Beds Of Gold, But Not For Sale.

Tally Ho, Trainlanders! Let's go prospecting.

In the Waimakariri Gorge, which is on the way to Otira, there's gold galore. Gold—gold everywhere. It glows and nods to us from every side. Up the cliffs and over the hills and far away is one sea of waving gold. There's no gold shortage here. Yet the gold-buyers make no use of all this wealth.

But we will! Spring days, picnic days and happy days are here again and with all this golden glory nor' wester-land is a grand picnic place. Amongst this glowing gorse and broom we can play the most exciting games.

True, we can scarcely stand up against the howling nor' westers as we cross the railway bridge. Still, it's fun to be blown about by the howling wind in brilliant sunshine and to have our laughter carried down the swirling Waimakariri waters. But down on the shingly river bed, where we paddle and boil our billy, it is quite calm and sheltered.

When we are breathless with scrambling up the cliffs, we throw ourselves into the broom and let the winds go singing through our hair. We lie and look at the wispy clouds in the bright blue sky and watch the drunken bees go tumbling over the apricot-scented gorse. Yes, we lie on beds of gleaming gold, like the princes and princesses of old. Their beds were cold and hard though. Ours are sun-warmed and soft.

You know, this is where spring throws all her left over gold after she has finished bedabbling the world!

What shall we do with all her board of goblin gold, now that we have found it? It is every bit as precious as the gold which the jewellers are so busily weighing upon their tiny scales. Instead of letting all this golden beauty fade away, do you think you could save it for a rainy day—store it in ourselves to brighten us up?

That's the best of all these jolly picnics and tramps and mystery trains, isn't it? We have the gay and care-free memories to store away and live over and over again, giving us untold pleasure.

Wishing you all the Springtime joys,

Yours in Trainland,

* * *

Trainland's Letter Box.

It is not necessary to have your work printed before you win something. If yours is one of the best entries of the month the postman will bring you a parcel. There are heaps of sur-prizes in Trainland, so try hard and see if you can be a prizewinner.

Address all your letters to—

The Children's Editor,

N.Z. Railways Magazine,

Wellington.

* * *

Do You Know?

Which Is The Happiest seat in Christchurch?

The Mayoral Chair, you say?

Oh, no! The happiest seat is on one of the banks of the dear old dreaming Avon, by the Victoria Street, Bridge.

Who would not be happy there with so much passing beauty? After Spring comes the Summer with the ducks and the shaking sunshine shadows on the grass, and the dark, cool, green of the willows and soldierly-looking poplars. Then comes Autumn, with scurrying clouds and crackling leaves skipping merrily along the asphalt paths above. The winter comes; winter with the baby water-rats which come scuttling out from their water-weed homes in Old Man River, to look for crumbs at Old Seat's feet. That happy Old Seat is the page 52 only one who sees those little black mice-men. Muffled up people who pass in the clanging tram-cars over the bridge cannot see through the mists.

Wouldn't you think Old Seat would be lonely then? Not a bit of it! He is ever so busy. It is then, when he is all, all alone, that he carefully goes over his memories of the past twelve months. He sorts them all out, keeping only the ones he likes; the happy, beautiful recollections.

“I'll keep all those memories of the artists coming here to paint,” he says to himself, “especially the Spring day memory when that young girl came to me. Of course she didn't know that she herself, as she sat here under the prunus tree, made a far lovelier picture than she painted with her brush. Her scarlet jumper and beret looked so pretty against the green grass and blue sky, and the fragrant, frothy white prunus blossom kept dropping its petals over her. Yes! I'll keep that memory alright,” and Old Seat smiles. “Oh! and I'll remember that dear old lady who came and knitted here, and the tired young mother who came because it looked so peaceful.

“But I'll forget that cruel man on the bridge who beat his horse,” says Old Seat severely. These ugly memories he gives to Old Man River to drown. And so Old Seat goes on sorting and sorting.

Seven weeks it takes him to do this. Then—no sooner has he finished than he feels Spring's first finger, a golden crocus, poking at him.

“Stop dreaming, Old Seat! Wake up. I'm here again!” cries Spring.

Instantly Old Seat sits up, ever so indignant.

“Pardon me, Miss Spring, I was not dreaming. Why! I have been spring-cleaning my memory-box. Asleep, indeed!”

“You were asleep! You were asleep!” chirps a cheeky little sparrow as he hops excitedly about the pearly masses of prunus blossom overhead. “I saw you! I saw you!” he twitters.

Old Seat does not answer back this time. He just smiles, so wisely, for he knows better.

And because Old Seat spring-cleans—chases away all that is not lovely—this corner of the Garden City is always very mellow and sweet and peaceful.

So when you are along that way one day, will you call on Old Seat? He will gladly welcome you: and if you are tired he will give you rest, and happiness, too.

* * *

“The Herald Of Spring.”

The sketch reproduced on this page might well be named “The Herald of Spring.”

It is the bronze statuette on the Valkyrie Fountain in the Auckland Dornain. Behind is Rangitoto, the famous extinct volcano in the harbour. Near the ti-tree is the railway station.

The Valkyrie Fountain, set in a lily pond, is almost as well-loved as the Peter Pan Statuette in the Oamaru Gardens.

You have probably read in Norse mythology that the Valkyries were the handmaidens of Odin, serving at Valhalla banquets. They also rode through the air to battles and brought back the fallen heroes to Odin.

See how nicely you can paint this picture, then post to “Trainland” not later than 7th November.

Prizes: Photographs of Scenic Resorts; divided between Seniors and Juniors.

State age, full name and address. Age limit, 18.

Results will be printed in the December pages of “Trainland.”

* * *

Our Monster Competition.

Have you sent in your entry for our Monster Competition which appeared in the August and September issues of the N.Z. Railways Magasine?

Try to win one of those first-class free travel tickets. It would never do to miss this chance of a lifetime.

Remember, too, that those 1,000 other prizes Must be won? Entries to be in as soon as possible.

Fulfilment.

I wandered, questing, down a path of light, Where flaunting poppies bordered every side,

And all around was bathed in rainbow light, Yet I turned back along life's flowing tide.

I wandered, wond'ring, down the vale of night, Where petal-painted stars shone in the gloom,

And rubies shed a rosy flick'ring light, Like many-petalled flowers burst in bloom.

I wandered, lonely, down the path of life, Then out into a fairer, heavenly field,

Away from strife's dull echo, and each wound I'd known in life's hard toil was gently healed.

Joan Pain (16 years), “St. Rollox,” Papatoetoe.

Joan is one of my cleverest farmer's children. She is a contributor to the Women's New Idea in Sydney and other adult pages.

Hobbies Corner.
Interesting Insects.

Spring finds the butterflies with us and some of the finest specimens are with Mr. C. E. Clarke, the entomologist at the Auckland Memorial Museum.

I am sure you would like to visit Mr. Clarke in his room. On his piled-up desks, amongst his microscopes, nets, setting-boards and books, are bottles of fearsome looking bugs and snakes preserved in spirits. These are always being sent to him from various parts of the world. It is a good thing they are safely corked up and quite dead. They look terribly fierce.

“Before I show you the butterflies, have a look at these moths,” says Mr. Clarke as he pulls out drawer after drawer. Moths! thousands of them, from white shimmering midgets to big beauties, which certainly would startle you if they came flopping around your lamps at night. One of the prettiest is the green Puriri moth. It settles on the well-known Puriri tree which has big dark green leaves. The Puriri caterpillar bores tunnels through the trunks. Over the trap-door it weaves a boll, a tough and silky covering which resembles a scar or marking of the tree bark. The caterpillar and its tunnel is then completely hidden from enemies.

But for cunning ways of protecting her insects from enemies, nature could hardly better the way she has made the stick insects. They look just like twigs on branches. Many have little spikes sticking upon their backs which look like thorns. Other insects resemble broken leaves. The Chloroclystis butterfly also has a disguise. It looks like a small patch of lichen and so, when resting, birds do not see it Some butterflies look like blossoms and fallen Autumn leaves. The Erebia

“Oh! there is sweetness in the mountain air.”—Byron.
(Photo, Elsie K. Morton.) The ski-ing party at the Hermitage, Mt. Cook, includes Dobbin and the sledge.

butterfly which is found in the snow regions, 5,000 feet above sea level, is protected from the cold by the fact that it is black. Black absorbs the heat more readily than any other colour. So when the sun shines, the Erebia drys its wings in the sunshine and goes back underneath a rock feeling quite warm for many hours afterwards.

New Zealand's most beautiful butterfly is the Hypolimnas bolina which has been found in the Waitakere Ranges, near Auckland. It is dark blue with large heliotrope and white spots.

The “Wanderer” butterfly, which is found in Europe, Asia, Africa, North and South America and Australia, is occasionally found in New Zealand. It's wings are four inches across and are ochre coloured with black tracings and spotted with dots.

“On one visit to Adelaide” says Mr. Clarke, “I caught sight of one of these Wanderers just as I arrived. Dropping my suitcase, I ran after it and caught it under my hat.”

Have you ever caught one of these?

Next month Mr. Clarke will tell us some most interesting and unusual facts about our native birds and his explorations in the heart of Southland.

* * *

Spring.

Spring is a living tapestry, A lovely, fragile, thing,
A little song, like a short Flight of swallows, on the wing.
A fragrant breath of perfume, A misty shower of rain,
A snatch of silver birdsong, And the golden sun again.

Joan Pain (16 years),
“St. Rollox,” Papatoetoe.

(Photo, A. Cole.)
Approaching Dargaville on the Northern Wairoa River.