bush-covered land,
Although remarkable for its craftsmanship and its close knowledge, the series is more remarkable for the range of personalities it comprises. At random I take, for instance, Bishop Pompallier, John Ballance, Dr. Peter Buck, Jessie Mackay, Alfred Domett, S. Percy Smith, R. J. Seddon and W. F. Massey. He recalled many shining figures from our past who have never joined the ranks of those gaining honour in print in our conventional histories. He told of Ahumai (of Orakau), of Julia Matanga (the Maori Grace Darling of the “Delaware” wreck); Major Jackson of the Forest Rangers; Te Heu Heu, the great chieftain of the Tongariro lands; Samuel Leigh, the first Wesleyan missionary; Te Puea Herangi, the Waikato Princess and present leader of her people; John Webster of Hokianga; and Captain Clayton, the master mariner who left such paintings as the “Kent” passing the “Owen Glendower” in 1861; and so on.
I shall come to other writers who have found “The Railways Magazine” a worthy medium, but in the meantime shall go on with the pilgrimage down the years of this “shop organ” which so gloriously grew into a national forum.
Away back in 1927, I noticed an article on “The Gun That Made Petone Famous.” It was a good type of Maxim machine gun, made at the Petone Railway workshops in war-time. They had no blue prints, only a condemned gun to copy, and miracles were wrought of delicate hand machining and precision of workmanship. It worked—firing hundreds of rounds in practical service. I could not help wondering what those artificers of 1917 would say of the modern superb plant of the present workshops.
The issue of 1st April, 1929, gave me another shock as to the little time that has elapsed since the arrival of one of the permanent features of our daily lives. Here a writer reports from London his impressions of his first “see-hear” at a talkie. The writer explains that the first items on the programme were a sort of acclimatisation process “like going in to swim from the feet upwards.” As the night wore on it dawned on him that “A pretty face hasn't always a pretty voice” (I'm thinking of peacocks in the monsoon), and this leads him to make the sound prophecy that “the Britisher would score,” because of voice qualities. His comment on the drama that followed the topical talking films was: “The story is tripe but some of the noises excellent.” It often remains a good verdict to-day.
As I wore on through the volumes, it became obvious that I could pillage enough matter of interest to fill a dozen articles. In 1933, the first full verse page appeared. “The Railways Magazine” has been a valuable medium for practically all of our practising poets of standing, and has opened the door for many a new poet. I can say, as an eye-witness, that there is genuine, ardent excitement when some new verse of quality or freshness “blows in.” Payment is at a living wage scale, and I know of no better matriculation test for the budding (Continued on page 72.)
The story of Southland's wooden railway forms one of the most curious chapters in the railway history of New Zealand. The interest which attaches to this courageous but ill-advised project is both technical and historical.
In 1863 the little province, which just two years before had been separated from Otago and entrusted with its own government, contained a population of fewer than 9,000 people. The chief difficulty confronting the local authorities under the visionary Superintendent Dr. Menzies, was the lack of natural communications. The infant capital, Invercargill, was cut off both from the interior and from its harbour at the Bluff by tracts of flat, swampy ground, which, in its unimproved condition, forbade wheeled transport altogether. Road-making was hampered by the lack of metal in convenient localities, and attempts to construct gravel highways across the morasses resulted in little but the expenditure of money.
The discovery, in the latter part of 1862, of rich goldfields in the vicinity of Lake Wakatipu, opened out tantalising prospects to the young province. Although the diggings were situated in Otago, their natural outlet lay through the wide valleys at the foot of the lake leading to the Southland plains. If something could be done to establish a permanently practicable route across the dozen miles or so of wet country in the vicinity of Invercargill, Southland stood to reap a rich harvest from the goldfields trade.
When, therefore, the Provincial Council met in February, 1863, Menzies laid before it a scheme to borrow £120,000 (subsequently increased) to build a railway to the Bluff, and also a second sum of £130,000 to lay down a horse tramway for twenty miles up the Oreti Valley to touch the drier gravel plains of the interior.
The Council consented to the former plan, but was not prepared as yet to sanction the latter. They voted a special grant of £20,000, however, to keep the existing road to the north open during the winter.
The subsequent story of the Bluff railway, as heart-breaking in its vicissitudes as that of the Oreti line, need not concern us here. It soon became apparent, however, that road-making under the prevailing conditions, was no solution of the problem of the gold-fields communications, and in July a newcomer from Victoria, J. R. Davis, submitted to the Provincial Government a plan to establish a more permanent and satisfactory route. This was the famous wooden railway scheme. The idea had first been mooted in Victoria where it was claimed that satisfactory results had been achieved on a short experimental line, although the Government had rejected the scheme. The rails proposed were square in cross-section, with a surface six inches broad. The rolling stock was constructed in a special way. Each wheel ran on its own axle, independent of its companion on the opposite side. The wheels had no flanges, but were kept on the rails by means of small guide-wheels placed at an angle of 45 degrees. Special advantages were claimed to arise from the use of wooden rails. Their cost per mile was calculated at £460 as compared with £2,187 for iron rails. It was argued, too that adhesion would be much greater on wood inasmuch as the engines would have increased climbing power; there would thus be an additional saving on the amount of work that would have to be done in the construction of cuttings and embankments. Finally, and this was an important argument in the circumstances of the case, the line could be completed more rapidly as the materials could be obtained on the spot.
The provincial chief surveyor, Heale, who was regarded as the best local authority on engineering matters, reported favourably on the scheme. Even if it proved a total failure, he contended, the line could easily be converted into an iron one by using the wooden rails as longitudinal sleepers. The cost he roughly estimated as £88,000, with an additional £27,000 in the event of its being found necessary to lay an iron track.
Before the Provincial Government committed itself to the scheme, a demonstration was provided. Davies had imported a little engine known as the Lady Barkly, which he had used in Victoria. Rails were laid on the Invercargill jetty and on 8th August the trial was held. It was considered a complete success. All the afternoon the Lady Barkly steamed up and down, attaining at times a speed of 25 miles per hour, with crowds of delighted citizens riding on the engine. “The motion was found pleasant,” reported the Invercargill Times, “and quite free from that oscillation and concussion which distinguish travelling on iron rails with the ordinary engine.”
When the Provincial Council met in October it readily gave permission for the raising of a loan of £110,000 to
In the early part of 1864, however, trouble began. Reports were abroad that the materials being used were not those specified. Enquiry elicited the fact that white pine was being used for rails contrary to the terms of the contract, that the sleepers were composed of unsuitable timbers, and that the embankment contained much slushy stuff from the swampy ground adjacent to the line, instead of the excavated earth from the cuttings, as the agreement demanded. Davis claimed that he had done nothing without the permission of Marchant, the provincial railway engineer. Marchant admitted the fact, pleading that in view of the necessity of haste, he had felt justified in exercising his discretionary power. Marchant was promptly dismissed, but was reinstated when it was proved that he had received permission for the alterations from the Deputy-Superintendent, in the absence of the Superintendent from the province. Consulting engineers reported that, considering the desirability of completing the line before the winter, the use of inferior materials was possibly expedient, and the work was continued.
The province, however, was now in sore financial straits. The Bluff railway proved more expensive than was anticipated, the debentures issued to cover the cost of the Oreti line proved unsaleable, the bank refused further advances, and the final blow came when the Colonial Government refused to advise the Governor's assent to the raising of a further loan to pay off creditors. As a result, work on the railways was suspended in May, and when, nearly three months later, the Oreti line was resumed, the Government had to face a large additional expenditure for compensation to the contractors for expenses incurred during the stoppage. It was now possible to complete the line only as far as Makarewa, a distance of about eight miles. At length this section was ready, and on 18th October the official opening was held.
The day was declared a public holiday, and at noon the train started from the gaily decorated station. Tickets had been issued by invitation so that the party was a select one. Makarewa was reached in sixteen minutes and the travellers picnicked on the river-bank, while Davis provided the means of merriment for his workmen. On the return to Invercargill a formal luncheon was held on the station platform, and the success of the Oreti railway was toasted with enthusiasm.
The general public, however, felt aggrieved at their exclusion from the celebration, and there were hostile demonstrations on the departure of the train. A meeting of protest was held and it was decided that a second “opening” with no restrictions should be held a week later. On the day before the proposed excursion an unfortunate accident occurred, a youth employed on the engine being killed by falling from it on to the line. If this was a bad omen, circumstances more disquieting for the future were soon revealed.
On the 25th the train made three trips to Makarewa, carrying fully 2,000 people. There were scenes of hilarity and boisterous revelry in striking contrast to the more sedate enjoyment of the previous week. Sports were held during the afternoon, but as the day wore on rain began to fall. The multitude of feet treading the wet enbankment plastered the smooth surface of the rails with clay, and when the heavily loaded trains left Makarewa, again and again the wheels spun helplessly on the moist rails. On top of this the engine developed leaky tubes which almost extinguished the fire. It was midnight before the last trip was accomplished, and a grand ball that was to have been held had to be postponed because the band had not returned. Great numbers, indeed, failed to find accommodation on the returning trains and were forced to trudge weary miles back to Invercargill or camp out miserably in the wet, finding what shelter they could.
The railway had thus been twice “opened,” but the sequel was a sad anticlimax. The unsoundness of the embank-
(Continued on page 67
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[All Rights Reserved.]
We saw a good deal of Te Kooti Rikirangi and his people in the ‘Eighties on the King Country frontier. The peace-making with this celebrated of Maori War leaders was a great relief to all the outlying settlements, when it was announced in 1883. The General Amnesty covering all political offences such as Te Kooti's long war against the pakeha forces was creditable to the Government's sense of justice.
But the strongest motive actuating the policy of Mr. John Bryce, the then Native Minister, and his colleagues was the desire to bring the King Country under the administration of law, to open it with the consent of its people to the making of roads and railways, and eventually to settle pakeha farmers on some portions of it.
For this purpose it was necessary to conciliate King Tawhiao and his principal chiefs, and also those Maoris who for acts of war had come under the special ban of the Government. Te Kooti, on whose head lay a reward of £5,000, from the days of Sir Donald Maclean, and who was technically an outlaw, living in constant danger of capture, was the principal man for whom the General Amnesty was arranged. He had long abandoned his war-path life; since 1872 he had lived peacefully at Te Kuiti and other places, only desiring to be left alone. He had a large following of disciples in his Wairua-Tapu form of religion, and he had a considerable reputation as a faith-healer. By 1883 the conditions were favourable for a complete reconciliation, and no one was more pleased than war-worn prematurely aged Te Kooti Rikirangi.
We who lived on the Old Frontier in the ‘Seventies and ‘Eighties, on the farms and in the military-founded townships, saw history in the making. The two farthest-out settlers at Orakau, which touched the confiscation line, were Andrew Kay and my father. Other farmers to the west lived near the Puniu River and thence to the township of Alexandra (now Pirongia). There were many vulnerable places, where any night a band of Hauhau raiders might come down on the settlements as they did at Poverty Bay. War memories were still raw. The official peacemaking at Manga-o-rongo—fifteen miles across the border—banished all the old fears. The military watch, by armed settlers and the Constabulary outposts, was no longer necessary; except for minor fanatic demonstrations, such as Mahuki's raid on Alexandra.
I first saw Te Kooti when I was a boy, in 1884. He and some of his people came out of the King Country and lived for a time on Andrew Kay's farm, where they had a neat camp of thatched whares and fished for eels in the swamp. The Government was anxious to settle its old enemy on a kind of community farm, and it was proposed at first to buy part of the Kay estate. But the area was rather too swampy and that bargain was abandoned. But the Government gave Te Kooti an allotment at Kihikihi, and there he spent a good deal of his time, enjoying the good things of his new life of peace, including the contents of the two bar-rooms in the township. We frequently saw him on the travel, with his retinue of mounted men and his staunch bodyguard consisting of his two wives, resolute-looking gaunt-featured women, who reputedly carried loaded revolvers hung round them under their blouses. But he retired to the King Country again, and in 1886 I saw his large kainga at Otewa, on the Waipa, a place of well-built nikau and raupo houses, with large cultivations of wheat, maize, potatoes, kumara and fruit. There he lived a patriarchal life, maintaining a strict discipline over his people and holding religious services twice a day. Later on still, Ohiwa, Bay of Plenty, became his home, and there he died in 1893, revered as a next-to-God by thousands of his people.
In 1889 I had a long talk with Te Kooti on matters of Hauhau war history, and he told me then about his sailoring and trading visits to Auckland from Gisborne. That was in the long peace before the Hauhau Wars began. One of the schooners in which he sailed was named Te Whetuki; he was the supercargo, the man who attended to the business side of the vessel's voyages.
It was on one of those trips to Auckland that he took the name Kooti, the native pronunciation of the pakeha name “Coates,” which he had seen in print in official notices in its Maori form. He brought cargoes of wheat, potatoes and other produce from the East Coast and sold them in Auckland, and took back trade goods for the Maoris. This business enterprise greatly displeased the principal storekeeper and trader at Turanganui, Captain Read, who became one of his enemies and accusers.
It was false or flimsy charges against Te Kooti by his enemies at Poverty Bay that resulted in his transportation to Chatham Island. I have heard several versions of that episode from both Maoris and pakehas. The story which seems least coloured by either European bias or by tribal patriotic feeling is a narrative given to me in 1905 by the late Tuta Nihoniho, a veteran fighting chief of the Ngati-Porou tribe, of the country between Tolaga Bay and the East Cape. He could not be accused of unduly favouring Te Kooti, for he fought for six years against the Hauhaus, and often against Te Kooti himself, and he was captain of the Ngati-Porou Rifle Volunteers after the war.
Te Kooti, said Tuta, was not a rebel originally. The Government made him hostile because its agents listened to his enemies and took no notice of his protests. He was fighting on the Government side with his tribe in 1865 at the siege of Waerenga-a-Hika (“Hika's Clearing”), close to the English mission station at Poverty Bay. Tuta and he were serving on the same side. A minor chief who had a grudge against Te Kooti accused him of supplying percussion caps to the Hauhaus in the pa for their guns; also it was said that he fired only powder, having removed the bullets from his cartridges. These accusations were not sustained, and he was released. But his enemies were persistent. There was Read the storekeeper's enmity, and there were personal jealousies about women. Several chiefs of the Rongo-whakaata tribe urged the Government officers to imprison him because he was a spy for the Hauhaus.
Major Biggs and Captain James Wilson were the officers in charge at the Bay after the fighting of 1865. They were persuaded to keep Te Kooti in custody. Biggs made enquiries from the local chiefs, Paratene Turangi and others, as to the truth or otherwise of the charges, and what they were told by his enemies confirmed their belief that Te Kooti was a dangerous character to have around one's kainga and would be much better out of the way. So off to exile the offender must go.
When the steamer for the prison isle came to an anchor off Gisborne, and the hundreds of prisoners were marched down to the beach to embark, Te Kooti was ordered to accompany them. He was escorted to the embarking place between files of men with loaded rifles. The whaleboat was on the beach waiting. “There the autaia was,” said Tuta, “driven like a dog to the boat.” (“Autaia” means a lively lad, a roystering blade, a troublesome fellow). Te Kooti turned to Major Biggs, to Captain Wilson, to Paratene Turangi (who was the grandfather of Lady Carroll, of Gisborne), who were standing there watching the embarkation, and cried:—
“No te aha au ka whiua tahitia nei me nga Hauhau ki runga poti? E hara au i te Hauhau!” (“Why am I singled out to go with the Hauhaus into the boat? I am not a Hauhau!“)
But what was that to Biggs, to Wilson, to Paratene Turangi? said Tuta. They would not listen to Te Kooti's protests.
“Go on to the boat!” said the white officer impatiently. “Go on to the boat!” And Paratene, imitating as well as he could the English of his white officer friends, said imperatively: “Ko ana ki te poti! Ko ana ki te poti!” (“Go on to the boat!“)
At Napier he protested to Sir Donald Maclean, Government Agent in Charge of East Coast Affairs, but Maclean would not listen. He concluded that Te Kooti's guilt had already been proved at Gisborne.
So Te Kooti went. On the Chathams he stayed two years, but he never forgot those contemptuous words, and the spurning of his protests against transportation. He remembered them when he plotted revenge, and when he by a master-stroke of skill and daring seized the three-masted schooner Rifleman at Wharekauri when Captain Christian was ashore, and compelled her mate and crew to carry him and his followers back to the New Zealand coast. He protested repeatedly that he did not deserve exile, and he asked for a trial or court-martial. But he was never tried, and this deportation without trial was an injustice over which he and his fellow prisoners continually brooded in their prison island. They were kept there on a kind of indeterminate sentence—the punishment that someone long afterwards in New Zealand called a “Kathleen Mavourneen,” because, in the words of the old ballad, “it may be for years and it may be for ever.”
No formal sentence was passed on the Maoris selected for exile. They were under a loose kind of Government order. Chatham Island was a convenient dumping ground for rebels against the Queen. Many injustices were done in the name of martial law. Some men no doubt deserved punishment, but the guilt of others was doubtful. It was no wonder that some of the Maoris summarily transported to the distant island meditated bitter revenge.
It was in 1867, when the deported Maoris had been on Wharekauri (Chatham Island) for about a year, that Te Kooti emerged from the ranks
The final reckoning came in November, 1868. Three months after Te Kooti and his fellow-escapees landed from the Rifleman is the little cove at Whareongaonga, just south of Young Nick's Head, he led his long-cherished kokiri of revenge against the whites and Maoris of Turanga-nui. But Turanga slept. Alas! it slept. What watchers there were watched the wrong trail. The tomahawk and the sword did the work; not many shots were fired. And Major Biggs and Captain Wilson were both slain, and their families also. Te Kooti's other white enemies escaped. Ha! Ka ca to kino! (The wrong-doing was avenged.)
At one of the Maori villages the chief Paratene Turangi—he who had stood on the beach side with Biggs and Wilson when Te Kooti was deported—was captured by the Hauhaus. Te Kooti approached his victim (his relative also, be it remembered) with a soft tread which must have had something of the tiger's advance on its prey in it. One hand he stretched forth in mock welcome; the other he held behind him; it gripped his tomahawk.
“Tena koe, taku papa,” he said in the soft half-whining voice the Maori uses in greeting. “Greetings, my father” [elder relative] the words meant. And raising his left hand he stroked the cheeks of the petrified Paratene as if in affection. “Tena koe taku papa, nana te kupu, ‘Ko ana ki te poti, ko ana ki te poti!’ (“Salutations, my father, you who uttered those words, ‘Go on to the boat, go on to the boat'!) A-a! Ko ana ki te tomahawk!” And a moment later, Paratene fell to the executioner's blow.
That was Te Kooti's revenge. So died Paratene Turangi, he who had helped to send Te Kooti Turuki into exile. Treachery was paid for with savagery, false witness with the edge of the tomahawk.
* * *
Many people who have written about New Zealand history have pictured Te Kooti as a terrible ruffian without any redeeming qualities. Such a description of a man who was in his day the most notable figure in the life of this colony is quite misleading, based on imperfect knowledge. With the passing of the years a less prejudiced view can be taken of the actions of those who opposed the Government. It is recognised now that many unfair and tyrannical things were done by the Governments of the past, such as the forcible taking of Maori lands in punishment for so-called rebellion. That the Maori cause was just at the beginning of the Taranaki war in 1860 was admitted by Governor and Government in 1863, but it was then too late to prevent further strife.
Te Kooti's fierce deeds in the heat of war outnumbered even those of Kipling's Boh Da Thone, erst a pretender to King Theebaw's throne—
“He crucified noble, he sacrificed mean, He filled old ladies with kerosene.”
But Te Kooti did not go that far; the mercifully quick tomahawk was his way. A massacre here and a fierce foray there were balanced by his military genius, his amazingly skilful checkmating of Government moves against him on the rugged field of mountain and forest. Had he been a white chief imprisoned by the Maoris on the Chathams, his escape with all his people in the captured schooner Rifleman would have been acclaimed as a desperately daring stroke of generalship, deserving of high honour. By comparison with some great military figures of Europe Te Kooti does not suffer. Some English kings and queens of the past were just as pitiless as the Maori rebel when they wished to rid themselves of enemies and doubtful friends, and the great European powers to-day are even more ruthless and savage.
* * *
There was a poetic touch about the old war-hawk in his later days. Captain Gilbert Mair, one of the officers who had led the Arawa contingents in chase of him in many expeditions, and who more than once took a hasty shot at him in a bush skirmish, told me this incident of the ‘Eighties, after the General Amnesty. Te Kooti was peacefully
Mair solemnly inspected the guard of honour, and then Te Kooti approached him with a fine korowai flax cloak, and placed it around his one-time enemy's shoulders.
“This garment,” he said, “is my token of regard for you, Tawa, from whom I escaped only by the breadth of the black of my finger nail” (Maori idiom for “by the skin of my teeth”). “Wear this korowai in memory of me, and if it be not large enough to cover you, let me clothe you with my love.”
So saying he gave the orders, “Tei-hana! Pai ia rewhi!” (Attention! By your left!“) and quick-marched his men back to the kainga.
“He clothed me with his aroha!” said my friend. “Pretty good for the old war-horse, that bit of sentiment, wasn't it?”
Later on in the day a messenger from the kainga came to the Horse Shoe Inn with a request from Te Kooti. Would his fighting friend the captain be good enough to send him a bottle of rum? Mair sent it, and thus did the two old warriors exchange their pledges of aroha.
Te Kooti is still the popular hero among many tribes, although he has been dead so long. And not only among the old people. A pakeha woman, who is a teacher in a girls’ college, and is particularly interested in New Zealand history, told me of her meeting with some loyal young worshippers of the Ringatu prophet, priest and king. It was in the train in Hawke's Bay. Five or six young Maori girls were returning from holidays to their college. She began a conversation with those intelligent, handsome and neatly dressed girls, and presently asked them by way of a quiet test of their knowledge, about the history of New Zealand. Te Kooti's wars were discussed. Their eyes lit up when she mentioned his name. They all admired Te Kooti, he was the greatest Maori warrior, he was a great general, and a very good man indeed.
“But was he not a very cruel man?” the teacher asked, to elicit their opinions further; really she rather admired Te Kooti, being a bit of a rebel herself.
Maori eyes blazed with indignation at the suggestion. “No, no! He was badly treated by the Government, and he was only avenging his wrongs. The Government sent him away into exile on Wharekauri without trial, and took his land away from him. When he escaped he was only doing the right thing. The pakehas were cruel to him, and why should he not have his revenge? He was a very, very clever brave man.”
That teacher heard enough from young Maori womanhood in the burst of sturdy patriotism to convince her that the memory and mana of Te Kooti will not soon fade. There is hope for the race, she affirms, when the young generation hold so tenaciously to their national hero-worship.
* * *
Te Kooti acquired fame among the Maori people for his gifts of healing. His magnetic personality, his strong will-power and his mystic influence gave him reputedly supernatural powers over the sick and the distressed. An old Arawa soldier, Pirika Hohepa (see photo.) told me in 1920 that although he had fought against Te Kooti he became a strong believer in his mana and his religion. In the ‘Eighties several of his children died, one after the other. In despair, he went to Te Kooti for help. The head of the Wairua-Tapu faith gave his spiritual ministrations, and there were no more deaths of children in that family.
As to the origin of the adopted name Te Kooti, Captain Preece, N.Z.C., who fought against him in the wars, told me that Rikirangi took it from a Government notice signed by Mr. Coates, Colonial Secretary, an official of those days, in Auckland; the Maori translation displayed was signed “Kooti.” It has also been said that he was called after a Dr. Scott, of the East Coast—a prominent pakeha-Maori resident of Wairoa—whose name in Maori is Kooti. However, I believe Captain Preece's version was the correct one. Most pakehas mispronounce the name. Te Kooti being the native form of Coates, it is given the sound of that name with the “o” long. The word “court” is also pronounced and spelled “kooti” in Maori. The English “vote” similarly becomes “pooti.” So do not fall into the common error of sounding the prolonged “o” as “u,” as in Kuiti, kura, mura.
* * *
To speak of Samuel Enderby and Sons as being merely shipowners, whalers, merchant princes of London, would fail to do them full justice. Their interests and activities extended beyond the realms of trade, the welfare of the British Empire itself being numbered among their concerns.
The same spirit—patriotic, enterprising, adventurous—which moved Samuel Enderby, actuated his sons; and (in passing) his grandson General “Chinese” Gordon.
A striking eulogy of the Enderbys is given by Herman Melville, who tells of his ship, the “Pequod,” meeting the English whaling vessel, “Samuel Enderby,” named after “the original of the famous whaling house of Enderby and Sons”; “a house,” says Melville, “which in my poor whaleman's opinion, comes not far behind the united royal houses of the Tudors and Bourbons, in point of view of real historical interest.” “The Vigorous Enderbys,” he called them.
In the days when American colonists had the monopoly of sperm-whale fishing, England was their best customer for whale oil and spermaceti. Registered both in London and Boston, the Enderby ships went to and fro, bringing whale oil to England and returning with stores for the American colonists. It happened to be an Enderby ship which, in 1773, brought the famous chests of tea to Boston, where they were emptied into the harbour by angry Americans. The War of Independence which followed this incident put an end, for a time, to America's sperm whale fishing, and British shipowners, now cut off from this source of supply, decided to hunt the sperm whale for themselves. So it came to pass that in 1775, several ships, most of them owned by Samuel Enderby and Sons, were equipped for whaling, and sailed away to hunt in the South Atlantic.
Other whaling ships soon appeared on these waters, their number increasing to such an extent that in the course of ten years or so, the fishing grounds became exhausted. This was the turning point of the Enderby Firm toward New Zealand.
Samuel Enderby had heard from the captains and mates of East Indiamen that great quantities of sperm whales were to be found east of the Cape of Good Hope. Enderby desired to explore this new fishing ground, but his plans were obstructed by the fact that the directors of the East India Company held a charter which gave them a monopoly of trade in the seas east of the Cape. To have these restrictions removed Enderby worked with vigour, urging the authorities that “permission be given to whalers to explore, without hinderance from the East India Company, the most distant ocean.” His efforts were partially successful, and in a letter to George Chalmers (a Government official) he stated that his firm, at great expense, had purchased and fitted out a very fine ship, the “Emilia,” now ready to sail. They were, he said, the only “adventurers willing to risk their property at such a great distance for the exploring of a fishery”; the others preferring to wait and see how Enderby succeeded.
In 1789 the “Emilia” rounded Cape Horn into the Pacific, not only the first British ship, but the “first among the nations to lower a whale-boat of any sort in the great South Sea.” The venture was a great success, the “Emilia” returning in 1790 with a full cargo of sperm-oil, and the crew in good health. When it became known that whales and seals abounded in the South Pacific, numbers, both of English and American whale ships, followed in the wake of the “Emilia.”
In the latter part of 1792, the ship “Britannia,” owned by Enderby and Sons, came to Australia with convicts. With the intention of procuring sealskins for the China market, William Raven, master of the vessel, left Sydney on September 30, for Dusky Bay, New Zealand: he was armed with a three years’ license from the East India Company. But before getting clear of Sydney, the “Britannia's” course was changed, presumably at the command or request of Major Grose, who, with his captains, subsequently chartered the ship to sail for the Cape of Good Hope, there to obtain provisions for the soldiers stationed at Sydney.
On 23rd October, Raven again set out for Dusky Bay, having been given leave to station a sealing gang there on his way to the Cape. New Zealand was sighted on 3rd November, 1792, and three days later the “Britannia” was moored in Facile Harbour, Dusky Bay. While making an examination of the
In about three weeks the dwelling—40 ft. long, 18 ft. broad and 15 ft. high—was completed, and provisions and stores for twelve months were landed. Raven also left iron work, cordage, and sails; with instructions that a boat was to be built, large enough to carry them to a “friendly port” should need arise. This, says Dr. McNab, was the first sealing gang stationed on the New Zealand coast, and William Leith, second mate on the “Britannia,” had the distinction of being its commander.
On 1st December, the “Britannia” left for the Cape of Good Hope and in due time returned to Sydney. But owing to the great need for supplies, she was again chartered; this time for India. Naturally anxious about the welfare of his men at Dusky Bay, Raven was given leave to call there, Major Grose ordering the schooner “Francis” to accompany him.
The two vessels left Sydney on September 8, 1793; the “Britannia” arriving at Dusky on the 27th of the same month, while the “Francis,” having been blown four times off the coast, did not reach the bay until the 12th of October.
Raven anchored at Anchor Island, and the moment the vessel was moored, “Leith, and a party of five, who had been seen coming round the south point of the island from their sealing station at Luncheon Cove, came on board and reported that all was well.”
During their stay of ten months the party had collected 4,500 seal skins, which was not considered a very successful result for their labour; but Raven was satisfied that the men had done their best to procure skins.
With the boat which he had ordered to be built, Raven was delighted. “What excited my admiration,” he says, “was the progress they had made in constructing a vessel of the following dimensions—40 ft. keel; 53 ft. length upon deck; 16 ft. 10 inches extreme breadth; and 12 ft. hold… . . she is planked, decked, and sealed with spruce fir, which in the opinion of the carpenter is very little inferior to English oak… . the carpenter has great merit, and has built her with that strength and neatness which few shipwrights belonging to the merchant service are capable of performing.”
Dr. McNab says that as far as he can ascertain, this was the first vessel built in Australasia, purely from Australasian timber, and “is an Australasian historical event.” Also, since the early whaling trade was carried on away from the coast, “beyond a spur or two put on board a stray vessel in the North Island,” the Dusky Bay sealing of Captain Raven in 1792–93 was the first trade with New Zealand; and Luncheon Cove the first settlement. Thus early did Samuel Enderby and Sons touch New Zealand.
Though the limits for the Southern Whale Fishery had been extended by legislation, “vessels could not proceed further than 51° E.; this still kept New Zealand and New Zealand sealing under the domain of the East India Company.” Enderby whaling ships, however, came to New Zealand as early as 1794.
In 1797 the Board of Trade “considered a petition of the Merchant Adventurers of the Southern Whale Fishery for an extension of their limits,” and in the following year this request was granted. Nevertheless, the remaining restrictions were irksome, and in 1801, Samuel Enderby and Alexander Champion “secured a further extension which opened the whole Southern Ocean for fishing, provided the vessels delivered their journals to the Court of the Directors of the East India Company on their return to England. Thus the New Zealand seal trade became free to British subjects as to Foreigners.” Raven, it will be remembered, had traded under a special license.
More and more whalers came to hunt in the waters of New Zealand, “and as they frequently called at Sydney a traffic grew up between New South Wales,
Many of the Enderby whaling vessels were engaged in discovery as well as in hunting; and in August, 1806, Captain Abram Bristow, master of the “Ocean”—owned by Samuel Enderby—when sailing south of New Zealand, discovered the Auckland Islands; so named after Lord Auckland, a friend of Bristow's father. Bristow, at this time, did not land; but in October of the following year he returned to the islands and took formal possession of them on behalf of the Crown.
As time went on, Samuel Enderby and Sons, with other English whaling firms, became alarmed about the conduct of the Europeans on the New Zealand coast, and tried to persuade the British Government to organise a settlement and make New Zealand a colony. “In one letter,” says Dr. W. J. Dakin, “they pointed out that the coast of Australia was not only too far from the New Zealand coast for help should a ship meet with damage or her crew become ill, but undesirable, too.”
Apt at grasping new ideas, the firm of Enderby and Sons manufactured rope from New Zealand flax, and thereafter used no other kind of rope for the whale lines on their vessels. They often employed Maoris; some as seamen, some as harpooners, and in general found them to be good, steady men; two Maoris were in their service for nine years.
So the Enderby firm moved forward, their ships sailing over the whole Pacific, from North to South, wherever whales were to be found.
(To be continued.)
It's a queer thing but some men can never learn to smoke. The great Napoleon was like that. The first time he tried, we are told, the smoke got down his throat and into his eyes, and as soon as he could speak he spluttered “take that thing away.” So disgusted was he that he never tried again, and as usually happens in such cases became an anti-tobaccoite. The would-be smoker should begin with cigarettes, and can't do better than get a tin of Riverhead Gold—or Desert Gold—the two leading cigarette tobaccos on the market, and roll his own. When he has got his prentice-hand in, so to speak, he can try a pipe of Cavendish or Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog) and later sample Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead) — full strength, and the old smoker's favourite. These comprise the five famous toasted blends, renowned alike for their delicious flavour and beautiful bouquet. They are, being toasted, as pure as tobacco can be, and their widespread popularity is demonstrated by the ever-increasing demand for them.*
The exploration of the alpine valleys and magnificent glacier systems of our mountain ranges, apart from the enrichment of science, has yielded much of interest to every lover of nature. Likewise, ever since the pioneering days of Sir Julius von Haast in the ‘sixties, and the stirring achievements of men like G. E. Mannering, A. P. Harper, C. E. Douglas and the Graham Brothers in the ‘nineties, there has been a steadily growing interest in the mountain regions as a field of sport.
During the past ten years, mainly due to the advent of mountaineering, tramping and ski-ing clubs, more people have visited the alpine playgrounds than ever before, and it is safe to say that, with expanding transport facilities, the call of the mountains will be heard by ever-increasing numbers.
The magnificent Mt. Cook area of the Southern Alps has, of course, claimed the chief attention of explorers. However, there are other valleys and peaks of the Alps which have a great appeal to the mountaineer, and about which much less is known to the general public. It is due largely to the efforts of the Canterbury Mountaineering Club and the New Zealand Alpine Club that these lesser known districts have been rediscovered and revealed. For example, the head-waters of the Canterbury rivers such as the Waimakariri, Rakaia, Rangitata and Godley, are fed from numerous glaciers and snowfields which, because of their difficulty of access and remoteness possess a particular fascination to the explorer mountaineer.
Those who have never seen the New Zealand mountains and these alpine valleys can have but an imperfect conception of their beauty and vastness. The photographer and the artist both play their part in depicting the beauty and grandeur of a mountain scene, but even the highest art must fail to portray this beauty and grandeur in its reality.
Many attempts have been made to find an answer to the question: “Why do people go into the mountains?” Only those who find their joy in the high hills can answer that question. Some say that they go to climb peaks, some to geologise or botanise, while others say they go just to tramp, and to photograph the alpine scenery. To be sure, some do go for these purposes. Others again go because they feel the mountains offer a perpetual challenge. They climb the peaks, explore the untrodden valleys, endure the hardships of nature, not only for the reward of conquest, but because nowhere else do they feel fully alive.
Mr. C. E. Mathews, a veteran climber, writes a different answer to the same question. He says: “Everything seems to be in our favour. We breathe a diviner air, we watch the clear streams bounding out of the mountain side and racing laughingly down the valley as if, as Ruskin says, ‘the day were all too short for them to get down the hill.’ We see the great forests wave and the rivers roll, we are hushed to silence in the early morning by the awful beauty of the rose of dawn, we see the rising sun strike the snowy peaks with a crimson flush; we see the western horizon in the evening one vast sea of fire; we hear the crash of the avalanche and the roar of the torrent, and yet beyond these voices there is peace.”
When one leaves the haunts of men for the solitude of the mountains,
“… the cares that infest the day Fold their tents like the Arabs And as silently steal away.”
Every year, especially during the climbing season which usually extends from the month of December to March, we find many heavily-laden men setting forth into some remote part of the Main Divide or the adjacent valleys in search of adventure. All the year they have been planning with enthuisasm and thoroughness the necessary details for some enterprising expedition, while at the same time delving into the historic records of past explorations.
Exploration in the lesser known and seldom frequented parts of the mountain valleys assuredly has its joys and compensations.
Deserting the beaten track for glaciers and passes the traveller must carry his house upon his back. These packs, often sixty to seventy pounds in weight, have to be swagged for days over boulder-strewn river bed, over bluffs, and through bush to some sheltered camp-site or alpine hut.
We cannot in New Zealand sleep at the foot of the Main Divide in a luxurious hotel whilst all our swagging is being done by porters and guides as in other mountain countries. Even if we are deprived of the use and comfort of high altitude hotels and chateaux, we are at least proud of the chain of alpine huts which extend from Arthur's Pass in the north to the Hermitage in the south. Due to the foresight and enterprise of the Canterbury Mountaineering Club there has been erected at the heads of the major rivers a shelter hut which serves as a base for exploration as well as a refuge in time of storm.
In the Waimakariri there is the Carrington Hut erected to perpetuate the memory of one of the Club's foundation members, while in the Wilberforce River there is the Park Morpeth Hut so well-known to trans-divide travellers when undertaking the “Three Pass Trip” into Westland. At the head of the Rakaia River there is the Lyell Hut, and in the Havelock branch of the Rangitata River the newly erected hut and bivouac near the Eric stream. The Godley Hut and the De La Beche Hut are the New Zealand Alpine Club's contribution to the alpine chain, the former being in the Godley Valley and the latter on the Tasman Glacier at the foot of Graham's Saddle.
Forsaking the wind-swept valleys of Canterbury for the headwaters of some West Coast river the divide crosser must be prepared to brave the rougher travel and conditions which the latter crossings entail.
The rivers on the eastern side of the Main Divide are long, with a gentle slope to the sea, but in West-land they are comparatively short, very steep, and impassable if in flood. Like mighty cataracts they fill the rocky gorges with leaping waves, surging down and around the massive boulders that bar their path.
Travel in the rain-saturated undergrowth becomes arduous and slow, yet the mountain explorer faces all these difficulties revelling in their fierce caress.
Mountaineering stores up a fund of memories that will endure through a man's lifetime. Mr. F. S. Smythe, the famous Everest climber, writes in this connection: “In the hills it is the memories that count most, and it is these memories that will sustain us in our old age when the voice of the high mountains whisper back through the span of years.”
In the following letter to the Minister of Railways, the Hon. D. G. Sullivan, Mr. F. M. Renner, Principal, Rongotai College, Wellington, makes appreciative comment upon the courtesy and attention shown by officers of the Railways Department to a party of boys from the College who recently toured the North Island by rail:—
I shall be glad if you will accept the school's very cordial appreciation of your kindness in making it possible for the Rongotai College party of eighteen boys to have such an enjoyable and instructive railroad tour as was afforded to them during the recent vacation. Particularly do I wish to commend to you in high terms, the exceptional courtesy shown and attention paid to the party by all your officers at every station, large or small. No trouble was too much and nothing was left undone by your officers to ensure the comfort and enjoyment of the boys.
I shall be glad if you will take steps to ensure that our thanks and appreciation are made known as widely as possible to all concerned.
Clearing the snow from exposed tracks in the North of England.
AmerryChristmas to everyone! At the moment of writing, London Town has yet to taste its first winter snowstorm, but in many corners of Europe snow and ice already have played havoc with railway working and rendered the railwayman's task unenviable in the extreme. Britain is fortunate in escaping from really severe snowstorms, although on some of the exposed tracks in Northern England and Scotland, December can be a very trying month for the railway worker. We are reminded of this fact by the news that the London and North Eastern Railway has just provided for use on its Scottish lines five additional steel snowploughs, and has also converted three existing wooden ploughs to the latest type of steel construction. Actually, the King's Cross authorities now have fifteen steel snow-ploughs available for use in Scotland as well as a number of ploughs ready at a moment's notice to clear exposed tracks in the North of England. An interesting feature of these modern snowploughs is that they are so designed as to throw the snow to the off-side of the line, so that on double-track sections the clearance of either line can be carried out without interference with the opposite track.
One of England's most difficult railway routes under wintry conditions is the Newcastle and Carlisle section of the L. & N.E. system. This is a particularly interesting rail link because of its associations with George Stephenson, the “Father of Railways.” Travelling to-day from Newcastle to Carlisle one may still see on the line-side at Wylam the humble stone cottage where “Geordie” himself was born. Recently there has been celebrated the one-hundredth anniversary of the opening of the “N. & C.” The official trains making the throughout run between Carlisle and Newcastle one hundred years ago occupied just four hours on the 64 1/2 miles run. Unfortunately, on the return trip, several derailments occurred, but early mishaps such as these were speedily overcome, and the Newcastle and Carlisle became one of the most efficient of our early railways. An outstanding figure on the line was Thomas Edmondson, stationmaster at Milton, near Carlisle. Edmondson was the inventor of the card ticket and the ticket dating press, which by degrees came to be employed on railways the world over. In 1862, the Newcastle and Carlisle was acquired by the North Eastern Railway, which in turn was absorbed into the L. & N.E. group.
In a previous letter, reference was made to the far-famed “Railway Race to Scotland” of exactly half a century ago. By way of celebrating the “Railway Race” golden jubilee, the King's Cross management hit upon the happy idea of operating a special excursion train, from London to Cambridge and back, the rolling-stock employed being an 1888-style “Flying Scotsman” set. The seven six-wheeled coaches, weighing 98 tons, and seating 170 passengers, were hauled by the historic Stirling 8-ft. single locomotive No. 1, of the former Great Northern Company; while at King's Cross, the point of departure, there was given to the scene a picturesque background in the shape of a group of passengers attired in the costumes of half a century ago. Stirling locomotive No. 1, it may be recalled, was withdrawn from service in 1910, and since the Railway Centenary of 1925 has been on exhibition in the York Railway Museum. Built in 1870, the engine weighs 38 tons 9 cwt. The tender weighs 26 tons 10 cwt. The two outside cylinders are of 18 in. diameter by 28 in. stroke. Working pressure is 140 lb. per sq. in., and tractive effort 11,245 lb. So successful did the Cambridge excursion prove, that it has been followed by a tour of the L. & N.E. system, the 1888 train everywhere exciting the greatest interest.
Yet another link with Victorian travel has been afforded by the celebration of the centenary of London's first mainline railway—the London and Birmingham
Football, the great winter sport of Britain, is now in full swing, directing attention to the wonderful facilities afforded by the railways for sports of every kind. Principal among these facilities is the running of day and half-day excursions by special trains, which each year carry several millions of supporters to football, cricket and tennis matches, racing and other sports events. Parties of four or more members and officials of sports teams travelling together to participate in matches may obtain tickets based on a single fare for the double journey. Similar parties on tour have the benefit of tickets at the rate of two-thirds of the ordinary single fare for each stage of the tour. Considerably, reduced fares are also offered for party travel Parties of eight or more adults travelling together in each direction may obtain day tickets at a single fare for the double journey; while parties of not less than thirty, by prior arrangement, are carried from one-and-two-thirds to two-and-a-half miles for a penny. The longer the distance to be travelled, the cheaper the fare per mile Guaranteed day and period excursion arrangements are catered for by special trains when not less than 200 passengers are travelling between the same points. The fares charged in this case vary from 1 1/2 to 2 1/2 miles a penny according to distance.
In recent years increasing attention has been paid by the Home railways to automatic train control, the Great Western Company being well to the fore in this activity. For nearly a quarter of a century the Great Western has steadily been extending its train control system, and very shortly the equipment will embrace 2,852 miles of track, 2,114 signalling locations, and 3,250 locomotives. The Paddington management favour a contact system of control, with a track ramp effecting contact with a shoe fitted under the locomotives. A new installation, now being tried out on the L. & N.E. Edinburgh-Glasgow main-line, employs what is known as the Hudd induction system of control. This system has, over a period of years, given very satisfactory service on the southern branch of the L.M. & S. railway, where 36 route miles of track are covered. Modern highspeed services call for every possible signalling refinement, and it seems likely that the L. & N.E. Company, interested as it is in high-speed running on all its main lines, will by degrees make automatic train control a permanent feature.
The Home railways rank among the largest hotel owners in the world, hotel operation proving one of their most profitable side-lines. A new develop-ment is the opening, jointly by the Lm. & S Railway and the travel house of Thos. Cook & Son Ltd., of a luxury holiday camp at Prestatyn, on the North Wales coast. Holiday camps run by various private individuals have sprung up all over Britain recently, and this new vacation idea has captured the public fancy to an enormous degree The Prestatyn camp is to be opened early in the New Year, and the promoters are applying ideas inspired by a close study of the camp movement here and in America. Accommodation will be provided for about 2,000 vacationists, in picturesque chalets having running-water and all up-todate facilities The attractions will include a heated swimming-pool, tennis-courts croquet lawns, bowling greens, and accommodation for table-tennis, dancing and entertainments. There will be a first-class resident dance band.
For a great number of years after the colonisation of New Zealand the people were chiefly concerned with material needs. “First things first” was the universal slogan when the Maori wars ended in 1872—immigration, land settlement, town and city building, the creation of industries, road, bridge and railway construction, and the search for overseas markets occupying the full time and talents of the people. Cultural amenities waited on the completion of the essentials of modern civilisation, and the interregnum was marked by an era of axe and saw and fire, for, in the process of building the State, reasoned consideration of the colony's future needs in certain directions was lacking, with the result that priceless economic and aesthetic assets were destroyed.
The wholesale felling of native bush has had tragic results in the form of periodical floods in all districts where this practice has been followed.
In his very valuable botanical survey of Kapiti Island, in 1906, Dr. L. Cockayne states: “Few incidents are more to be regretted in the settlement of new countries than the more or less complete destruction—unavoidable in many cases—of the fauna and flora. This is especially to be deplored when the members of these are of a rare or peculiar character, and such destruction has taken place in New Zealand to an extreme degree. Everywhere where the land has been specially suitable for settlement, the native animals and plants have in large measure been replaced by those of other lands, and these animals and plants are one of New Zealand's assets. Not a few of both classes have their like nowhere else upon the globe; while, if we consider the plants alone, their manifold combinations, and the congregation of so many peculiar biological forms, can be met with in no other temperate region of equal area.”
The tragedy of the depletion of our timber trees is very serious, but the accompanying loss of many thousands of trees that were the food-stores of our native birds, and other trees and plants that were marvellously beautiful, is also tragic. In addition to their food supplies being destroyed, the birds were constantly harried by native and pakeha, till at last the remnants of once-large flocks of bell-birds, tuis, pigeons, and other indigenous birds endeavoured by retreating to lonely fastnesses in the hills and gullies of the back country, to escape complete destruction.
So far as the birds are concerned, the list of those “absolutely protected” totals nearly 200 (inclusive of the various species of named birds). For instance, there are in this list (gazetted in March last year) nine varieties of albatross, six kiwis, twenty-two petrels, five robins, nine shags, five snipes, ten terns, six rails, ten penguins, seven parrakeets, and five wekas. One hopes that before the next godwit season arrives a place in this humanitarian list will be found for this little flying marvel.
There are thousands of sanctuaries in New Zealand. Almost every local body has under its control a domain or reserve, and the Animals Protection and Game Act provides that “every
Actually, however, the only sanctuaries that are maintained strictly for the propagation and preservation of native birds and plants are Kapiti and Little Barrier. The latter, in the Hauraki Gulf, has an area of 7,000 acres, and is very capably administered by a resident caretaker, under the control of the Tourist Department.
Kapiti has the distinction of having been constituted a sanctuary by a special Act of Parliament. The Lands Department controls this island, and the resident caretaker is Mr. A. S. Wilkinson. During the thirteen years since his appointment Kapiti has become famous amongst botanists and bird-lovers in many parts of the world. Just as certain specially fortunate individuals are blessed with what are known as “gardening fingers,” that enable them to bring to the highest stage of their destined beauty or utility flowers and plants and vegetable seeds, so do Mr. and Mrs. Wilkinson appear to possess the rare gift of making friends with the birds and to possess, too, that “extra” sense in the propagation of the many rare and lovely plants that now grace the hillsides.
Several portfolios of photographs of birds and plants and insects on Kapiti, taken by the caretaker and his wife, are monuments of photographic skill and of endless hours of patient waiting for the exactly favourable moment when the perfect bird picture can be snapped. A great many of Mrs. Wilkinson's photographs have adorned books and publications in New Zealand and elsewhere, and a similar compliment has been paid to Mr. Wilkinson's camera studies and descriptive articles.
The Government has given practical evidence of its sympathy in the work of preserving the Dominion's flora and fauna, and with this helpful backing, both Kapiti and Little Barrier are in process of becoming prolific breeding grounds for all that is best of the indigenous bird and plant life.
The earliest mention of Kapiti appears in Captain Cook's record of his first voyage to New Zealand, where he states that during his search for a suitable bay in which to careen his ship, he sailed into Queen Charlotte Sound in January, 1770. The record in his log is as follows: “About N. 9 leagues from Cape Teerawhitte, under the same shore, is a high, remarkable island, that may be distinctly seen from Queen Charlotte Sound. I have called it Entry Isle, and was taken notice of when we first passed it on Sunday, 14th of last month.”
The date of this entry is Wednesday, 7th February, the day he emerged from the Sound 168 years ago.
Subsequently the island became the headquarters of many whaling parties who ruthlessly attacked the whales passing through the Strait to their breeding grounds, and its bush-clad hills also resounded to the savage war cries of contending Maori tribes.
In his “History of the Taranaki Coast,” Percy Smith records that in 1821 the famous Ngatitoa chief, Te Rauparaha, whose followers were being continually harassed by Waikato tribes armed with muskets, made his historic trek from Kawhia. Hampered by all their belongings, and their elderly tribesmen and women and children, and travelling through country inhabited by hostile tribes, this exodus to the southern end of the North Island was indeed a heroic and desperate venture. Fighting their way almost every mile right down the coast from Taranaki, they eventually reached Otaki, whence they made frequent successful sallies against the Wairarapa and Rangitikei tribes.
Kapiti at this period was occupied by enemy tribes, and from his look-out at Otaki, Te Rauparaha cast longing eyes across the 12 miles strait that separates this strategic island rampart from the mainland at that point. He led several canoe expeditions across that sea barrier, but each attempt to surprise the defenders was repulsed, generally with heavy losses.
While he was conducting a raid into the Rangitikei district an assault on the island was made by Te Pehi, one of his ablest warrior chiefs, and this was successful, the Maori occupants being severely defeated.
On returning to find Kapiti in possession of his own men, Te Rauparaha made the island his headquarters, settling in the spacious Taepiro Valley, toward the southern end of the island. Here he lived for several years, and it is reported that when the first whaling ships called at Kapiti between the years 1827 and 1829, “Te Rauparaha traded with them for guns and ammunition, giving in exchange dressed flax and various kinds of fresh provisions, including potatoes.”
About a year after Te Rauparaha's occupation of Kapiti, the island was
On many parts of the island there remain small patches of cleared land, remnants of the villages of the various native residents, but these clearings are gradually getting fewer and smaller as the bush growth takes possession.
Kapiti is a landmark in Cook Strait, about 30 miles north of Wellington, and four miles from the mainland at Paraparaumu. It is 6 1/2 miles long, almost uniformly 1 1/2 miles in breadth, and a trig station on its highest point records a height of 1,780 feet. Some what oblong in shape, it rises abruptly as a high ridge out of the sea. On the western side, facing Cook Strait, there is a huge precipice rising to 1,000 feet, and on the eastern side there are very steep slopes covered with dense bush, mostly of second growth. The whole of the eastern face of the island is cleft by numerous gullies, deep and narrow, their beds being almost impassable because of immense boulders.
At the north end of the island is an extensive flat, consisting of boulders, which is the remains of old sea beaches, numerous ridges of wave-worn stones marking former shore terraces. On this flat is a small and shallow lagoon, originally cut off from the sea by a boulder bank, but now filled with slightly brackish water. It is stated that this lagoon is a haven for wild duck during the shooting season on the mainland.
Being exposed to the fury of the north-west wind, the slopes of the hills at this end of the island are without forest, there being only a few patches of stunted scrub in gullies sheltered from the full force of the wind.
Of the 5,000 acres comprising the island, the Lands Department controls about 4,200, the balance being owned by Mrs. Webber, a descendant of the original native owners. On this area about a thousand sheep appear to thrive satisfactorily on the herbage on the windswept hills and the few hundred acres of flat valley in which the homestead is located.
At Rangatira, where the caretaker's house is situated, there is also an extensive boulder flat, but this is closely covered with grass which provides ample feed for his dairy cows, securely fenced off from the sanctuary area.
Generally speaking, the climate is fairly temperate, and during cloudless days in summer the temperature is extremely hot. The winter is mild, but violent gales from the north-west and south-west are not uncommon. On those occasions, connection with the mainland is practically impossible.
Adjacent to Kapiti are three small islands. The largest, Tokomapuna, is about 70 chains distant, and was once a prominent whaling station. A broken try-pot, an old cannon, and a few whale bones still litter the beach as reminders of those rough days. It was to this island that, according to E. G. Wakefield, Colonel Wakefield went in order to discuss with Te Rauparaha the purchase of the land adjacent to Cook Strait. Other accounts state that both Colonel Wakefield and his brother, Captain Arthur Wakefield (who was killed during the deplorable Wairau incident) visited Te Rauparaha at Kapiti on different occasions.
The two other islands—Motungarara and Tahoramaurea—are each about three acres in extent, and are quite close to Kapiti. They, also, were whaling stations, but to-day they are occupied by fishermen.
In contrast to those warring incidents and to the turbulence of whaling days, is the peace and enchantment of this wonderful sanctuary for birds and trees and plants. To-day one can follow through the bush the tracks made by warlike tribes, and encounter nothing more fearsome than an inquisitive weka, or, if one is specially fortunate during a stroll in hours of darkness, a kiwi, that, in a fraction of a second, merges into the undergrowth and is gone.
The steep hillsides are completely hidden by the compact battalions of native trees, the amazing diversity of greens forming a bewildering mosaic. Contributing to this spectacle of arboreal loveliness are nearly every tree indigenous to the New Zealand bush, and practically all of them provide in their seasons some variety of food for the thousands of birds that make the island their home. Principal of these are the karaka, miro, matai, ngaio, tawa, akeake, kohekohe, kohepiro, mahoe, porokaiwhiri, rewa-rewa, hou-hou, kaikomako, titoke, and taupata, while the graceful hekatara, the lordly rata, puka, hinau, kamahi, horoeka, whau and nikau provide delightful aid to the riot of beauty.
Even in the cloistered gullies, where seldom the sun finds its way, there are gems of loveliness in plants that have been introduced by Mr. Wilkinson during his thirteen years as caretaker of Kapiti, and he is constantly adding to the list of approximately 150 that will, in time, make Kapiti a botanical museum. One of his specially-tended treasures is a kauri tree that in ten years has grown to nearly nine feet.
Probably nowhere else in New Zealand can the morning chorus of native birds be heard in as great a volume as on Kapiti, and one can count it as a privilege indeed to have listened to it when several hundreds of tiny throats offer their benediction to the dawn. The time to hear it is early in October, before the bellbirds begin to breed, and on a fine morning, after rain. Just as the sky is beginning to grow light, from the bush come a few tentative notes from a tui, followed by a full-throated volume of music from tuis on adjacent trees. The lovely liquid notes of the robin swell the chorus, and this is the signal for the bellbirds to chime in as a lead for the blackbirds, thrushes, whiteheads, tomtits, and fantails, with the chattering notes of the parrakeets, to aid in the harmony. Once more the bellbirds, with ringing notes, as though silver bells were chiming in every tree, carry the song till all the bush seems throbbing with glorious music, each little chorister seemingly endeavouring to rival its neighbour. For about half an hour this wonderful woodland orchestra continues its harmony, and then the harsh, screeching call of the long-tailed cuckoo, and the not unmusical call of the kaka, seem to act as a reminder to the songsters that dawn has come and that the practical needs of life must be attended to.
Most numerous of the birds are the graceful little songster, the North Island robin, tui, pigeon, silver eye (tauhou), whitehead, fantail (pi waka waka), tomtit (ngiru ngiru), pipit (pihoihoi), and morepork (ruru). Mut-tonbirds in thousands arrive in the spring, and nest in the peaty soil on the lofty range on the western side, and Kapiti is also a favourite breeding-place for the little blue penguin, which have been seen in the early morning hours waddling in single file along the bush tracks from the beach.
Regular visitors are the shining cuckoo, which arrives (allegedly from the Solomon Islands) in the spring for the sole purpose of laying its eggs in the nest of the grey warbler, and the long-tailed cuckoo, another parasitic migrant which selects for its egg-laying the nest of the whitehead. These tiny birds are thus saddled with the job of incubating and feeding the voracious offspring of casual visitants.
Grey and paradise ducks, petrels, that handsome shore-bird the banded dottrell, and two varieties of seagull also find Kapiti a haven free from disturbance in their mating; and it is a tribute to Mr. Wilkinson's vigilant supervision of the island that even the shags are increasing because they are free from molestation.
At one period cattle, sheep, goats and cats were numerous on Kapiti, but at the present time only a very few cats, rats and opossums remain, the other animals having been destroyed. Opossums and rats are regarded as inimical to certain kinds of birds, and in order to get rid of them the Lands Department employs a trapper all the year round. Efficiently to police the rugged hills is a tremendous task, but the trapper is doing a very good job, and the days of the ‘possum are numbered, while continued and successful warfare is waged on the rats.
Murder and love provide material for the most sensational legal battles. The one is impelled by hate, for greed or love, or some other passion. The other is begotten of scorn, humiliation or anger, while both, now and then, are based purely on cupidity.
A murder trial moves one to compassion. The tragedy of it surmounts all other emotions. The action for damages for a broken heart, on the other hand, frequently moves one to laughter and derision.
In nearly all cases, actions for breaches of promise to marry have the woman for the plaintiff. When a man's heart is broken by the capricious whim of a maiden it is not likely to be displayed before twelve good men and true. Sometimes, however, it has happened, and the story I am about to relate is a true version of one of the strangest trials that ever concerned a judge and jury.
The parties to the action were Lieutenant Blake of His Majesty's Navy, and the defendant was a widow, by name Wilkins, the widow of Staff Surgeon Wilkins. Those of you who remember the highlights of your history will remember that when the gallant General Wolfe fell on the heights of Quebec he was assisted by this very Surgeon Wilkins. That was more than thirty years before the famous Blake v. Wilkins trial. Surgeon Wilkins returned from the war and married pretty little Mary Brown, of Galway. The defendant had indeed been a widow for thirty years when this action was tried, so it is not difficult to realise that she was, as the newspapers proclaimed, in her sixty-fifth year when she had promised to marry Lieut. Blake. Lieut. Blake was a fine-looking young navy officer of thirty years of age.
The parties had become acquainted through living next door to each other. Lieut. Blake had retired from the Navy on the ground of ill-health; while the widow had for many years lived alone, enjoying the substantial fortune her first husband had bequeathed her. Blake lived with his mother, and both were living on a very small, joint income.
The idea of these two, the elderly widow and the young naval officer, falling in love, seemed incredible. It is said, however, that Mrs. Blake conceived the idea in the first place.
The bringing together of the two was a matter of some difficulty, and to impress the old lady with the idea of falling in love with a man young enough to be her son, was no easy task. Suffice it to say that after a good deal of anxiety the promise was made. Then the widow Wilkins woke up. She learned to her astonishment that she would have to part with the greater portion of her income to her young husband and realised that G-O-L-D was Lieut. Blake's spelling of the word love. She sent him about his business and point blank refused to go on with the marriage. The ample security that the elderly Mrs. Blake had counted on was disappearing before her eyes.
She then convinced her son that his heart was broken and that a sum such as £5,000 might compensate him for his broken heart.
So it was that, before a Judge and a Galway jury of twelve, an action for breach of promise to marry was heard on March 24th, 1817. The Court was crowded to suffocation—every road leading to Galway being filled with carriages bearing the curious to the trial. And naturally the newspapers made the most of the proceedings.
Some of the most famous counsel of the day were briefed. There were Vande leur, K.C., Lynch, Jonathan Hern and Compton (all for the plaintiff) while Dan O'Connell, Charlie Phillips and Everard looked after the interests of the widow. O'Connell was renowned, and Phillips was known as the “silver-tongued orator of the bar.”
The case was opened by Mr. Vandeleur. He stated the facts to the jury, telling them of the contract that had been made, how his poor client had been humiliated and all his
The Judge, by way of opening, then called on Dan O'Connell to address the jury. This was a case much more suited to the qualifications of Mr. Phillips than to those of Mr. O'Connell. Mr. O'Connell, therefore, said to the Judge:— “I find myself so inconvenienced with a cold in the head that I have entrusted to my learned friend Mr. Phillips the responsibility of addressing the jury.”
Mr. Phillips was well-known in Galway. His eloquence had many a time moved a jury to bring in verdicts more in keeping with his pleading than with common sense. He could move a jury against its first inclination.
So it was that he stood up and began what must have been one of the most amusing and extraordinary speeches that ever a jury was asked to listen to. His job was to show that there was no love, only greed, in the claim; that no one would believe that a young man would fall honestly in love with an old woman. I ought perhaps to say here that although she was elderly she would have resented being told so, and she refused to believe that her bloom of youth and charm had withered a little in the passing of the years.
Mr. Phillips began with these words: “My Lord, Gentlemen of the Jury, it has been left to me to defend my unfortunate old client from the double battery of law and love, which at the age of sixty-five has been unexpectedly opened upon her. Gentlemen, how vainglorious is the boast of beauty! How misapprehended have been the charms of youth, if years and wrinkles can thus dispoil their conquests and depopulate the Navy of its progress and beguile the bar of its eloquence! How mistaken were all the amatory poets from Anacreon downwards who preferred the bloom of the roses and the thrill of the nightingale to the saffron hide and dulcet treble of sixty-five!”
At this opening there was a delighted murmur from the body of the Court, and Phillips must have felt that he had quickly got on good terms with the jury. So intent on his task was he that he did not notice that his client, with her eyes blazing with indignation, had stamped away from where she had been sitting and had gone to the outer door. Phillips then went on to ridicule his client in the eyes of the twelve men before him. He sought to show that she was no loss on the field of love. He said: “Royal wisdom has told us that we live in a new era. The reign of old women has commenced, and if Johanna Southcote converts England to her creed why should not Ireland, less pious perhaps, kneel before the shrine of the irresistible widow Wilkins? It has been my client's happy fate to capture members of the death dealing professions of medicine and war; indeed, in the love episodes of the heathen mythology, Venus and Mars were considered inseparable. I know not if any of you have seen a beautiful print representing the fatal glory of Quebec, and the last moment of its immortal conqueror, and if so, you must have noticed the figure of the Staff Surgeon in whose arms the hero is expiring; that identical personage, My Lord, was the happy swain, who, forty or fifty years ago, received as award for his valour and skill the virgin hand of my venerable client.”
You will have noticed that by the use of his adjectives and dating back her marriage to forty or fifty years Phillips cleverly gave colour to his client's old age.
Then by way of contrast he drew a picture of the life led by Blake and his mother. How they were scraping along in well-night poverty and how they would naturally turn with envious eyes to the luxury enjoyed over the garden wall. The story then developed how the mother had frequently visited the widow and had told her of her gallant and distinguished son. She breathed words of love into the old lady's ears and painted a picture of almost divine felicity which was to be enjoyed as this man's spouse. At that time Blake had never seen the lady of his mother's choice. As Phillips said: “And then, gentlemen, the next that is known of him is that he has abandoned the Navy on account of ill-health. Then he listened to the suggestion breathed into his ears by his mother. Ah, gentlemen, he could not resist his affection for a female he had never seen! Almighty love eclipsed the glories of ambition; Trafalgar and St. Vincent flitted from his memory. He gave up all for a woman as Mark Antony did before him, or like the Cupid in Hudibras: ‘Took his stand Upon a widow's jointure land, with trembling sigh and trickling tear Longed for five hundred pounds a year'.”
His delightful address continued in the same strain, ridiculing the young man and emphasising the old age of the widow. The idea of love was made fantastic. The jury lay back in their seats and smiled broadly while there was a continuous murmur of laughter from the body of the Court which
The young man had through his mother communicated with the widow in the early stages, and the mother pressed on the claim which owed its very existence to her conspiracy. At first when he was able to make his first call upon her the widow was too unwell to see him when he knocked at her door. Mrs. Blake must have been a bit concerned and wondered if the widow's illness was genuine, for she hastened over to see her. She impressed the widow with the sad future that lay before her and told her that if she did not take care the only alternative to the altar was the grave. Mr. Phillips told the jury of this. Mrs. Blake had invoked the aid of her daughter to impress the widow with the affection that the son had developed for her, though he had not as yet seen her. Of this phase of the strange trial Mr. Phillips said: “You will not have failed to observe that while the female conspirators are at work, the lover himself had never seen the object of his idolatory. Like the maniac in the farce, he fell in love with the picture of his grandmother. For the gratification of his avarice he was content to embrace age, disease, deformity and widowhood.”
Then Phillips turned bitingly towards the jury and said: “Born in a country ardent to a fault, he advertised his happiness to the highest bidder, and now he solicits an honourable jury to become panderers to heartless cupidity. Harassed and conspired against, my client entered into the contract you have heard—a contract conceived in meanness, extorted by fraud and sought to be enforced by the most profligate conspiracy.”
After this he told the jury that the Blakes, once they had secured the hand of the widow, had insisted that after the marriage she should be allowed £80 a year out of her own income of £5,000.
Mr. Phillips then made great play of a letter that Blake's solicitors had written wherein they stated that the widow's breach had made it necessary for him to claim compensation, and that the proposed litigation would end most honourably for his client, and end too, to his pecuniary advantage. Mr. Phillips said to the jury: “I think that the solicitor is mistaken. Ill-health and not a visionary love compelled him to resign from the Navy. His constitution was declining, his advancement was annihilated: as a forlorn hope he bombarded the widow Wilkins.
‘And now he has returned and war thoughts Have left their places vacant; in their room Come very soft and amorous desires, All prompting him how fair young Hero is.'
He first attacked her fortune, with herself, through the artillery of the Church, and having failed in that, he now attacks her fortune, without herself, through the assistance of the law.”
Counsel brought to play his outstanding ability for satire. While he agreed that this type of case might properly be brought, he told the jury that it was usual for the girl to be the plaintiff and he knew of no case where the plaintiff was a man. He also conceded that in an exceptional case where a man had been grossly deceived by a young and beautiful woman and had been brought to ill-health and poverty through her cruel perversity, an action of this kind might be understandable. He added that even in an extreme case he felt sure that a sensitive soul would rather droop uncomplaining into the grave than solicit the mockery of a worldly compensation. He then trenchantly criticised this case and declared it to be a pure money-making expedition—prostituting for a base purpose the formalities provided by the law courts. His peroration was in these words, words which I repeat on account of the effect they had on the other side.
“Gentlemen of the jury, remember that I ask for no mitigation of damages. Nothing less than your verdict will satisfy me. By that verdict you will sustain the dignity of your
As he sank back into his chair there arose from all parts of the court the greatest applause. There was shouting and clapping which for a long time drowned the cries of “Silence” which the policeman yelled at the top of his voice.
The effect was overwhelming. As the noise subsided counsel for Blake conferred, and then leant forward and spoke to the solicitor who in his turn said something to Blake who nodded his head. Then Mr. Vandeleur rose to his feet and told the Judge that under all the circumstances his client agreed that a juror should be withdrawn to enable the judge to enter judgment for the defendant with costs.
Again there was clapping and laughter as the Judge told the jury that they would not be required to consider the case any more, and he entered judgment for the defendant, the widow Wilkins, with costs and all disbursements.
So ended a queer case, based on cupidity, and to the shame of all concerned for the plaintiff, that is, the Blake family. The court was then formally adjourned and every one was laughing over the case. It had been gloriously finished and counsel were congratulating Phillips on his wonderful address. Flushed with pride in his success Phillips tied up his brief and made for the door leading to the passage whence he would go to the robing room. The crowd made room for him—the hero of the moment, to pass by. It was only for a brief moment that he was a hero. At the door he saw his client—the widow Wilkins—blazing with fury. “It's old, is it, decrepit is it? Take that, and that!” She had gone out during the speech and had snatched up her carriage whip with which she lashed Phillips unmercifully. To the widow it did not matter that the distinguished lawyer had really done her a great service. But “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” Phillips drew his gown over his shoulders, and, pursued by his client vainly endeavouring to repeat the whipping, ran through the door leading into the robing room and slammed it in the widow's face. Although a great victory, it was, indeed, a strange case and a strange fee for Mr. Phillips.
A tribute to the transport and accommodation facilities for overseas visitors to New Zealand was paid by Mr. Walter C. Savage, of Sydney, in a recent interview with a representative of the Rotorua “Post.”
Mr. Savage is the principal of W. Savage and Company Proprietary, Limited, manufacturers of shovels.
Mr. Savage said that in Australia one frequently heard criticism of the facilities for tourists in New Zealand, but during his present visit he had found these criticisms to be groundless. The Dominion, he said, has made wonderful progress in the past seven years, and what had astonished him was the excellent town which had been built up at Napier following the disastrous earthquake of 1931. He marvelled at the spirit of the people who had accomplished the re-establishment of the town in such a brief space of years.
“The railway arrangements in New Zealand are very good and the sleeping cars on the Limited express, between Wellington and Auckland, and the comfortable accommodation of the Rotorua express compares favourably with the Australian State trains,” he said.
“The hotel accommodation and service in this country is also all that could be desired, and better than I have encountered in some places I have visited in Australia.”
Mr. Savage was particularly impressed with Rotorua, and congratulated the city fathers on their foresight in planting trees in the streets. “I think Rotorua is an excellently laid out town,” he said. Mr. Savage was also impressed with the Government Gardens and the facilities available for all classes of sport.
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Dumping rocks into the sea. That is oyster cultivation by the Government on the shores of the Kaipara Harbour, North Auckland. Of course, the stones have to be the right size, the right quality, and placed in the right position. The Kaipara Harbour is one of the most extensive water-ways in New Zealand, with one of the most dangerous bars on which lie the bones of many ships that came into and out of the harbour during the busy days of the kauri timber trade. More kauri came out of the Wairoa River that flows into this harbour than any other waterway. There were always oysters in the Kaipara, but continuous picking gradually depleted the beds so that in 1928–29, the Marine Department commenced experiments in the cultivation of this shell fish. As a result of the knowledge gained from these experiments, there are now many miles of oyster cultivations. Last year £1,750 was expended in placing 4,040 cubic yards of rock over an area of 64,703 square yards in these, the largest oyster cultivations in New Zealand. The stone placed must not be too hard; if it were, it would be too difficult to separate the oyster from the rock when ready for market. Suitable stone is obtained from Huketere on the harbour and barged to the selected area, where oysters are to be found but not sufficient rock for more oysters to spawn. Here the quarried stone, each piece being not less than one cubic foot, is placed in long rows at about the quarter-flood line so that the rocks are covered with water for the greater part of the tide. That is all the work that man does, the balance is for nature to carry out, and nature does her work well. At Whakakie, where stone was placed during January and February of this year, small oysters, oyster spats they are called, can be seen on the rocks, while at Timber Bay, where rocks were placed five years ago and are now covered with oysters, there are a few ready for the table, but the majority do not reach maturity for from seven to eight years. Oysters start to spawn in November and finish in February, while the picking season commences in June and is completed before the spawning season. In the Kaipara Harbour this season the Government pickers, six in number and all Maoris, operated on twenty-six areas scattered around the foreshore and from 600 to 700 sacks were shipped to the Auckland market. The men are housed on a large barge and this is towed from one bed to another. On this floating home the men are most comfortable and as the pay is good, 9/3 a sack, and a man can pick and wash two sacks a day, they are a very contented lot. Originally the oysters were marketed in the same condition as they were picked from the rocks, but now they are washed. Although the oysters grow on rocks, these are adjacent to extensive mud-flats, and the shell fish become coated with this mud, hence the name previously given to Kaipara oysters, mud oysters, a misnomer, nevertheless. Now the oysters are washed in a machine that is erected on the barge on which the men are housed. After passing through this machine all the mud is washed from the shell and the small shells separated. The men pick while the tide allows and wash their pickings when the beds are covered by the tide. The sacks of oysters are collected by a boat trading to Helensville, and from this point railed to the Auckland market.—W.F.B.
Most New Zealanders are familiar with the idea of the annual autumn migration of the godwits from our shores to the far off regions of Siberia. But a few eyewitness observations of their flight preparations incorporating an item of information which, I have cause to think, is unique in ornithological lore, will be of general and particular interest to the many bird loving readers of this journal.
Knowing the godwits and one of their main habitats so well, it is one of my disappointments that I was not a personal eye-witness of the phenomenon with which I hope to interest and impress you. However, my absence from the scene on the particular day this unique observation was made in nowise detracts from its authenticity, for the witness who actually was present is, to my knowledge, impeccable as an observer of Nature.
Therefore, you may know that this account is a true one of the preparations the godwits make prior to their magnificent migration.
The scene is the Sandspit, that geological freak extending for twenty miles in an easterly curve from the north-western extremity of the South Island and partially enclosing Golden Bay—the former Massacre Bay.
The Sandspit itself, be it known, is one of the most popular homes of the godwits. Probably it is the most important of the taking-off places for the migration, for, prior to the great flight, they gather there by the many hundreds of thousands. For a week or so before the one great day, they leave every dawn for what seem to be practice flights. From the narrow shores of the Sandspit, they wheel up and up into the air until the sky is almost clouded with them, crying and calling their plaintive mew down the wind. More and many more godwits wing up to join the gathering hosts and then—away to the north until the huge cloud that was, has become a speck and finally melts into nothing.
On every eve of every such dawn they return. Their home-coming is slightly less orderly in effect. Wearily and in batches they drop to the beach worn with fatigue and famished with hunger. The ravenous cries and searchings for food and more food are well nigh piteous. But on the next dawn and the next evening, behold, the same events are repeated. And on the next and the next and the next.
It is thought by some observers that these day by day practice flights of the godwits are made from the Sandspit to the Northland beaches, or thereabouts, for three main purposes: to strengthen their bodies and wings; to weed out the weaklings; and to gather recruits. The first two reasons have their plain appeal. The third one is more debatable.
I have known sheepmen who have been able to estimate with a nice and enviable accuracy that there were nine-hundred-and-seventy sheep in such and such a mob and whose quick estimate proved superbly near the real number when the subsequent count was made at the yards. But the obvious difficulty of making any sort of an estimate of numbers amongst a vast concourse of restless birds on a beach is beyond any birdman's skill. Thus when I write that it does seem to an observer that the godwits numbers grow day by day as a result of the trial flights, I must also warn that, as an observation of fact, this soseeming has more of belief than science behind it.
At last comes one awaited, cool grey dawn; the excited gathering of the prescient hosts; an increased crescendo of their cries; and an eerie sense in the watcher of some primeval imminent thing to be.
The Day! God alone knows how they know it, but the godwits know The Day. It is a slow dawning thing. And knowledge of its advent comes with the pale dawn mists. Comes borne on the softening land breeze. And its coming seeps and creeps into one's soul as a sea fog invades and percolates the interstices of the air itself. It is The Day. It is known of itself. “O Iole, how did you know Hercules was a god?” And the only answer: “Because I was content.”
This, then, is the day of the migration. And now is enacted a quite uncanny happening. Out from the great assemblage of birds whose muscular little hearts are by now, we may well assume, palpitating with a stressed anxiety, there separate out some wise birds endowed with a divine right of romantic leadership or, more prosaically if you will have it so, endowed with knowing eyes and past experience, who move in and out and in and out amongst the hosts, pushing, pecking and nudging some hundreds of recruits to the rear. Medical officers! And a piteous sight it is. But inexorably it continues and for an hour or so the eye-witness observes a process as wise as it is astonishing in its portrayal of unfathomable instinct. Later events shall show us what is happening.
The final amazing upward roar of
But who are these? These so pitiful beings, a paltry hundred or so left so mournfully, so helplessly, so utterly sadly on the beach near at hand? These godwits left to watch, their eyes straining, straining into the distant blue, their hearts filled with a vague unresting nostalgia, who are these?
These are the left-behinds, the pushed, pecked and nudged asides, the rejects. Again let us see.
Numerous things are done in the interests of science. This particular thing was done at the call of sheer curiosity. Its only pardonable feature is that it has added to our knowledge of the godwits.
Several double-barrel guns roar and half a hundred of the left-behinds have no more sorrow and no more ill-fate to bemoan. They are gathered up and laid in rows.
Every one of these feathered corpses is now examined carefully and with what remarkable revelations! For in the case of every bird so examined, some pre-death physical defect is found to have been present. In some an eye was blind; in some a toe or foot was missing; some had broken beaks or mal-formed beaks; others were deformed in wing or body. In brief, all these left-behinds had been deformed in some manner, so that what really had been witnessed by the observers of this pre-migration sorting out was, virtually, a strict “medical examination” carried out by a number of “qualified” birds with impartial and immaculate accuracy.
Just cause and reason for this strict examination and rejection system are not difficult to educe in terms of race-survival instincts. And, of course, similar rejections and even killings of their defective members are common knowledge in animal kingdom lore. But such other rejections and subsequent killings usually are attended by, or tinged with, a vulgarity and viciousness quite foreign to the godwits’ methods. Here on the Sandspit was witnessed a natural history phenomenon that was as thorough as it was effective in method and as kind as it was necessary in intent; and I know of nothing in the annals of bird life quite so intellectual, in our own terms, as was this pre-migration medical examination of the candidates for the awe-inspiring flight from our shores to those far-off Siberian regions.
We read and sometimes hear that godwits make good eating, and no one could find fault with a marooned sailor adding godwits to his diet of shell fish and seaweed. But why it is that well fed men with beef and potatoes abounding should want to eat pigeons, larks and godwits, is beyond my understanding. It would appear that there are some men whose sole reaction to anything is to wonder how it would fraternise with their own gastronomical apparatus. Kill, skin and eat. Is this their only appreciation? And there exist in the varied ranks of the Dominion's sportsmen, those who shoot godwits for the fun of the thing! Now a godwit even on the wing is only a boy's gun game. But I have known of miscalled sportsmen who have sat on beaches, enticed godwits to within a few feet of their guns and then—claimed a great bag! I think we all, gun men or pacifists, pay our respects to the courage of those true sportsmen who pit their hunting skill against considerable personal danger. Such men as these seek out the wild boar, the rough wild hill and mountain frequenting deer, wapiti and thar; or go further afield for their gunning. But what can we say of those godwit murderers who entice, shoot, bag and brag concerning those graceful birds before they get their chance to die more nobly out on the wide clean salt seas? What you would say of them, is I imagine, unprintable. And what I say of them is immediately censored by my examiner, the Editor. But he does not say you may not have a guess.
For a minute Barbara looked as if she was going to cry when she saw that Kingi and the sphenodons had disappeared. “Oh, where could they have gone?” she cried.
“They can't be far away,” said Michael, “for we weren't long in the Palace courtyard. We had better not wait out here, though, we must see if we can't rescue Peter, Tiny Toes and Dimples, alone. Have you got your pointed stick ready?”
For an answer, Barbara held up the stick which she clasped tightly in her hand.
“Right! Come on!” said Michael.
Once more they crept into the courtyard. Their sticks held in front of them like spears. Before them loomed the Palace. It was not a very large building and the only window appeared to be in the tower. The children could not see any doors. Quietly as they could the children crept round the building.
“How are we going to get in?” asked Barbara.
“There must be some way,” answered Michael. He began to feel the shells on the walls. He pressed and pulled and turned the shells at the bottom of the wall and up as far as he could reach. He was just giving up in despair when click! a section of the wall opened, disclosing a long, dark narrow tunnel.
“Ooh! I don't like going in!” exclaimed Barbara, “It's so dark!” She shivered
“We will have to go in, anyway,” said Michael; “Are you ready?”
Barbara nodded. Michael took her hand and led the way. The passage was so narrow that Michael bumped his head two or three times on the roof. “Ugh!” he grunted, “The roof's jolly low, here!”
How long they crept through the tunnel, they did not know. “Shs!” whispered Michael, “I can see a light ahead.” They had come to the end of the tunnel and they entered into a large, bright passage. The walls were of the same coloured shells as the walls of the Palace outside. On tip-toe, hardly daring to breathe, and with their hearts thumping in their ears with excitement, the children went silently down the passage.
Suddenly Michael stopped. “I can hear birds singing,” he exclaimed. “The sound's coming from the end of the passage. There's a room there.”
They peered through the opening into the room, and then both gasped with amazement. From the walls and the ceiling, were hanging hundreds of small cages, each with a canary in it, singing merrily.
“Oh!” said Barbara, “Isn't it wonderful! But why are they here?”
“I wonder,” answered Michael. “I think I would call this room ‘The Room of a Thousand Songs.'”
“That's a good name,” said Barbara.
“But, come,” Michael said, “We must hurry. There's an opening over the other side of the room. Let's see where that leads to.”
They walked quickly over to the opening, and entered into another room. This room was more amazing than the last. The shells of the room were gleaming and scintillating like mirrors. Hundreds of fairies and elves perched in the most dangerous positions were vigorously polishing the shells. Barbara and Michael stood unnoticed for a moment, then Michael coughed. With one accord, the elves and fairies stopped work and looked down at the children from the walls and ceiling.
“Excuse me,” said Michael, “But could you tell us the way to find Peter, Tiny Toes and Dimples?”
There was no answer. Then an elf, high up on the ceiling, said, “Who are you? And where have you come from?”
“We are Barbara and Michael,” answered Michael, “and we come from New Zealand.”
“Oh, New Zealand,” said the elf dreamily, “That's where we all come from,” he waved his hand at the elves and fairies round the room, “but I'm afraid we shall never see our home again.”
“You haven't answered our question yet,” said Michael impatiently.
“What was it again?” asked the elf, “My memory's very bad.” Michael repeated the question.
“I don't know who you mean,” said the elf, “We've seen no Peter, Tiny Toes or Dimples.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Barbara, “We'll never find them!”
“What are you polishing the shells for?” asked Michael.
“The Goblin King makes us do this,” answered the elf. “This is the Room of Mirrors. Here the goblins dance and play and look at themselves in the shells. They are very vain, you know.”
“Where are all the goblins now?” asked Barbara.
“They are asleep, no doubt,” answered the elf, “But you had better watch out, for they may wake up any time.”
“I'm not asleep,” said a voice.
The children started and turned in the direction of the voice, which came from an opening in the room.
“Quick, run for it!” shouted Michael. But they were too late. A goblin barred their exit.
“So you want to find a little boy called Peter, and two elves called Tiny Toes and Dimples?”
“H-how d-did you know?” stuttered Michael.
“I was listening!” answered the goblin with a grin.
“You-you s-s-shouldn't have b-been,” said Barbara, “It's a bad habit.”
“Please let us go,” pleaded Michael.
“Don't be frightened,” said the goblin kindly. “I want to help you.”
“H-help us?” stuttered Barbara, “How?”
“By showing you the way to find Peter, Tiny Toes and Dimples.”
“Oh, you are a very kind goblin,” said Barbara.
“It's nothing,” answered the goblin. “You see, I hate the goblin King. He banished my father and mother from the Kingdom for planning a rebellion against him, and now he takes his spite out on me.”
“He's a nasty man,” said Barbara.
“If you will follow me, I will lead you first to Tiny Toes and Dimples.”
“Oh, thank you,” chorused the children. “Good-bye elves and fairies,” said Michael.
“I hope you see your home again soon,” said Barbara.
“Good-bye. Good-bye,” said the elves and fairies.
The goblin went through the opening in the far wall and up a flight of stairs. The children quickly followed. Up and up they climbed. The stairs wound round and round, until the children became quite giddy. “This is the staircase leading to the tower,” explained the elf.
“There must be thousands of stairs,” said Barbara.
They came to a place where the stairs branched off. “This way,” said the goblin as he took the left flight of stairs. He stopped before a little door on the top. Barbara and Michael could hardly contain themselves, they were so excited. The goblin inserted a key, and pushed the door open. There, inside the tiny room were Tiny Toes and Dimples sitting on stools and stitching spider webs together to make summer suits for the goblins. They glanced up as the door opened. The children rushed in. “We've found you at last!” they cried.
The elves danced madly round the room in their excitement and they began to ask questions, one after another.
“There's no time for questions now,” said the goblin. “You are not free, yet, you know.”
Tiny Toes turned to the goblin. “Did you tell Barbara and Michael where we were?”
“Yes,” answered the goblin, “But it's nothing,” he ended modestly.
“Nothing!” exclaimed Michael. “Why we can never reward you for what you have done!”
“Quick!” said the goblin. “We must waste no more time. I will show you the way to Peter.”
The children and the elves followed the goblin down the stairs again and up the flight of stairs on the right. There the goblin opened a little door with a key. Peter was sitting on a stool with his elbows resting on a table, and his head pressed in his hands. He was saying over and over again, “Fourteen hundred and ninety-two Columbus sailed the ocean blue. Fourteen hundred and —” He looked at the children standing in the doorway.
“Gosh!” he exclaimed. “Is it really you? Whoopee!” He jumped up quickly and hit his head a nasty bang on the ceiling.
“Ooh!” he exclaimed. “Why do they make these rooms so low!” With one sweep of his hand he pushed the pile of schoolbooks which were on the table onto the floor. “I'm done with you!” he said. He eyed the children again. “What's ever happened to you?” he asked. “You're as small as the elves. By the way, who are they?”
“We are Tiny Toes and Dimples,” answered Tiny Toes, “and we brought Barbara and Michael here in a fairy boat to help find you. And as regards the size of Barbara and Michael, I think it would be a most convenient size for you to be.” He took out of his pocket his Fairy Reducing Powder and sprinkled it over Peter's head. Peter grew smaller and smaller. “How funny it feels,” he said.
“We must hurry!” cried the goblin. “I can hear someone coming!”
He ran down the stairs, the children and the elves after him. They ran through the Room of Mirrors and the Room of a Thousand Songs. By now they could hear the cries of the goblins who were assuredly gaining on them! Down the passage they ran and into the tunnel.
“Quicker! Quicker!” shouted the goblin. “They'll catch us!”
The children tumbled after each other out of the tunnel and into the bright sunshine of the courtyard.
“Make for the gate!” shouted the goblin. But freedom was not to be theirs.
Straight in front of them were dozens of goblins, who, with warlike cries, rushed towards them!
(To be continued.)
I Had been browsing in the sun in a deck-chair on the lawn. My straw hat was tipped over my eyes and I was dreaming, as we all do sometimes, where I should like to be just at that moment. I don't know how it happened, but a most disturbed feeling came over me. It was as if my spiritual being was separating from my physical self and as I pushed back my hat from over my eyes, I saw from my grandstand seat on the lawn, my spiritual being floating in the air above me, slowly moving away from my gaze, until it became a tiny speck in the blue sky, then it finally disappeared altogether.
To say I was amazed is to put it mildly. I was astounded that such a thing could have happened—that I was left without my spiritual being—the main part of me. What was I to do about it? I could not shout, “Hey! Come back! You've left me behind!” For clearly my spiritual being was going exploring and I wanted to be in on this exploration business! The next think I remember was that I rose from my deck-chair, and I felt myself leave the ground and waft gently in the air up to the blue sky in the direction which my spiritual being had taken.
I caught up with her very swiftly, and we played a game of “follow my leader” in the sky. Now and again, she would turn and wave a white hand at me, a tantalising smile on her face. How long we floated about in the sky I cannot tell, but I began to feel exhausted, perhaps my spiritual being could see this, for she commenced to float slowly to earth, and as if drawn by some irresistible force, I did the same and touched ground a minute or two later.
A feeling of joy surged through me as I stood on a hill and saw the wonderful country stretched out before me. A vast forest of giant pine trees softened the jagged contour of the rugged slopes of the hills, and swift mountain streams sang joyously on their way to the sea. Lakes, like jewels reflecting the sun, were almost hidden at the end of dim forest trails. A single track wound down the hill on which I stood, the only outlet, as far as I could see to the world outside.
It was my spiritual being who first brought my notice to it—a log cabin nestling peacefully in the protection of the tall pines that all but encircled it. “Come,” she said, as she led me over to it and pushed the door open. “Enter,” she commanded.
I entered, not a little timidly at first. I felt an usurper. I had no right to walk into this cabin. It did not belong to me, but my spiritual being quickly dispelled any fears I had on that score. “It is yours,” she said. Strange to say, now that she had said it, I did not query that statement, rather did I accept it as right that the cabin should be mine. There was no other human being for many miles around, and what was a cabin for but to live in?
I surveyed the interior, which seemed cosy enough, with two bunks, a bearskin for a floor rug, bright pictures on the walls, a tiny kitchen with a cook-stove and a cupboard, which when I opened it I saw was stocked with provisions.
My spiritual being began to speak again. For the first time, she looked me straight in the eyes, “You will live here,” she said, “in this peaceful kingdom, a million miles away from the rushing race of men. Away from the world where men make wars and where-there are rumours of wars, where-statesmen argue and politicians disagree, where the weak and the strong, the good and the bad walk along the road of life. You will be far away from, all that, dreaming your dreams, thinking your own thoughts in this your own domain. I will leave you in contentment and peace. Good-bye.”
“But—you are not going so soon,” I began.
My words fell on empty air, my spiritual being had vanished! As the awful realisation of what had happened came over me, a cold, gripping, frightening feeling worked its way up from the tips of my toes, until it reached my brain. Here was I in my dream place—the place where I had wished to-be all my life—alone in the great outdoors, but—without my spiritual being! My physical self, I felt, would come to some harm without her to guide me. But what could I, poor mortal that I am, do about it? There is nothing to be done, when one's spiritual being plays truant! I would just have to do the best I could, until she decided to return to me, if she ever did return!
I shook myself and a little of the cold, gripping feeling left me as I realised that I was here in a log cabin all alone with only the whispering pines for company, and the bands of elk, the deer and the scores of other creatures who made their home here.
I would make the most of this opportunity of enjoying myself to the full alone among the fastness of these hills. I stood on the step of the cabin and gazed out on to the beautiful country which was spread like a carpet below me. This—this was my own domain, a
I turned my thoughts to food and, searching among the groceries, I opened a tin of corned beef, and a tin of peaches, and made a good meal. It was necessary to obtain fresh water, so I took down a bucket hanging on a nail on the wall, and I wended my way down the track to a little stream which flowed over smooth boulders. I filled my bucket to the brim and walked slowly back to the cabin. I breathed the cool mountain air into my lungs. I felt exhiliratingly happy at that moment. A dozen ideas were drumming in my brain, ideas for a novel which would have to be written here in this ideal spot for quiet, clear thinking. It was while I was waiting for the pot of water for tea to boil on the cookstove, that I commenced to explore the cabin, and in a corner I came across a trunk in which was a bundle of foolscap writing sheets. Surely the gods were good to me!
I sat on the step of the cabin, sipping my tea as the last rays of the setting sun dyed the horizon crimson.
I commenced to write the first chapter of my novel, the story of which was set high in the hills, where a hero and a heroine met quite by chance—
When I turned into my bunk that night, the cares of the workaday world seemed far away. I wondered where my spiritual being was—I slept soundly to the music of the whispering pines and the occasional cry of the mountain coyote. I was up with the dawn, had breakfast, and once more continued with my novel until lunch time. After lunch, I decided that a walk down the track to the stream and perhaps further afield would not be amiss. But it was so peaceful by the stream, that I could not tear myself away, and I sat lazily on the green grass. I had been sitting there for quite a while, when I saw two men on ponies climbing the track to the cabin!
I quickly concealed myself, behind a tree where I could obtain a good view of them as they came up the track towards me. They were dressed in true rancher style, and they were singing a little song, a song they sing round camp fires—a song of horses and men and cattle. One man was a handsome fellow, he was quite young with a rugged, healthy complexion. I noticed as he passed that he had dark eyes. They tethered their ponies to a ring in the wall of the cabin. I saw them look in amazement at the open door, and I watched them disappear inside. They both appeared again and gazed about them as if searching for someone, this usurper, who had used their cabin in their absence, for I had no doubt, that they, or at least one of them was the owner. I was in a sorry plight, many thousands of miles from home, in what country I did not know, and without my spiritual being. And then, I thought, could I—dare I—throw myself on their mercy? I debated the point for many minutes, wishing that my spiritual being was there to help me. I finally made up my mind, and squaring my shoulders and taking a deep breath, I walked up the track. The men had disappeared inside the cabin again, and the door was closed. They had apparently thought the former occupier was many miles away by this time.
I knocked on the door. It immediately opened. The handsome man stood there and he towered over my small form, as I stood trembling on the step.
“Well! I'm jiggered!” he exclaimed. “Hey! Alex! Look who's here!”
Alex came from the kitchen, looked hard and then blinked his eyes, as if they had deceived him. “How did she get here, George?” he asked.
“She must be the one who took charge of our cabin in our absence. Are you?” asked George.
“Yes,” I almost whispered.
“Come in,” he invited.
I went in and perched on the end of a bunk. George sat on a low stool, while Alex leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette, his hands in his pockets.
“Now,” said George, “the truth young lady, and nothing but the truth. How did you get here and where did you come from?”
“Well—eh—” I began,” I have always wanted a place like this and so—”
“You took it.” Alex finished the sentence for me.
I nodded unhappily.
“And,” said George, “Is this your work?” He held up the manuscript sheets of my novel. I bowed my head. “Not bad,” he said, “from what I have read—the first line I mean—for that's all I have had time to read, but, of course, I don't suppose it could be as good as mine,” he said modestly.
“Do you write?” I asked eagerly.
“Ho! Ho!” laughed Alex. “Does he write! George D. Lawson, the great outdoor writer, the greatest writer of the wide open spaces that's ever set pen to paper.'
“And—do you write here?” I asked.
“Write here?” laughed George, “Jingo, no! It's too quiet. I write where I can hear the bustling noise of a great city, feel the pulsation of human life around me, then I can get my ideas on to paper in proper perspective. I come here for my holidays —to recuperate, as it were, from my tiresome toil. To fish, to shoot deer, to fill my lungs with mountain air. If, I wrote here at the seat of my operation, as it were, my ideas would grow stagnant.”
“But don't you gain inspiration from all this?” I asked.
“My dear young lady,” he answered, “I was born and bred in a city. Inspiration can be gained only by contact with people or places. I suppose I do gain a certain amount of inspiration here in the holidays, but I have to go back to the city to put my ideas on to paper, otherwise my characters would be lifeless. Once you have made your contacts, you see from afar in true perspective, the setting and the characters for your story. But you haven't answered my first questions and no evading them. How did you come here and where did you come from?”
“I flew here,” I answered, “and I came from New Zealand.”
“Flew here!” stammered George, “From New Zealand!”
He looked at me as if I had taken leave of my senses. “Where's the ‘plane?”
“'Plane!” I echoed. “Oh, I haven't one.”
“Haven't a ‘plane,” George said in a hopeless sort of a voice, “yet you flew here. Come now, that won't go down with me? Out with the truth.”
I saw that he was losing patience and I decided that if I really told him the truth of my arrival, he would laugh at me and say I was mad, as he would have every right to say. Clearly, I could not do any good by staying any longer. “I think I'll go now,” I said. “Go, where?” asked Alex. “Home,” I answered. I walked to the door. George opened it. “You're a mystery to me,” he said, “but if you want to go, you may. If you can't make it, though, New Zealand's a jolly long way from New Mexico, we shall be pleased to put you up. You shall have the cabin and we shall sleep in the open.”
“Thank you,” I said, “you are very kind, but I think I will try and get home. Goodbye, and thank you for the use of your cabin.”
“Don't mention it,” replied George. “Goodbye,” A humorous smile gathered at the corners of his mouth and his eyes twinkled. “Nice to have met you. Call again sometime. By the way, don't you want your manuscript?”
“No,” I answered listlessly. They watched me as I started down the track. I was a little dazed. Night was coming on. I could see myself meeting an ignominious death in the open—in the wide open spaces—in my dream place—I walked on and on, I felt as if I was walking to the ends of the earth. My legs became automatic and as they moved I followed. How long I kept going, I do not know, but I was feeling exhausted and seriously thinking of laying down on the grass to die, when there appeared in front of me on the track my spiritual being. And she gave a mocking laugh. I was so overjoyed at her welcome appearance, that I could not think of all the angry things I intended to say to her, instead I asked, “Where—where have you been?”
“Around the world three times. You and your wide open spaces—ha—ha—your beautiful dream place. If I had been with you, you would have stayed at that cabin and the handsome man would have married you, just as I had planned. You spoil all my plans for your well-being,” she said disgustedly. “How did I know!” I exclaimed. “You shouldn't have left me.”
“If you must know what I think of you,” she went on haughtily, “without me you have no backbone, you are a lifeless, irresponsible mortal, that's all.” “Thanks,” I said, “and now, that you have brought me here, you can take me home again.”
“I didn't bring you here,” she answered, “you came of your own free will, and you'd better not do it again, because, next time,” she said darkly, “I might not rescue you. Come on.”
She rose into the air and that irresistible force caused me to do likewise. We flew over the cabin. The two men were standing on the step gazing down into the darkness below.
I heard George say distinctly, “She won't come back, old man. She was a vision, that's all, a vision …”
I suddenly found myself sitting once again in the deck-chair on the lawn. My hat had fallen over my face, until I felt almost suffocated. I removed it and gazed at the blue sky. There above me floated my spiritual being. “Move over,” she said crossly. I moved slightly to one side on the chair and she squeezed herself into the small space and melted into my body. I was whole once more!
This extraordinary experience took place over a year ago, and has been my only journey into my dream place. George, the author, and Alex, the beautiful country of New Mexico and the cosy log cabin are rapidly becoming but dim memories.
You may be interested to know that I have just finished reading George D. Lawson's new book, and it's all about a girl who appears in the mountains quite suddenly and as suddenly disappears again and of the young man who searches the world over for her. He eventually finds her and they live happily ever after. “The Mountain Vision,” the book is called. Rather strange, don't you think? As for my novel, I can't remember a word I wrote and somehow, now, all inspiration for it has gone.
I am still hoping that my spiritual being may play truant again. I really don't think she would not come to my aid when required. I would like to make another journey into my dream place—to the great outdoors, far away from civilisation, where only peace reigns.
Down in the forest something stirs! Deep in the ferro-foliaged, concrete-castellated jungles of Jumbledom, high in the filigreed forests of Finance, down in the dim caves of Commerce, out on the paved and grassless glades of Citydom where the shrill call of the news-piper vies with the wild shriek of the motor-jar and the scream of the savage brake-band, a strange unrest has come upon the birds of boodledom.
There is a feverish fluffing of feathers, a preening of pinions, a wiffling of wings and an overhaul of the fuselage as though in preparation for flight or feast—or both.
Even the old “oof” owl, moping boodleously in his cell of percentance is heard to hoot a gruff acknowledgment of something that stirs within his gilt-edged obscurities.
Out in the leafless labyrinths of Noisedom there is a twittering and twinking on the roosts. The smart young game-cocks, the tweeting type-warblers flitting from job to job, the counter-flappers flipping among the thickets of lip-stick, the garrulous gad-wits, the solemn secretary birds, the roosting stool-pigeons, ground birds and high-fliers, birds of a feather and birds without a feather to fly with, tailor birds, sailor birds, gay warblers, game birds and tame birds, near-birds and queer birds—all the species which roost and boost in the human highways and skyways—seem infected with a strange fever of fervour. There is a whirring and stirring in the concrete coppices and crags. There is a fluttering in the domains of Domesticity where thousands of homing-birds are preparing to moult their plumes on the ocean's edge, to abandon their family trees, to disown the nest-egg of dull discretion, and to flap a flippant wing in far flight.
Already the first tin-trumpeting of fledglings is heard on the hills of Suburbia, heralding the season of peace, plenty and youthful bedlam, when the seed of goodwill is broadcast over the land and the pickings are plenteous.
Something happens in the heart of every bird when December bursts above the craggy peaks of dumb endeavour. Wilted wings are exchanged for highflying flippers. The top of the tree is no longer high enough. For at Christmas tide time is untied, the spirit flies the coop and the mind is jacked up for repairs. It's a pity that every day isn't Christmas Day, but it's good in the silly season to give the subordinated ego an airing and to hang out the
Perhaps the greatest boon of the boony season is the excuse it offers to recognise the humanity of man …. the bond that binds …. with tangible token. The Christmas gift is a cash-order on kindliness, a halt for thought. Even if you are of, the kind whose ability to buy the right gift for the wrong person amounts to inverted genius your act is an achievement in remembrance. For, to buy a gift for, say, little Willie—the hoodoo and horror of his relatives—indicates that you have paused to think, perhaps even a little leniently, of the youthful menace. Your thought may be tinged with deep regret for stones thrown through glasshouses, blocked drains, mutilated radios and such like domestic frightfulness from which the Prince of Darkness himself might shrink. But, in the giving of a gift, one is bound to think up some virtue in the giftee or brand himself a blithering idiot—and nobody will willingly do that. Anyway there are always others more than willing to do it for him.
In such acts of forgiveness repose the seeds of sweet charity and temporary forgiveness from which springs -the spirit of Christmas.
Buying gifts is a gift. Anyone can lope into Willwoth's, shut his eyes and grab assorted fistsful of rubber ducks, Micky Mouse calendars and suchlike jimcracks irrespective of the tastes and preferences of the intended victims. But, to put one's self over big by procuring something subtly suited to the recipients’ psycho-thingamies, demands a combination of second-sight, mind-reading, Yogiism, Voodoo-ism, Symbolism, hypnotism, despotism, desperation and scientific detection.
The only sure method is to begin snooping on the intended victims of your generosity months before the happy season and studying them in their own homes where they can be themselves without hurting anyone else.
By this means you note that grandpa always comes up blowing after immersion in his cup of tea. Consequently you buy him a moustache cup and so escape the embarrassment of presenting him with a surf board or a rubber whale.
If you note that a friend upon whom you are determined to commit kindness frequents milk bars you may safely buy him a mug with Donald Duck on it, or a choclate mouse. If, on the other hand, he likes bars but dislikes milk, you will buy him a quart of gin or an ice-bag for his head.
If you discover, after lying in the laurels for several nights that your Aunt Hermoine chews tobacco in secret, you are set if you get her a Popeye brooch or a gilt sextant to enable her to take a shot at the sun. Either of these is more subtle than a plug of Niggerhead twist.
If you are a husband you buy your wife the best pipe procurable, and if a wife you buy your husband six pairs of the best silk stockings. This prevents misunderstanding and mental exhaustion and someone is bound to be pleased.
If you have children you can safely get them all the things they don't want and then blame it on to Father Christmas. Taking it full and buy, Christmas giftitude is the greatest gift of all.
So, here's to a merry Christmas and may you receive as good as you give.
New Zealand writers will be interested in the fact that the Australian Federal Government has decided to grant Commonwealth writers up to £6,500 a year. I have received advance details of the proposed scheme which will shortly come into force in a small way. The estimated financial costs are as follow.
Subsidies (to writers).—If ten books are subsidised at an average subsidy of, say, £125, £1,250; readers’ fees on books written, £100.
Publication (to publishers).—Seven subsidised books at £100, £700; advance royalties to authors, £200; two reprinted classics, say, £200; one book of poetry and plays, £50; one historical or economic work, £200.
Endowment for dramatic productions.—£200.
Administrative expenses.—Secretarial expenses, expenses to members of council, office and unforeseen expenses, £250.
Pensions.—Two pensions first class, £400; thirty pensions second class, £2,340.
The next step is the appointment of the proposed literary Council. The Fellowship of Australian Writers considers that certain qualifications are essential: (1) The Council should consist of creative writers, and they suggest Miss Flora Eldershaw and Mr. Frank Dalby Davidson, M.B.E., of Sydney, and Messrs. Vance Palmer and Frank Wilmot, of Melbourne. These writers are suggested because they have the necessary literary and other qualifications, Le., literary standing, administrative ability, and the responsibility of status in the community. The Fellowship is also of opinion that the secretary of the council should be a creative writer with constructive and administrative ability.
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“The Greatest Drama Ever Staged”—“The official creed of Christianity,” has been written by Dorothy L. Sayers, who is known to most people only as a writer of detective fiction. In this little book she engages in some new detective work. In short, she tells the story of the drama of Christ and what it means to mankind.
At the conclusion of the year several of our large colleges produce annuals recording the year's work and play, and containing also literary efforts of the pupils. It is pleasing to note the high quality of these publications.
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For one reason, perhaps the only reason, it is fortunate that “Art in New Zealand” is not a wealthy concern, for with money to spend the temptation might be to bulk out each issue; to give quantity instead of quality. With its limited resources the quarterly is forced to limit its illustrations and its letterpress, with the result that those artists and writers who find space in the magazine have to touch a fine standard. Even so, the quarterly found space in its last issue to feature the exhibition of children's art at the National Gallery. Supported by a critical and most helpful survey by Roland Hipkins, there are published several plates of children's work. Other articles, a story and two poems, complete the issue.
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“The Australian Aboriginies; How to Understand Them,” by Professor A. P. Elkin (Angus & Robertson, Sydney), is spoken of as “the finest contribution to our knowledge of the aboriginies since Spencer Gillen's famous volumes were published.” Certainly the mass of information, the classification of the material, its illustrations and its indexing justify the hope that it will be one of. the leading standard text books for students of Australian anthropological lore. Apart from this aspect the work will lend great assistance to the movement towards a better understanding, adjustment and cultural advancement of the aboriginies. The author describes at length the tribal laws, the philosophy, religion and social stratum of the race. As professor of anthropology at the University of Sydney he has lectured many times on his subject, the material for which he gained from exhaustive research and intimate contact with the natives for many years in various parts of Australia. The illustrations are interesting and numerous.
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“Maelstrom,” by E. V. Timms (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) is one of the most ambitious historical novels ever written by an Australian born novelist. Already Timms has been called the Sabatini of Australia, and if there has been any doubt as to his right to this title it is certainly removed by “Maelstrom.” The story opens with the death of Cardinal Richelieu who has ever been a favourite subject of historical novelists. The author takes the accepted Dumas portrait of the famous French Cardinal statesman and
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“New Zealand English,” by Professor Arnold Wall (Whitcombe & Tombs, Ltd.) has on the cover a picture of a man talking to the “mike.” This, however, is not only a book for radio speakers, it is one for everybody. Briefly it is a guide to the correct pronunciation of English with special reference to New Zealand conditions and problems. Professor Wall is a recognised authority on English and how it should be spoken, so the value and reliability of the work is unquestioned. Professor James Shelley writes an introduction and commends the book to the attention of lecturers, speakers and teachers as a thoroughly sound and interesting guide to the study of our speech.
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“The Lyrebird, Australia's Wonder-Songster,” by R. T. Littlejohns, R.A.O.U. (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) is a beautifully produced book, telling in picture and letterpress of this much admired bird, concerning which the author has made an intensive study. Most of the beautiful photographs included in the publication were taken by the author after many hours of patient waiting. They show the lyre bird in many phases of its natural environment. The book promises to have quite as successful a run as another book on the same subject published some years ago.
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“Brown Man's Burden,” by Roderick Finlayson (the Unicorn Press, Auckland) is a collection of stories of New Zealand life almost solely about the Maori people. Several of the stories have already appeared in “Tomorrow,” a Christchurch journal, and one in the Auckland “Star.” I like the simple sincerity of these yarns. The writer has an easy literary style. The subject matter of some of the stories, however, might be in a brighter vein. The format of the book is excellent, much ahead of average New Zealand book production.
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New Zealand writers continue to find favour with London publishers. In addition to two books of essays due for publication shortly, is a book on mountaineering, by John Pascoe who is employed by the Internal Affairs Department, doing literary work in connection with the Centennial, and a book on bird life in New Zealand, “The Children of Tane,” by Mora Gordon.
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“The Land of Byamie,” by Keith McKeown (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) is one of the most valuable books published about the Australian aboriginal. For the first time the nature legends of the Australian native are told in popular and readable form. Many of these legends, which are genuine products of the aboriginal mind, have in the past been recorded in bald language by anthropological writers. Without interfering with their primitive charm and interest, Mr. McKeown has “endowed them with the breath of life,” and has given us a most interesting volume. The folk lore of the aboriginal is revealed in its many contrasting forms—whimsical and brutal, humorous and dramatic—but always interesting. In a foreword Dame Mary Gilmore states that this is “one of the most important books ever written on the aborigines.” Mr. McKeown will, by his latest book, add to his already big reputation as an Australian writer. Numerous illustrations add to the interest of the book.
He asks us to excuse his writing. We do more than that—we congratulate him on being able to write at all at his age, especially as he has been suffering from rheumatism. This is what he says in his letter:—
“Three years ago I was in bed for six weeks with inflammatory rheumatism. Since that time I have been taking Kruschen Salts, and have not had another attack. But the complaint left me with bad feet, and it hurts me to walk. My hands are also somewhat stiff. I take Kruschen every morning before breakfast, and shall continue to do so, because I am sure they have kept me in good shape for three years. Excuse this writing, as I am ninety years old, and use both hands to write.”—J.R.G.
Rheumatism, like gout and lumbago, has its origin in intestinal stasis (delay)—a condition of which the sufferer is seldom aware. It means the unsuspected accumulation of waste matter and the consequent formation of excess 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 edge of those 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. Mischievous uric acid never gets the chance to accumulate again.
Kruschen Salts is obtainable at all Chemists and Stores at 2/3 per bottle.
(Continued from page 16).
ments had been demonstrated, and it was clear that the line was far from ready for regular traffic. Much damage, indeed, had been inflicted by the excursions. There was no money for repairs and necessary improvements, and for months the line lay idle. In the meantime the railway was used for another purpose, the line was unfenced, and drays, sinking axle-deep in the morass that was the “Great North Road” found the broad rails an attractive alternative.
In April, 1865, however, the state of the road threatened to put an end to the mail service, and it was decided to put the railway into partial commission. To use the heavy engines brought from Victoria was impossible, so the Government borrowed the little Lady Barkly from its owners and commenced running her with the mails and a very limited amount of goods. She was barely capable of hauling a gross weight of ten tons and, moreover, had not been built for the gauge. Her wheels ran on the outside edge of the rails and projected about ii inches beyond them, so that she could not be run without excessive wear on the track. In July it was decided to build a more suitable substitute by converting a portable engine into a locomotive. This strange hybrid commenced running in September and proved to have about twice the haulage power of the Lady Barkly.
The service, however, was slow, intermittent, and unsatisfactory. Mishaps were frequent, and the wheels refused to grip whenever the rails were wet. Stories are still told in Southland of how travellers in a hurry preferred to walk. In May, 1866, the Southland News remarked: “The line in its present state is an absolute nuisance and instead of being a convenience to the public is the reverse. At uncertain intervals there is a breakdown; perpetually the wooden rails have to be lifted and turned to present a fresh surface to the action of the engine.” Mechanical troubles were repaired with difficulty, as the workmen who had built the engine had left the province, and her mysterious structure baffled other engineers. In December, 1866, she was out of action for several weeks and the railway engineer reported that owing to the defects of the track, traffic could be continued only at an ever increasing cost.
The decay and warping of the rails necessitated constant turning, so that in many cases all four surfaces were soon worn out. An average of twenty rails per week had to be replaced completely. Little hope was held out of being able to keep the line open through the winter without an entire relaying of the track. There was a constant loss on working. From April, 1865, to November, 1866, the expenditure was £3,730, while the revenue amounted to only £1,432.
It was obvious that the experiment was a complete failure and the Provincial Government was compelled to face the prospect of laying iron rails. The state of the wooden ones made it impossible to carry out the original idea of using them as longitudinal sleepers. It was proposed to meet the cost of conversion and of completing the line to Winton by paying for the work in land. There is no need to enter into the lengthy negotiations and desperate expedients that the impecunious province was driven to before this was at last accomplished. It was not till September, 1870, that an iron railway reached from Invercargill to Winton, by which time the goldfields traffic was only a memory, and Southland had agreed to surrender her independence as a separate province.
In conclusion, it may be said that the siding near Winton named Lady Barkly does not owe its curious name to any aristocratic sojourner, but perpetuates the fame of the little engine that ran on Southlands’ wooden railway.
The stranger visiting Paihia or Russell is informed by the local resident that until “he has done the cream trip he hasn't really seen the Bay of Islands,” and as usual, the local resident is right.
When this great truth was impressed upon us we made enquiries and discovered that three times a week a launch leaves Paihia early in the morning in order to visit all the isolated farms situated on the many bays of the outer harbour and collect the heavy cream cans which ultimately reach Hikurangi and its dairy factory.
So one golden morning, equipped with sun hats and sun glasses, looking the complete trippers and not caring very much, we embarked on the cream launch and started our journey.
After Paihia our first port of call was Russell just across the harbour. Russell was famous to seafaring men before the end of the eighteenth century. Tough weather-beaten seamen, whalers and traders from the seven seas, once found anchorage in Kororareka, as it was then called. They made and lost fortunes, gambled and drank and made love to lithe brown Maori girls in one or other of the twenty or so grog shops that lined the little shell-strewn beach; but all that remains of that far-off time is the beach itself, and perhaps some of the old trees and the two-storied abode and kauri house erected by Bishop Pompallier, in 1830. Russell to-day is a rather sleepy, very pretty township, the Mecca of the summer visitor and the sightseer, but hardly conscious, one feels, of its highly-coloured and often murky past. Rather like an elderly roue who prefers to forget the hectic days of his youth in the calm peace and virtue of his later years.
Leaving Russell the launch pointed her nose northwards, and away we went out to sea. Soon we were negotiating the Brampton Reef, a line of jagged rocks above the water, so named because the sailing vessel “Brampton” was wrecked there. The Reverend Samuel Marsden was on board. Fortunately the passengers and crew landed safely on nearby Moturoa Island. This island is some 500 acres in extent and was one of our stopping places. Two men brought out the cream to us in a dinghy, greetings were called, the heavy cream cans exchanged for lighter, emptier ones, while letters and parcels were handed over as we did duty as carriers of His Majesty's mails. Then the skipper's “Righto!” set the engines going again and the strip of clear green water between us and the dinghy widened as we left her behind.
It wasn't monotonous to us who saw, but it might be to you who read, if you were told of all the bays we visited, all the little farmhouses we passed, so we will just remember the highlights of that sunny cruise as we come to them.
No map can convey the appearance of the Bay of Islands, and no pen is graphic enough really to describe it. One minute we would pass a sandy, golden beach banked by scarlet pohu-tukawas, and the next we would be carefully skirting a rocky reef-strewn shore, the home of cranes, seagulls and tern. The islands ranged from tiny spots of sand or rock to the larger acreage of Moturoa, Moturua and Urupukapuka.
After various stops we came to Rangihoua Bay. Rangihoua Bay and its environs saw the very beginning of pakeha history in New Zealand. A lonely Norfolk pine, conspicuous because hereabouts the hills are barren
After Rangihoua Bay the launch turned southwards and crossed over towards Moturua Island (not to be confused with Moturoa which we passed previously). We were now in the open sea and the green water changed to dark blue challenging stuff which swung the boat and threatened our summer hats. It was not long, however, before we were in the comparative quiet of the little channel between Moturua Island and its smaller neighbour Motukiekie, and here again we were in the footsteps of history. It was on Moturua Island that the French navigator Marion du Fresne landed in 1772, to effect repairs to his ship. While on a visit to the mainland at Te Hue, du Fresne and the 26 sailors who accompanied him, unwittingly broke the law of tapu and discovered by incensed natives, were attacked and slain.
Crozet, du Fresne's second-in-command, unaware that three years before New Zealand had been annexed for Britain by Captain Cook, took possession for France and buried ships’ papers in a jar on Moturua Island. This jar has never been found. Crozet left explicit directions as to its whereabouts “… . . so many paces from high water,” but the question which baffles our historians to-day is—where was high water in 1772? Many have searched, but the island still holds its secret, and we look in vain for the historic jar, as we do for the signs of the blacksmith's forge and the “hospital” which the adventurous Frenchman erected so long ago.
Further on, and we stop at Urupukapuka Island for an inviting lunch, and in the quiet waters of Otehei Bay, gaze with becoming and proper respect at the first swordfish and the first shark to be caught this season, for this is the place where Zane Grey and other deep sea fishermen have returned after their day's sport in the open sea.
After Urupukapuka, we called at Rawhiti, and here the cream is collected from a little home-made stone jetty lined with jolly bright-faced Maori children. There is a school here and a post office, because here is a settlement of Maoris, the direct descendants of fighting forefathers, who are now happily enough engaged in farming.
As we went round the menacingly named Mosquito Point, we saw Motu Arohia (or Robinson's) Island on our right (it should be port or starboard, but pardon the feminine mind that can never tell which from t'other). Captain Cook anchored at Motu Arohia when he first sailed into the Bay of Islands on 20th November, 1769.
And so we went on with the water rippling under our bows until, in the late afternoon when the sun had lost her first sting, we returned again to Paihia. Surrounding the harbour the darkening hills served as a frame for a lovely picture. Day was closing down on white launches and whispering surf, and the voices of children called across to each other in the cool evening air. Gradually the Bay of Islands faded as night came on, and as it did, ghosts came out to haunt us. We had been with them all day but it was only now that we could see them clearly. And what a company they were! Here was Captain Cook beside a hardened whale-chasing captain from America. Ill-fated du Fresne led his doomed crew once more to oblivion. Indomitable Marsden and Ruatara, his loyal Maori friend, with all his shadowy tribe behind him, passed silently by, and there was Hannah King Hansen, the first white girl child to be born in New Zealand, and there was her brother who had died when he was three. And then there were the Williamses, and Selwyn himself, and Pompallier—and these we saw and more, as we walked back to our camp in the darkness.
Surely, of all the places in our small country, the Bay of Islands with its own natural loveliness, past grandeur and modern appeal, ranks among the first of our many beauty spots.
If a non-smoker attempts to travel in a smoke-car on some of the American tramways he or she will be politely but firmly invited to get out. Smokers would welcome such a regulation in N.Z. for our smoke-cars are frequently invaded by so many non-smokers (chiefly women) that smokers are crowded out. ‘Twas not always thus! But the ladies have long since ceased to shrink from tobacco-smoke and declare it “makes them ill,” so far from that they'll tell you they “just love it.” The explanation seems to be that the coarser and ranker varieties of the weed are gradually dying out in New Zealand and giving place to better quality lines—notably our famous toasted blends, Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead) Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cavendish, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold, all of them so full of fragrance that even the anti-tobaccoite is silenced. The purity of these popular brands is assured; toasting eliminates most of their nicotine, and this renders them the safest as they are the most delicious of all tobaccos.*
(Continued from page 13.)
verse writer than to essay this page. Criticism will be firm, but generous, friendly, but well-founded.
To revert to history, I cull for sampling, a fine tribute by the Minister of Railways at the time, to those heroes responsible for the forty-eight hours of dazzling deeds which repaired the destruction wrought by the Napier earthquake. By way of contrast, there is in 1930, the first cartoon I remember by Minhinnick.
Talking of growth, in 1934, was made the momentous change from crown to demy quarto. The smaller format had swollen to 64 pages, the new started again at 48, soon rose again to 64. Now and again there was an 80-page issue, the 1936 Christmas issue went to 88, and the special issue for the new Wellington Railway Station went 112. These two issues also entered the sacred precincts or the “drawn-on cover,” a bourne, to paraphrase Elia, “higher than which no publication can go.”
A colour supplement went with the Station issue, which was of world parity. In December, 1935, the first four-colour cover made its bow. It was a vivid picture of the Chateau Tongariro, and since then, it is not overmuch to claim that every cover has been an artistic gem. That magnificent work, “New Zealand Railways Illustrated,” is the eclectic gathering of these colour pictures. We have always had exquisite photography in New Zealand, but the covers have also utilised water colour paintings, notably the delightful work of Peter Bousfield.
I have already mentioned James Cowan as a regular contributor, but the magazine's list of writers of great attainments is a long one.
In the first Christmas number, 1926, Sir Robert Stout tells of his memories of the long ago; his journeys to the mining courts of Otago, his 1885 trip from Lake Taupo to Taumarunui, complete with cloud-bursts and other trials. It amounts to a vivid commentary on those who complain of transport difficulties to-day.
Professor T. A. Hunter, Professor Charles Chilton, Dr. E. P. Neale, A. C. Gifford, Miss Eileen Duggan, Miss Iris Wilkinson, Miss Margaret Macpherson, Winifred Tennant, and scores of others have filled the bright pages of “The Railways Magazine.” The ingeniously planned series, “The Thirteenth Clue,” followed by “Dream Places” had numbers by most of the practitioners of the written word in New Zealand. “The Thirteenth Clue” was a happy effort, for in spite of its riotous humour, steeped in local allusions, and a disposition of the various “literary gents” to score off each other under their thin disguises of character names, the Editor had anxious enquiries about missing instalments from the far places of the earth, including Barbadoes and U.S.A.
Fiction has had its place, and our own story-tellers have had liberal representation. No periodical published in New Zealand so much deserves the title “Made in New Zealand.”
I often wonder if the general reading public realise what is involved in “getting out” a magazine; the careful reading of all submitted contributions, pile upon pile of manuscripts; the selection of illustrations, poring over photographs and drawings, deciding on their size and position on the page; the teasing task of “boiling down” the captions to go under or over the illustration; the art of “make-up,” the dovetailing of letterpress and pictures; the choice of type; revising and reading proofs; the problem of fifty words too many or thirty too little to fit the column; consulting advertisers and dovetailing their announcements. All this is against time, for there is a publication date and the complex machinery of distribution demands that this must be adhered to exactly. It is as much a matter of timing as a Derby candidate going off at the barrier rise.
The issue in which this story appears, after all, is the best evidence of the place of honour and usefulness reached by the Magazine. From sport to cookery, verse to sporting notes, science to scenery, gravity to nonsense, book reviews to short story, all tastes are covered.
“The Railways Magazine,” in growing up, has changed. Like our Railways themselves, it has become an integral foundation member of New Zealand's temple of life.
The “all occasion” frock shown in the sketch owes its success to good designing. Incidentally it includes several fashion points of the season.
Sleeves? Some fulness at the shoulder line but not too much. Note the neat button finish at the cuffs. Neckline? High. Interest centres in the bodice, where buttoned closing hints at the simplicity of the shirt-waist, but clever fulness denies it. Bunched flowers at the throat give a touch of softness and colour which is reinforced by the twisted two-toned sash.
This style looks best in a heavy silk crepe. It will be equally successful for autumn in a light wool, with sash of velvet.
Printed cotton evening and dinner dresses have natural waist lines, sashes, full skirts, draped bodices, leg o’ mutton sleeves and neat collars, or are very decollete, clipped or tied on the shoulders.
Swagger camel coats appear in a variety of colours.
Girlish but extremely smart are short day frocks of chiffon or tulle with gauged waist and neck-lines, and very full skirts.
Metal incrustations add glamour to otherwise simple day frocks.
The bolero suit is a background for an elaborate blouse of muslin and lace. The bolero adds huge sleeves for evenings.
Hats are veiled for town occasions.
An edge-to-edge coat has edges and pockets (six of them) outlined with matching braid.
Net applique decorates the yoke and sleeves of a tea-frock.
Many changes are rung on mauve, blue and cyclamen, which are also much used with black.
What is Christmas Day to you? A holy day of the church? A holiday from toil? A time of present-giving and receiving? A children's day? A feast day?
Whatever your answer, you will agree that Christmas Day is accepted as a happy day, a day of kindliness and thought for friends and relatives. Happiness, say the philosophers, is a state difficult of attainment and not to be reached at will. But a “happy day” can be assured by family forethought. Plan your day, taking into account the desires of the various members. Each will be willing to concede something in response to equal consideration from others. Then, when Christmas Day comes, there will be no sudden conflict of desires and consequent disappointments.
In a household with young children, there is less chance for adjustment. The day will be planned for the children, who will be happy with new toys and scope for activity. Father will enjoy the children's morning excitement and a special mid-day meal, followed by his pipe and a book, and a little exercise later in the day. Unmarried sister and her boy friend may come for Christmas dinner, but will be glad to find their own amusement for the afternoon. Mother would appreciate the morning church service (which won't seem the same on the radio), a rest from the preparation of meals, a quiet half-hour after dinner and an interesting outing in the afternoon. But every one knows which member of the family will give up her idea of a happy day in order to ensure the contentment of the rest of the family. And she won't complain either, but will draw happiness from those about her.
I'm not going to advise families to make it “Mother's Christmas” this year. Most mothers wouldn't thank me for it, averring that a home dinner is more enjoyable and more wholesome than a restaurant meal; that a picnic Christmas meal is just as much trouble as one cooked at home; that John
My suggestion is that mother should be allowed, if she wishes, to give the rest of the family their idea of a Christmas Day, but that mothers’ “happy days” should be the rest of Christmas week. For instance, on Boxing Day, when things go flat round the home, the energetic husband should take charge and lead his forces out to beach or country, leaving mother outside the arrangements unless she wishes to come “as a guest.”
* * *
London, 20th, October, 1938. Dear Helen,
… . For your sake, and incidentally for my own enjoyment, I've been to several mannequin parades lately. The autumn styles are delightful, and the shows are so well organised that one hasn't time to relax interest.
To soft music, and the bright descriptive chat of the lady at the microphone, the girls (and “older women”) step neatly forward, twist and turn, and retire. The crowd gently applauds any particularly successful appearance. At one shop in Regent St., the mannequins moved among the tables for a few minutes after leaving the dais—an excellent idea, allowing an extra look at a frock or mannequin. To tell the truth, I'm as interested in the mannequins as in clothes.
Well, I enclose herewith a few notes which you won't need for three months yet—furs, and the new tawny-wine shade for outdoor wear, and sequins, ostrich feathers and hair ornaments for evening occasions.
I paid particular attention to hair and was a little disappointed—one sees more variety at the theatre. Most of the models had their hair dressed up in front and away from the ears, but it was still low on the nape, even when showing evening styles. Of course the ordinary woman has a struggle to get her short, long ends neatly up at the back, but one expects a mannequin to manage it successfully.
I'm still growing mine at the back, but I have rows of curls on top. Hair seems to me to be the most important aspect of fashionable appearance. I hope all you people in New Zealand are growing yours so that you can attempt something with it.
I tell myself it's stupid to worry about hair when, only the other day, we were trying on gas-masks. I was wondering all the time how people felt in New Zealand, and whether fatality seemed as imminent there as here. In London the crisis worked up steadily, inexorably. Newsboys were on the streets till all hours. One night I was awakened at four a.m. As usual I could not understand his call, but felt that an edition at that hour must mean war. I lay in the darkness and tried to realise it. It wasn't war, of course, but I hope never to be so near it again.
London activities seemed to reinforce newspaper news. Long queues stood for hours for gas-masks, on the Tuesday, in pouring rain. There was feverish activity in parks and squares where unemployed were called on to help build trenches—pitifully inadequate for those millions who would not be evacuated. Part of the central London underground system was suspended for “structural alterations.” Builders were working till late at night preparing gas-proof rooms in hospitals, hotels and office buildings.
Streams of taxis, some with perambulators on top, converged on Paddington and Victoria Stations, the outlets to the west. Most of the “refugees” seemed to be families with children.
In buses and tubes strangers spoke to strangers, exchanged opinions, offered words of hope which were accepted as sadly as they were given. It was a rare thing to see a smile on any face. London moved through its everyday life as in a nightmare.
I suppose in New Zealand, too, the main topics of discussion are war and peace and a suitable foreign policy. One encouraging factor in the crisis was that there was no “war-fever” among the people, either here or on the Continent.
A Merry Christmas to you.
I'm loving the prospect of coming home.
—Retta.
* * *
Furniture should be dry polished. It is “elbow grease” that gives the glow to pieces that have been in the family for generations. Occasionally wipe over with a chamois dipped into vinegar and water (two tablespoons vinegar to one quart water).
Wipe piano keys with a soft cloth soaked in methylated spirits, and polish with a dry cloth, but be very careful not touch woodwork with methylated.
If a waxed floor or linoleum is due for a “real clean,” use turpentine, which dissolves the wax. The kitchen linoleum is probably not waxed; add a little paraffin to the water with which you wash it.
* * *
Foot comfort is reflected in the face—hurting feet are good wrinkle-makers. If your feet hurt it is practically impossible to feel happy. Therefore, treat your feet well and you will be amply repaid. Here are a few hints:
Wear shoes that fit well and give your toes plenty of room.
Don't wear shoes with extremely pointed toes or extremely high heels.
Never walk on run-down heels.
See that your stockings are slightly longer than your feet when you are standing.
Learn to carry yourself properly. Bad posture is one of the major causes of painful, ugly feet.
You cannot be on a good footing with the world if you are tormented with hardened calluses, painful arches, corns, etc.
Prevention is better than cure.
* * *
New method of preserving fruit—currants, strawberries, raspberries and loganberries—without the application of heat.
Allow 1 1/4 lbs. of sugar to every lb. of fruit, 5 lbs. of sugar to 4 lbs. of fruit.
Choose a large flat dish—the largest meat dish in a dinner set, which rarely gets used on account of its size answers the purpose well. Remove the stalks from about half lb. of fruit at one time, and spread on the dish, then crush each berry separately with a silver or silver-plated dinner fork, taking care not to miss a single one. The object of the crushing is to allow the sugar to come in close contact with the juice and all parts of the fruit.
Then arrange the crushed fruit and the sugar in alternate layers in a very large china basin or a glazed earthenware jar or crock. Beat it vigorously
During this period, the fruit and juice should be stirred vigorously or beaten four or five times; this is to ensure thorough mixing of the pulped fruit and sugar. Moreover, the beating is probably partly responsible for the jelling which occurs.
When there is no sign of undissolved sugar put the preserve into clean sterilised jars, cover at once. A teaspoon of tartaric acid may be added to each pound of strawberries because they have little acidity to aid preservation. Small berries are preferable.
The crushing and stirring of the fruit should be done in as cool a room as possible, and when a refrigerator is available, the crushed fruit could remain in the lowest part in between the “beatings.” The preserve should be kept in a cool, dry, ventilated storeroom.
The above recipe was obtained from an English paper, and it certainly has an appeal.
To experiment with, say, 4 lbs. of fruit would be very interesting. Even if we tested out 4 lbs. each of the soft fruits, it would not cost very much or take up much room on our shelves. This method would have a tremendous advantage over ordinary jam-making, because as the fruit is never heated, its fresh fruit flavour and colour would not be affected, and it would be more economical, as no heat would be needed for boiling.
Note: It is important to use fruit which is fully ripe, and not showing signs of decay. Any fruit which is even slightly mildewed or “mushy” should be discarded.
Six lbs. red currants, 1 1/2 pints water, sugar. Wash the fruit thoroughly, remove the leaves but not the stalks and put it into a preserving pan with the water. Place over a very low heat and simmer gently until the fruit is cooked and all the berries pulped. Strain through a jelly bag and allow to drip for several hours. Weigh the extract, put into a pan, bring to the boil, boil for five minutes, add an equal weight of sugar. Stir until all the sugar is dissolved, bring to the boil, then cease stirring and allow to boil briskly for five to ten minutes. Test on a cold saucer for jelling. When the jelly is ready, skim, pour into hot, sterilised jars and cover immediately with waxed circles. Tie down when cold.
One loaf white bread, 2 1/2 ozs. finely chopped ham, mustard, butter.
Cut the bread in thin slices lengthwise of the loaf. Spread with butter, then with the ham and mustard mixed together. Cut off the crusts. Firmly roll up each slice from the end like a Swiss roll. Wrap in waxed paper or damp muslin, and chill. Slice crosswise in quarter inch slices.
Three ounces butter, 2 ozs. flour, 2 ozs. sugar, 3 ozs. syrup, 1/2 teaspoonful ground ginger.
Melt the syrup and butter and allow to stand for about half an hour, then add flour and sugar and ground ginger, beating well. Put in small teaspoonfuls on a well-greased tin, and bake in a moderate oven until well spread and brown. Lift out with a palette knife and roll over the greased handle of a wooden spoon. Allow to cool.
Two and a-half ounces sieved icing sugar, 2 whites of egg, 4 ozs. almonds dried and shredded, vanilla, coffee or chocolate.
Put the icing sugar with the un-whisked whites of eggs into a mixing bowl. Put the bowl over a saucepan half-filled with boiling water, remove from the heat and whisk the mixture, until it clings stiffly to the whisk. Add the flavouring and almonds, and measure out the mixture in teaspoonsful on a greased floured tin. Bake in a slow oven for 20–30 minutes.
Equal quantities of tinned pineapple juice and ginger-ale, sprig of mint, some thin slices of orange.
Chill the mixed pineapple juice and ginger-ale. Serve with ice and garnish with the mint and orange slices.
Half pint of lemon juice, 1 bunch fresh mint, 1/2 pint water, 3 pints gingerale, 1/2 lb. sugar.
Dissolve the sugar in the water. Add the lemon juice and mint leaves. Chill. Pour over a block of ice and add the ginger-ale. Serve in small glasses.
One and a-half pints tomato puree, a stalks celery, 1 tablespoonful chopped onion, 2 teaspoons sugar, 1/2 teaspoon salt, 1 teaspoonful pepper, 1 sprig parsley, 1 tablespoon green pepper.
Simmer all ingredients together in a covered saucepan for 20 minutes. Strain through muslin, put into individual glasses and chill well before serving.
Chopped cucumber with mayonnaise, cream cheese with chopped ginger or red currant jelly, dates chopped and moistened with orange juice, caviare sprinkled with lemon juice and salt, cheese grated and mixed with chopped olives, or chopped walnuts, chopped ham mixed with tomato sauce, cooked salmon, flaked and mixed with chopped cucumber and mayonnaise; mashed sardines mixed with sieved yolk of hard-boiled egg.
In “The House of Templemore” (A. H. and A. W. Reed, Dunedin and Wellington). Mr. Pat Lawlor cleverly puts the clock back forty years to the birth of Terry Mahoney in the home of his father Daniel, a lowly habitation of Upper Cuba Street Wellington. The book gives vivid views of Terry's early childhood and boyhood to the age of sixteen years, when death by drowning is reported after a stowaway voyage to Sydney. Yet the reader feels that a mistake in the identification of the body will be revealed in a later book, and that Terry's big head will bob about in many more adventures. The whole swing of the story is against any intention of the author to have a Little Nell or Paul Dombey ending.
Friends of Mr. Lawlor will readily recognise that the book is largely autobiographical. A long memory, with the delightful help of colourful dramatisation of incidents, serves close-up impressions of an Irish home, in which dire need compels the father to make hard bargains and resort to various arts and crafts to stretch the purchasing power of money. Here is a passage which shows Daniel at grips with a keen pork-butcher, who priced a hambone at 10d.:—
“‘Well, ye old skinflint,’ cried papa, for he was not given to mincing his words, ‘it's eaghtpince or nothing.'”
“‘But, Mr. Mahoney,’ Purdy would cry in nasal protest, ‘look at the meat on it—why, there's a pound of ham on it at least.'”
“‘Well, put it on the scales and see for yeresilf.'”
“The twirling bone would be juggled on the scales and two heads almost bump together in mental calculation over the weights placed on the other side—there were none of your accommodating self-registering dials in those days—at least not in Wellington. Sometimes they would split the difference—even to a half-penny—more often papa would win. Proudly would papa return across the road, hambone in hand, for papa was consistent in his economy. Having struck a bargain with Purdy, why should he put him to the added cost of paper?
“That hambone would be made to work to the uttermost farthing. First it would be bereft of its meat by the carving knife, always keenly sharpened, but resharpened for its sacramental contact with cooked ham. Then the stripped bone would be placed in the soup pot, and, after many hours of boiling, would be rescued, examined and relieved of any possible marrow, to be placed on the fire as fuel. Even then its destiny was not ended. Its burnt remains would be pulverised into fertiliser for the garden.”
The book is packed with movement, in and out of home, and in and out of school. There is plenty of humour and enough of pathos. The chronicle does not drag; indeed it speeds to the unexpected exit of the young hero. It brings up the romantic atmosphere of the past to contrast with the restless present. Altogether it is a good type of book for a school-prize.
Visiting sportsmen have often remarked at the lack of sporting facilities in New Zealand — not to be confused with tennis courts, or race-tracks—and have told us of the marvellous Los Angeles Athletic Club, and of the New York Athletic Club. These massive buildings contain indoor tennis courts, swimming pools, boxing, wrestling and tumbling gymnasia, dance-floors, indoor athletic training tracks, and almost every sporting facility that could be desired.
New Zealand, unfortunately, has little of these splendours. I almost wrote “luxuries” instead of “splendours,” but, after all, they are not luxuries. To provide ample recreational facilities is a worthy ideal, and one giving sportsmen in Wellington a considerable amount of thought.
After many years of often-times bitter wrangling and dissention between the administrators of sport, there has arisen a much better feeling and, at last, there seems to be definite signs of co-operation. All summer field sports bodies are to stage at least one sports fixture in aid of a recreation fund, the Wellington City Council to use the proceeds toward making available more play areas.
On top of this decision, comes the Wellington Swimming Centre's appeal for a tepid swimming bath. Wellington, the Capital City of New Zealand, does not possess one swimming bath worthy of the name, and during the Centennial Exhibition, will have to stage the national swimming championships at Lower Hutt, ten miles away. In past years, the Wellington swimming body has had little support, practical or otherwise, from other sports bodies, but this year there has been a rallying round from other associations. A suggestion has been made that Wellington should form a “Federation of Amateur Sports,” with the view to securing something on the lines of the New York and Los Angeles Clubs. It is not suggested that such ornate buildings should be erected, but it is felt, and rightly so, I think, that the assembling of all sports bodies in one main building, with its modern equipment, will assist in furthering the causes of all branches of sport. Although the suggestion has not yet been tested out, there are indications that something of a concrete nature will be announced at an early date.
Last summer, a “Learn to Swim” Week was given a thorough trial in New Zealand and its success, considering the number of towns with inadequate swimming facilities, surpassed the wildest hopes of the sponsors. This summer, an even more comprehensive scheme will be launched—a “Fitness Week.” As the title suggests, this will be a drive for physical fitness, and young and old, male and female will be urged to indulge in recreation and exercise in the fresh summer air, instead of spending the days and evenings inside. Perhaps nowhere in the world has such a comprehensive scheme been suggested. Its success will depend on the individual who helps swell the masses. Each citizen must play his or her part. Its all so simple—just make a point of getting out into the open-air, and having some form of recreation. Some will favour swimming, tennis, cricket or soft-ball, bowling, croquet, fishing, track and field athletics, or even hiking. No matter what form your recreation may take, make sure that the first week of February is devoted to a greater participation of the benefits of healthy recreation in the open-air. If each and every one of us does just that thing, the success of “Fitness Week” will be assured.
In the preceding paragraphs I have devoted space to “Fitness Week.” I should have made it clear that “fitness” does not necessarily mean bulging muscles or thick necks. But there is one branch of physical activity making progress in New Zealand that develops big muscles—and fitness, too! I refer to weight-lifting, that oft-times abused “iron” sport. The National championships were held in Napier recently, and several Australian and New Zealand records were established. Although he did not establish any records at the championships, H. Cleghorn, of Auckland, has, this season, proved himself to be the second best weight-lifter in the British Empire. A recent total weight-lift for three movements, saw Cleghorn get within 30 lbs. of the 1932 Olympic winning weight. Cleghorn is ideally built, and steps are being taken to make provision for the inclusion of New Zealand weight-lifters in the
Out at Moera, near the Railway Workshops, only a few miles from Wellington, is one of the busiest gymnasiums in New Zealand. Known to boxing patrons in many parts of the North Island, “The Railways Workshops Gym” has supplied boxers for many amateur tourneys and, although I do not possess any official figures, I am confident in stating that representatives from this popular sports rendezvous have won considerably more matches than they have lost. The instructors are Messrs. Alf. Cleverley (Olympic representative and former New Zealand champion) and Dick Dunn, of the well-known boxing family. Attending many boxing tournaments, as I do in my capacity as a sportswriter, I have been impressed by the boxing knowledge displayed by the pupils of this gymnasium. But, equally as important, is the manner in which these boys enter the ring. They are garbed in an attractive, but serviceable uniform, covered before the commencement of the contest in a “Railways Workshops Gym.” dressing gown. The men in the Railway service should be justly proud of this fine boxing gymnasium.
It has been truly said that a man is only as old as he feels—some of us would amend that to “as he looks,” but no matter how the adage is twisted, when it is applied to Paddy Hannan, former professional sculling champion of New Zealand, the effect is the same. Paddy has passed his 54th birthday, but is as sprightly as the days when he defeated the former world sculling champions, George Towns, Darcy Had-field and Dick Arnst. Nowadays, a successful businessman in Picton, Paddy invariably pays a visit to Wellington on the annual excursion of Marlborough residents, and renews acquaintances with his many friends. I asked Paddy the secret of his “perpetual” youth, and he told me it was no secret—he had trained conscientiously, when an active competitor, and had continued to keep in training ever since. Too many athletes cease training as soon as they finish their active sports career. This, he declares, is a fatal mistake. Bringing an engine to a sudden halt invariably disrupts part of the machinery—and so it is with the human frame. The slowing-down of training should be a gradual process, ending only with the close of life's span.
Mr. Jones (proudly): “They made me foreman of the jury to-day.”
Mrs. Jones: “That's a bit of comedown, isn't it, when you're a works-manager.”
* * *
“How is he getting on with his golf?”
“Oh, improving. He hit a ball in one to-day.”
* * *
Pat, the new under-gardener, gazed wonderingly at the shallow basin containing water in the lawn. “What's that for?” he asked the head gardener.
“That's a bird bath.”
“Now, how, don't ye be a-foolin’ me. What is it really?”
“A bird bath. Don't you believe me?”
“No,” said Pat, with a shake of his head. “I don't believe that there's a bird alive what can tell Saturday from any other night.”
* * *
Disgusted Motorist: “Lend me a shoulder, will you?”
“Gosh, y'ain't gonna try to push it clean to a garradge, be ye?”
“No, if I can get it just as far as that cliff, that's all I ask!”
* * *
A certain R.A. one day paused in the street, attracted by some work of a pavement artist above the average. In a kindly manner he said: “Have you ever learned drawing?”
“Lor’ lumme, guv'nor, I can't learn yer; yer ‘as to ‘ave a gift fer this!”
* * *
Hostess (to guest who has been coaxed to sing): “After that, Mr. Howler, you need never tell me again that you can't sing.”
* * *
“Mighty mean man I'm workin’ for.”
“What's the matter?”
“He took the legs off the wheelbarrow so's I can't set it down and rest.”
A person has to be a contortionist to get along these days. First of all he's got to keep his back to the wall, and his ear to the ground. He's expected to put his shoulder to the wheel, his nose to the grindstone, keep a level head and both feet on the earth. And, at the same time look for the silver lining with his head in the clouds.
One navvy to another at their midday meal: “What are you eating, Bill?”
Bill: “Soup; are you deaf?”
* * *
A busy man was using the telephone.
“I want Bank double-two, double-two,” he said.
“Two-two, two-two,” repeated the exchange girl, reproachfully.
“All right,” said the man, patiently; “you get me the number and we'll play at trains later on.”
The philanthropic woman was visiting a school. To test the brightness of a group of rather dull pupils, she asked:—
“Children, which is the greatest of all virtues? Think a little; what am I doing when I give up time and pleasure to come and talk to you for your own good?”
A grimy fist went up.
“Well, what am I doing?”
“Please, ma'am, buttin’ in!”
* * *
The Lady: You say the dog has a long pedigree?
The Dealer: Yes, marm, ‘e has. One of ‘is ancestors chewed off the corner of th’ Magny Charty, an’ another of ‘em bit a hole in good King Halfred. Yes, marm.
* * *
Doctor: Do you sleep on the flat of your back?
Patient: No, the back of my flat.
* * *
“Now, Tommy,” said the teacher, to the bright boy of standard four, “can you tell me what ‘cynic’ is?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Tommy, with alacrity. “It's the place where they washes the dishes.”
* * *
Teacher: Is your father kind to animals, Tommy?”
Tommy: Yes, Miss. ‘E says ‘e'd like to kill the man what scratches horses.
* * *
Old Lady (to cabman): Does your horse ever shy at motors?
Cabby: Lor’ bless you, no, lady; ‘e didn't even shy when railway trains fust come in!
* * *
Old Gent: You naughty boys! What are you doing to that poor little fellow?
Boy: That's our referee. We're not hurting him. He swallowed the whistle!