Freedom and Friendliness.

January in New Zealand is a period of freedom and friendliness; for communion with air and earth, with sea and sky.

It demands the primitive palliatives of wind-in-the-hair and sun-in-the-face which never fail to soothe the seething soul and jazz up the juices of the jaundiced. For in January the cogs of commerce whirr less wildly, the mills of money slow their gristing and much of humanity shakes off the shackles of shekels. There is a pause in life's pitful fever. Vocation is on vacation. Men, maids and matrons camp under canvas, or the star-studded dome of night, defying dyspepsia with pan and pannikin wooing Morpheus and moreporks, and braving the hazards and haphazards of the mosquito belt.

Following the Sun.

The rivers are rife with fly-fishers, the sands are strewn with torso-tanners and cuticle-colourers; on the breakers are brokers; there are bankers in bunkers, and on the sea-shore enjoying the overdraft in the undertow. Bakers are throwing their “dough” about, dentists are doing all their pulling in boats and humanity is human.

A'leap on the Deep.

And what is your brand of agitated alleviation? Perhaps it's a'yachting you would go. Let's say that you've never yachted before. You are invited by a bunch of sea-dogs to brave the bounding billows in twenty feet of bucking kauri. So you buy yourself a captain's hat, stick a Popeye transfer on your chest, sink a couple of rums, learn to growl “luff ‘er” or “aye aye, skip” like a real dare-devil of the deep, and proceed to board the hooker. You make your approach with a rolling gait, you trip on a rope and fall into a dinghy as big as a saucepan lid. When climbing aboard the yacht you put your foot through the glass of a porthole and go for a skate on your chin in the stab'rd scuppers. Beyond having the anchor dropped on your toe and a halliard or two wound round your neck you keep your end up until the yacht gets all yachty. You sit in the stern and feel Captain Bloodish and yo-ho-ho-ish; at least, that's how you feel until the boom swings over and catches you a wallop on the off ear; while you try to look as if you are used to this sort of thing it swings back and slams you one in the other ear. You are still a bit under the weather when a following sea poops you and washes you through the skylight. But you are not discouraged. This is the kind of thing Columbus and Magellan would have laughed at, thinks you; you try to laugh; but something seems to have happened in the laughing department and you make a noise like an oyster-dredger moaning in a fog. But you manage to crawl on deck. The skipper tells you that the breeze is freshening and that there is likely to be a bit of a joggle. You ask if there isn't a jogglishness about everything already.

“Your mind is not on yachting.”

Cats Paws and Tigers Whiskers.

“Pah!” barks the skipper. “A mere cat's paw!” It feels more like the tiger's whiskers to you, but you are too busy trying to keep your stomach under your jersey to argue the toss.

Then the whole works heels over at an angle of 99.09 degrees and you get a good view of Davy Jones's locker with the lid off. You remember about the Three Fishers who went sailing and never were seen in the fish market again. Then you notice that everyone is hanging over the lee scuppers or the t'gallant taffrail, or whatever the safe side of a yacht is called, as though poised for a back double dive into the swirling swell, or the swilling swirl. You do a bit of leaning yourself, but your mind is not on yachting for the moment. After getting your stomach reparked in the safety zone and ascertaining page 47 that your shoe-laces are still on, you gaze at the shores of your beloved home-land and wonder how on earth Britain managed to become a maritime nation.

Sailing the Sea with Knobs On.

But, on second thoughts, you are glad to be at sea because there is a terrific, earthquake going on ashore. The hills are skipping about like spring lambs and the wharves are bobbing up and down like father when he does the washing.

“Nobby day for sailing,” says the skipper.

You feel tempted to reply that it is a nobby day for cricket or flying or even for a crown-and-anchor tournament, but that for yachting you consider that there are far too many knobs on it. “I'm afraid she missed stays,” apologises the skipper when a broadside sluices you fore and aft. You had already noticed that she missed something and are about to remark that a bit of tight-lacing wouldn't do her any harm when she stands on her tail; sea and sky go into partnership and liquidation, and Cook Strait falls aboard.

When you come to, you are outstretched on a settee, and the crew are laying out a lunch of beer and sausages on your chest.

All appears to be calm and through the porthole you spy the most beautiful sight you have ever seen in your life—about thirty-six square inches of good hard solid immovable land.

“One more day of this and you'll never notice it,” encourages the skipper.” “One more day like this and I'll never notice anything,” replies you.

A Batch in a “Bach.”

But perhaps you prefer “baching” to yachting. Ignoring the organised sports, baching is the most disorganised of disorganised pastimes. To get the full flavour of baching you hire a bach as big as a piano case and fill it with three times as many people as it will hold.

Every bach designed to house six people has sleeping accommodation for three and will hold fifteen. The other dozen roll themselves in the window curtains and toss for the softest floorboards. In good weather, however, it is possible to open all the windows so that they can sleep with their non-breathing ends in the open air. By this means it is practicable to accommodate twice as many people inside as it would be if they were inside. In the morning the chief fun is in trying to get on your socks without poking your neighbour's eye out.

Meals are fun too, because, even if there were anyone willing to cook, the stove isn't. Bach stoves are always like that. The previous bachees invariably have removed the essential parts for fishing-line sinkers; and even if they hadn't, there is always a magpie nesting in the chimney—if there is a chimney. But fancy cooking on a holiday! Mother declares that she has been cooking all the year and doesn't intend to do any now—even if she could.

Everyone agrees that it's up to the tin-opener and it's certainly stiff luck that there's no tin-opener. Furnished bachs never supply tin-openers; it would make baching too easy; so bachees usually live on sardines because every tin of sardines has a key which will open three tins out of every ten. The Sardinians are evidently a nomad nation of bachees who recognise that the tin-opener is mightier than the stiletto.

Taking The Air At The Seaside.

But how close the bond of fellowship in a bach! So close that when you dress in the morning you have to watch out that you don't put your leg in the wrong pants; and each bachee has to stick a pin in his foot to make sure that it is his before he pulls a sock on it.

Sleep with their non-breathing ends in the open air.”

Tadpoles in the Tea.

And the sunrises! You never saw anything like them. With two-thirds of you out of the window you can't help seeing them. Of course, you must expect rain. Baching is a dry business without it. Not that you need rain to fill the tank because the tank won't fill, anyway, on account of there being no tank. But there's a nice stream down at the end of the paddock. The water is perfectly pure; the tadpoles enjoy it even more than you do. It's splendid sport laying odds as to who will get the tadpole in his tea. Childish pleasures, no doubt, but it is these simple delights that make baching so jolly. When it rains you get a complete rest because you have to lie under the table and chairs to keep the drips out of your eyes. It is the only time when you can say that there is water laid on all over the house.

If you take a dog you should see that he wears his tail short. No reasonable person objects to a dog in a bach but a tail lying all round the house is awkward if there is a dog on the other end of it.

You're not going baching? We hope that nothing w've said has put you off. page 48 page 49

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A section of the Wanganui Public Library —the most modern in Australia and New Zealand.

sorted out for harder knocks than any other.

Every sign in the business places to-day shows that the bad times have passed into ancient history. I was in the departmental store known as Londontown, and it was well packed. Elaborate preparations were being made for the youngsters’ Christmas attraction, and perhaps youthful squeals of ecstacy may finally banish Old Man Gloom from this bright section of the city. I found in conversation with the proprietor, Mr. W. J. Robinson, that, with characteristic New Zealand thoroughness, he had spent years in London, specialising in the several branches of the art of clothing New Zealanders.

I would like to be present in the Avenue when the Christmas Carnival Week opens this year. If ever an ideal street had been planned for processional purposes, it is the stately Victoria Avenue. Be reminded, too, that there are other broad thoroughfares bordered with fine edifices. The residential districts have their own distinction. St. John's Hill is a remarkable dress circle plateau, with so many lovely homes and gardens that one wonders where the gold mines are, that belong to their fortunate owners. Here again appears the constant feature of New Zealand tree and verdure growth which gives garden and lawn of ten years’ standing an air of immemorial age.

It is in partial explanation of the incidence of splendid homes that I discovered that this was a city of wide-spreading industries, any of them of national importance. At the mouth of the river, for instance, is a factory which supplies every man, woman and child in New Zealand with a bar of soap every year. Messrs. J. B. Gilberd and Sons, Ltd., have been going for fifty years and more, and among their achievements is the skilful use of the pumice which is in such easy reach. “Waxine” is a household name, and the establishment is impressive in its scale of plant and equipment; there is something almost awe-inspiring about 10,000 cases of sandsoap which permanently fill the drying room. Nearer to the city proper is another nationally known name. This is the home of the Southern Cross Biscuit, a great enterprise which has contributed something to the morning cup of tea, and the clubman's luncheon cheese everywhere in the Dominion. It is a hive of cheerful operatives, and is working at full pressure.

(Rly. Publicity photo.)
A group of beautiful tree ferns in the Waikupa Valley, East Town, Wanganui.

The plant is the last word in modern efficiency, and I take the opportunity of using these two concerns as texts for a contention that I have so often urged. It is of the utmost importance that decentralisation of industrial production should be encouraged. Industries situated in these delectable provincial centres can, more easily than the crowded city, furnish sound and pleasurable environments for their workers. The word “provincial” is often used to denote a certain type of narrowness of outlook, but with one or two boyish exceptions I have found just as progressive views and accumulated stores of experience in places like Wanganui as auy-where else. Then there is the all important phenomenon of the advantages of locality. Canning works should be near the orchards, wood-working plants near the tall timber, soap works near the sources of tallow and pumice, woollen mills near the flocks and so on. The last illustration suggests that Wanganui should have half a dozen woollen mills, for its pastoral production figures are stupendous. It is the fourth wool sale centre in the whole Dominion and had the distinction of having nearly one-third of the total “carryover” in the years of the depression, showing that the district had the largest proportion in New Zealand of primary producers able to smile at their bankers.

I have reserved for the last part of this article the feature of Wanganui which is as distinctive on the man-made side of its being, as the river in its natural endowment. Wanganui page 50 page 51 is a grove of graceful temples of education. Without exception, these buildings are of aesthetic perfection and architectural beauty. We show, for instance, the primary school at Aramoho with its tasteful gardens, and, of course, open-air swimming bath, only one, let it be noted, of fourteen in the city. The Technical College Hostel is unique in the Dominion, and our picture shows its severe but noble beauty. An oak-lined avenue branching from the main thoroughfare leads to the Wanganui Collegiate School whose old boys have attained distinction in every walk of life and in every part of the Empire. It sends up to Oxford and Cambridge an annual quota of students comparable with most of the English pubilc schools, and takes its place with the greatest schools under the Southern Cross. The gravely lovely chapel is only one of its array of superb buildings that stand about the splendid playing fields. The Wanganui Girls’ College, The Technical College, are also noble piles, and there are many other well-known establishments, the St. George Preparatory School, the Marist Brothers', the Friends, and St. Mary's Convent.

On the gentle slopes of the hill that rises immediately out of the town, stands a trio of buildings without peer in the Dominion. First there is the majestic Sargent Art Gallery, a shrine worthy of its exquisite contents. No city of less than five times the population of Wanganui can claim such a cultural treasure-house. In line on the same brow of Pukenamu is the most modern public library in these southern lands. It is an artistic delight, a lovely thing of multitudinous windows and all permeating light. As is the logical result of the investiture of Wanganui in all these ways of enlightment, the reading standard of the city is exceptionally high. For good measure, there is the Alexander Museum, a veritable storehouse of wonders and historic treasures. Enumeration is impossible in the space I have and I have tried to just give a shadowy sketch of this distinctive personality of the city of Wanganui. In whatever direction one looks, the utilitarian scene of every-day life is relieved by the graceful outline of some building devoted to cultural purposes.

(Rly. Publicity photo.)
The Wanganui River as it flows through the Parakino Valley, North Island, New Zealand.

This aspect of life is as pre-ponderant in Wanganui as in Boston or Cambridge and invests the river city with an atmosphere which is its own; which permeates and elevates the beauty of the place and ensures it a destiny of worth and dignity.

For some reason, not altogether clear, Wanganui has not rejoiced in any regular annual festivals. The enterprising body known as the Tourist and Development League is effectively remedying this, and at Christmas and New Year the river city will be en fete. Skilful use is being made of every advantage the city possesses, and a full week of gaiety contains, inter alia, rowing races, the New Zealand Championship motor boat races, Maori canoe racing, cycling, greyhound racing, axemen and surf clubs; indeed, everything that relates to carnival. I can imagine no more satisfying way to spend a holiday than to be in Wanganui at this time, or (as my last word) any other time.

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