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The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 71

A Pathetic Journey

A Pathetic Journey.

At 7.58 the cars were drawn out of the station and past the crowd which thronged the road to the Manawatu line, along which the train sped, flying past stations, each with its group of expectant sympathisers on the platform, who reverently uncovered as it rushed by. The panting monster which drew us on only paused where it was necessary to obtain water for its needs, and so by 10 o'clock it had reached Otaki. Hero wo paused, and as the wheels ceased to revolve, the notes of the Dead March from "Saul" came touchingly from a band drawn up upon the plateform. It was a band of the Maori people—the Otaki Maori Band—assembled in their neat uniforms of black and white, to do honour to the distinguished dead. As the measured cadences of the death-chant died away, the chief, Hoani Taipua, himself a political follower of the dead Premier, asked that the musicians and a body of chiefs might be permitted to share in the sad rites which we were performing, and so it was arranged that they should come in the public train which was thundering after us. Again were we rushed on, flying past the uncovered page 20 groups on the platforms, and other smaller groups of settlers, who had come down from their farms, some afoot, some on horseback, and some in every form of conveyance, to stand by the side of the line, always with bowed and uncovered head and reverent mien. At Longburn there was a brief stoppage, but none at Palmerston, where the big platform was crowded to excess, and a band was heard playing the Dead March as we flew past the silent multitude. Just out of Palmerston was one of the characteristic groups met with on the line. An old man, white-haired and bent of figure, had made his way to the hill-side above the cemetery accompanied by the time-worn partner of his life. With two younger women, who stood by as if to support them, they waited the passing of the strange funeral. Aft we approached, the old man bared his head, and, with his companions, bowed low in reverent grief. It was an affecting sight—the picturesque little group, an embodiment of respectful sympathy, their bowed figures outlined sharply against the sky, beneath them the white headstones of the cemetery, and between, the moving funeral train. It was typical of life, and of the sad duty which we were performing—the pause by the wayside—the rush of fevered existence—the grave.

By 2.30 we were at Aramoho, and there we waited for the public train to come up before completing our journey.