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The "Truth" About Tramping

An Editorial Statement.

In our last number there appeared an article entitled "The. Truth About Tramping," signed "Viator," which, we understand, created a certain amount of comment, favourable or otherwise. A search was immediately instituted for the identity of the author, which up to now however has remained unknown. Nor have we any intention at this juncture of revealing it. Let the miserable cur remain sunk in the obscurity which is the natural portion of the libeller, the bravo, the stabber in the dark. In any case, our editorial lips are sealed; a promise is a promise, even when given to the meanest of mankind; we are unable to reveal a name the knowledge of which could not but inspire a still higher measure of disgust in all lovers of truth and humanity.

We accepted and published that article in good faith. To us in our editorial innocence (preserved yet in some measure after so many tribulations) it bore the stamp of truth, the impress of sincerity. We were so rash as to regard the author as a typical tramper, a veteran of many forced marches and hard-bitten expeditions—one frank, pure in heart, chivalrous, with all his natural and acquired asceticism; one in fact who would treat every woman as his sister and scorn to tell a lie. What was our horror, therefore, on ringing up the number he had given as that of his residence, to make some casual communication about proofs, to learn that he had stayed there but a day, and immediately on hearing that his article had been accepted by the "Spike" had fled to America. While being unable, of course, to reprehend this unusual conduct too strongly, we were still at a loss for the reason. We were not left long in doubt. The "Spike" appeared, and the storm of indignation that burst on the heads of the staff left no opportunity for mistake. All trampers, we understand, whether men or women, while admitting in a general way the truth of the indictment as it might appear to certain temperaments, unused to Spartan regimen or the austere seductions of the Wide Open Spaces, were up in arms in righteous indignation at one statement in particular, a statement we must admit of the meanest and most despicable character, that could have come only from one dead to all feelings of generous emotion or candid thought. That statement refers to a line of a certain Tramping Song, and says:

"Absolute typical Rot! Who ever heard of a girl messing round with the fire at all? They sit on a good dry log and eat, that's about the extent of their participation in the festivities."

We have been assured from numberless sources that that statement is a Lie. It is directly contrary to the Truth of which "Viator" boasts himself with such resounding fanfares the doughty paladin. In fact, it is quite inaccurate. A cruel libel. A gratuitous and scurrilous attack of the most unprincipled and debasing kind on the fair name of women with whom, on the contrary, even to come into contact is a wonder and a joy and an abiding glory. These women, it is said (and we have since confirmed the report by going on a tramp ourselves, at the gracious invitation of Professor E. J. Boyd-Wilson), are the main strength and standby of the Tramping Club. Not only do they on occasion tend the fire, but they cut page 11 bread and butter it (insufficiently, to be sure)—they fetch water—they supply chocolate—they make tea—they deal out stew—they mix milk—they put up tents—they collect bedding—they scrape out porridge pots—their merry laughter and constant flow of wit is the life and soul of any expedition—their cheerfulness in good fortune, their fortitude in disaster, is a model and example to all other women whatsoever—and in the intervals of all this, one of them (as we have seen and noted with our own eyes) even mends socks. What praise can be higher? Does not the unprepared imagination stagger and reel at the conception of so much virtue, such moral excellence, pressed down and overflowing and watering a thirsty land? These women are marvellous. Speaking for ourselves, we Really had no Idea

And now the final act remains to be done. Speaking for and on behalf of Ourself, the Editor, the Sub-editors, the proof-reader, the copy-holder, the Financial Secretary, the entire office staff, down to the boy who runs the messages, the boy who fills the inkwells, the boy who empties the waste-paper basket (no sinecure), and the very respectable woman who sweeps the floor in the morning, we express our profound regret at the slur cast upon the extraordinarily fine characters of our Tramping Sisters, and in so doing hope and trust that the wretch who so cunningly imposed on us (we cannot guess why—for dark misogynic reasons of his own?) will, in spite of his precipitate flight from the scene of horror and moral repulsion that his action brought about, be speedily brought to justice.

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We feel bound, however, to record the opinion of the author of the offending article expressed by the compositor of the "Worker," himself an experienced Orongo-orongo-ite: "By jove, he knew what he was talking about, that fellow!"