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Variety in Brief

At the time of which I speak, in the Eighties, telephones were naturally few and far between in the country towns of New Zealand, and the very fact that Kuripa station had such an instrument, made it an important place apart from its two trains three days a week. Charlie Smith, the Stationmaster, was regarded as a wizard because village gossip had it that he could “talk to the wall” and arrange all kinds of surprising things.

This belief was even strengthened when Old Ben the shepherd called at the station for a dog that was supposed to have arrived for him. Unfortunately, the Stationmaster was having one of his busy days, waybilling assorted goods —from cans of cream to crates of chickens—to catch the train due for the city that morning. When asked about the dog he just muttered from amongst his piles of papers that there was no dog on hand.

Old Ben was just turning to go when Charlie Smith remembered that there Was a dog there. But he did not dare to risk losing his prestige by altering his decision so suddenly; besides the old shepherd was not a man to be trifled with. He called to Old Ben to wait, and going across to the ‘phone, started a pretended conversation with the railway authorities down the line, asking them to “send the dog by ‘phone.” After much ringing of bells and banging on the batteries, he turned to Ben and said, “We'll go along to the shed now. The dog ought to be just about through.”

Sure enough there was the dog in the shed, where it had been put after its arrival by train earlier in the morning, but as Old Ben was not to know this, he firmly believed that the Station-master was a marvel, and that the dog had really come by ‘phone. At the hotel that night he told a crowd of amazed rustics how he had stood by and watched the wonderful Charlie Smith perform dog transport by wire. No doubt the world was becoming a marvellous place when an enterprising railway could provide such wonderful inventions.

The good news travelled. Charlie Smith was a genius. All very well of course, until Farmer Brown called for a cow that had been consigned from Riverside, a village twenty miles away. On being told there was no cow, he said, “Garn. Mr. Smiff, bring it by ‘phone, like you did Old Ben's dog.”

This was certainly a teaser for the Station-master, but being the right man for an emergency, he was again able to rise to the occasion. He looked up the telephone directory, and pointed out to Farmer Brown that Riverside did not have a telephone, so therefore it was impossible to get his cow that way.

Farmer Brown was quite satisfied, and received his cow by train that afternoon. Charlie Smith was more than satisfied, because he had upheld his reputation as a genius—the Wizard of the Telephone.—Flip.

* * *

Word comes to us of a pantomime, produced at the London Hippodrome, of which Dan Leno Jun., is the part author. It is interesting to see the illustrious name appearing once more on a London play bill. To the New Zealander the name of Dan Leno may be connected with the legend of Home, the Old Country of which he may have but second-hand knowledge. Dan Leno, sen., was one of the greatest little drolls that England has ever known. He was born in the North of England, and before he won fame as a pantomime comedian he was famous in his own northern town as a clog dancer. The pantomime seems to have undergone a revival in London during last Christmas, no less than four big West End theatres being occupied with that form of entertainment. The J.C. Williamson pantomimes, which followed on the lines of the Drury Lane pantos are no longer seen in New Zealand. The revival of pantomime in London may herald a return to that form of entertainment in these parts. In the meantime hats off to Dan Leno, junior. May be bring in his train something of the glory which was Dan Leno, senior.—C.R.A.

* * *

In American tales of the pioneering days and of the more modern lumber-camps, we read much of the immense pride taken by the men in their prowess with the tools of their trade. Thrilling stories are told of riding logs in the timber drives through rough and treacherous water for bets, and of the keen competition between rival sawyers and axemen in their work.

In the New Zealand bush riding logs in drives is unknown, but bushman are every bit as jealous of their pride of place in any particular line in which they claim to excel, be it driving trees on a hillside, felling big trees with the saw in a particular direction, (both operations requiring great skill and judgment), or any other work calling for experience and ability.

I recall an amusing experience which took place in a bush camp in Hawke's Bay many years ago.

It was then the custom to put in the lower cut of the scarf level, and the top cut only on the slant, as opposed to the modern method of slanting both.

There was a gang employed by a boss on wages, and it included a few “new chums.” The boss was not pleased with the steps and stairs page 63 effect obtained by one of the new chums, so he took his axe and felled the next tree himself.

When he had finished the stump was almost smooth enough to appear to have been sawn.

An old hand nearby, seeing the boss's very evident pride in this, took up a bet with him to cut a tree even more smoothly. The whole camp assembled to watch.

This man was a very fine axeman and made his stump every bit as good as that of the boss.

“How's that?” he asked, when he had finished.

“Good enough to write your cheque on,” replied the boss, and producing his cheque-book he paid off his rival on the spot.—Daz.

* * *

The following story proves the extent to which the Addison's Gold Fields (near Westport) were prospected in the “early” days. At the present time one has to be very careful when walking over the pakihis for fear of coming upon an old mining shaft.

Jerry had returned to his hut after a hectic evening at a nearby shanty; he opened the door, lurched and took a header into his large open fire place.

He fell asleep, and on awakening some hours later and seeing the stars shining overhead exclaimed to himself “I'm down a —— shaft.”

He thereupon did the natural thing for a man in his position (and condition) and commenced to climb up the inside of the chimney.

On arriving breathless at the top, he paused, then stepped onto “terror firmer”—twelve feet below and gasped before collapsing “I'm down another —— shaft.”—H.H. Westport.

* * *

One time, when travelling to Christchurch, my suitcase went astray. In my carriage were some young ladies, who were without tickets. They got out of the train long before I did, and when I eventually discovered my loss, somehow my thoughts reverted to them, and I formed suspicions that perhaps I shouldn't have. Thoughts of professional bilkers (as read about in cheap literature) persisted in coming to my mind, and I couldn't forget that they were without tickets. Three weeks later, when I had given it up, my case was returned to me, absolutely intact. It appeared—how wrong one's impressions can be!—the young women were members of a Bible Class camp; actually had forgotten their tickets; and had taken my case by mistake. Discovering the case didn't belong to their party they sent it on to a boy's camp nearby, and it then knocked about between the two camps for the period mentioned before finding its way back to the railway station. I might mention that the Railway Department was everything it could be in looking for my case, and I received the utmost consideration from all officials with whom I came into contact. But for a while my thoughts concerning those girls were very dark.—C.H.F.

* * *

Recently I took out little Letty, aged four, to see her grandma. Grandma was wearing glasses, and Letty asked what they were and why she was wearing them. I explained why, and called them “specs.” “Why not teach the child to speak properly?” asked grandma. She then told Letty they were a pair of spectacles, and made her repeat it several times. “Well, and how did you like grandma?” Dad asked Letty when we arrived home. “Oh, she was alright,” replied Letty, “but she was wearing a pair of respectables!”—S.E.D.

* * *

Henare was being sued for debt, and the plaintiff's lawyer suggested that racecourse gambling had caused the native's position. Henare denied the suggestion, saying he had not attended races for some time, as he had become religious. The Bench was doubtful. “Just try and recall how many meetings you have attended during the past twelve months?” he asked. Henare thought for a while and then answered: “Apout one hundred an' four.”

“An average of two a week,” remarked the prosecuting lawyer, a gleam of triumph in his eyes. “No,” corrected Henare; “two every Suntay.”

“No Sunday meetings are allowed in New Zealand,” snapped the advocate. “Too right,” Henare assured him earnestly. “Proper prood an' fire meetings at te Salvation Army what converted me.”—“O. W. Waireki.”

* * *

Now and again the faithful Maorilander tries to pronounce Maori names decently. I always try. Round about Granity—look at your map, South Island, West Coast, Karamea Bight—I heard very often the strange name Knocko-War. These mining townships, by the way, are populated mostly by immigrants from “iverywhear.” But I could never find Knockowar. In a little shop window I saw a hand-made bill announcing the event of the season—a dance at Ngakawau. I turned to a local resident. “Where is”—I gave the pronunciation this fashion—“Ung-Ah-Kah-Wah-U?” The resident looked at me. “I dunno. Never heard of it.” “But,” I insisted, “there is going to be a dance there if this notice is worth anything.” “Oh,” he rallied, “you mean Knockowar. Yes, that's right. You going?” “No—I'm afraid I can't do these old-time Welsh dances.”—Pumice.

* * *

Few New Zealanders, I am sure, have seen a white heron—alive. I first saw one in a little backwash of the Clutha River, not thirty yards from a main road. Two years later, the bird came again to the old backwash, and paddled about on its long black legs catching minnows and whitebait. Often it could be seen flying in the distance, but for a week it returned at intervals to the same spot. I must have been singularly lucky, for so rare is it, that the Maoris, who prized its feathers highly, believed it to be seen only once in a lifetime.—G.S. McA.

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