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The New Zealand Railways Magasine is on sale through the principal booksellers, or may be obtained post-free for 6/- per annum.
Employees of the Railway Department are invited to forward news items or articles bearing on railway affairs. The aim of contributors should be to supply interesting topical material tending generally towards the betterment of the service.
In all cases where the Administration makes announcements through the medium of this journal the fact will be clearly indicated.
The Department does not identify itself with any opinions which may be expressed in other portions of the publication, whether appearing over the author's name or under a nom de plume.
Short stories, poetry, pen-and-ink sketches, etc., are invited from the general public upon New Zealand subjects.
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All communications should be addressed to The Editor, New Zealand Railways Magazine, Wellington.
I hereby certify that the publisher's lists and other records disclose that the circulation of the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” has not been less than 20,000 copies each issue since July, 1930.
Deputy-Controller and Auditor-General.
27/9/33.
From Mr. Hector Bolitho, The Deanery, Windsor Castle, England, to the General Manager of Railways, Wellington:—
May I say how comfortable I was on the New Zealand trains. Everything was done to make my journeys pleasant, and I am proud, after years of travel in Europe and America, to return and find that the New Zealand officials have little, if anything, to learn from bigger and more boastful organisations. My two journeys to Rotorua were most happy.
From Mr. R. W. Matthews, Waiorongomai, Featherston, to the General Manager of Railways, Wellington:—
I am writing to thank you for your action in arranging to have my stud cattle forwarded right through to Featherston by the mail train. Had it not been for you the truck would have been taken off the mail train at Masterton and held there until a later train could bring it to Featherston. This would have meant unloading valuable cattle in the dark besides having to drive them through the town at night to get them to a suitable paddock. But thanks to you, this was all done in daylight.
Mr. W. K. Morton, of Silverhope, from whom I purchased the cattle, travelled down on the mail train with them, and is full of praise of the way in which the Department handled this consignment of cattle.
From J. E. Watson & Co. Ltd., Invercargill, to the District Traffic Manager, Invercargill:—
We think it is the least we can do to put on record our appreciation of the work done, and the services so willingly rendered us by your staff at Bluff, in connection with the discharge of Guano from the s.s. “Nolisement;” and we would specially mention the Stationmaster himself and the Chief Clerk, and even more especially the Shipping Clerk, Mr. Downes, who went to no end of trouble to oblige us in every way possible in respect to weights, etc. Our officer in charge of the work considers that the despatch given to this vessel, in all probability, creates a record for the port, and much is due to the courtesy shown him and the stevedore by your officials.
It has been decided to increase the size of the December issue of this Magazine to 64 pages. In addition to our usual features there will be published a special article, with accompanying illustrations, dealing with the new railway station at Wellington, the prize-winning story in the New Zealand Women Writers' and Artists' Short Story Competition, and other special features of topical interest. The Magazine will be well illustrated with typical New Zealand views, making it especially attractive for posting to friends and relatives in New Zealand and overseas.
For those in trouble of any-kind, the sweetest music is in the simple query, “What can I do for you?”, from someone who shews real interest and knows how to do things.
Railwaymen of all occupations have many opportunities for using this phrase not only to those who occasionally rather timidly ask for advice to solve some minor transport problem, but to those who are obviously in some difficulty (particularly women and children, or sick or elderly people) about such things as luggage, or train location or telegram despatch, or any other of the temporary trials that confront, occasionally, even experienced travellers when in unfamiliar surroundings. It is worth remembering that there are always some passengers to whom a trip by train is something of a novelty. These do not know “the run of the ropes” and are liable to some confusion, due to strange surroundings, that may appear almost foolish to men who are daily about stations and handling trains. In these circumstances heartfelt thanks go out to the official who will see the need, and lend a helping hand.
Help of this kind is appreciated in proportion to the anxiety or distress of the person concerned. It will probably be talked about afterwards to friends and acquaintances, and in some some cases it is remembered for years as among the brighter incidents of personal history. The employee concerned is a distinct asset to the organisation for which he works, for the reputations of firms are built almost entirely upon the actions and attitudes of their personnel. “What can I do for you?” is the opposite of that other outlook summed up in the piquant American phrase “Passing the Buck.” Whatever the buck may be, to “pass” it means to shrug off any trouble or work or responsibility from yourself by referring enquirers to some other person or place. Dickens touched on this side of life in his reference to the “circumlocution office.” It is a time-wasting, tiresome and annoying system that ends up by making work harder and less pleasant for everyone concerned, and it is the deadly enemy of business organisation.
Of course when you enter a shop and the salesman asks what he can do for you, the position is somewhat different. As the buyer you are in the position of power, not of difficulty. Even here the nature of the courtesy extended by the staff has quite as much to do with success in selling as the price. But when service is being sold, as in transport of any kind, the respective positions of buyer and seller are not so tangible. The passenger buys a ticket through a grille from a person whom he scarcely sees. After that there is no visible exchange between the passenger and the large number of employees who are rendering service for the price paid on the ticket. The passenger's ticket entitles him to courteous consideration in every reasonable way from the porter who handles his luggage, the guard who punches his ticket, the driver and fireman who control the train movements, the waitress at the refreshment room, the car-attendant, the bookstall agent, the ticket inspector, and any member of any station staff where the train may stop on its journey. This looks like a large transport recipe, but it is essential to the making of a thoroughly good railway transport pudding; and as Christmas will be with us soon, some thought to the ingredients that make for happiness by rail appears to be timely.
Caesar:
Let me have men about me that are fat;
Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights:
Yond' Cassius has a lean and hungry look;
He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.
Antony:
Fear him not, Caesar; he's not dangerous;
He is a noble Roman, and well given.
Caesar:
Would he were fatter.
—“Julius Caesar.”
Caesar, lean enough himself (according, to sculptures of his head), was no doubt a good authority on the dangerousness of sinewy men. If Bernard Shaw had written the play he might have made Caesar exclaim: “Let me have men about me that are fit”—but in such an ejaculation he would have run counter to some recent American doctrine on fat. An actuary of the National Surety Company of New York has given a new set of statistics to this too, too tabulated world—figures to show that fat, in the mass, hath more honesty than thinness has.
Unfortunately, I have not the actuary's full report. I have only the remarks of a contributor to the London “Times” on the statistical exaltation of fat, but that critic merely slid merrily over the surface of the subject. Therefore, any thinnish reader who wishes to win more confidence among butchers, bakers, or bankers, is advised to wait for more information before bulging his wrapper.
Meanwhile curiosity as to the relation of fat to honesty or honesty to fat prompts many questions. Is fat the father or the offspring of honesty? Does the fair, square mind precede or follow roundness of the waist? Is all fat the same fat as a source or cause of honesty? Is the fat made by beef and beer better or worse than the fat raised from buns and cocoa?
* * *
Fat is not in fashion at the moment, although plenty of it is about. However, if Science (which is scornfully refusing to take the decade of holiday advised by a peace-loving bishop) proves that there is something in the American actuary's statement, the chronic lean persons, from whom fat slides as butter does from a hot upright plate, will have to organise, and either devise ways and means of discrediting fat or get Science to make them fat by hook or by crook. Then when all persons are fat, they will be starting from scratch again in the competition for credit or overdrafts at the bank.
* * *
If the American accountant's argument is sustained by Science, will convicted thieves be sentenced to hard labour with knives, forks and spoons instead of picks, shovels and wheelbarrows, in accordance with a State scheme for the promotion of honesty?
* * *
Although few persons (except those whose bones are barely clothed) yearn for fat (in moderation) most people have Caesar's alleged liking for an entourage of the fat. Some of the rotund may look unromantic, and others may look comic, but they mostly look comfortable and comforting. There is a popular belief that the cheerful, contented mind is enthroned in a round tower of fat, and that the mound at the waist is as a monument on the grave of rancour and hate. Would the author of a melodrama dare to make his dark villain fat? Yet, alas! in real life there are plenty of fat rogues and bloated scoundrels. But they may not have the proper fat; it is for Science to say.
* * *
What would Friar Tuck and Falstaff have been without their fat? The cherubic plumpness of Pickwick has helped to endear him to millions of readers. But Dickens did not make all fat lovable. For example, the greasy obesity of Chadband is repulsive. “Mr. Chadband,” it is written, “is a large yellow man with a fat smile and a general appearance of having a good deal of train oil in his system.” Every country has its Pickwicks and Chad-bands (the disgraces of fat).
* * *
In the preceding paragraph the beastly word obesity was used, excusably perhaps. Of course, it is vulgar nowadays to apply the term fat to a human being, particularly to a lady. Advertisements, addressed in genteel phrasing to persons of bulbous build, tell them how “obesity” can be abolished by bottles of liquid or dispersed by packets of powder. Yet, if the word obesity were thrust upon a ripened pig, it would put the public off bacon.
* * *
The present feminine fear of fat, in the British. Empire, would seem very silly to a Moor who likes his women to be palpably plump. If they lack the ideal curves, they feed up until they gain the desired outlines. The men would be pained and horrified by any attempts of their women to slip into slimness, and would regard such elimination of fat as an unholy sacrifice to false gods of beauty (or ugliness). Frenchmen, too—although many of the fashionable Parisiennes are still devoted to the fat slabby styles—have not lost their admiration of embonpoint.
Another aspect of fat, in the case of business men, is in its symbol of material success. Flabby fat, sloppily clothed, is always grotesque, and may be hideous, but firm, well-formed fat (disciplined by a little golf or bowls), well dressed, and well carried, is usually impressive. Such well-ordered fat puts a man on his feet; it gives him the dignified aplomb of prosperity; in fact, it makes him a man of weight in matters of grave import to the country. Such a man's opinions on anything or anybody cannot be quashed by a mere sneer, sniff, or scoff. Many a man's fat, shrewdly used, has made him a chairman of directors.
Indeed, not many years ago the great majority of young men in the British Empire believed that, no matter what ability they might show to a doubting world, they would not find themselves in full march on the road to prosperity until they were helped by thinness of thatch and thickness of waist.
* * *
Let it be said at once, emphatically, that the term “fat head” is not a slur on fat, as seen in a portly gentleman. “Fat-head” is simply a loose, thoughtless variant of thick-head or blockhead, and is applied indiscriminately to the lean and the corpulent.
Reverting to the New York actuary's discovery of virtue in fat, it is safe to prophesy that his proclamation will not pass unheeded in his country, which gives very serious attention to questions of trustworthiness and efficiency. Some patriotic souls may agitate for a remodelling of the traditional gaunt figure of “Uncle Sam” on the burly basis of “John Bull.” Somebody will write a book with such a title as “How to Make the Best Use of Your Obesity,” and Correspondence Schools may get busy in this field. The outlook for the genuine fat will be bright, if well-qualified Inspectors of Fat are appointed to expose tricky imitations of the real thing. It is another job for Science, which is ever gog-eyed for difficult tasks—the Science which will some day blot out the bugbear of cost of living by acclimatising the bread-fruit tree in all countries, changing sand into sugar and mud into butter, and make us all bigger and better, if not happier.
Leaving the Union Station at Denver, Colo., at 5.05 a.m. (Mountain Time) on May 26, the “Zepher” new stainless steel, streamlined train of Chicago, Burlington and Quincy, made a non-stop run of 1,015.4 miles to Halsted Street, Chicago, in 13 hrs. 5 mins., or at an average speed of 77.5 miles per hour for the entire distance (states the “Railway Age”). The fuel consumed on the run amounted to 418 gallons, the approximate cost of which was £16.
Not only were innumerable records broken during the course of the run, but also the dependability of the train and of the Burlington track were given a thorough and satisfactory test. The longest previous non-stop run, 401 miles, on the L.M.S. Railway of England, was exceeded more than two and a half times, and all records for average speed for stretches of 200 miles and over were excelled. Among the highlights of the speed records were the following:
Maximum speed attained: 112.5 m.p.h. Yuma, Colo., to Schramm, 6.4 miles, 3 1/2 mins., average speed, 109 m.p.h. Otis, Colo., to Schramm, 19.1 miles, 11 mins., average speed, 106.2 m.p.h. Otis, Colo., to McCook, Nebr., 129.5 miles, 86 mins., average speed 90 m.p.h.
To compensate for the slower speeds through the larger cities, it was necessary to traverse 215.7 miles at an average rate of more than 90 m.p.h., of which 19.1 miles was travelled at more than 100 m.p.h.
The Management desires to join with the staff in its appreciation of the fact that the Government has found it possible to grant a 5% increase in wages and salaries to the members of the Public Service throughout New Zealand and sincerely hopes that the general position of the country's finances, coupled with increased prosperity among all sections of the community, will be such as to make a further increase practicable in the not distant future. The increase in pay for railwaymen involves an additional expenditure of £160,000 in the wages bill for the current year and I feel confident that members of the service, in showing their appreciation of the Government's action, will redouble their efforts to secure new business for the Railways and, by exercising every endeavour in the direction of safe and economical working, will do their best to maintain the improvement in net revenue which has been shown in recent years.
Acting General Manager.
IN the previous article of this series the genesis of the “Pacific” type of locomotive was traced to a New Zealand designer, and it was mentioned that the Baldwin Company had, in the course of discussion leading up to the design of the first “Pacific,” suggested a curiosity in the shape of a six-coupled engine with a “Wooten” type of boiler. This engine got no further than the suggestion, and—to quote from the previous article—“unfortunately time was too pressing to allow the New Zealand engineers to fully satisfy their curiosity as to how the Company proposed to fill up the extraordinarily long rigid wheel-base of 16ft. 8ins.”
Curiously enough, a reader has probably solved the mystery. In the Delaware and Hudson Railway Bulletin for September, 1934, just received, is a historical picture showing the D. and H. locomotive No. 64 as photographed in March, 1887. The heading to the picture reads: “Brand New from Dickson Locomotive Works,” and the type of locomotive shown would certainly meet the sketchy specification given by the Baldwin Company for the suggested engine for New Zealand, in 1900. The “Wooten” type of boiler is clearly shown, as is also the long rigid wheel-base. There is little doubt that a non-technical reader has solved the mystery that “Progress” was too lazy to elucidate, and the long arm of coincidence is apparent in the fact that the Delaware and Hudson Magazine arrived in the office in the same week as the copy of the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” that mentioned the problem!
It is clear that such a type of engine would be quite unsuitable for the curved track in New Zealand, and, while the driver would have a comfortable ride, one wonders how the fireman would fare—riding on the bumping tender and aiming at the swinging firehole door opening on the long overhanging boiler! The “Pacific” type was evidently evolved just in time to save the development of a new type of acrobatic, india-rubber fireman! The evolution of this “Pacific” type of locomotive left one vexed historic question of locomotive design still in dispute—the question of compound versus simple engines.
In the simple engine the steam is passed through one cylinder in its working path from the boiler to the exhaust. This cylinder is perforce exposed to great variations of temperature and, especially at low speeds, a considerable proportion of the entering hot steam is condensed on the walls of the cylinder—which have just been cooled through contact with the colder exhausting steam. The greater portion of this condensed steam clings, as water, to the walls of the cylinder during the working stroke, but is evaporated during the exhaust stroke and escapes up the funnel. Much of the heat of the steam is, therefore, not employed usefully, but is lost. Further, a similar action goes on in the valve chamber and there is, as well, considerable leakage through the valve and piston rings at high pressure.
The compound engine is one means of counteracting these losses. In the compound engine the steam is passed through two cylinders in its working path. The variation in temperature is, naturally, now much smaller in each cylinder and less harmful condensation occurs in each. Further, all leakage of the high pressure steam through, and all condensation in the first smaller valve and cylinder, is entrapped and gives up at least some of its useful force in the second larger low pressure cylinder. So far all is gain and in relatively slow running engines, say up to 150 revolutions per minute, the gain is pronounced. At high speeds in a locomotive, however, the number of revolutions per minute is over 300. At this speed, the steam is exposed for such a small fraction of a second to the influence of the cylinder walls that very little, if any heat interchange and loss (certainly not enough to justify the extra complication and friction of two cylinders in place of one) takes place.
A further reason exists why compounding is not so favourable in a locomotive as in the ordinary marine engine. The draught for the locomotive furnace is obtained from the forcible emission up the funnel into the atmosphere of the exhausted steam. This steam is perforce at fairly high pressure and exerts a negative, or “back pressure” force upon the piston that has to drive it out into the atmosphere. In a compound engine the low pressure piston, which does this driving, is about 50 per cent, greater in area than the piston of a simple engine of corresponding power. The harmful back pressure is, therefore, much greater in a compound locomotive and, at high speed, this entails a serious loss.
The truth, as we can easily see it today, is that in the locomotive, the compound engine is, per se, more economical than the simple engine at speeds up to (say) thirty miles per hour and less economical at higher speeds. Even this partial economy is gained at the expense of extra complication, wear, expense and unreliability. The compound locomotive should therefore only be considered for those rare circumstances where a low speed locomotive is necessary, or can be advantageously used.
The truth was not so obvious thirty or more years ago. In England many engineers, headed by the autocratic and forcible Webb, of the London and North Western, applied the compound
The issue was complicated by the opinion, which is not yet always recognised as a fallacy, that a more uniform turning movement than is given by a two-cylinder simple engine is desirable in a locomotive. It is still held by many that the more even turning movement minimises slipping and allows greater power to be developed with any fixed adhesive weight. Unfortunately, this is one of the “selling points” in the two extraordinary advertising campaigns of modern railway times—electrification and the internal combustion engine—so it is unlikely that the truth will gain general acceptance quickly. However, that may be, De Glehn firmly believed, with all locomotive designers of his time, that the undoubtedly more even torque given by his four-cylinder balanced compound locomotives was a great point in their favour.
About 1905 the New Zealand locomotive designers also believed this dictum and determined, quite rightly, that the merits of compounding should be definitely ascertained for locomotives under New Zealand conditions. A compound “Pacific” De Glehn type locomotive, the “A” class, was therefore designed for fast service. This engine gave good service, but it is now definitely understood that the simple superheated “Pacific” type gives much better results for fast express service. In 1908 the opening of the Main Trunk line called for the design of more powerful locomotives to cope with the moderate speed service over heavy grades between Marton and Taumarunui. Eighteen compound locomotives of the Mountain (4-8-2) type, the “X” class, were accordingly built, and have given excellent service. This is a run for which compound engines are eminently suited, and no design of simple engine could have filled the specialised requirements of this service as well as the compound “X” class engines have done, and are doing.
In general, however, traffic requirements are best met by a standardised locomotive suitable for all-round work and the simple “Pacific” type of locomotive is outstanding in this respect This fact was realised twenty years ago by locomotive designers in New Zealand, but passenger and freight locomotives are still distinguishable elsewhere. A recent day's work of one “Ab” engine—Wellington to Palmerston North, on the fast non-stop Limited, Palmerston North to Marton, on the fast through goods, Marton to Palmerston North, on the slow local goods, ten hours on the ballast train, and off again on the Limited to Taihape—surely emphasises the point that Sir Isaac Newton was wrong when he cut two holes in his study door, a big one for the cat and a little one for the kitten. Our artist shows amusingly well what actually happens to the designer of special-service holes and locomotives.
Man is the son and heir of sun and air. Sol is his solace. The sun is his light and delight, the lamp of his love, and the inspiration for his aspiration. He beams in its beams; he is raised by its rays; its face is his fortune; its fortune is his fate. It fires his imagination and incinerates his agitation. From primordial slime its heat hatched him and its warmth weaned him. Truly he is a sol-e-cism, a sun-kist gropefruit, a sun-baked brick, a burnt offering. Man is the mirror that reflects the rays that raised him. His soul lilts in light When the sun's bright, man's right. When the sun's clouded, his soul's shrouded. Catch him when the sun dapples the dormer and lights the lintel and you have the happy homo, the optimisticm it, the flipper-ino of fellowship and the face that launched a thousand “chips.” But, impinge on his immersion when the sun is soused in southerly suds and the heavens hiccough heavily, and you meet the cold isosceles eye which, as you know, is an optical delusion having only two equal sides, both of which are his. For his soul is sun-starved, his outlook is ingroan, his corpuscles are corrugated, his mind is as dark as a mouse in an ink factory, and his welcome is as cheery as flat beer. He is a sunflower in a cellar, a beam in a moat, a botfly in a bottle and a mosquito in a wax-works. Let him defy and deny, but he is a worshipper of the omniscient orb, an acolyte of light, a son of the sun, a sunny boy.
In the winter he'll wilt; in the summer he won't. Summer lifts him up, winter lets him down. In the winter he is pessimusty and his spirits are damp; in the summer he is optimusical and his tone is high and dry. Thus,
For summer is loan-some. There is an air of airiness in the air, a vague unrest in the body-and-soul, an urge to up-and-away.
The pipes of Pan are drain pipes. They drain our powers of concentration and determination. They fill us with strange visions of countries far and fair and deflect us from pounds shillings and pants, from percentages and dementages, from trade and tirade. from earnestness and earnings and suchlike perquisites of progress which make people grate. We long to see the world and all its works. The mind wanders from figures to Fiume, from prices to Provence, from ledgers to London. We build a lambent London with the mental mortar of imagination. We are Macaulay's New Zealander reconstructing a new London from the ruins of our early education.
We wander over Hamstead heath in the merry month of Maying, when the hills are ablaze with early orange peel and the crocus croaks in the marshy meadows of Golder's Green. We hear the horn of the hunter at Tooting; we stand on historic Waterloo Bridge where Bill Adams issued his famous order, “Up boys and bat ’em,” and so saved England in the third test. We hear the jolly bargees of Billingsgate singing their vulgar boat songs to the wild strum of the whelk. The Beef-eaters of Oxon, the Good Templars “shouting” in Temple Bar, the fox hunters of Houndsditch selling each other a pup! We imagine it all. And St. Paul's, that glorious pile built by Christopher Robin in 1066; and Scotland Yard, the home of Sir Harry Lauder, which houses his famous collection of Old Lags and his flock of stool pigeons. Also Fleet Street with Nelson's column, Davy Jones's locker, Barnacle Bill's binnacle, and the ancient ceremony of winding up the dog watch. In imagination we visit Grey's Inn where the famous poet wrote his famous Eulogy to a country church-mouse. We see the Horse Guards changing in public, and Tower Hill which is so steep that many people were “bumped off” there; and we hear the boom of Big Ben and Little Tich. Oh yes, this summer feeling plays up with big business and daylight slaving. With the sun in the eyes the mind is dazzled.
We stroll along the waterways of Venice, we hearken to the sounds of canine revelry in the Dog's Palace; we meander through Melanesia, Magnesia, Cascara, Kleptomania and stagger up the Steppes of Siberia. The world is our onion and we peel it without tears. For the annual wanderlust is on us. We are the victims of the Columbus complex, and are suffering an overseizure, following an attack of Summer sickness. But if we can't go to the world we can make the world come to us. So here's to us with the sun in our eyes.
Famous writers and their pipes: Priestly, (author of “The Good Companions”) smokes a briar; so does J. M. Barrie; Arnold Bennett liked a calabash; Tennyson and Carlyle smoked penny clays; Thackeray puffed a meerschaum; Mark Twain loved a “corn-cob,” Jas-Payne, the novelist, preferred a “hubble-bubble.” As for tobacco, Barrie's favourite blend is of his own devising; Payne smoked nothing but latakia; Conan Doyle, of Sherlock Holmes fame, smoked common Shag! No accounting for tastes ! Most literary celebrities (generally heavy smokers) like a medium strength tobacco, something they can keep smoking for hours. Our famous New Zealand brands with their exquisite flavour and fascinating aroma, leave nothing to be desired in that respect. You can smoke any of the four favourites: Riverhead Gold, Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cavendish, (the popular sporting mixture), or Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), rich, mellow and full-strength, with comfort and safety; because, deprived of practically all their nicotine, they are just as harmless as they can be.*
For long-distance main-line haulage, steam locomotives still remain supreme. Electrification continues to make steady progress, but when consideration is given to motive power improvements in main-line services it is to the trusty steam-operated “Iron Horse” that railway engineers and operating officers normally turn.
In Britain, and especially in the mountainous districts of the north, exceptionally severe demands are made upon locomotives, in handling heavy loads over the steeply-graded tracks, which, in many ways, remind one of the mountain sections on some New Zealand routes. Unusually powerful steam engines have for some years been utilised on the Scottish main-lines. Now, the London & North Eastern Railway has stepped into the limelight by putting into traffic, between Edinburgh and Aberdeen, an exceedingly interesting new 2-8-2 type express passenger locomotive.
Built in the Doncaster railway shops, the new engine, aptly named “Cock o' the North”, strikes quite a new note in several of its features. On top of the boiler barrel there is a steam collector (integral with the dome) formed of a steel pressing riveted to the top of the boiler, on the outside. A number of slots in the top of the boiler barrel admit steam to the collector, and prevent water being carried over with the steam. The three cylinders and valve chests are in one casting, steam admission and exhaust being controlled by poppet valves operated by rotary cam gear. To maintain boiler pressure in the steam chest, unusually large regulator and steam pipes are introduced; while with the idea of reducing back pressure there is fitted a double blast pipe with a pair of chimneys, on somewhat similar lines to the design of certain French locomotives. Special wing plates ensure the smoke being thrown clear of the cab, and the front of the cab itself is V-shaped, on stream-lined principles.
The working pressure of the new locomotive is 220 lb. per sq. in.; grate area 50 sq. ft.; total heating surface 2,714 sq. ft., or with superheater 3,349 sq. ft; cylinders, 21 ins. dia. by 26 ins. stroke; tractive effort 43,462 lb.; total length of engine and tender over buffers, 73 ft. 8 1/2 in.; and total weight, with 8 tons of coal and 5,000 gallons of water aboard, 110 1/4 tons.
Like the L. & N. E. Railway, the London, Midland & Scottish serves some exceptionally mountainous territory, and on this line, too, many locomotive improvements have recently been introduced. It is not generally known, but the L. M. & S. operates the greatest passenger mileage at a start-to-stop speed of 55 m.p.h. or over, of any railway in Europe. Now this progressive line is claiming notable achievements in respect of the speeding-up of goods train services and terminal operations.
During the past two years over 300 important L. M. & S. goods trains have been accelerated, notably between London, Glasgow, Liverpool, Manchester, Leeds and Sheffield. During 1933, an aggregate reduction of 204 hours per day was made in the journey-time of important goods trains, following a cut of 312 hours per day in 1932. The longest distance L. M. & S. goods train is that running from Aberdeen to London - 545 miles covered in 13 hours 40 minutes, with six intermediate stops. The longest non-stop goods train run on the Home railways is the L. M. & S. London-Liverpool trip -191 miles in 294 minutes.
With the idea of securing the fullest advantage from faster freight train timing, the principal goods stations on this, the largest Home railway group, have been reorganised, and the depots at cities like Liverpool, Leeds, Sheffield, Manchester and Leicester represent the last word in scientific design.
Hard times suffered by railways all over the world during recent years have naturally resulted in widespread campaigns to prevent waste in every form. On the London & North Eastern line, in England, an interesting development has been the establishment at Darlington of a big permanent-way material reclamation depot, serving the whole of the system. The work carried out consists of the examination of all used permanent-way
Rails, chairs, points and crossings, spikes, fishplates and fishbolts, points levers and sleepers, are the principal materials handled. A separate area or dock is provided for dealing with each particular article, and each distinct section is equipped with modern magnet cranes and other convenient handling appliances. Classification has been reduced to a very fine art. Used rails, for example, are examined and classified under five heads A,B,C,D, and E, according to whether they are fit for re-use on primary tracks, secondary, tertiary, or sidings, or merely as scrap. As a result of the operations carried out in the reclamation depot, a great deal of work has been saved in the various district engineers' stores, while the centralising of reclamation activities facilitated operations generally and enabled better markets for scrap to be secured.
Ambitious plans for the education of their employees in railway and allied topics are now being perfected by the Home lines. Staff education in Britain is not alone concerned with the mental improvement of the 90,000 clerical workers employed by the four groups: it also covers the education of almost all grades of the uniformed staffs, from crossing-keepers to station-masters. For the benefit of the lower uniformed grades, classes are conducted at selected centres in such subjects as arithmetic, English composition and geography; while for each distinct class of employees, such as platelayers, signalmen, signal-fitters, telegraph linesmen, and so on, theoretical tuition is given in their own particular field. Locomotive workers have their own special lecture courses, covering almost every phase of locomotive design, construction, maintenance and running.
Employees at out-stations enjoy the benefit of carefully prepared correspondence courses, while at selected points special schools have been established for the training in their spare time of all classes of workers. One of the largest and most successful of these schools is that of the L. & N. E. R. at York. In the signalling section, special training is given in the principles of electrical and mechanical signalling, and of telegraphy and telephony. The syllabus for this course embraces (1) general principles of signalling systems; (2) mechanical signalling; (3) fundamental principles of magnetism and electricity; (4) electric signalling; (5) telegraphy; (6) telephony; and (7) special studies associated with printing telegraphs, automatic telephones, telephone repeaters, traffic control systems, A.C. track circuits, etc.
One of the first studies that has to be undertaken by every railwayman is the careful digesting of the mass of instructional material contained in the official Rule Book. The 300-page Rule Book in operation in Britain covers almost every phase of operation, and has rightly been termed the “Railwayman's Bible.”
The Rules and Regulations of the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway, dated August, 1851, is a particularly interesting publication dealing with the duties of railwaymen of an older generation. Here we find one of the duties of permanent-way men defined as follows: “To scrape and sweep the rails, so as to keep them clean.” Every guard of those days had to find security for £50 “for the honest and faithful discharge of his duty”; while guards, drivers, “stokers” and pointsmen were instructed “to apply, not later than the last day but one of the month, at the superintendent's office, for a time-table of such Companies' workings as affect their part of the line for the ensuing month.” Should it be necessary for an engine to travel along the wrong line, the engineman was instructed to send his fireman or “stoker” back for some 600 yards, and the fireman had then to run or walk at such a speed as to maintain this distance between himself and the locomotive, stopping any train approaching from the opposite direction. “Good old days,” indeed, were these; but in 1934 railway working is certainly both safer and saner!
In one of the early articles of this series on notable figures in New Zealand history the writer described the career of Sir Donald Maclean, the great Native Minister of sixty years ago, who had served the country in many official capacities from 1844 to the time of his death in 1877. This character sketch deals with his son, the late Sir Robert Donald Douglas Maclean, who died at Napier in 1929 at the age of seventy-seven years. Sir Douglas was not an official or a politician; he served his country in another way, as a bulwark of settlement and agricultural and pastoral progress. He was chiefly known as the owner of the Maraekakaho station in Hawke's Bay, an estate that was not merely a sheep station but was a great stock-breeding farm, which attained a high reputation throughout Australia as well as New Zealand. Sir Douglas was a devoted patriot and a benefactor to his country in many ways; in particular he was an earnest supporter of the cause of a strong Navy.
Statesmen, soldiers, explorers, pioneer settlers, and scientists, have in their several ways contributed to the making of New Zealand and the development of its capabilities as a desirable home for man, and to the country's steadily growing spirit of nationhood. Douglas Maclean was a man of culture and generous views who early in his career found the land-user's activities on a liberal scale more to his taste than the harassing and often life-shortening responsibilities of a place in the country's Legislature. He had seen a little of Parliament in his one term as a Hawke's Bay member. He said that politics had hastened his father's end—Sir Donald was only fifty-six when he died—and his choice was the life of the land. He devoted himself therefore, to the pleasant work of a farmer and stockbreeder and the care of a large estate; politics he regarded with the tolerant and rather cynically amused view of the looker-on who knew just enough of the game to keep out of it. But his outlook on affairs was broad and truly national. He was one of those men who did their earnest best to leave the country something the better for their presence in it.
Douglas Maclean was the only son of Sir Donald. He was born in 1852 in Wellington. His mother died soon after his birth. She had been Susan Strang, whom Sir Donald married in 1850; his wedded life was tragically brief. She was the daughter of Mr. Roger R. Strang, who for many years was Registrar of the Supreme Court in Wellington. Douglas was first educated in the Auckland Grammar School; then his father sent him to England in the Sixties—a voyage round the Horn in a sailing-ship—to gain a college education, which in those days New Zealand could not give. After leaving Clifton College he returned to New Zealand, took up the study of law, and was articled to a Wellington firm, Hart and Buckley. He went back to England to complete his studies, and was admitted as a barrister at the Middle Temple. He did not practice, but returned to New Zealand to join his father, who was then Native Minister, and presently devoted all his energies to the work of sheep-farming and stock-breeding on the afterwards famous Maraekakaho estate, which his father had partly broken in from a state of nature.
Douglas Maclean, in his younger days, was a good all-round athelete. He won the first two bicycle races held in Wellington. In the Seventies he rode from Wellington to Napier on his old-style high bicycle, at a period when the roads were very different from the smooth highways of to-day, and when most of the streams had to be forded. There was a good deal of risk in such a journey; he was the first to cycle across the Rimutaka range. Maclean's bicycle of that era is still preserved by the family. He was one of Wellington's earliest Rugby footballers, and in the early Seventies he captained a Wellington team which won a match against the Armed Constabulary, a body of powerful players, and another against the officers and men of H.M.S. “Rosario.”
My old friend often spoke of his memories of stirring days in New Zealand. As a boy of eight he was with his father at the conference of Maori chiefs held at Kohimarama, Auckland, in 1860, in the time of Governor Gore Browne. Young Douglas slept in the same room in the mission buildings as the chief Tamihana te Rauparaha, son of the great warrior chief Rauparaha—the son was as great a missionary as his father was a cannibal conqueror.
Another memory of old-time was a cruise from Auckland to Wellington in H.M.S. “Fawn,” one of the steam frigates of the early Sixties. The “Fawn” was a full-rigged ship, and it was an exciting sight to watch sail and spar drill. The smart bluejackets of that day could strip the ship by sending down every mast and yard above the lower masts in a few minutes, and send them up again as quickly. There was great rivalry between the Navy square-riggers in this seamanly accomplishment, a thing now of the far past.
Sir Douglas had many such pictures of the old sea-life to recall. He knew the sea well indeed; he had made two voyages to England and back in sailing-ships of the grand old clipper class, when sailors were real sailors; and he acquired in those days an enthusiasm for the Navy
Sir Douglas Maclean was only twenty-five when his father died, worn out by the strain of public affairs and prematurely aged by the unscrupulous attacks of his political opponents, and he had to unravel the tangle of native leases and incomplete titles and build up the estate that Sir Donald had pioneered. Maraekakaho stood for many a year as the best example of a great all-round station for pure-bred sheep, cattle and horses in the Island. Sir Douglas grew old with the growth of his fine estate, and as he grew old he delighted to see his many employees happy and contented. I have never heard of a more generous employer among the big estate owners. He was no niggard with his wealth, and he expended it to a very large degree in helping on his fellow men. Many a farmer in Hawkes' Bay and outside it to-day owes his start in life to the chief of Maraekakaho.
The estate was not a mere sheep-run, but was steadily developed as a pedigree stock farm on a large scale; the purebred sheep, cattle and horses from Maraekakaho were celebrated in Australia as well as the Dominion. The general management of the estate was on a generous scale, and a great deal of capital was expended in bringing the place up to a high grade of efficiency as a stock-raising establishment. From time to time Sir Douglas Maclean sold parts of the level lands suitable for small farming, and he liberally assisted old employees and others whom he trusted to embark in farming for themselves. He was a patriarchal employer of the best type, who did a great deal for his employees beyond the mere duty of paying their wages.
“There's one of my guests,” said Sir Douglas Maclean, as we met a swagger on the hill road inland from Hastings, Hawke's Bay, when we were driving back from a visit to Maraekakaho station one day towards the end of 1928. And my good and kindly friend told some anecdotes of his experience with swagmen in his half-century of ownership of the big sheep-run. “Some of the very best men we ever had on the station,” he said, “came here with swags on their backs. A good class of fellow we always took on if we had a job going, and some of them were there for years.”
The standing instruction to the station manager was to give food for tea and breakfast, and a bunk, to every swagger calling there. And sometimes Maraekakaho entertained in the cottage set apart for that purpose as many as twenty—once there were twenty-two—swaggers in a night. Most trampers looking for a job, whom one encountered on the road from Napier and Hastings to the hill country, were bound for the patriarchal Maclean estate.
That day at the station homestead, lying well to the sun among its great shelter plantations and orchards, Sir Douglas took me first to see the community heart of Maraekakaho. Here are a school and a church hall, on a green terrace above the clear little river that flows past the homestead and the woolsheds. Sir Douglas had the church hall put up at his own expense, and he and the residents furnished it. It was the social gathering-place on week days as well as Sundays. Here the Maori word “marae” was particularly appropriate. The marae, or village assembly ground, the square among the houses, was the gathering-place of tribe or hapu. And along the river bank the “kakaho,” the toetoe or pampas grass, once waved its plumes abundantly; hence the place-name which puzzled so many of the overseas and colonial visitors to the Maclean estate.
The chief showed me with mingled pride and sadness the roll of honour of the station and district in the church hall. There were many Highland names on it, good names such as Duncan McPhee, and the list was headed by a Maclean, young Captain Algernon Donald Douglas Maclean, who died at Napier in 1923 from the effects of war service. He was the chief's only son.
At the entrance to the homestead grounds were other buildings which went to make a little township on the station—a post-office and store, and an accommodation house for business travellers. All formed part of the big business of running a great wool and meat and pure-bred stock estate.
Sir Douglas Maclean was an earnest patriot and a great advocate of a strong Royal Navy. He was president of the Wellington Branch of the Navy League, and a member since the foundation of the league; Vice-President of the London executive during the war period; was elected President for New Zealand at the Dominion Conference in 1922; and was the first President of the Hawke's Bay Branch. He was the most outstanding personality of the League in New Zealand, and by his death the Wellington Branch suffered an irreparable loss.
Sir Douglas was President of the Wellington Early Settlers' Association, and always took the keenest interest in the affairs of the Society.
During the Great War he and Lady Maclean were in England, and lived in London through the anxious period of the air raids. Both of them devoted all their energies to war work. They
Sir Douglas' deeds of quiet generosity were innumerable. He never sought publicity; he disliked making his gifts known to the world. The satisfaction of a kind deed was its own reward. This incident is a typical example of his openhandedness. One evening, when I was his guest at Napier, I happened to mention my old acquaintance Rowley Hill, of Auckland, the sailor and soldier of many medals. The talk turned to Mohaka, the scene of Te Kooti's raid in 1869, when Hill, a lone-handed Constabulary man who had gone to the assistance of the friendly Maoris there, was the leading figure in the defence of the stockade, a deed that won him the New Zealand Cross. I told Maclean of the hard little warrior's naval service at the Crimea, in the Baltic and in the Indian Mutiny, and as a volunteer under Garibaldi, in Italy, and of his Maori war work under Von Tempsky and others. I told him many stories of Rowley, who would not apply for the old-age pension but was living on his small New Zealand military pension and the shilling a day he received as a British naval pension (“Shillin' a day, bloomin' good pay—Lucky to touch it, a shillin' a day!”)
Sir Douglas listened but did not say anything about the veteran that night. In the morning he came to me with a cheque for £20, made out to Hill, and said: “Send that to ‘Rowley with the regards of the son of his old chief.” That was in allusion to the days of the Hauhau war, when Sir Donald Maclean was Defence Minister and directed the operations against Te Kooti.
The death, in 1929, of the generous - hearted chief was a great grief to the countryside, and it wrought many changes at Maraekakaho. The one great station now provides farmsteads for numerous families, and small stock-fattening farms and dairy farms have replaced the one-management station. The key to this process is found in the very heavy death duties.
So the old order gives place to the new, and Maraekakaho township is today, in its way, a more cosmopolitan place than the old, with its clan-like character.
It can truly be said of Sir Douglas Maclean that he was a pioneer in the work of settlement. The Hawke's Bay country was still in a very rough condition when his father's death threw the whole of the responsibility of a large tract of pastoral territory on his hands. During his life he saw fern and scrub give way to good pasture, rivers bridged, railways built, swamps and lagoons drained, and horse tracks become highways. He was one of the builders of modern Hawke's Bay.
I must make mention of the Makarini scholarship for Maori boys, in association with the College at Te Aute, which has enabled so many native children to obtain an education. Sir Douglas established this scholarship as a memorial to his father, who as “Te Makarini” was the friend of the old generation of Maoris. A great many boys of promise were the beneficiaries of this generous scholarship, among them the lad of Ngati-Porou who is now the Native Minister, Sir Apirana Ngata. The Maoris will never forget the leadership of Te Makarini the elder or the generosity of Te Makarini the younger.
The Maori of old-time had a poetic way with him. When the elder Maclean died, in 1877, the old warrior chief Paerau, of the Urewera tribe, who had fought against the Government troops in many engagements, from Orakau to Waikaremoana, wrote from Ruatahuna expressing his regret on hearing of Te Makarini's death. In his letter he saluted the spirit of the departed white chief as “te whetu marama o te ata i te wa o te pouritanga” (“the bright star of the morning in the time of gloom and sorrow.”) In a similar spirit, if it is not so eloquently expressed, many New Zealanders have reason to remember and revere Douglas Maclean, the benevolent chief of Maraekakaho.
A Chilled and motionless gallery, silent under the hot Philadelphia sun, watched Rene Lacoste, the twenty-two-year-old champion of France. The dark, wellknit, impassive Frenchman moved from side to side of the court with the easy grace of the perfect athlete. From his racket the shots came back in a perfect flow. He was not trying to win points so much as make the opportunity for his adversary to lose them. And his tactics were paying, that last netted drive had meant the seventh successive point that the umpire had marked down against Tilden, so long the champion of the world, but now slowing down, twelve years older than his powerful young opponent and feeling enormously the physical effects of the brilliant sunshine.
This was not a mere matter of a championship battle to be recorded and half-forgotten in a season or so. This match meant the fate of the Davis Cup, the great silver bowl which winked in the sunshine before the official stand and for which France had struggled so long. Heavily repulsed the previous year she had taken revenge in the American singles where a stunned American crowd had seen two Frenchmen fight out the final for the first time in history. And in this newer season the youthful Lacoste, working away at his game to the exclusion of all outside interests, practising day after day to perfect that fluid swing and sharpen that keen eye, had left little doubt of what would happen. He had beaten Tilden the year before in the fifth match of the Davis Cup series, aided by the fact that the great player had injured his knee. But he had beaten Tilden again in the French championship this year, wresting the match away from him at 11-9 in the fifth set when the tall American's second service just missed the line. And now, on this final day's play everything depended. If the United States was to hold the Cup for seven years, Tilden must win. The first two days' play had left America with a 2-1 lead, but Cochet was yet to meet Johnson, and Lacoste had swept Johnson aside with ease two days ago, while Cochet had pushed Tilden hard.
Against form such as Cochet's, Johnson could have little hope. Everything depended on this Tilden-Lacoste match. If the United States was to win it must be here and now.
It was the fourth set now and Lacoste led by two sets to one, his implacable returns finding the weakness in Tilden's game. The big American, remembering those three strenuous meetings which he had had with Lacoste before, only one of which had not favoured France, was determined to force the pace. It was an orgy of what in a lesser player would have been called slogging. Giving himself no chance to find his shots, Tilden was belting the ball every time it came to him. He had frittered away winning leads by errors on shots which he should have brought off successfully, he had paid the enormous price of six errors for every point earned in the opening set. Five times in six points, after being 30-0, Tilden had slammed the ball into the net to throw away a vital game. He had persevered in these tactics in spite of disaster and had carried them to the point where his physique was revealed to be far short of the old days when five-set matches were his pride and habit. Worst of all, that famous cannon-ball service had faded with the strain and now he seemed unable to get his first ball into court, a thing which gave Lacoste a feast of hitting off the second delivery. And the gallery, which had seen Tilden spent and gasping, which had sat mournful and glum, and watched the Frenchman win seven out of eight points in two games by completely beating his rival, knew that the end had come. Tilden's glory was going into eclipse and with it the Davis Cup was going on a long journey.
The dark Frenchman moved rapidly across court and back again. There was the sharp ping of rackets as the two exchanged rapid blows, each seeking to weave a trap for the other. Lacoste was 3-1 now and if he could win this service off Tilden the match looked merely a matter of time. Tilden was done. He had taken the third game on two magnificent volleys in the despairing effort to reduce the leeway, but that effort had cost him the fourth game and Lacoste, rolling up seven points in succession, now threatened to add another to his long list. It was easy to read Tilden's thoughts. This Frenchman was a wall. No matter how hard, how soft, what angle the shot carried, the ball came sailing back. He had perfected the finest defence in the history of the game, the recoveries he made were unbelievable, and Tilden was tired of the effort to beat him. The ground-strokes of the champion had failed, his raids at the net had jaded him and that shallow silver bowl, flashing
It ended at last. Lacoste moved across rapidly and sent a backhand shot zipping across court at a wide angle. As Tilden moved over to the shot the Frenchman closed in and the straight backhand pass which Tilden designed came sharply back off his opponent's racket into the open court. There was no hope of reaching it, and the voice of the umpire cut the air. France, two sets to one, led in the final set by four games to one.
A slow murmur from the crowd. Hope had not yet fled, there was the faint glimmer of a chance that Tilden would find his form. He had been playing the game to beat Lacoste, but he had marred his strategy by defective racket-work. The Frenchman, with that unflagging defence which was proving the best weapon of attack, goading his adversary into efforts at impossibly fine shots, did not change a muscle of his face as he walked round the net, paused at the centre stool for a moment and then moved away to face Tilden's service once more. Lacoste was playing with the precision of some machine. He had made only four errors in five games and when watching the unhurried stride with which he went into action, his close concentration on that shooting backhand of Tilden, his quick and deadly forehand drive, there seemed no reason why he should ever make another mistake. Tilden, on the other hand, was moving about uncomfortably. The racket spun in his hand as he waited for a moment, his face was drawn with the effort which he had made already and his old stamina seemed to have been pitted against a man who exceeded it. Though this was still veiled, he was not to win a big national singles championship again for over two years.
The Frenchman was playing now with the assurance of the man who knows that nothing but a miracle can save his foe. In the high stand the keen faces of Borotra and Brugnon. losers in the doubles to the dominant play of this same Tilden watched Lacoste return shot for shot with the accuracy and impassivity of a wall. Cochet, alert and confident, had seen the end approaching and had gone to the dressing room to prepare for his final game, the conquest of the midget Johnson. And on the brittle court Tilden, labouring and baffled, moved about with belief in his own ability oozing from him. That great service gone, there was nothing behind it; nothing but the wild slamming of a youth who has met a champion for the first time in his life, and is trying so hard to win that he forgets everything but speed. It is clear now, even to the American crowd, that their hero has finally found a master.
Not the Lacoste of to-day, but the man who has driven Tilden to five terrific sets at St. Cloud and then took victory from him, who mastered the American giant at Philadelphia; this is the player that Tilden sees opposing him. He knows that this youngster's remorseless strength is something new in tennis experience and tries for pace and yet more pace. It has but one ending, the fast-clipped drives and volleys sag regularly into the net. And the Frenchman, seeing victory thrust at him, takes it all in his calm way. Again he begins to pile up a winning lead. Point after point goes to him in a steady stream. At the end of the set there is a momentary rally as Tilden wins a game, but it is the last effort of a titan, the end is at hand. Lacoste has made up his mind to end this meaningless tussle, and he smashes his way through Tilden's service to match point. The gallery sees the end at last. Tilden serves and his opponent whips the ball away deep to his backhand. There is a momentary sparring, then the Frenchman opens a great hole in his adversary's court with a perfectly timed forehand drive. Tilden reaches it, but the ball goes unerringly back into the vacant space. It carries speed as well and though Lacoste comes tentatively to the net he does not need to volley. Even Tilden's pace and reach cannot make that shot playable, the ball comes weakly off his racket and the Davis Cup is lost to American eyes for a decade to come.
The chap reading the morning paper aboard the Thames express paused to observe his neighbour, who was deftly rolling a cigarette. “Wonder you bother to do that,” he remarked lazily, “why not ready-mades?” The other man smiled. “No thanks',” he said, “the packet-cigarette is not manufactured that can compare with those I make myself. Ready-mades soon stale and lose flavour, even the choicest, and the longer they're kept (some are in stock for years), the more they deteriorate. Mine are always fresh and moist because they are smoked as soon as made. Lot cheaper, too. Tobacco? I always use toasted New Zealand. Can't get anything better. That's why. Four different brands, so you can suit yourself. Once you start rolling ‘em you've no use for packet goods.” Thousands of cigarette smokers are finding that out! The brands referred to are Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Riverhead Gold, Cavendish, and Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead). For quality flavour and aroma they challenge the world! Quite harmless, too, because, being toasted, there's next to no nicotine in them.*
Did I ever tell you, my friends, of how, at the early age of twelve years I came within an ace of becoming, in one night, the most famous boy in the country, a real-life Jack the Giant-Killer, a national hero in short pants?
For two minutes, only a crazy lock, a handful of rusty screws, and a few lengths of half-inch planking stood between me and Fame, huge head-lines in every paper from the North Cape to the Bluff, the gratitude of hundreds of defenceless or nervous residents of Canterbury, and possibly the thanks of the Seddon Government, which I so nearly saved a long bill of legal costs, the expense of a hempen rope and a hangman's fee.
It was in the very early years of the present century, before the days of motor cars or wireless, at a time when there were few, if any, private telephones outside the large towns. My family, which included my father, mother, a younger brother, and I, then resided at a farmstead in a lonely district some miles from Methven, a township in the Ashburton County.
The house had been empty for a long time before we moved in. Even by daylight there was something sombre about the place, with its high hedges, neglected orchard, and weed-grown drive. By night, its high rooms and narrow passages lit only by oil-lamps and flickering candles, this home of my childhood was as desolate and eerie a spot as could be found on the wide Canterbury Plains.
The great old house was encircled on every side by a ring of huge pinetrees and bluegums. In front, a straight line of plantation, seventy feet high, extended in a belt two hundred feet wide for a mile on either side of the house.
During the hours of darkness the night breeze whispered with a melancholy and sinister significance amid the dark funereal branches of the pines. There were no other houses near. We kept no servants or farm hands. The farm was cultivated by contractors. In the yard near the house was a cluster of empty sheds and stables.
Years of city life have not effaced from my memory the recollections of my boyhood days, a boyhood such as the city child never knows. Long rides on horseback in quiet lanes, between tall hedges of gorse which were glowing walls of golden, scented bloom; coursing hares with greyhounds over the great fields; or beating through immense plantations, gun in hand, for rabbits and pheasants. Such are the memories of my early years, on the glorious free open spaces of the smiling Canterbury Plains.
When I was ten years of age, a grown-up cousin had given me a fine double-barrelled shotgun. A strange gift for a child, perhaps, and one of which my father little approved. But nothing which I have owned since ever gave me one-half the pleasure I derived from that splendid Hollis. Cartridges were cheap; game of many kinds abounded then; shooting was to me a passion. By the time I was twelve years old, when the affair I am about to narrate occurred, there were few men in the Ashburton County who were my masters with a twelve gauge shotgun.
Many a day, from dawn till dark, my brother and I ranged the fields and plantations, and many a goodly bag of hare and rabbit and duck we brought home.
But little Bill never fired the gun. The heavy recoil would have been too much for him. For his ten years of age he was a very small chap, whose skinny limbs and diminutive stature at that time gave little promise of the powerful frame and sturdy strength which the years were to bring him.
One evening my mother called us to her and said; “Boys, your father and I would like very much to go to the township to-night, to Mr. M—s send-off, but we are worried at leaving you alone here so long at night, for we might not be back till about two in the morning. Not that there is much to be afraid of, for we have never had a bad character call here, and such a one is not likely to come now, the only night on which you boys may be alone. But if you think that you would be nervous your father and I will not go.”
Nervous! It was still daylight, and we scorned the idea, Bill and I. But with childish cunning we recognised
But to-night we could have what we asked for, and we asked for a good deal. We demanded to be allowed to lock ourselves up in the kitchen, to brew as much cocoa as we could drink, to have all the cake and biscuits and raisins that we could hold, to read as long as we liked, and to stay up till they came home, no matter how late. My mother was still uneasy at leaving us alone in that lonely and eerie place. I think that is why she agreed to such unheard-of conditions. Darkness had fallen when our parents, after a few words of warning regarding matches, and lamps, and fire, departed, and we heard the rattle of the buggy wheels on the gravel-drive beneath the sombre nodding pines.
Then, without more ado, little Bill and I fell to on the host of good things which at other times we were allowed only in moderation. I should have mentioned that the kitchen was a detached room, situated some twenty or thirty feet from the house, and approached by a “duck-walk” of boards. What the original owner's idea was I do not know, nor have I ever seen it at any other farm-house. But there it was, a complete kitchen, range, oven and all, standing well away from the main building. I think it was for this latter reason that I chose it as the scene of our long night vigil. Even at that early age I was well aware of the fact that under no circumstances does a single-roomed, detached building harbour for the nervous or imaginative the same shadowy terrors as a house of many rooms, with its dark passages and recesses and creaking stairways.
A roaring fire blazed in the range, beside which was a great box of fircones and another of coal. In a corner stood my beloved Hollis, which I had brought from my bedroom.
The “eating and stuffing” over, I settled myself in a chair with a boy's book. Bill, who was not fond of reading, passed the time playing his mouthorgan, whittling sticks, and wrestling with old Watch, our collie house-dog, which we had brought inside for company.
About eleven o'clock I went over to one of the two small windows, pulled aside the blind and peered out. The night was pitch dark, moonless and overcast. No breeze stirred the great black shapes of the pines. Over all things hung a pall of silence, the deathly, sinister silence of a forest at night, when nothing moves. For the first time a vague feeling of uneasiness rose within me, and crossing the floor I picked up the Hollis, cuddling it and stroking its shining barrels. In my pockets were a dozen cartridges but the gun was empty. In accordance with a promise made to my father long before, it was never loaded while in the house.
In the touch of that splendid weapon I, who was so expert in its use, found comfort, for I knew well that with it I was more than a match for any two of the most powerful and savage ruffians who ever prowled a lonely countryside.
It must have been close to midnight when old Watch, who had been lying apparently asleep by the fireside, suddenly raised his head. Next moment the hair on his neck rose, and he uttered a low, savage growl.
“What's the matter with him?” I asked.
“He hears someone,” replied Bill.
“Perhaps Mum and Dad are back,” I said.
“No,” answered Bill. “Watch would not growl like that if it were Mum and Dad. Besides, there is no wind, and we should have heard them coming up the drive.”
For a moment we listened. Then we both heard it, a soft stealthy footstep outside one of the windows.
“Who's there?” I shouted.
There was no answer. For a long minute all was still. Then there came a sudden furious vibration as strong hands wrenched violently at the sash in an effort to open the little window. The dog, usually a quiet, well-conducted animal, sprang savagely forward, snarling like a fiend, his bristles raised, every tooth in his head showing. Yet I felt—I knew—that the grim silent Thing without was not the sort to be frightened off by a dog.
Again we heard the footsteps, moving on to the other window. Once more came the rattling of the sash, but again the stout catch held. “Is that you, Dad?” I cried, my voice now shrill with terror, for well I knew it was not. This terrifying of children was not my parents' idea of a joke. Besides, there was the dog, our quiet old Watch, now almost foaming at the mouth. But again and again I shouted. Then we heard a firm heavy tread on the duckboards leading to the door.
The fellow was sure of his ground now, aware that he had only children and a dog to deal with. We heard his hands feeling over the outside of the door, a comparatively flimsy affair of half-inch boards and cross-battens. Then the brass knob of the handle commenced to turn, left to right, right to left.
There was something devilish, something murderous on the other side of that frail barrier, something which spoke not, but which in deadly silence was concentrating on entering the room.
In an agony of fear I glanced around me. Watch crouched beside the door, tense for the spring, his eyes gleaming redly. In the middle of the floor stood little Bill, white-faced but silent, his small jaw set, a heavy poker clutched in his right hand, the gamest fellow, boy and man, that I have ever known.
At that moment the light door began to bulge inward, as the devil outside set his shoulder against it, in an endeavour to burst in the lock. With a sob in my throat, I opened the Hollis, thrust a cartridge into each chamber, closed it, cocked both hammers, and
I hated to kill a man—but I was not big enough and not brave enough to do anything else.
At the first crack and crash which would tell me that the door was gone, I meant to pull both triggers.
But the door still held. Presently, with a groaning and creaking it straightened again, and I heard the heavy breathing of the fellow as he gathered his wind for a fresh assault. Then inward again bulged the boards, the whole thing fairly screeching under that savage pressure. Glancing along the gun-barrels, I tightened my fingers round the triggers, for I could see that the door was on the point of giving way.
All at once, in a momentary pause of creaking wood and straining screw, there fell on my ears another sound, a sound which made my heart leap for joy and hope within my breast. Faint and far away out on the Methven road, but a sound which no country-bred child could mistake, the rattle of light iron-shod wheel's and the click-clop, click-clop of a fast trotting horse. Good old Cass! A winner on almost every country racecourse in Canterbury, she could do her 2.17 when she liked, and by the sound of things she was doing it now.
I think the Thing outside heard it, too, for suddenly that sinister fearful bulge went out of the door. For a moment there was silence. Then we heard rapid footsteps going off down a track that led to the plantation.
Ten minutes later my parents were in the room. Breathless, we told them of what had happened. Just for a second they stared at us in wide-eyed constereration. Then, before we could move, Mum, usually an undemonstrative woman, seized little Bill and I and held us tightly to her breast, while great tears swam in her eyes. “My boys, my boys! Thank God you are safe!”
As for my father, he snatched a lantern from a shelf, lit it, picked up my gun, saw that it was loaded, and dashed off down the plantation path. In his eyes was a look of fury such as I never saw there before or after. But he might as well have searched for a needle in a haystack as for a man in that immense plantation at night.
He sat up all the remainder of that night, but before my mother retired I, lying awake in my bed, overheard snatches of their conversation from where they sat in the dining room.
“McLean … the murderer … rumoured he was arrested yesterday at Rakania … came away to-night, thank God … soon as we heard report was untrue … him, sure enough … not going to leave you and boys alone here to inform police to-night … starving … may come back.”
These last words were in my father's voice. Just three more fragments I heard before I fell asleep. “Never again leave them . . our boys … in greatest danger.”
A day or two later, at a small place near Ashburton, twenty miles from our home, the police arrested a bloodthirsty and savage killer, a human tiger, who a few, days before, at a place about forty or fifty miles away, had brutally murdered three defenceless victims, an old lady, a young woman, and a child. Our house was roughly in a line between the scene of that red horror and the place where the murderer was arrested for the crime, a crime for which he later paid on the scaffold at Lyttelton gaol.
Many may recall the tragedy. Over thirty years have passed since then, and I am somewhat hazy as to the exact details, but I believe that those I have given above are substantially correct.
Just one word more; there has always seemed to me to be a grimly humorous side to our adventure. To the end of their days, our parents always insisted that we, my brother and I, were at that hour in the greatest danger. It was not for me to contradict my elders. But have you ever seen the hole that is made in any soft substance by a twelve gauge Eley blue, black powder, No. 2 shot cartridge, fired at three feet? Perhaps you have. Then, if you remember that round the triggers of that loaded double-cocked Hollis were twined the trembling fingers of a terror-stricken child, you will perhaps see my point when I say that, whoever was in danger at that lonely farmhouse on that terrible night thirty years ago, it was certainly not little Bill or I.
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BY far the most graphic, witty and altogether satisfying picture of New Zealand life that has yet come from a novelist's pen is Alan Mulgan's new book “Spur of Morning,” which I have just read with intense enjoyment, and many chuckles. Town life, sport and politics, and the life of the open air, of bush and tussockland, are blended in a narrative that preserves perfect fidelity to conditions as we know them in New Zealand. The period in which the story is set is thirty to forty years ago, and the manners and ways of a community somewhat less sophisticated than it is to-day are reproduced with a particularity that betokens thorough knowledge and a quick eye for the little comedies of life.
Mr. Mulgan has a lively and whimsical wit. But there is more than that. The writer knows his native New Zealand; he describes the free-handed hospitality of the people in the out-back, particularly the big sheep station people and the heroic toil of settlement, and there are perfect little vignettes of shore and hill and forest-charm, this with an economy of adjectives that betokens a thorough artist in words.
The political portraits are amazingly well-drawn. Seddon is there, and W. P. Reeves and many another—how good! Their disguises and names do not avail them much; they are there to the life.
Mr. Mulgan certainly has an original way with him. Nowhere in the book, not even in the preface, does he mention the name New Zealand; but the identity of the Southern land described is, of course, perfectly clear to many besides New Zealanders. It cannot be mistaken for any other! I can find only one New Zealand place-name in it and that is Hikurangi, which Mr. Mulgan has apparently dropped in, in the spirit of a detective-story writer who thinks his readers are fairly entitled to a bit of a clue here and there. But the cities of “Eden” and “Wellesley,” there is no need to puzzle over their identity any more than there is over the masterful premier Braxton, who knew exactly what the people wanted and gave it to them with both hands.
Recently some old Colonial hands recalled certain long-distance horse—back journeys in New Zealand. Our modern roads discourage both horse and rider; but the horse will return to a certain extent, and fortunately for those who delight in a good mount, there are many districts of travel to which the polished bitumen and the high-power car have not yet penetrated.
What is the record speed for a cross-country gallop, or for a long highway ride? is another question that those interested in horseback work have discussed. I do not know that any record has ever been kept, but I have heard (from comrades of the rider) of a dashing ride on very urgent business which may take first place until someone brings evidence of a faster performance. The rider was a young settler of Mauku, South Auckland, and the occasion was a desperate fight between Maoris and the farmer-soldiers and Militia on the Titi Hill, not far from the historic Mauku Church, in the war of 1863. The Militia and the settlers (the latter were enrolled as members of the Forest Rifles Volunteer Corps) were hard-pressed by the Maoris and were outnumbered, and had to fall back, fighting a rearguard action, towards the church, which was the fortified garrison-house. Soon after the skirmish began Lieutenant Lusk, the Forest Rifles commander, despatched young Heywood Crispe, one of his neighbours and fellow-volunteers, to the nearest British camp, Drury, to ask for reinforcements.
Crispe was a lightweight and well mounted. He rode at a gallop all the way to Drury, thirteen miles, and covered the distance in less than an hour. Good going, along a rough, new road, nearly all the way through the bush.
Heywood Crispe fulfilled his urgent mission well, but he had a rather exasperating reception at Drury. The Imperial officer in command of the camp declined at first to believe there was any urgent need for reinforcements.
Some of those pioneer settler families still farm the good lands of the Mauku country, among them the sons of the despatch-rider of 1863.
The news that a historic karaka tree at Wanganui is to be preserved for its age and its associations, prompts a suggestion that there must be many other large and beautiful trees of various species which should be regarded as tapu because of their size and their stories. In my own mental survey of fine old trees and groves of trees which should be saved from destruction, there are many besides kauri, and some of these are on private land. It is probable that most owners of land who have uncommonly large or historically interesting trees, whether introduced or native, on their properties, are desirous of preserving them.
There are in particular, pohutukawa trees of great age and much beauty, around the coast and on the shores of some of the North Island lakes. Around Rotoiti there are many of these trees, whose legendary and poetic associations have made them sacred to the Maori. I have gathered lore of this kind from the old people, whose homes are on those Rotoiti bays. Fortunately, the generous Maoris of the Ngati-Pikiao and other sections of the Arawa tribe have made over to the Crown as tapu sanctuaries most of the headlands on which the ancient pas stood, places where almost every old tree has its tales of the past.
But, unfortunately, the pakeha bush-owner is not always so thoughtful as the Maori. One could wish to see Lord Bledisloe's recent appeal to New Zealanders taken to heart by those who are now engaged in turning into boards the greatest rimu and totara timber areas in various parts of the country. His Excellency urged that exceptionally large and beautiful trees should not be sacrificed for commercial interests. Timber-millers, please note and spare some of the trees that were growing centuries before you were born, and will live centuries after you—if you will only leave them alone, with a sheltering fringe of what you call “scrub”!
The excursion to Arthur's Pass was the last of the season. Alice had a birthday while she was staying with us, so I thought the excursion would be a rather unusual present for her, especially as she loves adventure. We managed to catch the train at eight o'clock, and at half-past eleven we were at Arthur's Pass. As soon as we had left the warm carriage we discovered that the wind was a bitter snow wind, though the sun was shining. Determined not to be among the stragglers—I have a horror of being last—we walked briskly for the first two or three miles. We knew we should have plenty of leisure to look about us as we went further into the Pass.
There was very little snow in the Pass itself, but the sun shone brightly on vast snow slopes, and made more startling the contrast with the sombre birch forests. Each peak stood out cold and clear against the blue sky.
The frost had played some rare games on the previous night. From every exposed root on the bank hung stalactites of ice; some were almost a foot long, twigs and even branches were coated in the same beautiful crystal. But the strangest thing—we saw this only in one part of our journey, a particularly cold stretch—was a “mushroom” walk. Every-single stone comprising the loose gravel at the side of the road was lifted up an inch from its bed by a hundred icy filaments. We gathered some of these “mushrooms”—they looked just like that—and tried to separate the threads of ice, but our hands were far too clumsy. So, instead, we crunched them underfoot.
The walk through the Pass is exhilarating, but not in the least strenuous. We certainly took our time about the latter half of the walk and as we gazed on the green white torrent of the Bealey, we commented on our luck in having the road so much to ourselves. I was so certain that we were to meet the train at Otira, as I had done on previous occasions, that no shadow of suspicion crossed my mind. Several groups of people had passed us as we sat on some rocks to eat our lunch, but—we didn't recall this until afterwards—not a soul since. So we went gaily and tranquilly through the George till we came to the Railway. Here, one expects almost every minute, to come upon Otira, but the town is two miles further on.
We came to it at last. We gazed into the reservoirs, and on the Power House, and at the mountains rising so steeply that we couldn't see where they ended. It was not until we reached the Terminus Hotel that the truth dawned upon us… . . The train was not there. However, we saw a likely looking tramper, and asked her whether the train had gone or not. Then she said, “There's been no train here to-day and I don't know anything about it.” My heart sank. But I thought we might enquire at the hotel.
We were taken into a sitting room with a cheerful fire in it. We were led to understand, that unless we could walk through the tunnel, we should have to stay the night. In a real Alice in Wonderland Adventure, time simply doesn't count. But I thought of my work languishing for another twenty-four hours, and Alice thought of fruit salad promised for supper. When we suggested ringing up to see if the train would wait a little, we learned of some of the insuperable difficulties that stood in the way. The tunnel was more than five miles long. The only telephone in Otira was locked up firmly in the Post Office, and so our only course was to stay the night.
The next part of the story reminds me of “There was an old woman who found a little crooked sixpence”. She bought a little pig. But piggy would not jump over the stile… Somehow things began to happen, and we were told that we really should get home that night. We explained our dilemma to the Stationmaster, and he said we might return on a motor velocipede. This the official name for a “jigger” with an engine. It was shocking the number of people we disturbed; linesmen, postmaster, stationmaster, and cricketers, but the result was most comforting. Every one was most sympathetic. Four people offered to lend me a raincoat, as the journey through the tunnel on a jigger would
It isn't often the ordinary public is allowed to travel on a motor velocipede, in fact this is only an emergency measure. I shall not attempt to describe our sensations. Imagine crossing a railway bridge and seeing, through the bars, an angry river. As for the tunnel—we reached this after a two mile run—it is a world of its own. The motor made a terrific noise as a gesture of defiance. We could see lights at regular intervals. Every now and then a purple light indicated a telephone, for use in case of accident. At one time water splashed on our faces, and no wonder, for we were under a river. Suddenly the horn began to send forth agonizing noises, and we slowed down. Our driver had seen a torch light. Two more strays! They were well aware of the train which would leave without them. But of course no “jigger” will hold five people, so the driver said he would return for them.
The circle of daylight was growing rapidly larger. All too soon we were out of the tunnel and blinking in the light. We were a thousand feet higher than when we entered the tunnel five miles back. The run to the train from there was just long enough for every excursionist to come out of the train to see us arrive … the reason why the train did not leave punctually.
The culprits were almost laughing as they walked down the station with the Arthur's Pass stationmaster. He was not a fearsome warder. In fact we met with kindness from every one. And as he took our names and addresses, there may have been a twinkle in his eye.
Finally, our friends of the tunnel arrived. We said goodbye to the linesman, and the train moved off, not really very late after all. And the climax of it was that when we arrived home, my young brother, consumed with jealousy, remarked: “Those damn girls have all the fun.”
Behind the frontal ranges of the Southern Alps, where the Ashburton River begins its meanderings across the plains of mid-Canterbury to the sea, lie a number of small lakes, surrounded by hills, gaunt and barren in the summer and snowclad in winter, and small tussocky plains devoid of animal life, save for a few solitary sheep and rabbits.
Let us take a journey into this lakeland, the waters of which are the habitation of the brown and rainbow trout and the sanctuaries of the black swan and the Grey and Paradise duck.
Flat, well-cultivated farm lands, which form the precincts of the Ashburton district, are passed through in an easy hour's journey by rail or motor from Ashburton to Mt. Somers, the portal to our hill country. The journey gives a glimpse of the majestic grandeur of the Alps, which stretch to right and left across the vision. Foothills which, from further back on the plains, appeared mere dwarfs now loom almost overhead like veritable giants, while the white magnificence of the main ranges can be discerned by the snow-capped peaks silhouetted against the north-western sky.
We enter the Ashburton George, and before we realise it, are into undulating country. Our road takes us past the Mt. Somers limestone and coal mines and the rich silica country. Clent Hills, one of Canterbury's well-known early sheepruns, and now part of the Mt. Possession run, is reached. Almost opposite on the other side of the gorge, Mt. Possession towers like a sentinel guarding the great beyond. Blowing Point bridge and the snow-fed south branch of the Ashburton River are crossed, and we are greeted by Hakatere, that widely-known sheep station, so aptly described by Samuel Butler in his book “Erewhon,” and now also part of the Mt. Possession run.
Leaving Hakatere behind, we soon come to where two roads converge to form our highway. Which will we take? After a short deliberation we decide to take the road to the right, and seem to have travelled only a short distance when we espy, nestled together like two huge eyes, the smallest of the lakes—Lakes Trip and Howard, or better known to trampers and fishermen as the Maori lakes. Eight miles further on, and exactly forty-seven miles by road from Ashburton, we come upon Lake Heron, the largest of the lakes, which spreads itself lazily across the valley.
If an arduous tramp of several miles over high hilly country is to be avoided we will have to retrace our steps if we wish to visit the remainder of the lakes, and view, perhaps, a more beautiful part of the country. We go back to where the roads meet and take the left turning. In a very few minutes we catch a glimpse of Lake Emma, sitting back snugly from the road. Continuing for some miles we at last reach the remaining lakes of this lakeland. They are Lake Clearwater, four miles in length, the second largest of the chain, and Lake Camp, about a mile in length. Both are noted, the former, in winter, as an ice-skating and ski-ing rendezvous, and in summer as a splendid trout-fishing resort, the latter for its strikingly beautiful stretch of water where large rainbow trout play.
Before turning our backs upon these tarns on our return journey to the plains, let us take one peep at the grand awfulness of the main divide between east and west. Our road takes us round the gently sloping side of Mt. Harper and into what is known as the Potts cutting.
At our very feet three small ranges of lesser peaks, with their bushy sides and white feathery caps, seem to rear themselves into the air and throw themselves out at various angles until they become lost in the great white range in the distance. Deep down at the bottom of rocky gorges, the Havelock and Clyde Rivers, upper tributaries of the Rangitata and the Potts River, a large upper stream of the Rakaia, can be seen wending their silvery ways from their sources in the big Two Thumb Range. The former two converge in a mighty swirl almost at the foot of Mt. Harper, while the Potts rushes away to the right to join the deep flowing Rangitata.
Looking to the west, one sees the Rangitata Gorge overlooking the famous Mesopotamia sheep station, and the tall Black Mountain, so well known to musterers. To the north the gaze is arrested by Mt. Potts, standing with noble head adorned with a canopy of snow, and Mt. Arrowsmith posing like a monarch in full array. The beauty of the scene is intensified by the background of the great white Alps.
For many a year I have noted down from the lips of the older generation of Maoris the chants and songs which form so great a portion of the mental treasury of the race, and have often marvelled at the great memorising powers of the men and women whose minds are heir libraries. One old friend of mine who has departed to the Reinga, told me that he knew about four hundred songs, ranging from joyful haka songs, love ditties, war chants, canoe songs, and so on to the laments for the dead, which formed the largest section of his repertoire. Moreover, as became a man who was the descendant of a long line of tohungas and sacred high chiefs, he could explain the inner meaning of the ancient incantations, which was more than most of his contemporaries could do. They might be able to recite the chants, but they were not instructed as to their real significance; so many of the mythological allusions were recondite and unknown to most Maoris.
The most successful pakeha translator of Maori songs in the days of the past was Mr. C. O. Davis, who has given many examples in his book, “Maori Mementos,” a rare little publication now much sought after by collectors. This book, published in Auckland in 1855, contains, besides the poetical addresses of farewell presented by various tribes to Sir George Grey in 1853, when he was leaving New Zealand for Cape Colony, a collection of tangi chants and other songs made by Mr. Davis, chiefly among the North Auckland and Waikato Maoris. A few extracts from these happily translated poems I shall give here as examples of the depth of feeling and the rich imagery contained in the literature of the most gifted and intellectual of primitive peoples.
From the chief Patuone's farewell to Governor Grey:
The great lament composed by the chief Te Heuheu Iwikau for his brother the famous Heuheu, overwhelmed in the landslip at Te Rapa, Taupo, in 1846, begins with this beautiful figure:
“See o'er the heights of dark Tauhara's Mount The infant morning wakes. Perhaps my friend Returns to me, clothed in that lightsome cloud. Alas! I toil alone in this dark world!”
Another lament is a chant composed by Papahia, the principal chief of the Rarawa tribe, of the northern Hokianga country:
This is part of a song of grief composed by an aged woman of Hokianga for her relative Ngaro, a girl who died in the pride and beauty of her youth:
In a like vein the wife of Hori Kerei Takiwaru composed her sad farewell to her chieftain husband:
* * *
Mt. Rolleston, the grand icy peak dominating the Otira region, is Te Tara-a-Tama-ahua. Tara means a mountain peak; Tama-ahua is referred to presently.
Many years ago, down on the West Coast, the Arahura Maoris—only a handful of them survived—told me some curious ancient legends concerning the pounamu or greenstone, and its discovery by their ancestors. They said that some miles up the Arahura River, if I cared to explore that far, I would be able to see the Ika-a-Poutini, which was a canoe turned into greenstone. “If you stoop down by the river's side at a certain place,” said Meihana, “and dip your head until your eyes are beneath the surface of the water, you may see the canoe of pounamu, stretching across the riverbed, with three knobs upstanding, like erect human figures. The crew are seated in their places, with their paddles in their hands.”
I never had an opportunity of testing for myself the authenticity of this bit of geological folk-lore, but I learned from one of the pioneer surveyors that there was undoubtedly a ledge of greenstone stretching across the Arahura River near a waterfall, and that it was from this ledge that the blocks and fragments of pounamu frequently found further down the river had come, broken off in times of heavy flood by the rolling boulders.
In another local legend, which links up with the Ika-a-Poutini tale, the Maoris explain that the three figures upstanding, silent petrified forms, in this canoe, were the three wives of the long-ago sailor explorer Tama-ahua; their names were Hine-Kawakawa, Hine-Aotea, and Hine-Kahurangi. (The names symbolise three of the varieties of green-stone.) They had been transformed into pounamu by the gods in punishment of Tama for slaying his slave, Tuhua. This is a story in itself, the legend of how the servant committed a breach of the tapu custom when engaged in cooking birds for his chief. He licked his fingers, a serious infringement of tapu, under the circumstances, and Tama, observing this, was so angry that he killed Tuhua with his stone club. For this the gods punished Tama by causing the land to swell up suddenly under his feet and form a mountain, and by petrifying his three wives in the canoe below. The mountain is called Tuhua to this day; it is yonder height overlooking Lake Kanieri. From the top of the magic hill Tama descended to the river, but only to find his canoe and his wives all fixed for ever in stony death. And there is the canoe to-day, or some of it, if you can contrive to find the spot, close to the waterfall in the Arahura's course.
No doubt some exploring canoe of long ago came to grief in the rapid Arahura, and that fact and the pounamu found there formed sufficient groundwork for the imaginative Maori legend-makers.
“ One Bell.” A quarter to twelve. It was the night of 6th March, 1906. The four-masted barque Dundonald, under Captain Thornburn, was driving through the thickening mist and rain on an unknown course. She had left Sydney on the 17th February with a load of wheat for Falmouth. The Captain, who had not seen the sun for two days, supposed that he was some forty miles to windward of the Auckland Islands. Suddenly, above the roar of the storm, arose the cry “Land on the weather bow, sir!” to be followed by “All hands on deck!” The vessel appeared to be running into a narrow bay, the sides towering sheer, black and forbidding into the enveloping mist. “Weather fore braces!” Right willingly the men hauled the heavy yards round and slowly she came about; but the rudder, striking some submerged rock, was shattered, leaving the vessel unmanageable.
An attempt to clear the boats was then made, but abandoned as hopeless owing to the heavy seas, all hands mustering aft for lifebelts. Sea boots and outer clothing were discarded, and the majority of the crew, excluding the Captain and his sixteen year old son, decided to go and stand on the forecastle head.
The vessel struck stern first and was forced broadside on to the rocks with her masts canting shorewards. With waves breaking over her main deck, the Dundonald slid to her doom in a very few minutes, leaving twenty-eight men fighting for life amid a hell of hissing, churning waters.
It was not till November, 1907—nearly nine months later—when the Hinemoa arrived at the Bluff with the survivors on board, that the outside world learnt the fate of a vessel long since posted “missing.”
From all accounts, this appears to have been one of the most remarkable wrecks in the history of these seas.
Much heroism was displayed by the crew, a mixed crowd of many nationalities, in assisting each other to land, and a great deal of resourcefulness in maintaining life in what proved to be the most miserable climate in the temperate zone.
When the barque went down, the masts remained above water, the survivors clinging to them throughout the terrible night. At daybreak, four of the men who had remained aft found that the jigger top mast was touching the cliff. One of these lost his life in the climb that followed, but the others managed to reach the top and safety. A line was thrown to their companions further out, and sixteen battered and bleeding men finally landed—the Captain and his son being among those missing.
The survivors expected to find a depot close at hand, but to their dismay found themselves on Disappointment—a barren rock about two miles long. Some six miles away lay Auckland Island and a food store. Meanwhile, some of the others climbed back to the masts in the hope of salvage, but several sails were all they were able to secure. Exhausted and spent, they managed to build fires and shelter under the canvas. On the twelfth day of hardship, the first mate died from the effects of injuries and exposure. The same day the remainder set about digging shelters in the ground with their bare hands, roofing them with sticks and turf.
Their chief food consisted of mollyhawk, seal, seaweed and tuberous roots. The seal skins were used for bedding and part of the sails converted into trousers.
As the season advanced, birds became more scarce and the men turned their attention to the construction of a boat, in which to cross the stormy water separating them from Auckland Island.
The determination and ingenuity involved in its construction were remarkable. Rough branches of coastal veronica served as the frame, while some of the canvas was used to cover it. Small bird bones rubbed down to a point became needles, strands unravelled from sail-cloth serving as thread.
Realising that if those selected to make the trip reached the mainland, they must have a means of making a fire or perish from the cold, the last few matches were entrusted to them. At the time of the wreck, about two and a half boxes had been saved, but despite all care, only six matches remained.
The waiting seemed endless, but at last, on the 31st July, a successful crossing was made. But after climbing range after range of hills, covered with almost impenetrable bush, and enveloped in mist and fog, they became discouraged, returning to their companions after nine days' absence.
Hope, however, was not abandoned, and as the old boat was now too leaky and strained, they set out to build another.
On the evening of 24th August, a barque was sighted off the island, and although the signal fire they lighted must have been visible for miles, she
Unfortunately, the boat was overturned in the surf when landing, and although for three days they tried to dry the matches in the rays of the wintery sun, any attempt to strike them failed.
On the fourth morning they set out to walk round the northern end of the island. Thei. only food since landing had consisted of raw seal's meat, and they weret all terribly weak. Towards evening, when on the verge of giving up all hope, they came to a sign-post “To the Depot four miles.” Mad with joy, they found fresh energy to cover the remaining distance.
Next morning, rejuvenated with fresh food and clothing, they started over-hauling the boat discovered in one of the sheds. Although this was not suitable for the open sea, they decided to sail back to their companions. Fresh difficulties were, that they were now on the opposite side of the island and would have to fight adverse winds and currents. A spar served as a mast and canvas trousers were cut up to restore them to their original form—sail—the making of which took a day.
On setting out they were blown out to sea, regaining the land with difficulty, but the second attempt proved successful, and their companions, who had given them up for dead, gave them a great welcome.
An early start was made by all for the mainland, and they were living there in comparative comfort when Captain Bollons landed. Seeing them all well, he thought it advisable to finish his rounds and pick them up on the way back.
A visit was also made to Disappointment Island to collect the body of the mate, Jabez Peters, and a few things left by the crew. On returning to Erebus Cove in Port Ross, the body was interred in the little cemetery there, after which the Hinemoa embarked the shipwrecked men. They were well treated by all when the vessel reached Bluff, special trains being run for the occasion, and after a great deal of dispute the remains of a brittle boat, together with other curios, were secured by the Canterbury Museum—a fitting tribute to the courage and enterprise of the men who built and sailed it.
“If I were a girl,” writes the Editor of a popular Ladies' weekly, “I'd follow Stevenson's advice and marry a smoker. As a rule, non-smokers are more irritable than devotees of the weed, harder to please and to get on with, more prone to find fault, less philosophical in their outlook.” All true. Every word of it. But don't forget there are tobaccos and tobaccos. Bad tobacco, containing much nicotine, may and often does render the smoker short-tempered and “snappy.” Nerves! Such tobacco, too full of nicotine, not only affects the smoker but makes the lives of others, closely associated with him, miserable. Select your tobacco with care and judgment. It's worth while. For purity and comparative freedom from nicotine our toasted New Zealand tobacco challenges the world No “bite” in it. No giddiness results from its use. No “smokers' throat” need be feared. And it's delicious! The four toasted brands are: Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cavendish, Riverhead Gold, and Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead). They differ in strength. The quality is uniformly excellent!*
I will break away from the usual order of things this month and deal with reviews of current books in the first place. The important subject of the month is Alan Mulgan's first novel, “Spur of Morning.” With all the weight of a judge delivering an important reserved decision I make bold to state that this is one of the most notable novels written by a New Zealander of New Zealand. It might have been a great novel. The literary standard is high, the interest well sustained (I found the story tugging me to return to it whenever I was interrupted in its reading), the character portrayal is strong, the love interest offered with a refreshing mid-Victorian modesty. And the book is sincere. So the necessary ingredients are there, but somehow the mixing is uneven. What lovable characters Mark and Philip are. The women, too, are so refreshingly “unmodern.” The Rugby pictures are thrilling. Our national sport is, with politics, the big motif of the novel.
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One of the most beautiful passages from Galsworthy's great “Forsyte Saga” has been issued in book form by Angus and Robertson, Sydney, under the title of “Indian Summer of a Forsyte.” The pathetically peaceful passing of old Jolyon concludes this perfect fragment from the big work. The production of the book is well up to English standard.
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In title and format, “Gowns by Roberta,” one of A. and R's. latest books, suggests a modern fashion handbook. Actually it is a smart modern novel which moves in the world of fashions. A delightful afternoon's reading, from the pen of Alice Duer Miller.
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Another recent offering from the same Sydney publishing house is “River Crossing,” by William Hatfield, author of “Sheepmates.” It is a full size novel of the great back country of Australia. The two leading characters, the tragically pretty Elice and the devotedly jealous Fen, fight their way through the almost insurmountable difficulties of their early married life in the great outback of the Common-wealth. There is not a dull moment in this thrilling yarn. William Hatfield more than lives up to the big reputation he built up with his earlier novel, “Sheepmates.”
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This country will be grateful to Miss N. E. Coad, M.A., for her interesting and conscientious historical work, “New Zealand from Tasman to Massey,” just published by Harry H. Tombs Ltd., of Wellington. Miss Coad has written other books of the informative type, but nothing so ambitious as this. It is an achievement in condensation to have covered the crowded years, beginning with the arrival of Tasman and concluding with the end of the Great War, in a book of 300 pages.
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Because I announced in a recent issue that a well known New Zealand journalist was busy on a book on the enthralling subject of Beer, I was very interested to lay my hands on “A Book About Beer,” just published by Jona-than Cape. I am very disappointed in this book. The subject matter is so inspiring that one naturally looks for an inspiring work. The author is evidently given to drinking flat beer. An annoying inconsistency is in the fact that although the author rails against the snobbery among the world's drinkers that fails to give the King of Drinks its rightful place, he himself remains anonymous in his written enthusings.
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New Zealand writers to whom “Spilt Ink” has given a great service for the last few years, will welcome its appearance in its new linotype dress. Congratulations to its energetic young editor, Noel Hoggard.
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As announced on this page some months ago, “The Story of Australian Art,” by William Moore, is to be published shortly. Probably it will be off the press by the time these notes appear in print. I believe that this is the most ambitious work ever published in Australia. It will consist of two volumes of 700 pages, and will contain 250 illustrations. The author is well known in New Zealand, and is the husband of one of our finest poets, Miss Dora Wilcox.
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With its latest issue, “Art in New Zealand” enters its seventh year of existence. It continues to merit the enthusiastic support of every art and literary enthusiast in this country. Being more of a literary than an art student, I must confess that the letterpress of the quarterly always holds out more interest to me. I doubt if any literary journal in this country has published a more interesting poem than Dr. Beaglehole's “Meditation on Historic Change.” It would provide a fine subject for discussion among our several literary societies. On the art side of this issue there are two fine colour reproductions and a number in black and white. The first award in the book-plate competition is given a full page reproduction. The drawing might make a good jam-tin label, but surely not a book-plate.
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The Thirteen Points to be observed in writing a book are given by Tracy
D. Mygatt in “Julia Newberry's Sketch Book,” published in New York. Here they are for what they are worth:—
When Writing a Book—Observe These Thirteen Points.
Change the scene to avoid monotony.
Don't explain too much.
Decide the period of time the story is to occupy before beginning.
Try to make the very best of your own style, and don't imitate any person whatsoever.
Never describe a person in detail; mention a few salient features and leave the rest to the imagination.
Don't have people always in a good humour, it is unnatural.
Never write about the weather, the seasons of the year, or bore people with dissertations on a spring morning, etc.
Never write anything in disparagement of woman, even if true.
Avoid all slang and Americanisms and bring in as many nationalities as possible.
Make no sweeping assertions!
Try, above all, to individualise your characters, to make them speak and act like men, and not like women.
Let your novel tell its own story, and don't put too much You into it.
Draw all the side characters carefully.
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“Smith's Weekly” now has a New Zealand representative, Mr. A. North. He is both correspondent and business representative, with headquarters in Auckland. This is the first time for several years that “Smith's” has been represented in New Zealand. Messrs. Will and Eric Lawson occupied this position in the first place.
Rumours of a New Zealand sporting weekly sponsored by a leading New Zealand weekly.
Jonathan Cape, the head of the London publishing house, is due in New Zealand early next year.
Alan Mulgan's “Home” (his first novel “Spur of Morning” is reviewed in this issue) has been given a new form in Longman's Swan Library of reprints. The first edition of this work should be valuable in time.
Hector Bolitho has written his autobiography. It will be published shortly by Cobden-Sanderson. New Zealand literary reviewers of a few years ago will be feeling anxious.
Am watching with interest the literary peregrinations in London of Ian Donnelly. Ostensibly he left here for a holiday. I think he is too clever for London to lose him.
As we go to press I have received a copy of the book of the year as far as New Zealand publishing enterprise goes. This is “Marsden's Lieutenants,” edited by John Rawson Elder, M.A., Professor of History in the Otago University. The work, which is a sequel to “The Letters and Journals of Samuel Marsden” published two years ago and is based on original M.S. material in the Hocken Library, is a most important contribution to the historical literature of this country. This is no dry historical narrative, but contains elements of strong human interest. For the first time is revealed the remarkable story of the trials and adventures of the three missionary agents placed by Marsden in the Bay of Islands on his first visit to New Zealand. There is a foreword by the Hon. Downie Stewart. The illustrations are interesting and well reproduced.
This book is an all New Zealand production and, after the author, who has done his work in a scholarly and brilliant fashion, my congratulations go out to the printers and publishers Coulls, Somerville and Wilkie Ltd. and A. H. Reed, both of Dunedin. The work which has been published by the Otago University Council retails at 25/-.
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Although he did not mention the titles, the two magazines referred to by the Rev. Clyde Carr in the House of Representatives recently when discussing the American back date menace were the New Zealand Edition of “Aussie” and the “New Zealand Artists' Annual,” a contributing factor in the suspension of which was the low grade magazine fiction dumped so promiscuously in this country.
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The two outstanding publications dealing with art and literature in the Commonwealth are “Art in Australia” and “Manuscripts.” Because it is a much younger publication, “Manuscripts” is not so well known on this side. It is run on lines slightly different from the older quarterly, more modern possibly in conception. The literary matter is of a very high standard and covers every phase of artistic and literary endeavour. Each issue contains a book-plate feature. The latest number gives pride of place to a reproduction of an etching by the New Zealand artist, Mr. F. H. Coventry. Hector Bolitho is also represented in light poetry. “Manuscripts” is published in Geelong.
They knew him as a big man, weighing 17 stone 10 lbs. When they saw him again—a man of 12 stone 12 lbs.—they did not recognise him. 68 lbs. makes a lot of difference. Read how he rid himself of that excess poundage:—
“In one year I have succeeded in reducing myself from 17 stone 10 lbs. to 12 stone 12 lbs., largely by the regular use of Kruschen Salts. A year ago I honestly thought I would never get up a hill again. Now, I often go up one twice a day—an average of 12 to 15 miles sharp walking. Friends who have not seen me in the intervening period fail to recognise me. I have dropped weight without any revolution of diet. I was, and remain a beer drinker. I took no special exercises, but I made it a rule to maintain regular, normal, healthy exercise. I felt no weakness while losing weight; on the contrary, I became rapidly able to support physical strain such as would have been quite beyond me before taking Kruschen.”—L.G.M.G.
There is no reason why you too should not get rid of uncomfortable and unhealthy fat, when science has given you this safe, effective treatment—a half teaspoonful of Kruschen Salts in a glass of hot water first thing every morning.
This healthful “little daily dose” of Kruschen keeps the system free from harmful toxins, it helps to re-establish normal and proper body functioning—it keeps you feeling fine and fit all the time. Energetic activity takes the place of sluggish indolence, whilst you lose excess fat gradually and without discomfort.
Kruschen Salts is obtainable at all Chemists and Stores at 2/6 per bottle.
A truly artistic magazine, printed by the Griffin Press, Auckland, is “Palette.” The issue under notice is No. 4, and contains a beautiful original etching by Brian Donovan. Lino cuts and wood blocks complete the remainder of the illustrations. The letterpress includes a number of poems by well known New Zealand writers, and some scholarly essays. Altogether an outstanding magazine.
Our summer frocks are divided into four categories —house-wear, sports-wear, afternoon frocks, evening gowns. Let us deal with the less formal, and, at the moment, the more interesting.
For followers of sport, the first consideration must be freedom of movement; so we ensure that our skirts are of a sufficient width (one and three-quarter yards round the hem should be regarded as the minimum), that our arms can swing freely and that no floating draperies interfere with our movements, The second consideration, is, of course, style. Bearing in mind the necessities of sportswear, we yet find style easy to attain. The necessary width is usually pressed out of sight in the form of inverted pleats; free arm movement is ensured in several ways—we may have the sun-tan type of frock with bare back and shoulders, the useful sleeveless mode, the easy short puff-sleeve, or a small sleeve with inverted pleats to give additional fulness; our outfit is business-like, and the only “floating-drapery” touch we permit is a colourful scarf, three-cornered and knotted carelessly, or oblong threaded through tabs at the neck of the frock and tied with a graceful bow in front. The addition of tabs and an up-to-the-minute scarf will lend a new season's air to a last year's tennis frock.
We must not forget the jumper and skirt which are retaining their popularity. Many young friends of mine are knitting jumpers of the lacy type in cream and pastel shades, and very smart they look. The newest jumpers are finished with a soft lacy scarf—also knitted.
For wear with light frocks, nothing is more useful than the swagger-coat. The short jacket has lost none of its popularity; nor have coats of the blazer type.
Sports hats are perky. The new material hats, with low crowns and the correct tilt of the brim downward in front and slightly to one side, are very smart, particularly in silk. Panamas, so becoming, and so long-lasting, are to the fore again. Hats with mesh crowns are not, I think, advisable for mid-summer wear, as the head requires some protection from the sun. Sporty hats are trimmed with bands of self or contrasting ribbon, and neat little bows.
Our comfortable old friend, the “sandshoe” comes in new guise this year. My choice is the mesh type of shoe, both for looks and coolness—the old type of heavy canvas shoe, allied with the rubber sole, made the feet very hot. Rubber bathing shoes are fascinating, in all colours and all designs. Which leads me to swim suits.
We, in New Zealand, do not buy our bathing-suits merely for beach parading. Our thousands of miles of coast-line have made swimmers of us—and so we don our “togs” for the purpose of swimming. The newest suits are cut away at back and sides to allow the fullest possible exposure to the sun. The more unusual the system of straps and ties across the back, the smarter would seem the suit. We all know how shoulder-straps leave an unwanted line of white skin beneath them. This difficulty has been overcome in a type of suit modelled on a last winter's evening style—there are no shoulder-straps, but the front of the suit is high and a band of material passes round the neck. Our shoulder-blades must decide us as to the adoption of this style. Colours for swim-suits must be gay. In strong sunlight, on yellow sands, one must rival the blue of the sea and the green of the grass. So we choose emerald green, scarlet, a vivid orange, royal blue—or black.
Caps are to match. Don't forget that an old-fashioned mob-cap style, worn under your diving helmet, gives extra protection to your waves. Later, when we are really “in the swim,” I shall have to give some hints on complexion and hair care at the sea-side.
Beach-wraps are gaudy and en suite with our costumes. Towelling wraps are most useful—warm and almost uncrushable.
Beach suits appear in a kind of stockingette material—smartly cut shorts, with a wider leg than last year, and a con trasting blouse. For hikers, nothing is more suitable than tailored shirt and shorts.
Although Christmas is still more than a month away, all sorts of preparations are in hand throughout November for the season of goodwill.
Now is the time when the Christmas goose or duck is ordered by those who look ahead, and early plum puddings simmer in the boilers.
But feasting, although it holds a high place, is not the more vital part of the Christmas spirit. What counts is the warm friendliness that develops among all classes—the cheerful giving to bring joy to others, and the sudden flowing towards all mankind of those finer feelings of humanity. It is this that makes Christmas unique among festivals, and no effort should be spared by our womenfolk, in the weeks of preparation ahead, to ensure that they do their part to make the coming Christmas as happy as human foresight, goodwill and open-mindedness can make it.
Mary had so many long, lonely evenings to fill in. She was not strong, and could not go out frequently. She was tired of reading, and had done so much sewing and knitting that she could ao longer bear the sight of it. Christmas was not far off, so well-meaning friends suggested that she should make Christmas presents, but what was there to do? Last year she had made so many tray-cloths and powder-puff cases and become so bored that she had vowed never to give any but bought presents. But what could one buy with limited pocket money?
A friend, feeling worried about Mary's mental lassitude, set to work to find something interesting for her to do. About a week later she came to see Mary, accompanied by a strangelooking parcel which, without a word, she handed to her. When opened, it was found to contain four wooden articles—two serviette rings and two
First, they were sand-papered until any roughness had been smoothed away, and divided into four equal parts. In one portion a design was drawn in pencil, later to be copied into the other three parts. When this was done they set to work and painted them, using fairly thick water colour, and, when dry, applied a coat of clear varnish. Mary was not an artist, but it was surprising how bright and effective the presents looked when completed.
A few days later, her friend arrived with some poster paints, a round wooden powder-bowl, a pair of quaint candlesticks and a fruit bowl. Mary was surprised that these wooden articles should be so inexpensive, none of them costing more than 2/-.
Before long, the powder-bowl had been decorated with a futuristic repeating pattern design, which consisted of straight lines drawn in different directions thus forming triangles, repeated at even intervals round the bowl. When the lid had been painted with a geometrical design, and the whole had been varnished, Mary was very proud of her handiwork, and eager to commence the fruit-bowl.
A border of fruits which, as Mary was no artist, were not easily recognisable, was drawn round the edge. It was surprising how very unusual and artistic the bowl looked when Mary had finished painting the fruits and given the bowl a black background. After varnishing it, she was amazed that she could, with so little expense and such interesting labour, turn out such an article.
Mary's friends were so pleased with their attractive and unusual Christmas presents that they came to her to be taught this new craft, with the result that the following year, hand-painted wooden presents were the rage.
Now that I am on the subject of the making of Christmas presents—and everyone knows it is often difficult to plan pleasing and original gifts at small cost—I feel inclined to enlarge on the various ways in which novelties, with a little ingenuity and labour, can be made, and which will probably give as much pleasure to the recipient as a more costly gift.
If you are a needlewoman nothing gives so much pleasure as hand-worked articles. Luncheon sets, buffet or service waggon covers made in coloured cottons, or linens, with appliques or embroidery are charming. Novelty stocking-bags or rings are attractive gifts for girls, and may be made to match the colour scheme of the room. Coat-hangers may be covered in many different ways. Embroidered handkerchiefs are dainty, and, edged with tatting, are treasured by the older friends.
Dainty touches may be given a girl's room by novel and dainty night-wea bags, a brush tidy, a crinoline lady to cover the powder box, or a sewing bag.
Children love animal designs on their clothing. Little garments become interesting when trimmed with hand-embrcidered bunnies, ducklings, dogs, etc. This work can be done by older sisters and make gay and amusing garments for the little ones.
Painted tins make charming and useful gifts. Tins with well-fitting lids may be utilised by painting in gay colours which can be filled with favourite home-made sweets, biscuits, shortbread, cakes, etc. A set of painted and labelled tins for the pantry shelf would be much appreciated by the housewife.
One would need an assortment of tins in different shapes and sizes, small tins of enamel paint in gay colours, three brushes (one thick and two fine), and turpentine for cleaning the brushes, fingers etc. Clean the tins thoroughly, afterwards applying a coat of the enamel paint evenly and thinly and allow it to dry. Then add a second coat. When this is dry commence the decoration. It may be dashing and gay or in dainty colourings and designs. Do not attempt a too ambitious design at the beginning. A few dashes or lines or a geometrical design would be effective in orange or red with black, green with mauve or yellow, etc.
For a set of tins for the pantry it is well to match the colour scheme of the kitchen. For instance one could paint a set of small tins for holding the different spices etc., the names of the contents to be written or stencilled in black on a paint ground. The tins look neat and give quite an air to the pantry shelves.
Cardboard boxes of different shapes and sizes may be covered and lined with wall-paper to make charming containers for all kinds of articles, both large and small. Hat boxes are much more attractive covered in this way than the dingy brown affairs that are usually sent from the shops.
To cover a box, carefully cut the paper to fit the top and sides, allowing about an inch for a lap-over on the inside of the box. Paste on carefully, taking care not to have any wrinkles in the paper. Now cut the pieces for the lining exactly to size. These when pasted on should cover the lap-over of the outside pieces.
The outside may be covered with a patterned paper with a plain lining, or the whole box may be done with a plain paper and decorated with bright patterns painted on, or designs of birds or flowers cut from the patterned paper and pasted on the plain ground paper.
To make a more lasting job, the boxes should be painted over with clear varnish.
Dissolve one tablespoon of shellac in half a cup of methylated spirits. Bottle, and cork tightly when not in use. This varnish must not be taken near a fire or light.
Ingredients:—1 lb. flour, 1 lb. breadcrumbs, 1 lb. chopped suet, 1 lb. dates,
Said Mrs. Jones to Mrs Browne … “the future seemed a roseate dream of bliss. Now after a year John is always praising that awful Smith's girl. Says how smart she is and such a capable housekeeper. And so interesting to talk to. Why I can never find any time even to read. Neither can I afford to have a new frock every week!”
And Mrs. Browne advised her friend:
“Why not make your own frocks? It saves pounds and pounds and is not at ail difficult with a roliable ‘Woman's Weekly’ pattern. Besides this magazine is especially edited for Women You will find such a wealth of useful hints on housekeeping and baby care in its pages, while the cooking recipes are, most excellent and economical in the bargain. Dorothy Dix, our confidential correspondent will help you in many domestic troubles, while the happy stories are wonderful to fill in a leisured hour.
Then of course the articles and pictures are up-to-date and keep you well informed about the problems of the day, so that you will never be short of conversation when John comes home.
This 3d. weekly is the best investment I have ever made.”
The “N.Z. Woman's Weekly” contains a wealth of interesting reading matter apart from its excellent pattern service. Order your copy now! 3d. weekly from all booksellers,-. or 4d. posted direct from P.O. Box 1409, Auckland.
1 lb. seeded raisins, 1/2 lb. currants, 1/2 lb. candied peel, 4 ozs. sugar, a grating of nutmeg, 2 tablespoons treacle, 2 saltspoors salt, 2 level teaspoons spice, 7 eggs, 2 or 3 tablespoons water, 2 teaspoons baking powder.
Mix all the dry ingredients together, add the eggs beaten and water just enough to moisten. Mix well and divide into three portions. Tie in cloths dipped into boiling water and boil 5 hours. Serve with brandy sauce.
N.B.—Hang pudding in a cool place.
Half pint water, 2 tablespoons sugar, 1 teaspoon cornflour, 2 tablespoons brandy.
Boil sugar and water for ten minutes. Mix cornflour to a smooth paste with water and pour into the boiling syrup. Bring to the boil, stirring all the time. Boil for 5 minutes. Add the brandy. Do not allow to boil after the brandy has been added as the flavour would be spoiled.
6 ozs. icing sugar, 2 ozs. butter, 2 table spoons brandy.
Roll and sift the icing sugar. Cream the butter and gradually beat in the sugar and brandy. Beat to the consistency of whipped cream.
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There is at present almost an epidemic of gastric influenza. The symptoms include vomiting, diarrhoea, or severe abdominal pains, and is often accompanied by a high temperature.
The treatment is to put the patient to bed, and keep warm. Stop all food and give only drinks of boiled water. If the condition does not yield to this treatment within a very short time, a doctor should be sent for, as delays are often dangerous.
After vomiting, etc., has ceased and the temperature has become normal, boiled milk may be given. It is well to keep to a milk diet for a few days after all the symptoms have subsided.
Whooping cough is prevalent at the present time. Children are the most liable to infection, especially in the early school years, although all ages are liable. It is especially distressing and dangerous for old people, young children and infants.
Whooping cough is disseminated by close contact. Infection lies in the secretions of the throat, nose and lungs. The disease is most infectious during the catarrhal stage, before the “whoop” begins. The incubation period is usually from ten to fourteen days. The patient must be isolated for not less than five weeks after whoop has appeared, provided that the characteristic coughs have entirely disappeared. In the winter season convalescence may not be established for three or four months. Relapses and second attacks are very rare.
Course and symptoms.—Whooping cough usually begins with a catarrhal stage lasting from one to two weeks, in which case the patient is ill with symptoms of bronchitis. Sometimes, however, the cough is characteristic from the beginning. It consists of a number of convulsive, choking coughs, ending with a long crowing inspiration or whoop. During a paroxysm there is breathlessness, the face becomes red, dusky or swollen, the eyes bulging, the veins distended, and vomiting is common. Bleeding from the nose may also occur. A sticky, ropy mucus exudes from the mouth and nose during an attack of coughing. The number and severity of paroxysms varies greatly.
Complications.—Some of the complications that may occur are ulceration of the under-surface of the tongue, hemorrhage from the nose and throat. Convulsions, bronchitis and bronchopneumonia may also occur, and
these are dangerous complications in young children. When there are any of the above complications or if the disease is at all severe, it is necessary to obtain medical aid without delay.
Treatment.—Patients should be isolated from those who are not immune as soon as a catarrhal cold appears. If there is fever, put to bed in a warm well ventilated room, free from draughts, and keep the air at an even temperature. It is not usually necessary to keep them in bed after the fever has subsided, but they should be kept quiet, and guarded against any thing that might provoke coughing, keep comfortably warm and out of dampness and draughts. During fine weather patients should be out of doors as much as possible. Inhalations are often prescribed. A steam kettle is often employed to give inhalants to young children. Cleanse the mouth and teeth regularly. Watch the bowels, and give aperients when necessary. Do not use handkerchiefs—use pieces of soft old rag which may be burnt.
Diet.—Proper feeding is of great importance. The patient should be fed soon after vomiting, as then the food is more likely to be retained. Give plenty of fluids—water, barley water, orange and other fruit drinks, milk, etc. Only easily digested and nutritious foods should be given, such as broths, custards, milk puddings, sieved or well mashed vegetables, cooked fruit, etc.
To avoid infection, keep children in the fresh air as much as possible. Avoid close contact with sufferers.
October racing to its end leaves behind it, in something like perspective, another season of football. Not since 1923, when with 1924 (now but a glorious memory) and its visit to England in prospect, has any season aroused such keen public interest.
Now it is all over, what are our reactions? For myself, one of uneasiness. Club, Interprovincial, New Zealand v. Australia, North v. South, and all the trials have, to my mind, shown a decided slump in the standard of our play. It is not that we have in sight no successors to Cooke and Nicholls, for instance. It is rather in the features which made New Zealand football something apart from that of all other countries, that we have failed.
I do not think that even the most rabid optimist would claim for our backs of to-day that among them is a single one who could compare with any of the first seven backs of the 1924 team. Not only that, the play is different. In what matches of this year have we seen the straight-running, quick penetration of the inside backs of old, or the lightning flash of the ball along the chain from scrum half to wing threequarter? And on the wing, where has there been anything seen to compare with one of those long, powerful runs of a Jack Steel, or the sudden flash over the line of a Snowy Sven son?
Drab monotony—where the reverse passing down the line of a pair like Cooke and Lucas—where the quick centreing kick by a boxed-up winger—or his swinging cross kick from one side of the field to his fellow winger on the other? Rush after rush breaking down belore the centre gets it and finishing where? After listening-in to the first test in Sydney one disgusted fan said to me: “This sums it up. Play is on the Aussie twenty-five. Hadley hooks the ball—half to first, to second-five-eighths, to centre to wing—play is now at half way. Not until Hart's exhibition in the last match of the season North v. South, at Dunedin—did we see even the shadow of a truly All Black wing display.
During the Australian tour it seemed that we were beaten because the Australians had improved as a result of the visit to South Africa. The New Zealand v. The Rest, at Athletic Park, convinced me that Australian football was no better than of old.
And let not our forwards plume themselves. Vigour, enthusiasm they have in plenty, but what else? And on the line-out—how many times did we see a passing rush among the backs started from a take and a clean pass back? Delude ourselves if we like, the cold fact remains that our forwards this season have had to make up with hard work what they so lamentably lacked in football brains and skill. In one respect alone they outdid all teams of the past—in offside play and scrum offences. Though the Athletic Park crowd so severely criticised Mr. Paton for his penalties against The Rest, the number of free kicks he gave against the Blacks that day was a complete vindication of the Australian referees.
In searching for a reason, one thing seems to me to stand out—our subservience to other people's wishes. For the sake of international amity (all the time it is New Zealand that has been called upon to make the sacrifice for football peace) we have abandoned our own particular scrum formation—and with it the wing forward. Now what have those sacrifices meant?
In the first place a revolution of our scrum ideas. The old tradition of the wedge with every man a specialist— and a worker—has given place to what? Judging from what we have seen this year in particular, just chaos, in the front, time after time a sheer impasse; in the middle, a spinelessness that horrifies anyone with a recollection of the firmly locked scrum of old, and in the back that anachronism—one lone figure trying to balance aganist nothing. And what is the advantage of the vaunted quick hooking in a scrum the very formation of which puts a premium on a quick break-up? The one and only real result of our abolition of the wing forward is the creation of four others, who nullify any advantage of getting possession of the ball. The forwards have been given such free rein as spoilers that the backs work under an insurmountable handicap—insurmountable through lack of space and somethin else as well.
That something else? A change in the line up of our backs. Until quite recent years the traditional line up was a deep, wide formation, thus:
Now it is thus:
Not even a copy of the English play, thus:
The effects of this? In place of every man starting off at top with pace on an ascending scale from half to wing, and running dead straight ahead. a state of affairs where everyone is flat-footed when he receives the ball, with the opposing backs right on top of him. Notice the difference disclosed by the third diagram. The English chain is deep but close, with play on a diagonal. But the English specialise in fast wings capable of running round a slower opposition—as we found in 1930 on more than one occasion.
It is time for us to take thought with ourselves in these matters, and one other. Selectors seem to have fallen into a rut. They have made experiments that were not so much experiments as variations on an old theme. The selection of the North Island team, with its choice of Nunn and Solomon instead of Sadler and Hedge (the two youngsters who alone of the thirty taking part in the Auckland-Wellington match showed a spark of genius) is a case in point.
One wonders how far public opinion conforms to the views of the selectors. The “Railways Magazine” is curious. It invites you to take part in a straw ballot for the selection on this year's form and promise. Readers are requested to select a team of twenty-nine, fifteen forwards and fourteen backs. Do not trouble to pick for wards for any position, but place your backs—two halves, four five-eighths, three centres, four wings, and two full backs—roughly corresponding to the original selection of the 1924 team, and let us have your selections not later than 30th November. The voting will be given in our January issue.
A porter was announcing the name of a station as the train pulled up, and a little boy asked, “What does that man say, Dad? “ Dad: “He's calling out Tuakau.” Small boy: “Why is he calling out to a cow?”
Overseas visitor, reading the destination sign on the front of an Auckland tramcar: “That's a queer name, Wonhunger!” (Onehunga).
New Zealanders themselves are not above reproach in the pronunciation of such names as Putaruru, in which the “a” receives emphasis instead of the middle “u”. “Tamranui” is shorter but surely less euphonious than Taumarunui. Sweet-sounding Ngaruawahia is somewhat long in these breathless days; the old name of Newcastle is preferable, however, to “Narrawoya,” whilst “Narroweye”, is beyond the pale!
A party of tourists just arrived from Home was travelling on the Main Trunk line. They were a jolly crowd and soon made friends with their fellow passengers. The conversation turned on place-names. “What do you make of that?” asked a Wellington girl, indicating a word she had. written on a slip of paper. After a careful scrutiny, one of the visitors replied, “Garewarho,” another ventured, “Engarewarho.” There was much merriment when all joined in the attempt to master the tongue-twister, Ngauruhoe.—“Pohutu.”
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When we were children I often heard my mother remind my father, with a warning frown, in the course of conversation, that “little pigs had big ears.” I used to wonder what it had to do with the subject under discussion, but later learnt that we children were the “little pigs” referred to. We now have many of the little animals in our own home, and have to be very careful at times.
A new neighbour had settled amongst us, and it happened Dad's people had known the lady's people years before, so naturally he was supposed to answer all questions concerning them.
“Mrs. S— had a sister, hadn't she?” a visitor asked one day.
“Yes,” answered Dad, guardedly, “but she is under a cloud, I believe.”
It happened that another visitor asked almost the same question a few days later.
“Didn't Mrs. S— have a sister?”
Dad did not answer immediately, so little David supplied the required information.
“Yes, she has, but she's in a fog somewhere!” he answered. —S.E.D.
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There is a beauty spot—one of so many—passed through by road before the railway bridge, out of Marton, is reached. The road passes under an avenue of somnolent pines that whisper secrets to the wayfarer. Then the road turns to the right and a bosky dell, emblazoned with myriads of flowers—pink, white, gold—awaits to give welcome. To the left is a velvety green hillside, dotted with tiny star-blossoms; carpeted in golden-eyed daisies; cloaked in fern and bracken; crowned with magnificent trees, beneath which sunbeam elves and shade fairies engage in hide-and-seek, or join in divine medley dance! It is all so beautiful! Go see it for yourself … talk it … write it … broadcast it … something to be proud of, to tell the world!—H.C.
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The correct pronunciation of Maori names is often a difficult task for well educated New Zealanders, so that one can sympathetically appreciate the attempts of overseas visitors to read the names of railway stations as the trains flash by them. It occurred on an express journey from Wellington to Auckland. Recent arrivals from England were making vain attempts to pronounce some of the names that identify King Country stations. The lady of the party was persistent in her efforts, and no doubt she felt rewarded when Oio was reached. “That's much better,” as she proudly read, “Nought one nought.” No one had the heart to correct her.—J.C.R.
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Blessings on the week-end train! If I were a poet I would sing its praises in honey-dropping words. On every other day of the week it may be an old dragon roaring through the country, but now behold the change! Our dragon is transformed into a kindly beneficent giant who will carry us willingly wheresoever we wish to go, not scorning the tiniest little place, rather, indeed, encouraging us to step off there and not showing too great a hurry to pass on, as if to say: “You know, all the rest of the week I've got to tear through here—got to reach the big places on time—you understand; but every day I go roaring past I say to myself, ‘Come at the week-end, I'll take my time and stop at all the little stations, with their green paddocks in the distance or their sunny beaches and the kiddies playing about.’” And so he does, going along by the sunny, shimmering bays, and stopping everywhere to let happy people escape for one whole day from the noise of the city. At the end of the day he takes us back again, and a fine thing it is to sit in the corner behind the door and watch and listen. “Thank you for the lovely day” we hear, and then the warm reply, “Come again soon.” We slide out of the station, and in come our passengers, their arms laden with daffodils or violets, jonquils, willow, japonica, poppies, or anemonies, and as if that were not riches enough the air is filled with the scent of daphne or boronia. The eyes of the passengers are shining and happy, still seeing pictures of the green, lovely countryside. The children chatter of boats and lambs and horses. The rack above our heads is a kaleidoscope of colour, and some times Dad pushes a mysterious sugar bag under the seat and we know that family has been visiting the “old folks” on the farm and have not come empty away. Yes, blessings on the old monster who, for one day in seven, allows us to inherit the earth.—E.K.
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Some interesting references to New Zealand are contained in Lord Snowden's recently published Autobiography —especially his tribute to Rotorua as a health resort. At the time of his arrival in New Zealand, Lord Snowden was still suffering from the effects of ptomaine poisoning, contracted in the United States. He went to Rotorua to recuperate, and stated that three days in this place made him a new man.
Here we are again, Trainlanders!
Lately I have been travelling up and down Trainland seeing more new and interesting places and faces.
Now I am going to tell you about a number of children I met in Auckland who have never seen a train.
Can you guess who they are? Yes, the children in the Institute for the Blind. The school-bell clangs, and in from the swings and the see-saws in the playground they come. They scarcely need to feel their way about as they are so used to the run of the buildings, and they laugh and chatter away to one another. In addition to the usual school routine they learn typewriting, which they think is good fun. On the mantelpiece are stuffed rabbits and birds, so that they can feel what animals and birds are like. The blind children learn by touch, and they knit and make many useful articles from various materials. They love singing, and some of them play the piano and violin very well. Are they downhearted? Not a bit. Many of them do not know what it is to have sight, and therefore do not miss it. They join in all the fun that's going, and have their own tea parties, go for walks, and in the warmer weather they have picnics, go swimming, riding, fishing, and join in various sports. They also have their own little jokes! Such as apple-pieing one another's beds. Their beds are in a dormitory which they keep tidy themselves and which look pictures of neatness with pot plants, pretty mats and lockers in which to keep their treasures. One little boy showed me his football in his locker. On the top shelf was his best tie and hanky with his initial worked in the corner. He was very proud of that initial, which he could feel all silky and bumpy as he pressed it to his cheek.
The girls over twenty-one have rooms to themselves, each one expressing her individuality in her furnishings and dainty embroidered pillowslip, an eiderdown, and attractive pictures for her visitors to look at. Each one has in her room a comfy mat, an easy chair, and a dressing table on which are flowers, powder boxes, and little trinkets which every girl collects. As a rule these older girls spend their evenings in their sitting-room around the cheery fire, typing, playing the gramophone, or doing fancy work. The children have a playroom where they keep their precious toy trains. They run their fingers all over them and guess what real ones look like. When they return to their homes for the Christmas holidays the train-drivers, before the journey starts, let them touch the real engine to know what kind of material it is made of, and so with the feel, the exciting noises, the hissing of the steam and the smell of smoke, they get fairly accurate conceptions of what a train is like.
Mr. Clutha MacKenzie, the blind Director of the Institute, showed me one of the watches which most of the adult blind people carry with them. There are two pearl dots at the quarter hours and one at the full hour, and the hands are raised so that the time can be felt. Mr. MacKenzie also showed me a Braille-writer, which is quite small, about eight inches long, with three keys at each end. Writing in Braille is really a shorthand system, the words being abbreviated. There are only six dots and over two hundred and forty signs to be memorised!
The blind director took a stout sheet of buff paper, and with the Braillewriter he punched out my name and a greeting which was a row of puzzling looking raised dots. As you can guess I am very proud of my piece of Braille.
Returning to Wellington in the train I felt very, very grateful not to have my eyes clouded like those of the blind, so that I could see all the beauties unfolding from the carriage window. Greetings to you all.
Did you know that many of the weeping willows on the banks of the beautiful Avon River in Christchurch have grown from willow slips taken from Napoleon's grave on the island of St. Helena?
Over a hundred years ago when the sailing ships came to New Zealand from England they called in at St. Helena to get water supplies for the long voyage across the Southern Ocean. While the ships lay at anchor most of the pioneers visited the famous grave. Some of the willow slips were kept alive during the voyage by being stuck into potatoes.
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For some months past the Railways have been trying out a new form of matting in several of the Main Trunk Express cars. These mats are a New Zealand product of a link design, and any dirt is caught in the interstices of the mat, making it almost impossible for it to be tramped or blown through the carriages.
The matting is soft and silent to walk upon, and in those cars where it has been tried it has been favourably commented upon by people walking through the carriages.
The Victorian Railways have used these mats for a number of years, with complete satisfaction, and it will be interesting to hear the further comments of New Zealand railwaymen and railway passengers on the greater cleanliness of travelling which it is considered this matting now makes possible.