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The New Zealand Railways Magazine is on sale through the principal booksellers, or may be obtained post-free for 6/- per annum.
Employees of the Railway Department are invited to forward news items or articles bearing on railway affairs. The aim of contributors should be to supply Interesting topical material tending generally towards the betterment of the service.
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Controller and Auditor-General
10/11/38.
There is a touch of magic in the idea of sending a Broadcasting Studio by rail on an itinerant errand to numerous North Island stations where the people might otherwise never have the privilege of a broadcasting service in their own home town.
And what a chance for local talent! Who has not, at some time in his wanderings, been caught in the net of a country concert where one or two performers have amazed by their talent-a talent which has sometimes bordered on genius-but who remain unknown to the world at large because the opportunity to be better known has never reached them. Now they will have this rail-sent opportunity to “go on the air” and be heard by those who are just looking for the kind of talent these local lads and lasses possess.
The plan also shows just another of the ubiquitous capacities the Railways have to serve the country. Little research was needed to show that no other medium of transport could render a service comparable with that of the Railways for the purposes of this mobile radio studio.
Here is the recipe, reduced to its simplest elements. Select a suitable railway carriage; take out a few fittings; insert a few others; give the whole an ivory coat and a silver lining, with some blues and reds thrown in for good measure; and there you have a modern broadcasting studio on rails. Run it to a suitable siding; throw up an aerial; switch on the power; face the microphone; and there you have a radio station in full operation at the railway station of your choice.
It is just another of those services of New Zealanders for New Zealanders that help to develop the spirit of self-sufficiency, to bring out the latent powers of our people, and to add to the zest of life in the Dominion.
The idea does not appear to have been developed quite along these lines elsewhere, and this can be regarded as a further indication of the progressive methods adopted in New Zealand and the pioneering that can still be done, even as in the days of the earliest settlers, if we have the courage and enterprise to take the chances as they come along.
A feature of the Railway Broadcasting Studio will doubtless be the opportunities taken to discuss local problems of a technical nature and matters of district interest in which the knowledge and experience of experts in various Government Departments might be made available while the Studio is in the area most immediately concerned—a service which, for obvious reasons, could not be given so fully and effectively from a central Broadcasting Station. To the men of the Railways, as to the public in the localities where the car will run, the progress of the Railway Broadcasting Studio cannot fail to be a matter of much interest.
Physical fitness is always an interesting subject, particularly to members of the Railways Service whose duties and responsibilities demand that those engaged in train movements, track maintenance and other phases of railway operation should be able always to withstand the strain imposed on them by an occupation calling for alertness, quickness of thought and action and, on many occasions, considerable physical exertion.
The Department accordingly demands a high standard of physical fitness from those entering the Service. It also assists to maintain this standard by encouraging all movements likely to develop the physique of its junior members, and clubs for recreational purposes are given practical assistance and fostered by the Department.
I have always believed that, apart from the duty we owe to ourselves, personal fitness is a duty we owe to our employer. One need not seek far for evidence of the fact that the main source of personal happiness and satisfaction in life is found in physical fitness and good health.
It is the man who does not take precautions to keep fit who is liable to become “accident prone” and a potential danger not only to himself but also to his fellow-workers and others.
Properly understood, the art of keeping physically fit is one of the most important of all the arts—and probably one of the simplest. It is the basis of that standard of health from which a happy nature and goodwill spring. It inculcates moderation, strengthens the character, helps to produce an equable mind, and is the source of courage and enterprise in the things that are worth while.
Just as it is the aim of the administration to have every vehicle and every piece of equipment fit and capable for the work they are called on to do, so it should be the aim of each member of the service to so equip himself physically that his share in the work of the Railways and of the community generally can be carried out efficiently and with the greatest satisfaction and pleasure to himself and his fellow men.
The practice of keeping fit, like other good habits, should be cultivated in our youth, as the earlier the practice begins the more enjoyable it becomes and the more enduring will be the results. Nor it need not cost anything in establishing, by means of physical fitness, what I regard as the best asset one can possess—Good Health.
General Manager.
(Rly. Publicity photos.)
It is intended that this series of articles should give some idea of New Zealand's advance in industrial progress.
To find a starting point was difficult, for there was such an modern factory production is the machine.
I soon found that we have in New Zealand, not only huge plants turning out a wide variety of articles, but that the very tools and machines which ensure the production are themselves designed and fabricated in New Zealand.
It is impossible in the compass of this article to cover the whole field, so that I had to make a selection. I have taken as typical examples four engineering units; a great foundry and structural steel plant; a modern scientific precision engineering company; a highly specialised factory competing efficiently with overseas makers; and, lastly, a small but well-equipped workshop where the engineering art reaches its highest expression—tool-making.
I have had fascinating days and shocks of almost electric intensity to find the pitch to which our engineering industry has attained. “New Zealand is marching on.”
Engineering for the purpose of this story does not include motor works and their ramifications, nor the business of electrical supplies, or a dozen and one branches of activity which involve the use of machinery. “General Engineering,” as a term, is confined to the concerns which make the machines, or the structural steel skeletons for great buildings, and the like.
At the beginning of this century, there were thirty-seven establishments of this kind whose efforts added 176,000 to the wealth of the community. To-day there are no less than 206 separate organisations who bring over a million and a quarter into the community chest, and keep 3,727 New Zealanders in work. Some firms are nation-wide, one of them, for instance, having fourteen branches. The growth of this particular industry only goes to prove once more how essentially British we are. That delightful everyday philosopher, Wyndham Lewis, explains in his last book about John Bull, the reasons that made the British the first portion of the human race to be clean shaven.
England was the first country to be thoroughly industrialised, and he says, “Whiskers do not go with factory machinery, that is all there is to it.” Among our forebears were plenty of men of mechanical training who dreamed of planned endeavour to make for ourselves the instruments and utility mechanisms we needed, without the long haul over two oceans. It took time, however. We have always
had the school of thought which was so neatly reproved by Abraham Lincoln when sturdy pioneers were fighting to establish the infant industries of America. It was said: “We have the money—all we want is the goods,” and he pointed out that while and when the things were made in America, “We have the money and the goods.”
It is clear that the squadron leaders in New Zealand's march to progress are the scientific engineers. To-day the spark gap and the drill are mightier than the pen. The satisfaction of human needs, and the elimination of drudgery are the twin tasks of the machine. This is the age of the engineer. I have had a great deal to do with the technical experts of the Railways Department. However one looks at human problems, there is something refreshing about the viewpoint of the technician. Others may forecast, may keep exact records, may devise management systems … but the engineer has to make something that works. The verdict is inevitable
The surveys that follow show this principle at work in its highest form. I would have loved to have covered this subject by describing in detail the splendour, modernity, and comprehensive efficiency of our own Railway Workshops of which one distinguished visitor said: “There are larger plants in the world, but none better.”
However, this article will be confined to the achievement of our own pioneer citizens. Our first visit was paid to the works of William Cable and Co., Ltd., on the noble Hutt highway. There is something about “Cables” which is distinctive. This old, purely New Zealand concern was founded by E. W. Mills and the late Mr. William Cable who joined as engineering foreman, and subsequeutly became a partner. As the foundation date was 1854, its own centennial celebrations are approaching. There are many men on the staff with forty or more years of service.
A factor that applies to all engineering shops is one of outstanding community value. The great bulk of employees in this branch of industry are not only males, but are adult heads of families. At Cables, in particular, there is an atmosphere which for want of a better term I shall call “He-man.” The mighty mechanisms call for strong muscles, good nerves, and physical deftness. I looked at one enormous cutting wheel sheering through a steel ingot. There was no heat, no sparks flew, and the large steel mass was cut through in 1 3/4 minutes. The expert in charge had all the proud ways of a stud groom showing off his best horse.
The first process in steel constructional work is the preparation of the pattern or “template.” This is a wooden replica of the work to be done, not a miniature, but the exact size. At Cables, therefore, one great well-lighted upstairs, floor is used for the laying-out of templates. Our picture shows the lay-out for the new radio towers on Tinakori Hill, in 40 feet sections, and on the side were the big wooden patterns for Harbour Board trusses.
In November of last year, Cables put out 486 tons of fabricated steel. The “Shortland Street job” took 850 tons.
The templates are laid along the steel lengths and the punching, drilling, welding and shaping begin. There are 40 electric welding operators alone out of the total staff of more than 320. High up in each of these towering aisles of steel and iron are overhead cranes ranging from 5 to 15 tons, made and designed in the workshops themselves. A still more impressive sample of Cables skill and initiative is the huge milling and grinding machine all made at the works to meet New Zealand conditions. It puts a mirror-like surface on the largest stanchion. Cables also make a wide range of machines such as the cleaning plant for sausage casings. I have not the time to describe the army of mechanical titans in detail. There are lathes, drilling machines, sandblast plants, beam bending machines, all on a gargantuan scale; and there are metal sprayers, band saws for cutting steel, and enormous resistless hydraulic presses. Four-dredges have been overhauled this season, and great propeller blades, anchors, immense girders and angle-irons, giant hoppers and other colossal objects of iron and steel are everywhere waiting to be re-made, altered and bullied back into working order.
Steel is dealt with here as if it were soap or cheese.
One interesting place is the service store where tools are issued on a neat system. We show also the steel store, where streams of railway trucks load and unload masses of steel bars, trusses, plates of all conceivable lengths, sizes, angles, and thickness.
I was seeking in my mind for what was missing in my recollections of foundries before, and it proved to be “steam.” No smoke anywhere prompted my question and I found that the 2,000 h.p. on tap here all day, was electrically produced.
So when next you see the towering skeleton framework of steel of some great new building, please recall Cables, who probably fabricated that
By way of contrast, we spent a fascinating afternoon at the Pallo Engineering Works. This is the antithesis of the great Cable plant. Here the machines are relatively small, of incredible symmetry and speed of action, and of an intricacy and ingenuity that defy translation into words. Here, however, are the principles which also apply to the big works. The staff are all men, adults with the exception of the apprentices. Craftsmanship is a serious thing at Pallos, and here, perhaps, the lesson of this area of human activity gets deeper signficance.
Precision engineering is a business of ideals mixed with mathematics—of exact calculations, and chemical and mechanical research carried out in an atmosphere of working fellowship. The difference between the artificer, the workman, and the directing expert must be one of degree, not of kind.
Here we are close to the heart of the problem of production of the mechanical helps to our present day scheme of living. The glib solution usually quoted is “Mass Production,” a vague idea in our minds of a huge mass of machines turning out a vast number of things per hour. I have always suspected that there was something wrong with the logic that argued that mere numbers brought about efficiency and therefore cheapness. My own experience was that size in an organisation often militated against, and not for, efficiency. There is a tendency for the figures to take charge; there is growth towards impersonal control; and the most well meant humanism is hopeless where there are masses of industrial troops whose individuality is obliterated.
The new thing, really, in industrial production has a better name: “Quantitative Production,” and its basic principle is “interchangeability.” The new notion is that if twenty-five rods are made, and twenty-five bores, any one of the rods will fit into any one of the bores. It was in Mr. Pallo's drawing and designing rooms and among his rows of scientific instruments that I got a glimpse of the intricacy and profundity of the problem.
The technical magazine library was impressive and we took a picture of it. Mr. Pallo has the plain doctrine that the final objective of his organisation is simply, knowledge. The gospel text of the precision branch of engineering is the word “Tolerances.” To my surprise I found that there is no such thing as an exact fit and that there are thousands of text books, volumes of diagrams and veritable arsenals of instruments to deal with this problem of “tolerances.” The tolerance is the measure of the maximum variation that can be allowed if mechanical parts are to be interchangeable. Instruments that measure and check to the one thousandth part of an inch are necessities at Pallo's. Many great firms in the world do nothing but make these precision instruments. Micrometers, limit gauges, calliper gauges, powerful magnifying glasses are all in evidence. A neat small box will contain hundreds of pounds worth of them. Working to the limits of exactness prescribed by these metal warders is the life and death necessity of this type of work, and the “Stop and Go” gauge is the final arbiter.
The art of die-casting at Pallo's is at a standard of world parity. This after war development has worked miracles. Nowadays such wide apart articles as vacuum-cleaner chassis,
I saw here a gear hobbing machine which cuts gears from a solid wheel in an unbelievable sideways fashion.
Mr. Pallo has taken out himself no less than twenty-three different patents, and the whole place has an air of study and initiative. Noise is not very noticeable, and the whole ninety of the staff can hear the radio which runs the whole time.
Pallo's is worth a visit, as an example of a kind of competence that is usually associated with the older scientific and technological organisations of Europe. There is an air of learning and idealism, and the staff, on my visit, were concentrating hard on the entries for the sports events at the annual picnic.
Next we paid a call on the Neeco factory and received a series of shocks. This is a specialist factory making an excellent electric range, but it is an example of entire self-contained working. The sheet iron plates arrive at the door and the rest is done, inside, with New Zealand hands, brains and materials. The sheets are of standard size, and pass through a series of presses, transforming them steadily into the exact shapes, sizes, and designs that finally assemble into the square, neat, handsome Neeco electric cooking stove. Our picture shows them arranged in dozens for despatch all over New Zealand. Guillotines cut the sheets, and they are shaped by dies, which have been made in the factory. Speaking of “tolerances,” the maximum allowed at Neeco is 1/64th of an inch. The large press shown in our picture is a marvel of efficiency, handling the backs, sides, and tops, bending, cutting, punching holes and so on with almost magical precision.
Smaller presses carry on the work on the smaller parts and the oddments. Welding is the joining process here, too, and skilled experts deal with the electrical equipment. The checking systems are most elaborate. Nothing passes out of the machine shop unless it comes under the eye of one experienced craftsman. Another comprehensive check is made in the “pickling” room, a place which brought us to the most interesting portion of the whole process of manufacture. Neeco folks are very proud of their enamelling, its beauty and durability. The detailed effort that has been entailed to arrive at this perfection almost baffles the imagination. The foundation of these enamels is ground glass which is put on wet by a spray gun and subsequently fused on to the smooth sheets. Now, the physical properties of iron vary, and it takes months and months of ceaseless research, trial, and experiment to blend an enamel to suit the shape and peculiarities of the sheets and so enable standardised production.
Iron expands when heated and the expansion ratio of the enamel content and the iron has to be matched exactly. The spray gun expert has to be an artist. There must not be the tiniest trace of a finger mark on the plate, hence the “pickling” room. A ground coat is applied first, and then the colours, fawn, blue, green, white or black are applied. A fascinating variation to watch is the mottle, or marbling.
The furnace is a spectacular unit at Neeco. Inside it is at crematorium heat. Outside the walls are just warm. Not only the firebricks inside but these effective walls are made from New Zealand clays in a New Zealand factory at Temuka. The porcelain linings
No fingers ever touch the plates; they are held by hooks and are slid into the glowing furnace on racks, to be fused in a matter of minutes.
The assembly rooms are interesting. Exactness is the watchword, and the sturdiness of the Neeco range had just come in for a surprise testimonial a day or two before my visit. A range, unboxed, had dropped on its edge by accident from the top of a well-laden lorry, and all that was done by way of damage was a trifling dent in one corner. Everyone in the place seemed as pleased as if a sweep ticket had proved a winner.
The Neeco factory is a worthwhile New Zealand possession. It is a self-contained production unit, translating precision engineering into utility practice, and once more illustrating the maxim that “engineering exists to do away with human drudgery.”
Our tour concluded with a survey of a fine example of that highest manifestation of the engineer's art, the tool-making workshop. The Standard Engineering Company has a select companionship of both craftsmen and machines. The latter have been chosen from many different countries.
Here is an eclectic plant in the real sense. For the everyday layman, the most exciting sight here is the set of working tools which make the tobacco tin. Once more we meet the problem of “tolerances”; drawing and designs have to be of infinite accuracy and gauges which check infinitesimal measurements are in constant use. But here comes in “that little bit extra” of the song.
A tool can be fashioned with every appearance of perfect precision, and responding to every test. Yet when it comes to dealing with such a problem as making “flowing” tin behave, a something more is needed, and the personal skill of the craftsman enters the picture. Test after test on the actual tin is made; changes that are almost imperceptible are wrought, and finally, and triumphantly, “it works! Eureka!”
It is amazing to see what is entailed in giving, for instance, the top of a tobacco tin a rolled edge. The flat sheet takes on first the shape of a straw hat, and finally the edge rolls up. All this is to save our finger tips as we open the tin. It is strange to see the die tools that make these complete, even to the ghost of the match striker which will appear on the actual tin, pressed there by the die made by Standard Engineering. These tools operated by presses will turn out, say the top of a tin, at the rate of tens of thousands a day, the champion girl operator recording 28,000. To this company, inventors come, not only for the making of the first model, but for the design of the tools which will enable standardisation. The motor car in our picture, for instance, has fitted to it, a new invention which has electrified the engineering world—the pneudraulic system of motor vehicle suspension. It looks like solving the problems of springs that vex the whole transport arena. This New Zealand idea is at work now in many lorries and cars, and the unit was made by this New Zealand company for its New Zealand creator. It is again a demonstration of the mathematical certainties that underlie engineering. The springs method has never been adequate, and this hydraulic principle may be the final solution to the lack of stability in motor vehicles.
So in this compact, unpretentious, and competent establishment, we take leave of New Zealand's engineering industry.
It has been a heart warming week of experience for me, and we can safely join in the belief that in industry it is true that “New Zealand Marches On.”
When the Railway Department takes over the Napier-Wairoa section of the East Coast Railway on a working basis, stated Mr. G. H. Mackley, General Manager of Railways, after his return from a fast railcar trip to Wairoa on 4th February, it is intended to institute a twice-daily service between Napier and Wairoa to connect with the express trains to and from Wellington, and other services. This will give a through service between Wairoa and Wellington.
Mr. Mackley said that the line from Napier to Putorino was in charge of the Working Railways Department, and the line from Putorino to Raupunga, a length of approximately fourteen miles, was now ready for handing over by the Public Works Department. The Minister of Railways has signed the necessary warrant, and when that length has been taken over by the Working Railways Department, it will give a distance of forty-three miles from Napier under its control.
That leaves approximately thirty miles of line between Raupunga and Wairoa still in the hands of the Public Works Department. The work on this section of the line is very well advanced, and it is expected by the Public Works Department that this portion of the line, so far as the traffic section is concerned, will be ready for handing over to the Working Railways Department in about three months. Some cottages and other buildings, however, still remain to be completed at Wairoa before that portion of the line can be used for the full passenger and goods service. As soon as the line itself is ready to hand over, from Raupunga to Wairoa, it is the intention, as indicated by the Minister of Railways, to introduce a modified passenger service by the utilisation of the standard type of railcar, as the staff arrangements for this type of service will enable the Department to proceed with these arrangements without waiting until all the cottages have been built.
The modified passenger service from Wairoa when it is inaugurated will mean that the people of the Wairoa district will have a connection with the express from Napier to Wellington in the morning and also one with the express from Wellington arriving at Napier in the late afternoon. This railcar connects with the express from Wellington, and also provides a connection at Wairoa with the service car for Gisborne. In addition to these connections with the up and down Napier expresses, the same railcar will return to Wairoa after connecting with the morning express to Wellington, and return after lunch to Napier in time to connect with the 4.24 train to Palmerston North, which will also make connection with the “Limited” express for Auckland, in addition to providing the connection already referred to with the express from Wellington.
“As the following times of different stages of the journey indicate,” said Mr. Mackley, “the railcar, ‘Tokomaru,’ again performed exceptionally well. On the up trip the actual running time from Wellington to Palmerston North was 1 hr. 46 min. for the 87 miles, and the homeward journey between these points 1 hr. 42 min. The actual running time from Wairoa to Napier was 2 hr. 5 min., and the actual running time from Napier to Wellington was 4 hr. 28 mins.”
Some residents who were taken from Wairoa to Napier commented upon the excellent riding qualities of the car. There were others who had the opportunity of testing the car at high speeds, and they also praised it. On straight portions of track where the running conditions were good the car again had no difficulty in attaining speeds of 70 miles an hour, and the riding qualities of the vehicle, even at this high speed, were the subject of most favourable comment.
A New chapter in transportation's story in the London area was begun a few weeks ago, with the opening of the electric services of the Southern Railway between the metropolis and Reading, and also via Ascot, Camberley and Aldershot to Guilford. This extension added 43 route and 88 track miles to the Southern electric system, giving a total of 622 route and 1,582 track-miles. Conditions in the territory served are peculiarly favourable to electrification, indeed, without electrification, the Southern would have been quite unable to handle the ever-growing traffic of the area, particularly during the morning and evening peak periods. Actually, on each week-day, the London terminal stations of this company receive 2,545 passenger trains, conveying over 370,000 passengers. During three rush hours—7.0 a.m. to 10.0 a.m.—540 trains arrive daily with 243,000 passengers, while the return evening traffic is similarly concentrated. Apart from the increased number of trains possible with electrification, the electric trains have remarkably quick acceleration, for within thirty seconds of starting they are moving at 30 m.p.h. This, and the benefits secured through the introduction of modern colour light signalling, has been an immense contribution to the successful handling of traffic.
In the case of the new Reading line electrification, thirty-six electric trains now take the place of the twenty steam trains formerly run each week-day between Waterloo and Reading. The average journey time, also, has been reduced by eleven minutes. The rolling-stock for the Reading electrification consists of 36 new two-coach lavatory motor-train units of a similar type to those employed in the London-Portsmouth services. Each unit consists of a motor coach and a trailer with driving compartment. At peak hours, two or more train units are coupled together to form trains of up to eight vehicles. Important station remodelling works have proceeded at the same time, notably at Egham, Virginia Water and Sunningdale. The electrification in the Ascot area will prove of especial benefit on race days, while in the Camberley and Aldershot area many important military establishments welcome the improved services.
Most famous of all Southern passenger trains is the “Golden Arrow” Continental Express, running from London to Dover, in connection with the Southern Railway Steamship Service to France, and the forward “Golden Arrow” service of the Northern Railway of France between Calais and the French capital. A complete new “Golden Arrow” train has recently been put into service by the Waterloo authorities. It consists of eight Southern carriages and four Pullman cars of the latest design. The Southern carriages are of standard pattern, but they are
painted outside in a pleasing new shade of light green, the intention being that this attractive colour shall, eventually, become the standardised decoration for all the company's passenger stock. Inside the new “Golden Arrow” vehicles, lighter decorations and fabrics have been introduced with distinct advantage. Particularly interesting is the fact that, in the first-class compartments, a suggestion thoughtfully advanced by Her Majesty Queen Mary has been followed, and the upholstery is in old gold quilted tapestry, with an artistic panel of flowers in the centre of each chair back. The second-class saloons have woodwork of polished walnut, and the design of the tapestry utilised for the chairs has been taken from a piece of late 17th Century Stuart “Tree” design embroidery, from the original in the Victoria and Albert Museum. The “Golden Arrow,” providing the shortest and speediest service between the English and French capitals, is steam-operated, the train being hauled between London and Dover by four-cylinder, six-coupled steam locomotives of the
Acceleration of freight trains continues on the Home railways. Most of the long-distance goods trains now run at speeds of up to 60 m.p.h., and wagon loads range from 40 to 60 per train. Runs of 100 miles or more non-stop are common. Particularly interesting is the present-day practice of the four group lines to issue goods train time-tables to the public. In days gone by there were no freight train time-tables open to public inspection, but nowadays all that has changed, and now that goods trains run almost with the punctuality of passenger services, the distribution of accurate goods train time-tables has become general. One railway—the L. & N.E.R.—has gone a step further, by issuing a special booklet of 44 pages, giving details of the principal freight trains, their running times, and the hours at which consignees of goods thus conveyed may expect delivery. All this is to be commended, for at this juncture there is every need to impress upon one and all the extreme reliability of railway service.
The campaign of the Home railways for a “square deal” continues, and there is every reason to believe their claims will be met to a considerable extent. One feature of present-day practice which will probably shortly disappear is the very strict classification of goods for charging purposes, and the simplification of that awe-inspiring volume of 400 pages, the “general railway classification.” Every conceivable article is listed in this book, the commodities being embraced in no fewer than sixty-six classes. Actually, each article appears dozens of times in different classes, according to whether it is forwarded in large or small quantities, whether it is packed or unpacked, and so on. The classification has taken about a century to compile, and the whole thing is far too cumbersome and restrictive for present-day needs. Like so many other appurtenances of modern railway operation, this bible of the rate clerk soon will be relegated to the museum.
In view of the efforts of the Home lines to throw off the shackles of antiquated legislation, it is worth noting that in the United States of America—where the railways have also been passing through an exceptionally hard time—very similar problems are at present being tackled. There, it is proposed to establish a transportation board, charged with the responsibility of regulating all forms of transport; and to repeal the so-called “short-haul clause,” which restricts the carriers from charging less for a long haul than for a short haul over the same route. The recommendation is that all forms of transport be put on an equal footing in respect of the regulation of taxation and subsidies, and that the Interstate Commerce Commission be relieved from all responsibility of prescribing a general plan of railway grouping.
A sure sign of the approach of spring-time in Britain is provided by the commencement of the movement by train of early narcissi and tulip blooms from the Lincolnshire and Cornish growing areas to the principal inland markets. This business now approaches its peak, and special flower trains are run daily to London to meet public demands. The L. & N.E. Railway links Lincolnshire with London, and the G.W. connects the Cornish flower-fields with the metropolis. Railway road vehicles convey the flowers from the fields to railhead, where special wagons are waiting to carry the traffic to London. Railway road vehicles again are pressed into service to form a connection between the city stations and the big markets. Close co-operation between growers and carriers has been a feature in recent years, and home-grown spring flowers, fresh and sweet, have thereby been brought within the reach of all.
The apex of the North Island of New Zealand is Mt. Ruapehu, 9,175 ft., the great massif of which rises up in magnificent splendour, above the forest and tussock plains of the Tongariro National Park.
Every year, during both summer and winter, an ever-increasing number of vigorous young men and women come from north and south, by train and car, to ski and climb on its slopes, and to breathe the clean, exhilarating air that one finds only amid the mountains.
How many of the young climbers, we wonder, having climbed up to the highest peak and looked down at the sometimes opaque, sometimes translucent waters of the crater lake, reflect on early ascents of the mountain, made under greatly different conditions from those enjoyed to-day?
Let us go back to a time when the Maoris were far from being the peaceful race that they are to-day; when they would allow no one to break a “tapu” by climbing the mountain—to a time when the only means of travel were by foot and on horseback, and when there were no comfortable huts and no Chateau Tongariro.
The first Europeans to show any great interest in the mountain, were probably Diffenbach, in 1842 and Hochstetter, in 1859. Both of them were anxious to attempt an ascent, but permission to do so was refused by the powerful chief, Te Heu Heu. In an account of his wanderings, Hochstetter wrote of Ruapehu:
“No one has ever ascended or explored it. Nevertheless, there can be no doubt as to its volcanic nature, but it seems perfectly extinct; there is no trace of solfatara to be discovered in the distance, either at its sides or at the top, and it is totally unknown whether the broad summit forms a plateau or whether it contains a crater.”
One of the earliest climbs on the mountain, of which there is any record, was the ascent of Te Heu Heu, the mountain's northern peak. On the 12th December, 1877, two brothers, J. and T. Allison, started up a northeastern spar. Nearing the summit, they were enveloped in a fog which became thicker as they climbed upward. After a seven hours' climb they reached the summit, where visibility was limited to about a hundred yards. The descent was made without mishap, in about four hours, to a camp at the bush level.
In connection with this ascent it is interesting to note that T. Allison, writing some twenty years later in the New Zealand Alpine Journal, stated that they believed at the time that they were the first to ascend Ruapehu at all. Later, however, he found a footnote in one of Hochstetter's works, which made mention of the fact that Sir George Grey had stated that he had been to the summit. He wrote to Sir George, who was then living in London, and received from him a very interesting letter, which stated in part:
“… and continued until I reached a spot where I had a view over a vast extent of country, without experiencing any great difficulties in the ascent. The natives had begged me not to ascend the mountain, and from superstitious fears were excessively urgent that I should not do so, stating that they came from Whanganui, and might possibly be killed out of revenge for breaking a tapu. I was unwilling, therefore, to show myself if I could help it, and did not attempt to walk along the summit of the mountain, and immediately descended from the point I had reached without examining any crater. I spent but a few moments on the summit, and did not discover the crater lake.”
Sir George could not recollect the date of his ascent. Allison mentioned that it would have been about 1855.
Probably the first men to see the crater lake, were Messrs. Maxwell and Beetham, who made an ascent in 1879.
Few of those who later made ascents wrote about them in as interesting a fashion as did J. H. Kerry-Nicholls, a world-traveller who made an epic 600 mile trip through the King Country in
Kerry-Nicholls has painted for us a vivid word-picture of the scene that met their gaze:—“Looking towards the south, along the summit of the mountain, which stretched away for nearly a mile in length, peak rose above peak in colossal proportions from the dazzling expanse of snow. Each grand and towering mass of rock, tinted by the extinct volcanic fires of a reddish hue, standing out clearly defined against the light-blue sky, each pointed summit shining with ice beneath the bright light with grand and almost magical effect.”
On the occasion of this ascent the crater was filled with snow, and was cut here and there by great deep chasms.
What is the motive of men in striving to reach the summits of mountains sometimes in the face of hostile opposition, from both man and nature? To some it is the desire to add to geographic and scientific knowledge; to the vast majority, however, the dominating urge is that of adventure, and the love of nature.
Eighty cigarettes a day! M. Aristide Briand, “the strong man of French Politics,” smoked 80 cigarettes a day—and lived to be old. Yet the enemies of the weed will insist that smoking, even in moderation, shortens life! But that depends on the tobacco. The famous Frenchman's favourite blend must have been of exceptional purity to admit of his indulging so freely. Because brands there are in plenty, which it would be simply suicidal to smoke to that extent owing to the quantity of nicotine they contain. Tobacco absolutely free from nicotine is unknown, but our N.Z. brands are not far off the mark. The toasting they are subjected to at the factory accounts not only for their comparative freedom from nicotine, but for their peculiarly delicious flavour and unequalled aroma. They do not, be it noted, affect the heart, and are the only toasted tobaccos. That they possess an irresistible attraction for smokers is proved by their extensive sale. There are only five toasted brands: Riverhead Gold, Desert Gold, Cut Plug No. 10, Cavendish, and Navy Cut No. 3. But ‘ware of imitations!*
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Of the millions of passengers safely transported in New Zealand each year by the Railways Department the majority, like myself, have little appreciation of what railway organisation means. The only time I ever felt keenly about the railways in this country was when they stopped and I did not know why. Then I felt so keenly about them that I would thrust my head through a window and snarl viciously at a wandering stationmaster with a lamp in his hand. Occasionally I wondered how all the trains managed to get to their correct destinations; but that was only a fleeting thought, generally thrust aside with a sneer about luck rather than good management.
Then I had the good fortune to be among the passengers on the new standard type rail car, “Aotea,” on her initial run to New Plymouth. That short trip, it seemed short in the speed-luxury of the “Aotea,” revealed to me as a typical layman what thought and planning lie behind the railway service in New Zealand or any other country. The sight of the General Manager, Mr. G. H. Mackley, C.M.G., crouched over a chart of bends and gradients as he stood next the driver for almost all of the journey from Wanganui to New Plymouth, brought home the realisation that from the top, downward, every member of the staff is a keen railwayman.
It was the initial run from which extensive and comprehensive data for the final schedule were collected, and for the first time I realised that “railwaymen” are truly a special type of human.
The run from Wellington to Wanganui and from there to New Plymouth is made up of track that comprises some of the stiffest gradients in the North Island as well as tight curves nearly all the way. The “Aotea” made light of the gradients and slid round the tightest curves without a trace of discomfort to her passengers. There was a complete absence of sway, scarcely any noise, and the country flashed by at a most exhilarating pace.
After leaving Wellington the route passed through the recently opened Tawa Flat tunnel and followed rather broken country to Pukerua Bay which was the highest point of the first section of the journey. The grades approaching' Pukerua Bay from the Wellington side are 1 in 57, and from the New Plymouth side 1 in 66, these being the worst grades between Wellington and Palmerston North. Over this section the “Aotea” gave a perfect performance, but the hardest part of the run lay between Palmerston North and New Plymouth, where there is practically no level going, and where some of the grades from Palmerston North to Wangaehu, average 1 in 50. Between Wangaehu and Waitotara, a distance of 38 miles, some of the grades are 1 in 35. It was on parts of this section that the most gruelling tests were carried out. They were all successful.
It was here that I had my first impression of travel on the footplate, but there was no glaring heat, no swaying rattle and cold rush of air. All there was to be seen was the gleam of the rails sliding beneath us and a steady purring as we swept along at 70 miles an hour. The powerful beam of the head lamps cut a large slice from the night and into this we rushed headlong, standing and sitting in the comfort of a well-lighted room as though we were at home by our firesides.
The “Aotea,” as an example of the Standard Type of rail car, is a fitting product to crown the achievement of railway design and planning in New Zealand. The sleek lines of the silver car express a greater freedom of design than any seen in other passenger
Some appreciation of the task facing the locomotive driver is gained when one sees the approaching track. The section of line between Wangaehu and Waitotara with its tortuous bends and steep gradients presented no problem to the “Aotea,” but a locomotive with ten or more carriages behind it is a much more cumbersome vehicle, and negotiating those bends and inclines must call for as great skill in handling the engine as to berth a liner. To maintain headway while dragging a heavy snake round two or more bends at the one time is no mean feat, and passengers fretting at the slackening of speed would do well to place themselves in the shoes of the driver. He is negotiating as difficult a section of track as any in the world.
A feature of the trip was the crowded stations on the route between Wanganui and New Plymouth, the area which will find greatest convenience in the new service when it commences. At several stations the car was stopped and the people thronging the platforms invited to inspect the new vehicle. The interior of the car is in green, both walls and ceiling being covered with Rexine, and the silver relief provided by the chromium plated fittings and silver paintwork on the roof makes the colour scheme particularly attractive.
Seating accommodation for fifty-two is provided with a first and second class division. The second class compartment lacks nothing in comfort though the upholstery is not quite as lavish in its conception as in the first class section. Green leather makes the seats (which are of the adjustable three-position reclining type) comfortable and keeps them in harmony with the high standard of workmanship revealed in all other parts of the car.
Thermostatically controlled heat makes travel in all weathers a pleasant experience, and the lighting and ventilation are quite adequate.
When it is remembered that all this comfort is capable of moving from place to place with a maximum speed of about seventy miles an hour, some realisation of the progress of railway travel in New Zealand is possible. It is interesting to note that rail car developments in other countries have met with success, and all progressive railway countries have evolved their types of rail car according to their needs and special conditions. New Zealand's needs include great mobility for the tortuous and steep gradients in some of her railway country.
Rail car travel is a definitely new and pleasant experience for the railway public of the Dominion. The silver lines of the “Aotea” as she travels along a stretch of straight track bring to mind a flashing shuttle and thread, a development in railway travel probably never visualised by the pioneers of the rail in New Zealand.
The country surges past in undulating sweeps of green as one sits in the control compartment at the front of the car, and it is here that the spirit of progress may be actually experienced.
In view of the fact that among the many interesting ingredients that go to make up that rich confection, the New Zealand Centennial Celebrations, are the various literary competitions open to your native writers, some particulars of, and comments upon, the series of similar competitions arranged by the Literary Committee of Australia's 150th Anniversary Celebrations Council, may be of interest. Of that committee I, as President of the Sydney branch of the P.E.N. Club, had the honour to be the Government's nominee as chairman; and, as such, was largely concerned in the establishment and conduct of the competitions, to say nothing of the other work of the committee. For we had many other activities to control in addition to the competitions — the most important being the Exhibition of Australian literature which was held in the magnificent hall of the Fisher Library, Sydney University. At this Exhibition every variety of Australian Literature was shown, arranged in accordance with date and subject, with the result that the Exhibition as a whole presented a complete review of Australian letters in every field and of every period. It proved to be an extraordinarily interesting feature of the Celebrations and, despite the distance of the Fisher Library from the centre of the city, it was visited during the fortnight of its currency, by a very large number of persons, who were by no means confined to literary experts and book-lovers. But this is by the way. My real theme is the Literary Competitions.
The Committee associated with me consisted of Dame Mary Gilmore, Australia's leading poetess (and I'm not sure that I could not rightly drop the feminine suffix); the Misses F'ora Eldershaw and Marjorie Barnard—the two young women writers whose skilful collaboration has produced “A House Is Built,” “Green Memories,” “The Glass House,” and other novels which have moved the critics, both of Australasia and the Homeland, to general laudation; “Harry” Green, the Librarian of the Fisher and himself a notable literary critic, and the writer of excellent verse; Frank Dalby Davison, the author of that unique study, “Man Shy,” a book which won the Gold Medal of the Australian Literary Society and has already become a classic; the Hon. T. D. Mutch, ex-Minister for Education in the first Lang Ministry and now the Government representative of Coogee in the N.S.W. Assembly; J. D. Clyne, M.L.A., the representative of the city constituency of King—a Labour stronghold—who, almost alone in this regard, insisted during the passage of the authorising Bill through the N.S.W. Parliament upon the necessity of introducing some literary activities into the Celebrations' scheme; and W. E. FitzHenry, a member of the literary staff of the Sydney Bulletin, whose long experience with the various competitions arranged by that journal, and as Hon. Secretary of the Fellowship of Australian Writers, made him the ideal man to take the Honorary Secretaryship of the Committee to which position he was accordingly appointed with enthusiasm. That he filled it with credit to himself and advantage to the Committee goes without saying, and I am glad to take this opportunity of testifying to his varied and indefatigable efforts to make the Committee's work a success.
At the very first meeting of the Committee it was decided to institute a series of literary competitions; but before we could decide upon their exact nature it was necessary to find out how much money we were to be allotted by the N.S.W. Government. It was decided, after careful consideration, that we should ask for £1,200. We received £500! But further pressure added £150 for expenses, so that the initial grant could be preserved intact for the prize money. In view of this lack of funds—and also, I may add, of time, for it was half way through 1937 before we were constituted as a committee—it was decided not to include a full length novel among the subjects for competition. The £500 was, therefore, eventually allotted as follows:—
Short Story: 1st prize, £80; 2nd, £20.
Short Poem: 1st prize, £50; 2nd, £10.
Short Essay: 1st prize, £50; 2nd, £10.
Long Essay: 1st prize, £100; 2nd, pound;30.
Full Length Play: 1st prize, pound;125; 2nd, £25.
A few days later, however, we were notified that the Commonwealth Government had decided to allot our Committee the sum of £250 to be awarded as a special Commonwealth Prize in such manner as we might think fit. Considerable discussion resulted in the decision to offer the whole amount as a prize for the best novel “published or accepted by a publisher,” during 1937. This particular limitation was decided upon firstly because it was clear that if the entries
It was also decided that the meaning and effect of the terms “Long and Short” as used in the various classifications should be left entirely to the judges to interpret. For it was felt that if any arbitrary length were prescribed an excellent entry might have to be disregarded simply because it had a few words or lines too many. Also, and in particular, it seemed to us to be too difficult to define a “short” poem with any exactitude. For instance a poem of the length of Milton's L'Allegro might well be deemed short and thus eligible for the prize if its merits otherwise were sufficient. As a matter of fact, the winning poem just filled the colmun of the Sydney Morning Herald, when published by that journal after the announcement of the prizes. So that it will be seen that the term “short” was given a very elastic interpretation by the judges. It was also decided that the “Australian” authors from whom entries were invited should, for the purposes of the competitions, mean a writer who had been born, or naturalised, in Australia, New Zealand, or the British South Pacific Islands, or had been a bona fide resident of any of those places for the three years preceding the closing date. In this respect the competitions were more liberal than those which have been arranged for the New Zealand celebrations, the latter being confined, I understand, to New Zealand writers only. This wide proviso was made the first of the conditions governing the competitions which we then issued to the public, the remainder reading as follows:—
2. All rights, including book, serial, dramatic, cinema, radio, and gramophone, are reserved to the author.
3. Works entered for the competition must not have been published in any form, in whole or in part or in abridgment (“published” for this purpose shall include stage or radio performances, lectures or public readings).
4. Works entered for the competitions must not be published in any form, in whole or in part or in abridgment, until the Judges announce their decision.
5. Every work must be submitted under a nom-de-plume, and the correct name and address of the author, with the nom-de-plume, must accompany the M.S. in a sealed envelope. The author's name must not appear on the M.S. Entries which do not comply with this rule will not be eligible. Conditions 3, 4 and 5 do not apply to the entries in the novel class.
6. Every competitor must give his consent to the publication of his real name and address in the event of him winning a prize.
7. No competitor may enter more than three works in one section, but any competitor shall be eligible to enter works in all or as many as he or she wishes.
8. Stamps for return must accompany all Mss. which should be typewritten. While every care will be taken of entries, no responsibility will be accepted for loss or damage, and competitors are advised to keep duplicate copies.
9. The decisions of the Judges shall be final and binding on all entrants, and in all other matters arising out of the competitions entrants must accept the ruling of the Literary Committee.
10. Members of the Literary Committee shall not be eligible to enter for the competitions.
11. The closing date shall be at noon on Friday, 31st December, 1937, and all entries received after that hour, whether delivered or posted, shall not be eligible but shall be returned to their authors.
12. All entries shall be addressed to Mr. S. Elliott Napier, Chairman Literary Committee, Australia's 150th Anniversary Celebrations, G.P.O. Box 3845T, Sydney, and plainly marked Literary Competitions with the title of the Sections for which entry is intended.
13. The Literary Committee reserves the right to make no award in any particular section, or to lessen the number of awards.
14. The Literary Committee reserves the right to bracket competitors.
It may be mentioned here that very “nice” and particular were some of the many points we were called upon to decide. Thus, a firm of publishers declared that they were ready to publish the winning novel whatever it might be, and then endeavoured to induce us to open the competition to all Mss. sent in, whether previously accepted (or published) or not, on the ground that as “any” Ms. might win and would thus, ipso facto, be accepted,
Mss. received could be regarded as accepted, and therefore be eligible for consideration. The Committee were somewhat taken aback by this ingenious argument; but, believing that common sense was with them, and preferring that the publishers' “readers” should tackle such a Herculean task rather than themselves, decided against it. However, it was pressed, and so the opinion of counsel learned in the law was taken (at considerable cost), and as it agreed with that already expressed by the Committee, the matter was dropped.
The competitions proved extraordinarily successful: 26 novels, mostly in published form, were received; 110 long essays; 151 full length plays; 262 short essays; 435 short stories, and 628 poems! To deal with this immense mass of material in the short space of three months (for the results in all classes except one had to be announced by the 1st of April, 1938, and in that one exception—the full length play—by the 1st of March, so that the play, if desired, could be rehearsed and staged before the termination of the Celebrations on the 30th April) meant hard work on the part of the Committee, and most of them were kept with their noses very consistently to the grindstone. It was impossible for all members of the Committee to read and judge all the different entries in all the different classes, so we divided the Committee into sub-committees of one, two or three members, and to each sub-committee was allotted one section of the competitions.
Each sub-committee was allowed to engage from three to five preliminary readers (who were paid from £5/5/-to £7/7/- for their work) to read the entries and to reduce them, by the elimination of such as were clearly “impossible,” to such numbers as could be handled by the final judge.
Take the case of the plays, for example, with which I was appointed to deal and of which therefore I am particularly competent to speak. In view of the number of entries, their individual length, and the particularly short time available for their judging, I was permitted to engage five preliminary judges; to each of whom I entrusted twenty-five plays, taking the remaining twenty-six myself. Each of these preliminary judges—and let me say, they were chosen for their particular knowledge of, and experience in, dramatic literature and production—was asked to reduce the entries to three if possible and certainly to not more than five. This procedure left me with a little over twenty plays upon which to pass final judgment. A careful re-reading reduced these to five, and on these five I again took the advice of two of the preliminary judges who were specially qualified for the job. In the final issue we were all agreed upon the first prize winner; as to the other four there was a difference of opinion; so that I had to shoulder the responsibility and award the minor place-winners myself.
Much the same procedure was, I believe, followed by the other subcommittees, and, so far as I have been able to gather, with as much general satisfaction as is possible for any such judgments to achieve. Certainly I have heard no objection—except one of a technical nature which we were easily able to answer—and I think that if there had been much dissatisfaction, the Chairman of the Committee would have heard of it.
The prize-winners were announced over the air, the Australian Broadcasting Commission very kindly allowing us a short evening session for the purpose. Mr. FitzHenry, the late Sir John Dunningham (who was the Minister in charge of the Celebrations) together with myself attended at the studio on the arranged date, and actually opened the sealed envelopes containing the rightful names of the winners before the microphone, Mr. Dunningham (as he then was) announcing the names and congratulating their owners on behalf of the Government and Council.
The competitions brought entries from every State of the Commonwealth, from New Zealand, and from New Guinea, and many islands of the Pacific. The winners, too, were finely representative of the entries in their cosmopolitanism. The prize for the full length play was won by a well-known West Australian writer; the second prize-winner came from Manly, near Sydney, the third and fourth from Tasmania. The winner of the short stories could not be definitely resolved—the judges finally divided the prizes between ten competitors, whose entries came from all the States of the Commonwealth and New Zealand.
And so with the other sections—further evidence, if such were needed, of the widespread appeal of the whole affair.
The Commonwealth Prize was dealt with by a sub-committee of three, and the final decision went in favour of a novel by Xavier Herbert, of Northern Australia, which was also the venue of the story. It was entitled “Capricornia” and, while its tense realism may be found objectionable by some readers, there can be no question of its strength, its sincerity or its value as a study of life in the somewhat primitive conditions obtaining in the locality wherein its scenes are laid.
It only remains to add that as a result of the competitions most of the prize-winners have seen their entries published and/or staged in a manner compatible with the importance of the event which called them into being.
In these days of fast travel one becomes quite used to the oft repeated question, “How long will it take me to get to …?” and it seems that Time makes most people interested in the highways and forget the happiness that comes to those who wander in the byways and flaunt a most disrespectful gesture in the face of Father Time.
The writer, having recently joined a party travelling to Cass, on the Midland line (South Island) made this interesting journey not by the usual route, but via Mid-Canterbury. Few people realise the beauties of the countryside round about Oxford—about thirty odd miles from Christchurch. This is really surprising, because, apart from the attractions of Banks Peninsular, there is no other area of hilly country closer to the City of the Plains. Less than an hour's driving brings the traveller to undulating country, and if it is spring time he passes through orchards which are a mass of blossom—ample promise of a rich harvest to come. This fruit growing district of Loburn is an important source of supply for Christchurch.
Keeping towards the west and drawing near Oxford the road winds between tall and stately poplar trees, then patches of pine, and if you have a photographer or a painter with you—well, you'll probably miss your lunch!
A few miles before reaching the much frequented Ashley Gorge, a sign directs one to the Government reserve of Mt. Richardson. A narrow road leads up the valley for a mile or so, and then comes to a full stop at the remains of a bridge. Here a well-graded track is followed, and as the traveller enters the more dense timber country he is immediately confronted with a notice, reading: “No Fires.” He soon finds that this warning is necessary, for, as the next point is rounded he sees the devastating results of a big forest fire. There seems to be something very impressive about tall forest trees, and when a bush fire ruthlessly sweeps down these giants with its destructive power we instinctively feel a pang of regret.
As the track ascends the traveller passes the fire-swept belt and the bush becomes thicker. Here and there huge dragonflies drone round and settle on a sunbathed rock. Many small streams cascade down the rocks and cross the track, but these can be easily negotiated, and all the time one is conscious of that “bushy” smell—black pine predominating—which makes city life seem very, very far away. No human sound breaks in upon the bush as one pauses, peering through the undergrowth, trying to find a bellbird whose call has rung across the valley with crystal clarity.
After walking for a time, the track ascends steeply, and suddenly one comes upon a clearing. Here at one's feet spreads the timbered valley below, and in the mid distance the Canterbury Plains stretch as far as the eye can see. It is a magnificent glimpse framed in trees.
On the way back to the road the sun climbs higher and the photographer takes the opportunity of using backlighting to show up the height of the trees.
As this is a Government reserve guns are prohibited, but outside the reserve area, towards Lees Valley, good pig and deer shooting is frequently reported, and this has made the area quite popular with many
We resumed our journey through Oxford, to Mt. Oxford, along the road that winds out through View Hill and proceed to the Waimakariri Gorge.
If a nor'-west wind is blowing, the crossing of the Gorge bridge is an exciting experience, for the formation of the country here creates very strong wind currents. In the old days when a horse and trap wished to cross in a high wind the driver usually stopped and loaded his trap with big boulders so that it would be weighted down and thus prevented from being blown off. The slopes of the hills all around the View Hill district were, at one time, heavily timbered and there were large timber mills in operation. A disastrous bush fire, however, swept the whole area, burning out the timber and the mills. Some of the small farmers about here were mill owners in those days, but this fire ruined them. Recently an old musterer, who would have been comfortably off as a mill owner but for this calamity, told how he was trapped in the fire and saved himself only by standing up to his neck in the water of a creek for five hours while the fire raged round him.
Leaving the Gorge bridge behind we travel until we join the Midland West Coast Road. As we near the end of our journey at Cass, high fleecy clouds climb the sky and, at last, the photographer insists that we stop to take another photograph.
How long does it take to smoke a ton of tobacco? It has taken an old Canterbury resident—an inveterate lover of the weed—just 73 years. He commenced to smoke when he was 13 years old, is now 86, and is still smoking! He was a cabin-boy when he learned to smoke, and for three-quarters of a century has found comfort and solace in his pipe. Anti-tobaccoites declare smoking shortens life. But there is reason to believe (as in this case) that it often prolongs it. Good and pure tobacco, containing but little nicotine undoubtedly benefits the health because it lessens nervous strain and banishes the “blues.” New Zealanders are fortunate in that respect. Our Dominion tobacco is so pure that many doctors smoke it habitually and recommend it to their patients. It is toasted and the “bite” taken clean out of it. A more delightful tobacco or a less harmful one the world does not produce. The five brands are: Riverhead Gold, Desert Gold, Navy Cut No. 3, Cavendish, and Cut Plug No. 10.*
Many, many years ago … just how long no white man can measure … a little group of Maori adventurers portaged their canoes around the great Huka Falls on the Waikato River, and saw break upon their awed vision the great glittering sweep of the tideless inland sea. Where the river breaks from the Lake they encamped, and called the spot Taupo, which means “Resting Place Upon The First Night.”
If you want to recapture all the mystery and fascination of that time, you must go to Taupo in the winter, when the sightseers and the trout fishermen have gone their ways, and the little township is almost empty, clean-swept by the winds and frosts and sunshine of that upland level.
Then it is a fit setting for fairy tales, and the portal by which you enter is the Rotorua road, running smoothly mile after mile through the bare larch plantations, with the frost lying white on the ground, and the far hills fantastically blue in the sunshine. Larch gives way to pine, and you travel through Hans Andersen woods, with a thousand dark spear points against a glittering sky. Now looms up Rainbow Mountain, that blunt stark peak, slashed with rose and saffron and gold and amethyst, and all the colours of an artist's palette splashed together. Little lakes, jade and steel-coloured, lie cupped at its base in belts of tall sere raupo. The steam-jets of Waiotapu Valley plume like graceful feathers into the motionless air.
Then upon your awed sight breaks a miracle. Across the dark-blue sea of the Kaiangaroa Plains rises the Kaimanawas, a steel-blade, snow-edged, with the three great mountains, Ruapehu, Ngauruhoe, and Tongariro, snow-clad to the base, floating like some shining Celestial City between earth and sky.
At every second turn of the road, the mountains are there, dominating all that blue upland landscape, gathering all the sunshine to them in a dazzling miracle of glory. When you plunge into the dark pine-scented valley of Wairakei, you lose the vision, to find it again, floating in white-rose reflections upon the green breast of the river as you pass over the bridge to Taupo.
Sunset draws a path of golden glory over the lake waters, and dusk comes on slowly, with a lingering twilight. There is a saffron flare of frost behind Mount Tauhara, which means, in the pakeha tongue, Lonely Sentinel. The lake holds light and colour long after it has faded from the sky, but darkness comes at last. The air is too dry and too still to be cold, but the pumice roads crunch crisply underfoot. The stars are so amazingly clear and bright that they make little flames of reflection, like liquid jewels, in the calm black waters of the lake.
The magic moment of all the day is dawn. The ground is white as snow; the tips of the dark broom scrub are brushed with frost. Beyond lies the lake, in a mingling of rose and steelgrey. The sky is rose-coloured, shading upwards to blue; the mountains rise against it in pure whiteness pencilled with ice-blue shadows.
Much water has flowed out of the lake since the night when that little band of adventurers made their first camp by the shore, but one might believe the stirring days of Taupo to be only yesterday, on a morning like this, down by the green broadbreasted river which flows so quietly and slowly and powerfully from its mysterious outlet. For the annals of this upland country ring with heroic names … with the stories of the mighty Ngatoro-I-Rangi, high priest, explorer, and demi-god, the first to set eyes upon the glittering waters of Taupo; of Tamatea and his amazing journey from the Wanganui River; of the great line of Te Heu-Heus, who for so many generations ruled as paramount chiefs of the fighting Tuwharatoa. Titan battle scenes were enacted by these age-old shores; you will find valleys such as the Hatepe terraced and honeycombed for miles with crumbling fortifications. All down the years the story moves; Te Kooti fought his last fight near the lake, in the shadow of Tongariro; in the little burial grounds of Taupo and Opepe lies the dust of gallant British fighting men.
Follow the path from the outlet of the Waikato, and it takes you through the old Constabulary orchard. There can be no quieter, more magical stretch of water in all the world than the jade-green sweep of the Waikato as it passes smoothly between the green banks and low white cliffs of Taupo. There are ancient cherry trees in the orchard, Murillos, descended from trees brought by the Spanish missionaries; there are apple trunks, gnarled and mossy, and hoary rose-bushes that must have supplied many a gay young trooper with blossoms for his buttonhole.
The old house with a moat on three sides that was the Constabulary headquarters still commands the bank of the river, and the crumbling remains of built-up gun positions. The moat is shallowed and overgrown now, and the
The old mess-room still stands, grey and sagging with age, its shingle roof gaping, an incredibly ancient grape vine sprawling in one window. Its walls are papered with copies of the “London Illustrated News” dating back for seventy years. It is nothing more than a crumbling shell now, but once it echoed to the martial ring of spurred heels, and the traditional toast … “Gentlemen … the Queen!” St. John dined here, and Whitmore, and Cameron, and perhaps Von Tempsky himself. Taupo … after the abandoning of Opepe … was the last frontier post of the lake country, fifty miles overland from Fort Galatea, in the Urewera.
The tale of the surprise of Opepe camp … so long wrongfully called the Opepe Massacre … is well known. It is an unhappy story. One could scarcely believe that a detachment of seasoned troops such as the Bay of Plenty Cavalry would lie down to sleep in an unguarded bush camp on the very edge of Te Kooti's own country, but that is what happened. It is believed that their Maori guide was treacherous and kept in touch with Te Kooti's men by means of smoke signals. But, at any rate, on the evening of the 7th May, 1869, a band of Hauhaus under Te Rangi-Tahu encircled the little camp on the lonely Kaiangaroa Plains. Out of fourteen troopers only five escaped, and all the horses, arms, and accoutrements fell as spoil of war to the jubilant Hauhaus.
Lake Taupo is almost two hundred and fifty square miles in extent; it lies like a tideless sea more than twelve hundred feet above sea-level, lapped around by shelving beaches and wooded points, by a rim of great towering cliffs that cast their shadow a thousand feet above the water. Clear, swift trout-streams pour into it; the famous Tongariro, foaming, snowfed, from the glacier fields of Ruapehu; that fisherman's paradise, the little Waitahanui, clear as glass, with the great Oregon Rainbows flicking their tails in the sunlit reaches; Hine-maiaia, at Hatepe, winding through the ribbed sand floor and kowhai thickets of its sheer-walled canyon; Waihaha and Waihoro, green-white and foaming, splitting the tremendous cliffs of Western Bay. The outlet of the lake waters is the majestic Waikato.
If you look at your map you will see that the Waikato, leaving Taupo, flows toward the East Coast until it reaches the Kaiangaroa Plains, where it turns sharply to the west. The Maori will tell you that long ago the Waikato and the Rangitaiki Rivers—their courses are roughly parallel at this point—commenced a race to the East Coast. The Rangitaiki ran so fast that the Waikato became most unsportingly annoyed, and turned away to the westward over the course which he follows to-day.
The road around the lake from Taupo to Tokaanu follows a fascinating course. It takes you by pale placid beaches, by rose and ochre painted cliffs, and over cold tussock uplands where the white and pink and crimson snow-berries grow. From the heights of Hatepe Hill you look upon an amazing panorama of glittering water and sun-hazed distances. Soon the road runs by the lake edge again, where the incredibly transparent waters lap the beaches of the famous fishing-camps, Motutere and Jellicoe Point, and Tauranga-Taupo. It is hard to believe that there can be a lovelier spot in all the world than these pale still bays, in the springtime, when the kowhai thickets are in blossom, and the moth-golden reflection of their glory stains the silver lake water.
Standing out from the eastern shore of Lake Taupo is a small steep island known as Motutaipo, or Devil's Island. There is a local and rather weird superstition connected with this spot. The Maoris of the lake villages believe that if you look across to the island at night, and are unlucky enough to see a light, it is your own death omen.
Beyond Tauranga-Taupo you pass Echo Cliff standing white and stark above the road. It gives back your call amazingly repeated, and the hoof-beats of a single horse are multiplied into the galloping of a phantom legion whose thunder lifts the hair on your scalp. Its name was given by a party of Maoris who had an odd experience when returning from a hunting expedition. They pulled up their horses to wait
At Turanga the road branches, one fork going away toward the uplands of National Park, the other turning inwards by the green-white rushing Tongariro River toward Tokaanu. Between the green gentle cone of Pihanga and the silver spreading fan of the Lake Delta, Tokaanu broods, an old, quiet, sun-washed township.
The Maori calls the upper reaches of the Tongariro, before its junction with the Poutu from Roto-A-Ira, Waikato. He believes that the snowfed waters, entering at Tokaanu, trace an irresistible course through the lake to re-issue at Taupo. Be that as it may, the two rivers bear a remarkable resemblance in the clear green rushing waters.
From Taupo, the Waikato passes slowly into the Wairakei Valley, the banks narrowing, rock shoals and islands cutting foam-white swathes in the green water. Now the grey rock walls draw together; the confined waters thunder toward the canyon which is filled with a mighty roar and rising mist of spray. Here is the famous drop of the Huka Falls. If you cross the swing bridge, and walk a hundred yards along the bank, you may see it at close quarters. You may see it, but it will take you a long time to realise it. The blinding whiteness of the water, the thunder, and the spray bewilder with their beauty and grandeur. It was in this boiling maelstrom that Tamatea, captain of the Taki-timu canoe, and all his brave men lost their lives after their epic journey up the Wanganui, and over the terrible portage by Roto-A-Ira.
Wairakei means Beautiful Water. It is one of the most wonderful thermal reserves in the world. High on the hills between Taupo and Wairakei is the famous steam vent of Karapiti, sometimes called the Safety Valve of New Zealand. The vent bears the name of a Maori woman who is remembered only for her spectacular end. Her husband was unfaithful to her, and left home with another woman. Whereupon Karapiti, consumed by rage and jealousy, climbed up the hills, and dramatically hurled herself into the great steam hole.
Taupo may seem to your eyes a land of mountains, but the Maori will tell you that there was once a great group of peaks round about the township itself. One night they had a family quarrel. It was a truly terrible quarrel, and, since they could move only during the night, each fled on his or her separate way. When dawn came they were rooted where they stood. Maungapohatu found herself in the Urewera country, but her husband, Kakaramea, who was always a greedy fellow, had stopped by the wayside to cook himself a meal, and his fire would not burn, and daylight came upon him unawares. (You may still see him by the road near Waiotapu; he is Mount Striped-Earth, which the pakeha calls Rainbow Mountain.) Putauaki, now Edgecumbe, was shrewd enough to follow the river course, and he got as far as the Rangitaiki Plains, but White Island beat them all, for he swam away out into the sea, and took up a position of vantage there. Only Tauhara stayed where he was, because he was too lazy or too dignified to trouble himself, and there he is to-day, the Lonely Sentinel, the last of the great family.
Guardian of the mountain country, and greatest figure of all the annals of Taupo was Te Heu Heu, chief of the tribes of the lake. (A descendant of his was Te Heu Heu Tukino, M.L.C., who presented the greatest gift ever given to New Zealand … the three mountain cones of Tongariro National Park.) We are told that Te Heu Heu was a very big man, and curiously fair-complexioned. He lived in deliberate seclusion from the encroaching tide of civilisation, in feudal state in his lakeside village. Alone of the upland chiefs he refused to cede authority to the Crown.
There is a proverb repeated in the lake districts to this very day … “Taupo, the Sea; Tongariro, the Mountain; Te Heu Heu, the Man!”
Te Heu Heu believed himself to be appointed of the gods the guardian of the three great mountains. They were all tapu, but Ngauruhoe was the most tapu of them all. When a man of Te Heu Heu's tribe travelled by a certain road which gave a very fine view of the mountains, he was expected to veil his eyes with a corner of his cloak lest he should be stricken blind by the holiness of that awful summit.
Te Heu Heu's death was fitting. For long the steep hillsides behind his village had been impregnated by thermal waters. Suddenly they were loosened, and a great earth avalanche rolled down upon the doomed village. While the people fled, Te Heu Heu stood alone, arrogant and unafraid. The mountain-side and the cold lake waters engulfed the village that had been the last stronghold of olden law, and there, in a grave of the gods, the great chief found his resting-place.
May he sleep well, for with him are gone the old, brave days of Taupo, the giants, and warriors, the walking mountains, and talking rivers, and voices of the gods!
An old proverb of many nations alleges it is the unexpected that happens. This is a warning that we must look for surprises—and we do. Who is not hoping for them? The right kind, of course, for unpleasant surprises are, alas, too frequent and persistent. When things are going well, you must be on guard against a surprise—the hidden insidious borer that turns your timber into dust.
* * *
This subject of surprises is so big that it is a large surprise to me, for I find my thoughts flitting through a region which reaches as far as the Milky Way. Indeed the history of humanity—at least the history which an average person would care to read—is mainly a history of surprises in things of peace and war. But will the supply of surprises run out? With aircraft doing more than 300 miles an hour, with the living personalities and voices of people canned for world distribution, with oranges ordered to discard their pips, and matter proved to be immaterial, will the times yield more surprises? They will—worse luck!
* * *
But let us drop down to simple things such as war, which many earnest negotiators are trying to abolish. Will they do it? What a beautiful surprise it would be if they could!
In war itself, success may swing chiefly on surprise. Every general who has more brain than bran under his hat strives to surprise the enemy. A very important part of Napoleon's genius was in his ability to inflict surprises on the other fellow. He scrapped conventions to which less brilliant persons clung. He believed that the line of success was like Euclid's straight line—the shortest distance between two points. Thus some of his battles were won before they were fought. The victory was assured by the marching of his armies beyond the rates scheduled in old-fashioned text-books of war. Yet Napoleon was himself overcome by surprise at last in the effectiveness of solidly-parked bayonets against cavalry, when his Old Guard was broken on the glittering steel front of a British square.
* * *
In the milder warfare known as Rugby football the ruse of surprise can turn defeat into victory. At this time of day one would think that the average player would be proof against the “dummy” pass, which leaves an opponent foolishly clutching the air while the delusive holder of the ball skips elsewhere, but “dummy” is still a scoring surprise-packet.
* * *
Turning to everyday life, most of us notice two types of surprises among persons—those who try to surprise us and those who don't—but these groups have their sub-classes. Consider first the deliberate surprisers. They may be politicians, poker-players or bridge-specialists. The politician who loses his ability to surprise the public may as well go out of business. If a poker-player loses his power to cause surprise among his opponents his money will follow suit. However, the average person who relies on poker for a superannuation fund will get a surprise.
* * *
Usually it is not the clever man who surprises us, except when he is shrewd enough to mask his ability under a guise of dullness to draw the unwary into an ambush. Most of life's surprises are given by persons who are supposed to be average or below average. In that respect they may be compared with the nearly-submerged iceberg which surprises a ship not so much by the part that appears above the sea-surface as by the bulk below.
* * *
One of my friends told me recently that the biggest surprise of his life was bestowed upon him by a polite stranger whom he classified on appearance as a combination of moron and robot—otherwise a 50–50 half-wit and automatic rabbit. The stranger was chinless; he had narrow-set lack-lustre eyes; his forehead seemed to have too much slant to hold a hat; he drawled; and he had disturbingly baggy trousers, and an absurdly short coat. My friend was introduced to him, and treated him rather airily—talked down to him as one who needed to be told that twice two made four if the calculation was carefully made. Then it gradually came out that the stranger was a master of arts and a doctor of laws; he had been a champion lightweight boxer and a famous footballer; he was a clever billiardist, a tolerable flautist and a sufferable performer on the bagpipes. Yes, as the proverb hath it, “Appearances are deceiving.”
* * *
Have we not all had similar experiences and others, exactly the opposite? Have we not all among our acquaintances a person who looks like a compound of Solomon and Solon—the beginning, middle and end of all wisdom—with a nobly rounded dome of thought and a well-moulded countenance? He looks as if he could dictate new workable rules for the world at large, until he speaks—and then he falls into the pack of nonentities. Later, we learn that he sells sausages.
* * *
Much of the joy of life consists in retaining the faculty of being surprised. Many a suicide has followed the failure to be further surprised at anything in life. However, one must beware of going to the other extreme which bores ones' friends. We all know the tiresome type of citizen who is in a chronic condition of surprise. He is surprised when the weather is fine and when it is wet; surprised that you are well, and surprised if you are ill; he is surprised at the success of the solid Toddleton (who was supposed to be dull), and surprised at the failure of the superficial Springby (who was supposed to be smart). Indeed he is surprised that he is alive himself because he has just nearly died of surprise at his lucky escape from a heedless headless motorcyclist.
* * *
Our pleasantest surprises are in our reveries and dreams. Life may not give us the joyous surprises of our hopes and merits, but by taking thought we can add cubits of stature to our importance in the scheme of things as we see them in the fireside armchair or in bed. When the plodding Dodderson has been passed in the course of fortune by his old schoolfellow, the proud Purseval, and has been cut by the money-magnate, and snubbed by his expensively-furred fat wife, icily lorgnetted by her from her luxurious car, he has no meek and mild acceptance of his fate. He has a vision of himself as one who will overwhelm them with a terrific surprise some day, if the luck will only come his way (through a lucky draw in a lottery).
* * *
Memories of fairy-tales and the stories in old school-readers keep a rosy hue on our cherished hope of the gladsome surprise, which may be just around the next corner to the right or left. The world has not too many Prince Charmings, but it has plenty of Cinderellas, hoping for thrillful surprises. Well, it is better to find happiness in surprises deferred than to sag into unimaginative stodginess.
* * *
Also, there is always one comfort left for the dreamer. There is one way—not always an easy one—to surprise one's friends or enemies; it is by working for one. As a poet has put it:
The world owes you success and joy;
The world owes you respect;
And all you have to do, my boy,
Is hustle and collect.
“The greatest publicity factor that New Zealand has got.” In these words, the Rt. Hon. Lord Strathspey, in the following letter to Mr. G. H. Mackley, C.M.G., General Manager of Railways, expresses his opinion of the services rendered by the Railways Department in advertising New Zealand.
Lord Strathspey, who takes a keen interest in all that pertains to New Zealand, has previously written to Mr. Mackley in similar terms regarding the “Railways Magazine,” and we have pleasure in reproducing his present letter for the information of our readers:—
As far as publicity is concerned authors may be divided into two classes, those who go in for publicity and those who don't. Generally speaking, writers in the latter class are as inaccessible as a Carthusian. I felt therefore, that I had achieved something when I met in Auckland recently, William Satchell, one of the most retiring of our New Zealand writers. His name has been prominently before the public as the author of that fine novel “The Greenstone Door,” and of the more recently reprinted story of the New Zealand gum country, “The Land of the Lost.” William Satchell is eighty-four years of age and he could easily pass as being a quarter of a century younger. He is small and alert; keen bright eyes peeping from a rosy apple of a face; is unassuming and is most reticent about his achievements. Extracting a story from him was something like interviewing the Sphinx. I ascertained this much. He was born in England and came to New Zealand over fifty years ago in search of health. By that time he had published his first book, “Will of the Wisp,” a collection of tales and verse. His first years in New Zealand were spent in Hokianga. His travels through the almost unbroken bush and the surrounding country gave him material for his first novel. “The Land of the Lost,” and later for “The Toll of the Bush” (to be reprinted shortly). The latter was acclaimed by the London “Daily Mail” as the best novel to appear in ten years. A year later appeared a strange fantasy, “The Elixir of Life” (Chapman & Hall). Then in 1914, a few days before the outbreak of the Great War, “The Greenstone Door” was published. With
the tremendous upheaval throughout the world it was small wonder that the appearance of this novel passed almost unnoticed. For twenty years it remained dead and buried. The few copies surviving were passing from hand to hand and talk of its great merit gradually grew into an insistent demand for a reprint. The re-issue came along in 1936 and since then, in New Zealand alone, nearly 14,000 copies of it have been sold. Truly a remarkable achievement in the world of New Zealand books, where 1,000 or 2,000 sales are counted as something to boast about. And now we are expecting big sales from “The Land of the Lost” reprint which appears with the enthusiastic blessing of Lord Bledisloe who writes the introduction. Anyone who reads this fine story of the “gum rush” of the last century with its virile, racy and humorous account of the people and happenings of the period, will heartily endorse Lord Bledisloe's imprimatur.
William Satchell has also written verse. He is represented in “New Zealand Verse” (Walter Scott, 1906) in “The Bulletin Reciter” with “The Ballad of Stuttering Jim” (written under the anagram of Samuel Cliall White, and later adapted to the screen) and in 1900 published “Patriotic and Other Poems” (Brett, Auckland, 1900).
He confessed to me with a sad smile that he never took up his pen to write without a feeling of guilt. Evidently he felt that he could provide better for his large family by other more remunerative work.
* * *
Which is the finest Australian novel yet written? Until recently 1 was convinced that “All That Swagger,” by Miles Franklin would stand for a long time and that following it closely were “A House is Built” (M. Barnard Eldershaw), “Pageant” (G. B. Lancaster), “Tiburon” (Kylie Tennant), and “Landtakers” (Brian Penton). If you were to combine the respective merits of them all, however, I doubt if you could equal “Capricornia,” by Xavier Herbert, recently published by Angus & Robertson. This novel is a masterful one. It is as truly Australian as anything yet written. It is ruthless in its delineation of human nature in the raw. Mr. Herbert appears to have thrown himself passionately into his task and has achieved in the experiences he must have gone through and in the power of the telling, almost a life's work.
In this story of two brothers and their battle with life in Northern Australia the author makes a forceful plea for the half-caste aboriginal. The horrors attendant on the colour bar are luridly depicted. The chief character, Norman, “the yeller feller,” son of one of the brothers, is the basis on which Herbert builds his arguments. The story is too long to outline even in bare detail, but it is one that grips you on every page.
“Capricornia” won the £250 Sesqui-centenary Prize.
* * *
A compact reference book for literary students is to be found in “Courses in Literary History,” by William A. Amiet, M.A., recently published by Angus & Robertson. The book is a descriptive catalogue of works to be read in the study of comparative literatures. The author observes that so far no literary historian has arisen in New Zealand. “Material for such a work is available,” he states, “in ‘Annals of New Zealand Literature’ prepared by the New Zealand Authors' Week Committee in 1936.”
* * *
From time to time I receive letters from people, young and old, asking me how they may learn to write paragraphs, articles or stories for newspapers and magazines. Often it is obvious from the letter itself that the hope to write is a hopeless quest for the individual concerned. Sometimes specimen stories are sent and they show a glimmer of talent. Now, what is the best way to develop this quality? There are a number of excellent text-books and correspondence courses available to the student. Further assistance may be had through the study of magazines and books. There are excellent correspondence schools, both in New Zealand and abroad. Of the local correspondence schools, one I have heard well spoken of is Druleigh College, Auckland. I understand that they have a valuable association with local knowledge in one or two leading New Zealand journalist advisors.
* * *
“New Zealand Best Poems of 1938,” edited by C. A. Marris (Harry H. Tombs Ltd., Wellington) is always an event for verse lovers in this country. I was not as greatly impressed with this collection as I have been with past issues. The heavy cloud of war abroad and a surplusage of political talk at home have possibly weighed down the minds of our poets. Robin Hyde, I found largely incomprehensible. These intellectual soliloquies where one hears vague snatches of a poet's thoughts do not appeal to me. With a sigh of relief I turned to the simple sincerity of Helena Henderson and of the late Winifred Tennant; the latter's verse in cases strangely and sadly prophetic. C. R. Allen's tribute to E. V. Lucas is a worthy one. I also like the verse of E. D. Morgan, who I think is a recent arrival in the realms of local poetry. His lines are fine and manly. J. R. Hervey sounds an effective and eerie note in “The Avengers.” There are others worth praising, but space will not permit.
* * *
“Men and Cities,” by S. Elliott Napier (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) is a book describing “the Journeying of a Journalist.” Those who were fortunate enough to meet the author during his visit to New Zealand last year will be re-impressed through the pages of this book with the descriptive power, the alert observation and the literary style of Mr. Napier. The wide public he gained through his earlier books “On the Barrier Reef” and “Walks Abroad,” etc., also his book of verse, should be held and added to through this latest volume. With Mr. Napier we go to Tahiti (via New Zealand, with interesting comments on Wellington) on to Panama, Virginia, Newport News and finally to the Dutch East Indies and Singapore. The enthusiasm of the author for strange and beautiful scenes, for unusual people, is infectious. One is carried from page to page with the easy and graceful style of the descriptions. The book is illustrated.
* * *
“Plume of the Arawas,” by Frank O. V. Acheson was first published in 1930 and met with such an enthusiastic reception that Messrs. A. H. and A. W. Reed have now published a second popular edition at a very moderate price. This striking story will always live in the library of New Zealand fiction. Although the story is wholly in the form of fiction it has historical value in that it is closely tied up with ancient record and true Maori atmosphere.
“The Mimshi Maiden,” by Hugh McCrae (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) is a combination of poetical and typographical artistry. It contains only seven pages, but I would rather possesit than many books of fifty times the size. Just listen to the opening lines:
Round the island of Zipangu, Crowned with lilies, silver-sandale'd, Through the amber bending bamboo, In a rickshaw many-candled, Rode a tiny Mimshi maiden, Mimshi, princess of Zipangu, To the temple where she prayed in.
Eric Ramsden, New Zealand journalist, who came across from Australia last month to gather further material for his book on James Busby, tells me that he has discovered many new and interesting facts surrounding the life and times of the redoubtable Busby.
John Brodie, author of “The Little Country,” will be absent in the Old Country about a year.
Another New Zealand Authors' Week will probably be held during the Centenary Celebrations.
Miss Nellie Coad will represent the New Zealand centre of the PEN at a PEN Congress to be held in New York this year.
The writer of these reminiscences, then a lad of sixteen years, left London, in June, 1881, to try his fortune in New Zealand. Sailing in a barque named the “Wave Queen,” of 853 tons, and after a comparatively unexciting passage, he arrived at Wellington at the end of September, having taken 105 days on the voyage.
“Wellington was very different then from the busy city it has become in 1939. The population was about 18,000, and I remember well that the Post Office was on the harbour front, and wherries were tied to rings in the stone wall. A police boat, too, hung on davits on a level with the quay.
“During my few days in the Capital, I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. (afterwards the Hon.) John Ballance, whose nephew was a fellow emigrant on the ‘Wave Queen.’ I remember, too, my first visit to Lambton Station and seeing, for the first time in my life, narrow gauge railway tracks. The impression I received was a total reversion of all my ideas of railways as I knew them in the Old Country. Lambton Station, in those days, was merely a wooden shed, standing on a low platform, which might have been fifty yards long. A few trucks stood isolated on the three or four tracks, but there was no sign of a train. A Sabbath stillness brooded over the scene.
“Reading the timetable which hung on the wall of the ‘station’ (there was no verandah shelter provided) I found that two trains ran to Masterton, and two further trains to Lower Hutt. That was all. Later, I visited the station to see one of these trains, which consisted of a line of about a dozen trucks, two small vehicles (one on four wheels, the other on six) and was headed by an engine with a saddle tank, painted green. This engine had a large funnel and six small coupled wheels, about three feet in diameter. I little thought at that time that within six months I should be working on the railways, and become familiar with this type of engine.
“A small horse-drawn tram plied from the railway station to the tram terminus at Courtenay Place where Wellington ended. The wooden Government Building was a giant in those days and Wellington was very proud of it, claiming it to be the largest wooden building in the world.
“Work having been offered me at Foxton I found that, in order to reach that town I had to travel first to Wanganui in a small steamer called the “Stormbird,” and thence by train to Foxton. So one evening I embarked in the little coaster and arrived in Wanganui the following morning. After breakfast (cost 1/-) at the hotel, I made my way to the railway station—smaller than Lambton Station in Wellington, and without the usual platform. I ascertained that the train for Foxton left Wanganui at 2 p.m. and arrived at its destination at 8 p.m. At 2 p.m., therefore, I took my seat in a little wooden car, the seats being of plain board. A line of trucks was ahead, and the engine was, to me, another railway curiosity. It was a ‘Double Fairlie’ and had two wide funnels, which I afterwards discovered were spark arresters. I don't remember much about that tedious journey, except that the maximum speed attained (between the many stops) was perhaps 18 m.p.h.
“For some six months I had a rather lean time in Foxton, and in March, 1882, I found myself in the then little bush settlement called Palmertston North. How different to-day is that large and progressive city to the bush clearing I saw in 1882! I heard in Palmerston North that railway works were in progress (the extension of the Napier section from Makotuku to Ohau) and that men were obtaining
“Upon arrival in Napier I discovered that the foreman in charge of the permanent way construction work (with whom I was seeking an interview) was out on a job. His wife, however—a charming little woman—interviewed me, invited me inside, provided me with a good dinner and was much interested to learn of my adventures. Soon, her husband, a strong, dark-bearded man of about 50 years of age, returned. His name was James Baxter—a gentleman in every way. Many old residents of Hawke's Bay will no doubt remember ‘Jimmy’ Baxter, Inspector, Permanent Way, on the Napier section of railways in 1882.
“‘Now, Jimmy,’ said Mrs. Baxter, ‘You must give this boy a job.’ Mr. Baxter did so. Naturally I was eager to do whatever came my way, at 6/-per day.
“For a whole year, I worked with the ‘flying’ gang, acting as general fetch and carry hand, also taking my share of the hard work, loading trucks with ballast, etc. I retained the knowledge I acquired and after one year on the construction work felt competent to lay a track on the lines needed at that time.
“When I started work the Napier section was only 68 miles in length. The rolling stock consisted of three engines (two of them saddle tanks, and the third, a small two-coupled engine with a pony truck under the front plate), seven passenger vehicles of which five were six-wheeled, the other two four-wheeled. I do not remember how many trucks we had, certainly not more than fifty, and possibly about a dozen service hoppers. We ran two trains daily to the railhead, the afternoon one stopping the night at Makotuku, and returning in the morning, the trip taking six hours.
“Since those early days of which I write, the railways of New Zealand have made extraordinary progress, and to-day the present General Manager, Mr. G. H. Mackley (whom I have the honour to know personally) is controlling a modern and progressive railway system of which New Zealand should be proud. From the disconnected sections of the 'eighties to the unified system of to-day, is achievement indeed. At any rate it is a source of constant pride to me to have been associated with the pioneering work on the New Zealand Railways.”
Peter lay in his little bed watching the moon shine through his window: such a big friendly face it had; and somehow it made him feel less alone. It was dark in the room save for a shaft of moonbeams casting a silver patch across the floor.
Fairy moonbeams, thought Peter, but no fairies; and he gave a little sigh. If only he could go to sleep: but sleep did not come easily to Peter at night; for often he slept part of the day away.
Two years ago there had been an accident when daddy's car had been struck by a 'bus, and Peter had been thrown through the window. Since then, an injured spine had forced him to lie on his back, day and night, and keep very still.
The big, friendly doctor who came from the city had promised to do something to Peter's back when he was a little stronger: and maybe he would some day walk again.
Sometimes his back gave him great pain, but he was a brave little chap and he seldom cried.
He must go to sleep, he thought, and he shut his eyes tight; but they would not stay shut, and presently he found himself looking up at the moon again.
A large white moth flew against the window, and Peter watched it crawl up the pane, fluttering its wings as it went. Up, up, and presently it flew right through the top of the open window. Peter lost sight of it in the dark room, then he saw something with little silver wings—something that looked very like a moth, but much more like a little metal aeroplane, gliding down one of the moonbeams. Presently, it landed with a gentle bump, right in the middle of the square of moonlight on the bedroom floor. Then he knew it was an aeroplane, and no mistake, for no moth ever glistened so brightly.
Peter's eyes grew round with surprise, for a queer thing began to take place: the little plane grew larger and larger until it was nearly as big as Peter himself. Then it stopped growing, and out of the cockpit stepped the queerest wee man imaginable. He was dressed in a tight-fitting suit of white fur that made him look like a fat polar bear, and on his head was a round fur cap with big pink ears that stuck up each side of his queer, round face. He had a little short body, and very long arms that hung down almost to his toes—like a monkey's—and he kept swinging them gently backwards and forwards. His face looked very old and wrinkled, but ever so kind; and he had the jolliest pair of twinkling, brown eyes.
“Good evening Peter,” he said, and his voice was small and squeaky.
Peter was so astonished he could hardly speak; but he managed to say, “Good evening sir,” for he was a very polite little boy.
“Bingo's my name,” said his visitor. “Bingo of the Silver Moth,” and he waved a hand towards the plane.
“Would you care to make a flight? Any place you like to name, but for goodness sake make haste. Soon the cocks will start to crow, and by the dawn I must be back in my home behind the moon.”
The little man had spoken so quickly that he seemed quite out of breath, and his voice ended on a high, cracked note.
“Oh! behind the moon,” gasped Peter. “Did you come all that way, in that little 'plane?”
“Little indeed,” growled Bingo, “I can make it any size I wish, by merely pressing a button. Come along quickly, or we will be late.”
“But I can't walk,” cried poor Peter, looking with longing eyes at the silver 'plane.
“Of course not,” said Bingo, “but what of that?” and he stepped quickly forward and picked Peter up in his long arms, and before you could wink an eye he found himself inside the 'plane with Bingo by his side.
“Now, where is it to be?” asked his queer companion. Peter thought very hard. The land behind the moon, sounded very exciting: but then Peter remembered that for a long time he had badly wanted to know what lay beyond the line of big mountains that he could see, each day, from his bedroom window.
He had watched them so often, turning pink at sunrise, like the soft icing on his birthday cake, and deep violet when the sun went down.
Peter loved them best in the winter, for then they were covered right down to their base in white glistening snow, and Peter thought they looked like a lot of giant ice creams standing in a row.
How he longed to climb up to the top and look over the other side. Once he had heard a grown-up say that “happiness lay on the other side of the mountain”; and he had always wanted to find out for himself. So he said to Bingo: “Please take me to the Land Beyond the Mountains.”
“All right,” was the answer.
“It's a queer place — almost as unexpected as the Land Just Round the the Corner.”
With that he pressed a silver button, and the 'plane began to grow small again; and Peter felt himself getting small, too, until he felt no bigger than a pea.
Then the 'plane started to rise, and Peter knew that they were sailing up the moonbeam again. Presently they flew right out of the window into the night. They seemed to be travelling at a terrific pace. Looking down, Peter saw twinkling lights where the city lay—then the lights were left far behind, and he could see dark patches that looked like paddocks and a long silver line that he thought must be the river catching the moonlight.
How thrilled he felt! Up above, the stars twinkled like millions of silver balls, the image of those on last year's Christmas Tree. They seemed so close that Peter felt that he would only have to reach out his hand to touch them.
He felt so excited that he quite forgot he was wearing only his pyjamas, and he did not realize that although he was so high up in the sky he did not feel cold. But then, of course, it was a magic 'plane. One does not feel cold,
magic 'plane.
Presently there loomed out of the darkness, queer white shapes, and Peter saw that they were very close to the mountains, and he could see the snow glistening in the moonlight.
Very soon now and we will be over the top, and I shall know what is on the other side, he thought. His heart beat very fast. But instead of flying over the mountains, the 'plane seemed to be flying right into them. Then soon it landed softly—right in the snow on the side of the tallest peak.
Peter had heard of engine trouble with aeroplanes, and he felt just a little afraid. He did not want to be frozen in the snow, and he thought it might be a long time before anyone found him, so far from home, so he asked in a very small voice, “Could anything be wrong, Bingo?”
“Not at all, not at all,” cried Bingo in his squeaky voice.
“We descend here, that's all.”
Descend, thought Peter—that means go down.
“But, Bingo, I thought we were going to fly over the mountains?”
“Who said so?” replied Bingo, his voice more squeaky than ever.
“Look out for the drop!” and the 'plane began to sink down through the snow so quickly that it made Peter feel a little giddy, and he shut his eyes.
Presently he felt a slight bump, and he opened them again to find himself in a very strange place.
The 'plane had landed on the floor of a big cave.
“Good gracious!” said Peter—“we are right in the middle of the mountains.”
It was not dark as he expected the inside of a mountain to be, for the roof and walls of the cave were covered with hundreds of queer coloured lights, that twinkled a moment one colour, then disappeared, to appear again another colour, making the whole cave look like a dancing rainbow.
“How lovely,” cried Peter, who loved bright colours. “What are they?”
“Fairy glow-worms—the more often they change their colour the brighter they glow,” said Bingo, picking up Peter and getting out of the 'plane.
Flowing across the floor of the cave was a small stream of many colours. There were patches of orange and green, surrounded by larger ones of yellow and pink, and sometimes a red and a blue patch would merge into one, forming a beautiful violet, just like the patches of colour one sees in a puddle on a wet day, when oil has been spilt on the street. Across the middle the stream was spanned by a quaint little crystal bridge, with rounded sides, like the ones seen in a Japanese garden.
“This is the stream of Wishes Come True,” explained Bingo. “Whenever anyone in the outside world makes a wish it is mirrored in this stream. Love wishes make pink colours; wishes for wealth or success, gold and yellow, and jealous wishes, green ones. Sometimes there are black patches, too, and those are the wicked, cruel wishes.”
“If I wished something, would I see my wish in the water?” asked Peter.
“You are going to wish,” answered Bingo, and he carried Peter over to the edge of the stream, and picking up a little goblet that hung from a silver chain attached to the bridge, he bent down and filled it with some of the magic water. “Drink this as you wish,” he said.
When Peter looked into the goblet he found that the water was not at all coloured, but clear and sparkling. He shut his eyes and drank, wishing as he did, what he wanted most in all the world.
“I wish to be well again.”
Immediately he felt a queer pricking feeling in his legs and back, and he opened his eyes to find himself standing on his feet, and his legs felt as if they had been asleep a long, long time. First he moved one foot a step forward and wriggled his toes. Then he tried the other; that moved, too.
“Bingo, Bingo,” he cried, “I can walk.”
“Of course you can,” smiled the little man.
“Didn't I say it was a magic wish?”
“But what colour was it?” cried Peter jumping up and down with excitement.
“Look and see.”
And there, floating past, was a beautiful patch of shining silver.
“Silver, Bingo.”
“Yes, silver for health.” And taking
(Continued on p. 56.)
Get phit or go phut. It's your duty to keep fit even if you die in the attempt. Samson in his day never
dreamt of the number of ways there are of keeping fit. He grew fit in spite of his ignorance. It is amazing also to think that Goliath and Hercules were able to rise above the disadvantages of their times. Now, had they lived to-day with all the torso-teasing and tissue-titillating tactics available they might have gone really big. But the chances are that they would never have been able to stand up to the strain. Hercules' diet probably was bear's ribs and lion's liver. Poor sap! He knew nothing of vitamins and calories and the strengthening properties of peanuts. He was just dragged up in ignorance, snapping off pillars of temples with his bare hands and breaking the jaws of lions without the faintest scientific knowledge of how to get strong. There are more ways of keeping fit than there are of going to the dogs. But natural ignorance sponsored by natural brawn is not one of them. A bull is strong, but his ignorance on the subject is appalling.
Wildly speaking, the scientific technique of getting fit is to cut out all the things you like, and do all the things you don't like. Fitness entails a stoical indifference to the flesh pots, the hop-pots, and all other pots of promise.
When you examine the subject it is amazing how much of our pleasure reposes in pots. This may explain the general pottiness of progress. Love in a pottage is all very well, but it doesn't build bonny biceps. But you can't have it on the swigs and the boundabouts too.
To be fit you have to become a martyr to fitness. Keeping fit is as exhausting as keeping good. For instance, fit men always sing before breakfast. That, in itself, should be a warning. A man who does this has to be fit to survive public opinion. I knew of one who lived in a boarding house. He is a broken man to-day. Even his constitution weakened under the strain of being thrown downstairs five mornings out of the seven.
One can't help feeling sorry for unfit men. They are so pathetically happy in their ignorance. They sit flabbily in their cars watching fit hikers stagger past under the weight of loads that would shock a camel. They lie in the sun, disgustingly unfit and contented, whilst harried harriers whizz past with hardly a leg to stand on but more dynamic personality than a welshing book-maker. They have no ambition to exchange their condition of contemptible comfort for a state of bounding fitness, of breathless health, of aching vitality. They never aspire to tossing heavy masses of metal through the air. The heaviest thing they ever tossed weighed no more than a pint. They never ache to add large knobby bits of fibrous tissue to their upholstery. They have no desire to spring up stairs five steps at a time. What are lifts for, anyway? They are pitifully ignorant of the advantages of beating the lark by three tweets in the morning. Why should they? Why spend years on intensive education just to beat a lark at its own game. Anyway it is doubtful if a lark would be in such a tearing hurry to rise if its nest was as snug as the average bed. If human beings had to sleep in lark's nests wouldn't they be waiting impatiently for dawn too?
It must be terrible to have to greet each day with a happy laugh, to spring from your bed with the explosive abandon of a crocodile bitten from below, to go through the day being dynamic and vital and a darned nuisance to everyone—laughing lightly at misfortune—other people's mostly—dismissing fear airily and generally rousing homicidal impulses in the breasts of the unfit who only ask for a little peace and tranquility in which to enjoy their unfitness. No reasonable person objects to any other person being fit so long as the fitee keeps reasonably quiet about it. This rude health business is apt to become too rude. When it reaches the back-slapping, rib-poking stage, it is time for the unfit to equalise matters with a blacksmith's hammer.
It is a pity that one can't grow fit as pleasantly as one grows old. Growing old is done with effortless dignity, but growing fit entails all the most unpleasant sacrifices it is possible to think of; and how can the average man feel dignified in a little pair of trousers that make him look like a poisoned office boy.
Nobody would object to getting fit if he could do it in bed with a push-bell at his side and Jeeves, ever alert, at the buffet. It's a most painful fact that it's only the ageing who desire nothing more keenly than the little unhealthy luxuries of life, who have to fight for fitness. The young already have it. It is they who so unfeelingly sool fitness onto their shuddering elders. It is time some lover of mankind discovered that the best way to get fit is to eat and drink all the best things that are worst for us, to spend as much time as possible in vertebrate pondering, to ooze around in a state of digestive twilight, to let lawns return to their natural luxuriance, to keep the feet off the ground and the mind off exertion, to smoke the pipe of peace whenever we want to, and to grow as shockingly fat as natural laws will allow. Still, it's interesting to watch other people getting fitter and fitter every day; and the unfit can always do a little good by visiting the fit while they are recovering from getting fit in the hospital.
Personally, I regret that the old-fashioned sedan chair has gone out of date for rambles in the country. We can still learn something about fitness from the past. Certainly the expectation of life wasn't as long but it seemed longer, and it was far more comfortable to die of unfitness than by physical violence.
(Continued from page 27)
Peter by the hand, Bingo led him across the Bridge of Dreams.
On the other side of the cave was a ring in the wall. Catching hold of it, Bingo gave it a tug, and a stone door swung open, revealing a flight of stone steps, leading upwards. Bingo ran nimbly up the steps, Peter following close at his heels. Presently they came to the end of the steps and walked out into sunshine—on the other side of the mountains.
It was day. Peter looked around in surprise. They were standing in the street of a strange little village; with quaint little low-gabled houses, each painted a pretty bright colour and set among trees, and gay little gardens. It was in no way like an ordinary village, for all within it was made of wood—just as if someone had taken a board and a fret saw, and cut out the cows, and the horses and trees, and everything else one could make out of wood.
In the streets were wee wooden people, stiff and straight, with bright painted clothes and jolly, round faces. And there at the corner was standing a sign post bearing the words: “Wooden Toy Village.”
“We had better go straight to visit the old Toy-maker, or he might be offended,” said Bingo.
At that moment, a little toy 'bus shot round the corner, and stopped with a honk of its wee wooden horn.
“Hop aboard! Hop aboard!” cried its driver, and Peter and Bingo scrambled on top.
“To Toy-maker's Corner,” said Bingo, giving the driver two roasted peanuts out of his little fur purse.
They rattled along up the street, scattering the dogs and the pigs on the road as they went. Presently, they drew up before the quaintest wee house in the village—its low wooden eaves nearly touching the ground.
“Toy-maker's Corner, it is,” cried the driver, and he bundled them on to the street. With a honk of his horn he was off in a cloud of white dust.
Just then there flew overhead six little 'planes, their wooden propellers making a loud, whirring sound.
“They have just been released from the Toy-maker's shop,” explained Bingo.
Over the door of the Toy-maker's shop hung a neat painted sign, which read:—
There was no need to knock at the door, for it stood wide open. As the two came up, a merry voice called out, “Come in, come in and see the old man.”
Inside sitting at a bench covered with paint pots, and brushes, and fret saws, and tools of all kinds, was a little old man with snowy white hair. He wore a red gown, and a little black cap, while perched on the end of his nose, was a pair of large glasses. In his hand was a paint brush, with which he was putting the finishing touch to a bright wooden soldier.
“That's the last of that bunch,” he said, as he placed it upon the floor, beside a row of five others, all in red coats and trousers of blue, and high black busbys, all shining and new.
At once they all sprang to their feet, and started to march, two by two, out of the shop. The shop was stacked full of all kinds of toys, made out of wood—some not quite finished, others awaiting a finishing coat of paint.
The old man himself was a merry old soul, and he showed them the whole of his stock—even letting Peter play with some of the toys.
“I don't allow all the children who come here to touch my treasures,” he said, “but I see you're a nice gentle child. The last one who came was horrid and rough, and he broke up and chipped at least half of my toys, as he ran round the village.”
“I'll be most careful,” said Peter.
“My mother says I take the best care of my toys.”
“I'm quite sure of that,” the old man replied.
Peter could not take his eyes from a bright yellow scooter that stood by the door.
“You can have a ride on it, if you like,” smiled the old man.
Peter was more than delighted, and he set off at once down the street.
Unfortunately, as he rounded the corner he ran bang into a number of red-coated soldiers, scattering them all in the dust. Up jumped the officer in command and blew his whistle. Down the street came dashing a white wooden ambulance. It did not take very long to stow the injured soldiers inside. Two were broken, and most of the others were covered with scratches, and chipped.
Peter ran back to the Toy-maker's shop, feeling dreadfully sorry for what he had done—dragging the scooter behind him.
“I couldn't help it, I really couldn't,” he sobbed as he burst into the shop. The ambulance had arrived there before him, and there were the poor little soldiers, lying all in a row on the bench.
“Now, don't you cry,” said the kindly old man, “to the best of us, accidents happen. I'll soon put them right with a dab of my paint.”
“Time's getting on, so I think we had better be moving along,” said Bingo. So bidding their kind friend good-bye, they found their way out of the shop. Following a small winding road, they came to the edge of the village. Along an embankment a green train was puffing and sending up clouds of cotton-wool smoke. It stopped at a red painted station—panting and letting out steam.
“We'll catch the mountain express,” said Bingo; and they hurried along and scrambled on board.
(To be concluded.)
Hats lead in fashion news. And never have they been more diverse, planned, each one, for a particular age and type. Therefore choosing a hat becomes, not merely a pleasant task, but an artistic pastime. It reminds one a little of the type of newspaper competition where the reader is asked to sort out, and match in pairs, a medley of hats and film star faces.
It is a fur and feather season. A cap or toque may be entirely of fur, or, even smarter, of plumage. Felt, velours or velvet almost of necessity adds a soft touch of fur, or the sheen of wings. Fur or feathers, again, are ideal for the matching muff.
We will see the “dolly” hat with the spring, but for the winter season crowns are high and trimmings well to the front. Hats are perched well forward, to show a charming nape and brushed up hair.
Illustrated are hats for three ages. The young girl wears a high, pointed toque of ermine and astrakhan. It is so simple, but so — different! And how the fur enhances the fairness of her skin and the sparkle of her eyes!
The young matron dresses in more sophisticated fashion. Notice the forward dip of the black astrakhan toque, the height of the feathers, the flattery of the muff she holds to her face. I have seen a similar toque and muff in royal blue plumage—so new, so soft, so different, and just right for this fair type of beauty.
The older woman wears velours, cleverly fashioned for dignity and the forward tilt. The plumage gives lightness and smart height. The veil is subtly flattering.
With the hat problem still ahead of us (but with some definite ideas on the subject) we plan the most necessary part of our winter wardrobe—street clothes.
Top Coats: Maybe we want a warm, fur-trimmed top-coat. Styles are delightful, and made for the new hat we have in mind. Interesting because of the new line they give, are bloused backs and dolman sleeves. Many of the belts and tie sashes are extremely narrow.
Fur runs riot. Quite conservative, though, is the luxurious square draped collar. Prim indeed—and very young—are Peter Pan collar and cuffs. But fur can make whole sleeves, or slip from the shoulders down and around the arm. Fur can border the front edges and form a matching barrel-muff or flat muff-bag. Fur can be used for stole fronts reaching to the hemline and held in place by a narrow tie-belt. This same stole is detachable for wear with another coat or a frock.
A delightful black coat for a young girl buttons down the front and has a narrow sash. The sleeves are covered with black lamb almost to the shoulder. Black lamb edges a little hood which can be folded down to make a draped collar.
Fur Coats: Fur coats, nowadays, are just as carefully “cut to fit” as any other garment. Most of the new coats are in a loose three-quarter or seven-eighths length. Women find them lighter to wear and much smarter.
Favourite furs are calf-skin, broadtail, Indian lamb, ocelot.
Tweed Coats: For hard wear, and for travel, nothing is more suitable than the three-quarter or full length travel coat with skirt to match, or the suit with matching coat. Tweed coats this season have exaggerated shoulders which sit comfortably over suits. They fasten with large buttons from
Suits: Suits are trim and quite unobtrusive. Curved back seams make coats fit better than ever. Coats are longer, following men's tailoring trends. High revers suit the very young, but the usual long revers are better for the older woman. Skirts have pleats or a slightly circular cut.
Sports suits may have slim jackets and full-pleated skirts. An interesting suit has a striped wool tweed coat and plain skirt. Another has a six-buttoned coat and four fancy flap pockets.
The necessary colour accent is given by scarf, bag or gloves.
Two-piece Outfits: Line and trimming are important. One dress has diagonal tucks from shoulder to hip, meeting at the narrow front panel which carries a row of buttons on the bodice and breaks into a pleat in the skirt. The three-quarter coat has a high collar trimmed with Indian lamb which curves at the front towards the armhole. Novelty pockets have a touch of Persian lamb.
A slim frock with an imitation cutaway front, has an accompanying coat with a blouse top. The flat neckline, the yoke and the front edges are trimmed with corded bands of self-material.
Rain-coats: So that you won't feel too deflated on a wet day, there is a new quilted oilskin, resembling cloque. A velvet collar helps to combat the rainy-day feeling.
I was very much attracted the other day by a glass tray with bevelled edges. Showing through was a delightful chintz.
I began to think about household glass, and to find out the latest developments in its use. I wondered why glass tables have become so popular, and, from a collection of furnishing photographs, found the answer. Glass tables and glass wagons are specially suited to the small room because they apparently take up no room. Light passes through them and the eye is not obstructed by the solidity of wood.
Table glass becomes more and more popular. Side plates and desert dishes, table mats, a “block” centrepiece with trenches for flowers, candlesticks, may all be of glass. One may even obtain a complete heat-resistant glass dinner-service.
A new concealed-lighting idea is to have electric-light bulbs in glass wall bowls which also contain flowers.
Women of middle age are now awakening to the fact that life is not over at forty, but that this is the period when the experience of former years may be enjoyed. Food science is becoming extremely popular, and experiments have proved that the need for vitamins is as great after forty as it is in childhood. People over forty are apt to study the vitamin question more in relation to the young members of the family than to themselves, and have thought of their own food as only the necessary eating of three meals daily in order to “keep going,” disregarding their nutritional value.
Correct nutrition promises to become more and more important in the prevention of middle age ills—blood pressure, diabetes, arthiritis, etc. It is also generally recognised that bones and teeth (if the latter have not been ruthlessly invicted) are rebuilt throughout life and that the need for calcium and vitamin D does not diminish with age.
It is a gratifying thought that bones are rebuilt throughout life. If our bones are modernised after the swing of the pendulum to middle age, a mode of living should be planned so that middle age may be a healthful and useful period of life. It is not much use having “young bones” if the heart, liver, arteries, etc., are slowly but steadily marching downhill. These should be brought up to the standard of the bones—“As old as our bones” will be the future slogan.
Activity is necessarily lessened at middle age and food consumption should be correspondingly reduced.
The production of vegetables for the use of the family is very important, as they help so much to maintain the health and vigour that is essential if we are to maintain our share towards the founding of a healthy and prosperous people—keeping your own “cabbage patch” has decided advantages in the way of pleasant exercise and the obtainment of food valuable for the mineral elements.
Fruits as well as vegetables should be included in the daily diet. Use meat in moderation, and include less starches and sweets in the menu for the “middle aged.”
Correct nutrition, however, is not the whole story. Proper exercise, sufficient rest and a relaxed mind are also important.
If you have not acquired a hobby by the time middle age has overtaken you, then adopt one immediately and “bring it up as your own.”
In conclusion, the position may be summarised as follows:—
1. Learn the value of avoiding those foods which do not agree with you. 2. Appreciate the value of moderation and the futility of worry. 3. Live simply. 4. Exercise moderately. 5 Take into account the pleasurable aspect of eating which is essential to nutrition. 6. Self-adjustment is an important factor in mental and bodily health for mal-adjustment means neurosis and sooner or later neurosis means ill-health.
It is a rueful moment when you notice that your hair is undeniably turning gray. Of course, we all know that grayness is ageing, but it takes a “back seat” when the person has the spick-and-span look. Untidiness is doubly disagreeable when your hair proclaims that you are old enough to know better. If everything about you suggests freshness, you have a permanent kind of attraction.
Skin, coiffure and measurements must stand on their own merits. Don't let your skin get that dreary, uncared-for look. The three things necessary for it are: cleansing, stimulating and lubricating. Also make room in your diet for more vitamins, and indulge in moderate outdoor exercise.
Coiffure.—Keep up your interest in your hair, and try all the latest methods, finding out which will perk up your appearance.
Measurements.—Discipline your appetite, and exercise to outwit the middle-age symptoms.
These are easily prepared and highly popular. Pit the fruit and replace the
Chop two large onions, and shred finely five or six sage leaves. Boil these together for ten minutes, then drain well in a sieve. Now put them in a saucepan, with three ounces of breadcrumbs, an ounce of butter, and pepper and salt to taste. Let the stuffing simmer very gently for about twenty minutes, stirring from time to time. Cool and use as required.
Three ounces Brazil nuts in place of the usual left over scraps of cooked chicken. Make a sauce by melting an ounce of butter in a saucepan, stirring in a dessertspoon of flour, moistening with a gill of milk, and cooking gently for a few minutes, stirring all the time.
Off the fire, stir in the Brazil nuts, two cups of breadcrumbs, pepper and salt, and a pinch of ground mace, and a few drops of lemon juice. Mix thoroughly, turn the mixture on to a plate and allow it to cool. Now shape the mixture into several rissoles, dip them in beaten egg, then in very fine breadcrumbs, and fry in boiling fat. Drain well. Serve hot with peas and mashed potatoes.
One and a-half breakfast cups flour, 1/2 cup suet, 1 teaspoon baking powder, pinch of salt. Mix to a paste with water, roll out and spread with honey, then a layer of currants, roll up, tie in cloth, and boil for one hour. Or it is very nice put in layers in a basin, covered with buttered paper, and steamed for one and a-half hours.
Take 1/2 lb. dripping, 1/4 lb. jam, warmed together, add 1 cup milk, 1 teaspoonful baking soda, pinch of salt, 1 cup flour, 1 teaspoon spice, fruit to taste. Any kind of jam will do. Steam for 2 1/2 to 3 hours.
Half cup milk, 2 eggs, 2 tablespoons currants, 1 tablespoon flour, 2 tablespoons boiled rice. Sugar and nutmeg. Mix flour with milk, add other ingredients, and then the beaten eggs. Fry in boiling fat.
1 1/2 breakfast cups cooked calf's liver, 3 tablespoons minced lean ham, 4 slices uncooked fat bacon, 3 teaspoons chopped parsley, a small grated onion, salt and pepper, 2 well-beaten eggs.
Mince finely the liver, ham and bacon, add the parsley, grated onion salt and pepper. Mix gradually with the beaten eggs. Grease a plain mould or small baking tin and sprinkle thickly with breadcrumbs; bake in a moderate oven for one hour, then let it get quite cold. Turn out and cut in thin slices when needed.
This is a good luncheon dish and also makes delicious sandwiches.
llb. tinned salmon, 1 breakfast cup of fresh breadcrumbs, 1 1/2ozs. butter, 1 teaspoon lemon juice, 2 teaspoons chopped parsley, 1/2 cup milk, 1 or 2 eggs, seasoning.
Remove all skin and bone from the salmon, flake with a fork, warm the milk and butter, pour over breadcrumbs and let soak for a time. Then mix with the salmon, add parsley, lemon juice, salt, pepper and egg yolks. Beat the whites stiffly and stir gently in at the last. Put mixture in a greased tin, cover with greased paper, and steam slowly for an hour. Turn out when cold and serve with cucumber or lettuce.
One lb. cooked peas, two small lettuce, two tomatoes, salad dressing.
Mix the peas and dressing together. Tear or slice the lettuce finely and arrange as a border round the peas. Garnish with sliced tomatoes.
Four apples, two sticks celery, chopped nuts (one cup), dates, half cup, bananas, two, cream dressing.
Make the cream dressing; take one gill of salad dressing and beat in two tablespoons of cream. Cut the fruit, etc., into dice and serve with the cream dressing over. Garnish with tiny sprigs of celery tops and chopped nuts.
Take 2 lbs. of fine oatmeal, and knead into a firm dough by adding hot water. Cut into three or four separate pieces. Roll out by adding dry oatmeal into thin round cakes. Bake on a floured tin in a slow oven.
Half a teaspoon of mixed sweet herbs and half a teaspoon chopped parsley, added to plain omelette mixture. One teaspoonful finely grated onion, half teaspoonful finely chopped parsley, pinch of mixed herbs added to the eggs when beating them. Cook as plain omelette.
“Tennis is only a game, and I am only a player” …. that summed up Neil Edwards, a Railway .Service employee, when asked about his plans after having won the New Zealand Lawn Tennis Championship. Since then he has been selected to represent New Zealand in the Davis Cup tourney in England, the first match of the series to be against Great Britain. The Railways are proud of this keen and capable young representative and wish him well. Win or lose, he will prove a fitting representative for New Zealand.
* * *
During the past weeks I have been enjoying a holiday in Picton—a sports-writer endeavouring to get a spell away from sport! However, not altogether to my disappointment, I have not been able to get away from sport in its entirety—I do not think such a thing would be possible anywhere in New Zealand.
From the sun-porch of my temporary home I stood and watched cricketers play until 7 p.m.—no thoughts of 6 o'clock closing (of hotels or innings) seemed to worry these “flannelled fools”; from another vantage point I watched rowers going through their training for the New Zealand Championship Regatta to be held on the smooth waters of Queen Charlotte Sound; yachtsmen and those who find their sport in motor-boats continually called at and left Picton on their ways to the many sheltered bays; swimmers—not so many, because of a plague of sandflies—basked in the sunshine of Picton's foreshore, within 50 yards of the busiest portion of the town; tennis players were seen in numbers, many of them taking tennis racquets with them to the guest houses “across the Sounds.” It was just another week in a New Zealand summer and Picton was just a typical New Zealand town—a town where “Fitness Week” is every week in the year.
* * *
Cricket has never reached the state of popularity in New Zealand that it enjoys in Australia, but has established a following that is to be seen Saturday after Saturday, “sitting in the sun, talking about last season's football.”
The increasing popularity of tennis has taken a number of would-be players away from cricket and the gradual public interest in softball, a modified form of baseball, is also making its presence felt. Softball is providing recreation, too, for a section of the youth that has never found cricket sufficiently exciting in this age of speed and thrill.
Cricket, despite its age-old English atmosphere, is not the truly ideal team game. It is a game where stars are able to get the most enjoyment and the “rabbits” used as stop-gaps. Recently a Wellington cricket club suggested that mid-week matches be organised to provide play for a number of players. During the discussion it was mentioned that some players had not had an innings for seven weeks!
There you have a drawback in cricket. The star batsman is assured of a “knock at the wickets,” but the mediocre batsman is often used only as a fieldsman and, when sufficient runs have been amassed by the batsmen, the innings is declared, leaving the not-so-good batsman, who would dearly love to have “a smack at the bowlers,” to go out for another stretch of leather-chasing.
In softball it is compulsory to provide a batting list and as the innings close—there are usually nine innings each in a match—the man next on the batting list is called on to re-open the innings. This ensures each player getting an equal chance at batting—and who will deny that the weaker batsman also gets a thrill while batting?
* * *
“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy….” so they say. At least two important secondary schools in New Zealand are fortunate to possess young principals who will never fall into the fatal error of cutting down on recreation.
A few years ago Wellington possessed the best track and field athletes in New Zealand, two of these being Malcolm Leadbetter and Stan Ramson. Leadbetter, a sprinter, shares the New Zealand sprint record with several other well-known speed-merchants, and Ramson dead-heated with Frank Nesdale
For three years Malcolm Lead-better has been principal of the Waimate District High School, a school which is making itself known in academic and sporting circles. He has devised a sound scheme of measuring an athlete's capabilities and is obviously well-suited for his important position.
Now comes word that Stan Ramson who has been on the staff of the Hutt Valley High School under the watchful eye of another well-known sporting personality, Mr. J. N. Millard, has been appointed Director of the Hutt Valley Memorial Technical College.
Time marches on … it seems but a day since I saw these fine young athletes competing for New Zealand in international or inter-Dominion sport; to-day they are guiding the destinies of young New Zealanders. They are to be congratulated on reaching such high places in the teaching profession; the pupils are to be congratulated on having such excellent masters.
* * *
A tribute to a world-renowned athletics official, Mr. T. W. (“Dorrie”) Leslie, was paid by the Wellington Centre of the New Zealand Amateur Athletic Association when it appointed him manager of its team to compete at the New Zealand track and field championships at Napier early in March.
Formerly one of New Zealand's greatest track walkers—he once set a world record for one mile at Napier—“Dorrie” Leslie has been official starter in Wellington since 1905, following on the sensational incident when Mr. G. Watson sent Duffey, the American sprinter, off the track for “breaking.” For many years Mr. Leslie provided his own ammunition while carrying out his duties as honorary starter, but the increasing popularity of track sport in Wellington made it necessary for the centre to relieve him of that responsibility. In a season it is estimated he uses 3,000 rounds of ammunition.
In 1932, Mr. Leslie was a starter at the Olympic Games in Los Angeles, earning the highest praise for his efficient starting. He fired the first shot at the Games—I have the engraved cartridge case—and also the last shot.
Mr. J. Sigfurd Edstrom, of the International Amateur Athletic Federation, the world controlling body in amateur athletics, assured me, when he passed through Wellington in 1937, that Mr. Leslie would have been appointed Olympic starter at Berlin but for the decision to place Germany on an honour test, in view of the racial feeling that had been introduced, the Germans being asked to supply all key officials. He was definite, however, that Mr. Leslie would receive an invitation to be starter at the Games in Tokyo.
Since then the Games have been transferred to Helsinki—on the other side of the world—and it is more than likely that the distance to be travelled will prove a bar to an invitation being sent to Mr. Leslie. Under the circumstances it is almost certain that European officials will be appointed.
* * *
Although the most obvious references to motor-cyclists are invariably found in the section of the newspapers
At 50 years of age he was presumed to be beyond the arduous demands of police duties. But was he? Read what he says now—five years after he was pensioned:—“I am a man of 55 years. It is now five years since I was pensioned off from the —– —– Police. I went through thick and thin, day and night in cold weather, while I was in the Force, and am to-day as fit as any man still serving in the Force. People often ask me ‘Why are you remaining so young?’ and my answer is ‘Kruschen Salts.’ I have used Kruschen Salts now for the last 13 years. If I miss my Kruschen one morning I feel it the next day, and I will certainly use these Salts until I am leaving this world.”—W.J.
The daily dose of Kruschen is such a little dose—such an easy dose—such a cheap dose—but it does so much for you.
The six salts in Kruschen provide just that gentle daily aid your internal organs require to enable them to perform their work properly. These vital salts keep your liver and kidneys in a top-notch of efficiency, so that they-free your system of all poisonous waste matter and, consequently, cleanse and refresh your blood.
And Kruschen's gentle but positive action is more than merely purifying—it has a direct tonic effect upon your blood, too, and through your bloodstream, upon every fibre of your body—fills you with a bracing sense of energetic fitness.
Millions of your fellow-beings know that Kruschen gives in joyous abundance just that health and happiness that make all the difference between the boredom of existence and the zest of life.
Kruschen Salts is obtainable at all Chemists and Stores at 2/3 per bottle.
where correspondents are allowed to vent their feelings about “road hogs,” there are other activities of these dashing young men which receive little publicity. Apart from the formation of “flying squads” of “blackberries,” so named because of the black berets worn as part of the uniform by these young New Zealand territorials, there are numerous motor-cycle clubs throughout New Zealand which provide recreation and competition for members and set a code of road rules which, if observed, would leave the “Mother of Ten,” “Vox Populi” and others with little to write about.
Johnny had been fighting again.
“Yes, mother,” he admitted, “I have been fighting. But I did it to save you money.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Well, you know that it would have cost you at least half-a-crown to have had that decayed tooth drawn, and I've had it knocked out by Billy Corker for nothing.”
* * *
Tourist (visiting country town): “Sir, may I ask what your pursuit in life is?”
Resident (whose business is in the city): “Certainly, sir; the eight-thirty train in the morning and the six-thirty at night!”
* * *
Diner: “For a spring chicken this is pretty tough.”
Waiter: “Well, sir, you know we've had a pretty tough spring.”
* * *
The scene was the bar of the village inn.
Mr. Hayseed: “Wot be th' matter wi' ode Garge? 'E do look glum.”
Mr. Smart: “He's got fluid on th' knees.”
Mr. Hayseed: “'Ow 'as 'e got that?”
Mr. Smart: “Somebody's knocked his beer over on to them.”
* * *
“Waiter, bring me a chop, please, rather well done. Look sharp; I'm in a hurry.”
“Very sorry, sir, but we haven't a chop in the house to-day.”
“Well, then, I'll have a steak.”
“Just as bad as before, sir, for we haven't a steak left.”
“Oh, well, what joints have you?”
“None sir.”
“Wha-a-t! No chops, no steaks, no joints? What have you got then?”
“Got the bailiffs in, unfortunately.”
“Bailiffs, eh?” (sharpening his knife on his fork). “Well bring in a bailiff!”
“What makes you think she doesn't like you?”
“She told me she thought there was a fool in every family.”
“Well, what of that?”
“I had told her a few minutes before that I was an only child.”
* * *
“Say, Mose, how came yo' is so banged up?”
“I wuz talkin' when Ah should have been list'ning.”
Butler: “His lordship says he is going for a holiday, and wishes me to send on his drawing materials.”
Her Ladyship: “Well, that's plain enough, isn't it?”
Butler: “Well, I don't know whether he means his paints or corkscrews.”
* * *
Sir Charles Wilson, Dean of St. Mary's Hospital Medical School, said: “If I had to choose between exercise and a sense of humour as a panacea for long life, I should not hesitate, I should choose laughter.”
A Glasgow merchant, famous in his way, came into his office one morning and found a young clerk writing a letter in rather a flourishing hand. “My man,” he observed, “dinna mak' the tails o' yer g's and y's quite sae long. I want the ink tae last the quarter oot.”
* * *
Pat was obviously pleased with life. Later he met Mike. “Well,” said his friend, “how do you like your new job?”
“It's the finest I've ever known,”
“And what do you have to do?”
“I've nothing to do at all. I just carries a load of bricks up the ladder to the bricklayer, and he does all the work.”
* * *
Once a year the newsboys of a certain district of London are taken for an outing up the Thames by a gentleman of the neighbourhood, where they can bathe to their heart's content.
As one little boy was getting into the water a friend observed: “I say, Bill, ain't you dirty.”
“Yes,” replied Bill. “I missed the train last year.”
* * *
An absent-minded woman had insisted upon being operated on for appendicitis. Some time after her recovery she turned up at the consulting-room and asked the doctor if he would mind telling her what he had found in her appendix.
“Well,” said the doctor, “I may as well admit to you that yours was the most extraordinary case I have ever handled. I never found any thing like it in an appendix before. You will hardly believe it, but I found several small, hard seeds.”
“Oh!” said the woman. “That accounts for our having no sweet peas this year, I must have sown the pills.”
The first notable thing about “New Zealand—Land of My Choice” is that the title means more than usual. The choosing of New Zealand as an adopted country by Mrs. Ellen Roberts was no haphazard impulse. She is a world traveller of the best type, she tried the New Zealand life for three years, she returned to England, she wandered about the world for five years or more, and made her selection as a considered judgment.
She knows the good points of Sweden and Poland, Spain and South Africa, and many other favoured climes and countries, and her enthusiasm for New Zealand is expressed in this book. I found it a joy to read. The author has an easy-going prose style which nevertheless reflects a picturesque personality. Above all, she is alive with intellectual curiosity and in consequence her book is a small encyclopedia of all that is good and distinctive in our New Zealand scene.
Mrs. Roberts is a devotee of open-air sport. She owns a couple of racehorses, one of them a winner, she fishes, hunts, shoots, and can take her turn at farm work, or at the wheel of a sailing ship.
She was the only woman on a pearling schooner trip round the South Sea Isles. For good measure she is the wife of a busy medical man, and so obtains an insight into the everyday tragedies and joys of all ranks of New Zealanders.
She attends the wedding of a taxi-driver patient of her husband, and is struck with the singing of “God Save the King” by two hundred guests. She was stimulated by the fact that children in New Zealand grow up to be independent, practical and mature early because of these elements in upbringing. She describes wood-chopping contests, a “Fisherman's Paradise,” a whaling station, lighthouse life, and even devotes a chapter to New Zealand dogs.
Naturally, she and her husband have visited all the scenic points, and though there would seem to be no more words for use in picturing such places as Milford, the Buller Gorge, Rotorua, or Orakei Korako, she manages to say something fresh.
In fact this Englishwoman of culture and charm, has managed to convey in these pages, more of the zest for open air, the variety and tang of New Zealand life than has hitherto been accomplished by any writer born in the land.
“New Zealand—Land of My Choice” is in its way a classic. It will be read in the years to come when New Zealand is teeming with factories, and the texture of our lives has changed. It will enshrine permanently a land where living was joyous and free, where growth was natural and swift, and where the riches of nature were appreciated by everyone. It will also be a text-book almost, of farming methods. Mrs. Roberts excels in her detailed descriptions of farm work, and I am afraid much of her material will be pilfered by writers who want their local colour to sound natural.
In the meantime, this book should be on the shelf of every New Zealander who loves his own country. A final word should be said about the illustrations of which there are over fifty. They are exquisite, but to me their principal appeal is their wide range. Mrs. Roberts has selected them, not for their photographic technique but to amplify the odd bits of her story, or some striking or distinctive development. “New Zealand—Land of My Choice,” is worth while in every sense.
* * *
The Public Service Sports Tournament Society, Wellington, is showing wise enterprise in asking for competitive designs for a National Certificate to be presented to winners in their National Sports to be held in 1940. Prizes of three guineas and one guinea are offered for the two best designs.
Any reader interested in the matter may obtain full particulars from the Hon. Secretary, Mr. D. A. Benjamin, c/o Internal Affairs Department, Wellington.
* * *
The publication of this issue of the Magazine (March) completes the thirteenth volume. Readers are reminded that they may send forward their accumulated copies (April, 1938, to March, 1939) for binding purposes. The volumes will be bound in cloth, with gilt lettering, at a cost of 5/6 per volume. Those desirous of having their copies bound may hand them to the nearest Stationmaster (with the sender's name endorsed on the parcel) who will transmit them free to the Editor, “New Zealand Railways Magazine,” Wellington. When bound the volumes will be returned to the forwarding Stationmaster, who will collect the binding charge. In order to ensure expedition in the process of binding, copies should reach the Editor not later than 1st June, 1939.