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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 8, Issue 9 (January 1, 1934)

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Our small boy has found a new love. By that we do not mean to infer that our small boy is a budding Lothario. Far from it. His new love is no frail, fickle thing of flesh and blood. It is indeed a thing which, to a small boy, must seem to be very much alive—a thing built of iron and steel, yet it pulsates and throbs delightfully with stored-up energy. It strikes awe into every beholder. In short, it is a railway engine.

Our small boy is intensely interested in the engines that haul the trains up the hill in front of our home. He knows them all. He is on more than familiar terms with the staccato puff of the “Ab.” He notes with approval the big “X's” that go chugging so powerfully and determinedly up the bank, with their heavy loads; he has a deep fund of admiration for the stocky, sturdy “Wa.B's” that always seem to get away with a flying start. Nor is all this interest and liking for the “iron horse” peculiar to the younger generation. Dad and Mum, big brother and big sister, all evince a more than passing interest in the knights of the rail. Of our town, it might truly be said that the railway is the very centre of its being. Hence it is that when the “Daylight Limited,” with a “Wab” pulling resolutely in front, goes gaily up the Mataroa bank, that those in the vicinity drop their tasks for a few seconds, and gaze wistfully at the departing train. Doubtless they are like us. We often wish that we were “aboard” the “Daylight,” especially on a summer's day, when the scenery along the Main Trunk line looks so captivating. Erasmus once said: “As soon as I get any money I shall buy books, and then I shall buy some clothes.” Paraphrasing him, we have said that when we get some money we will buy us a trip on the “Daylight Limited.”

But we have forgotten our small boy and his new love. Recently, we heard a strange whistle coming from the railway yard. No piercing blast this, but a pleasing melodious whistle, that sounded almost subdued. It attracted immediate attention. Was it one of the new big engines? Rumours of these had been circulating for some time. A new long turntable had been installed in the yards. Reports were current that one or two of the new “K's” had slipped through, bound for stations further north. But at last, enquiry taught us, one of them had come to stay—it was to be our very own.

And so the small fry of our household were very excited when it was announced that we would go to the station to “have a look” at the new “K.” They had learnt that she was to take the express north that night, and “please could we go down to-night?” Yes, we could, and scarcely any tea was eaten by the excited boys. One would have thought that they had a trip in prospect.

We reached the station just in time to see a monstrous apparition of an engine surrounded by a halo of light and steam, being coupled up to the express. It was “she!” Yes, truly it was, and an imposing looking “she” at that. There was quite a crowd of interested spectators. Men, women, youths, girls, and. of course, the ubiquitous small boy, were all gazing with immense satisfaction at the latest product of our workshops. The driver, a sturdy-looking man page 14 with cool and wary eyes, tried to look blissfully unconscious of all the interest and attention that were being bestowed on his big charge. “This, friends,” he seemed to say, “is an everyday occurrence.” But it would not wash. We have had the same feeling when we possessed our first watch, and when we walked down the street in a new suit. It's human and pardonable. Still, our driver's pride is quite justified. We walk round the “K,” and express amazement. The first impression is one of very nice lines combined with an overwhelming suggestion of immense power. The long, raking boiler, the stocky chimney, sounding so busy with the exhaust of the double pumps, the eight coupled driving wheels, the huge firebox, the roomy cab, resembling the control platform of a submarine, the imposing tender—all these were noted as the chief parts of a splendid locomotive. Long may she run to the honour and profit of our railways!

Our small boy, on his way home, confided to us that he had made up his mind to be an engine-driver when he was a man, and drive a “K.” And so to bed, doubtless to dream blissfully of standing on the footplate of a giant engine climbing resolutely up a “bank,” with the beat of the exhaust purring surely and steadily in his dreaming ears.