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The New Zealand Railways Magazine is on sale through the principal book-sellers, 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.
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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.
25/3/35
The death has occurred of Mr. A. T. Ennis, who until 1924 was Chief Clerk at the Head Office of the Railways Department. The late Mr. Ennis had a long and honourable career in the Railway Service. He joined the Department in 1883 as a cadet at Invercargill. Seven years later he became relieving officer in that district. being subsequently appointed to various positions as Stationmaster, Traffic Inspector, and Traffic Clerk in the principal South Island railway districts. In 1918 Mr. Ennis was promoted to Chief Clerk in the District Traffic Manager's Office. Wellington, and in 1920 became Chief Clerk at Head Office, Wellington, a position he held until retirement on superannuation in 1924.
The General Manager of Railways, Mr. G. H. Mackley, in a personal tribute, remarked upon the large number of railway officers who had benefited in the course of their service through training under the guidance of the late Mr. Ennis. “Speaking personally,” said Mr. Mackley, “I must acknowledge having gained much in the early days of my association with the Department through the guidance of the late Mr. Ennis in those principles of rall-reading which lie at the root of efficiency in railway matters. Mr. Ennis always brought out the best qualities of those who passed through his hands. A strict disciplinarian, he yet was very human and had a warm regard for all who came within the circle of his friendship. He won the respect of all with whom he had dealings either within the Department or amongst those of the public with whom his business activities brought him in contact. He was an assiduous worker and through critical years of railway development helped in establishing those principles and methods of promptness in the dispatch of business, care for the welfare of the Department's customers and employees, consideration of the public safety, and thoroughness in the performance of duties, which have become a valuable tradition of the service. Every railwayman who had the good fortune of association with the late Mr. Ennis in his work for the Department will, I am sure, concur with me in this tribute to the memory of one of the Dominion's great railwaymen.”
A fine tribute to the skill of the designing officers of the New Zealand Railways has been paid by the H. H. Robertson Company in connection with the platform plans of the new Wellington Railway Station recently submitted to them. Robertson's Protected Metal forms a vital portion of the platform shelters. R.P.M. has been used in overseas countries for more than thirty years and in New Zealand for the past twelve or fourteen years.
Referring to the platform plans the Robertson Company states:—
“This is a very handsome project and incidentally we might say that we like the New Zealand Government Railway Engineer's design for these shelters very much.
“We have supplied R.P.M. sheeting for dozens and dozens of platform shelters in many countries; we are currently doing some for railways in India and will shortly be executing a very large order (about twice the size of this Wellington Station) in Holland, and we have quite a collection of drawings of platform shelter designs. We have seen none that we like better than the Wellington Station.”
The H. H. Robertson Company have been supplying R.P.M. for similar projects for a great number of years and are therefore with this experience in a position to comment.
(Rly. Publicity photo)
To praise “The finest walk in the World” (from Te Anau to Milford Sound via the Clinton Valley, McKinnon Pass, and Arthur River) is to paint the lily. Mountain and forest scenery, trans and lakes, cliff's and canyons—all these and many other beauties charm the traveller. From the native bush, with its bush birds, the track ascends to 3,400 feet, and at the “drop scene “near the Pass there is a sheer fall of 1,800 feet to the Arthur Valley.
When we put the pointed question, “What do you like?”, to our readers last month—with special reference, of course, to the contents of, and possible improvements in, this Magazine—a good response was anticipated. That response has, however, far exceeded expectations, not only in the number of interested readers in all parts of the Dominion who have taken the trouble to write helpful, cheery, well-considered letters on the question, but also in the warmth of appreciation expressed towards the Magazine and the understanding revealed regarding its scope and objectives.
Even in so simple a matter as pease porridge, the bard of ancient times could find three groups of preference, as indicated in the trenchant line “Some like it hot, some like it cold, some like it in the pot, nine days old.” So it is clear that when we get among the moderns, with their infinite variety of interests, and consider a Magazine which includes both “New Zealand” and “Railways” in its title, the possible combinations of preference for contents are liable to strain, in variety and range, the capacity of Einstein's fourth dimension. In view of this, the consensus of opinion favouring the general trend of the Magazine is remarkably unanimous.
More replies are coming in daily from the ranks of our hundred thousand readers, but a survey of the correspondence to hand, so far, indicates general support of every feature at present appearing in the Magazine, with one or two marked preferences.
Railway features, notes on books and writers, lives of famous New Zealanders, Maori references, special New Zealand articles, and the sections of New Zealand verse and New Zealand life, are all strongly supported. Other features, having naturally a more sectional appeal (such as the pages for women, sport and humour) are ardently advocated by those interested, while the miscellany of short news references meets with the approval of a large proportion of those who have categorically expressed preferences. The illustrations, too, come in for much favourable comment.
There are also some very useful ideas presented, most of which can be tried out from time to time as the publication progresses.
One of the most pleasing remarks comes from a writer who set about the job of assessing values in a workmanlike way by surrounding himself with an array of the Magazines. After a friendly, critical analysis, “What I often wonder,” he writes, “is—who conceived the brilliant idea of a New Zealand Railways Magazine? It has been the greatest factor in developing a Railway-Sense amongst us I know of. Surely this idea is advertising at its zenith.”
The Magazine is fulfilling its purpose if it stimulates greater interest in New Zealand amongst New Zealanders, as no complete appreciation of this country can exclude an acknowledgment of the part the railways have played, and will continue to play, in making the country a better place to live in.
The friendly, cheerful outlook of our correspondents, their lively desire for more information regarding every part and aspect of the country, and their prolific fund of ideas for development, are all gratefully acknowledged. With so many reader supporters, with further evidence of satisfied advertisers, and with the daily increase recorded in the number of new subscribers, the signals are favourably set for the progress of the Magazine as well as for the wonderful country it has set out to feature.
Some interesting information has come to hand recently regarding special efforts made on some of the British railways to improve service and to increase business. Amongst these, perhaps the most notable are the institution of a “punctuality week,” and the preparation of a roster design with graphic figures to indicate from time to time the relative increase or decline of business at the respective stations on the system (the idea being to cheer up the successful and to stimulate the laggards to emulation).
It may not be generally known to the public that special attention to these two features, punctuality and business progress, is a constant objective on the railways of this country. Here, every week is a punctuality week. The running of every train every day is closely analysed, delays are investigated with a view to their elimination, and when serious difficulty is experienced in running a regular scheduled train to time, an inspecting officer of the Department concerned is sent to ride the train and solve the problem of its late running.
In the matter of business development at the respective stations, the Department's statistical service places in the hands of District Managers full particulars of variations in business secured; and comparison is made weekly, four-weekly, and with the corresponding returns in previous years. Explanations are required regarding all variations, and from the details supplied by all stations on the system the general movement of traffic is gauged, weak points are detected, and measures are taken to reinforce the efforts to hold and increase business all along the line.
These and other matters relating to the safety of the service, economy in its working and efficiency in its results are, of course, all part of the day's work. There is a saying, “look after the pence and the pounds will look after themselves.” Equally truly may it be said “look after the days and the years will look after themselves.” It is the daily application to the matter in hand which makes or mars the year's returns.
For the individual the same rule applies, and I can safely say this of every member of the service, that if he does his daily job to the best of his ability, he will follow the course most likely to secure satisfaction for himself and the material appreciation of the Department.
General Manager.
How the U.S.S. Coy. of N.Z. grew to be one of the World's Mightiest Fleets of Merchantmen.
The picture which decorates the title of the article portrays the new trans-Tasman steamer whose red funnels will be seen in our harbours late next year. This luxury liner is so far unnamed, but it represents the latest gesture of progress of the Union Steam Ship Company.
We have become accustomed in the Dominion to U.S.S. Company's service, but few New Zealanders appreciate the colossal nature of the achievement of those Dunedin pioneers who created it. Founded in the smallest of the four provincial capitals of the smallest of the Dominions of the British Empire, there has grown one of the greatest steamship lines in the world, ranking at wartime among the first half dozen of the world's mercantile fleets. It is a feat of such stupendous magnitude that it remains among the important phenomena of modern commercial history. Every New Zealander's heart should beat faster at the sight of the red funnel. It is the sign of a nobly conceived enterprise, faithfully brought to fruition, and crowned with world-wide success. Its title to world leadership in many directions is not to be lightly dismissed, and it was the work of our fellow countrymen.
The following pages tell the story, or as much of it as can be told in the time; but let it be remembered that the very glory of the annals of these adventures in steel and steam makes the task of doing them justice one of profound difficulty.
I Was talking to Jascha Heifitz, the great violinist, in a Wellington hotel bedroom when the telephone rang. His tone was most decided as he replied, and I learned that he was refusing to go to the South Island. I asked him his reason. “I will not go on a ferry crossing,” he said. “I have tried so many and have suffered so much and it is for me too unpleasant.” I found from him the name of the boat on which he had travelled here from Australia and explained that the “ferry” steamer was rather larger and just as comfortable. He looked at me as if I were trying to sell him a home-made fiddle as a “Strad,” but after searching enquiries, he made the trip. I saw him again on his return, and he said “Marvellous! the best in the world, that is all.”
The word “ferry” is the root cause of much of this misconception about our Cook Strait express steamer service, and New Zealanders who wish their country well should ban the expression.
Heifitz did not exaggerate. Nowhere in the world is there a trio of ships of the standard of the “Rangatira,” the “Wahine” and the “Tamahine” making express crossings. They leave and arrive with the regularity and punctuality of the Paris “Metro.”
The “Rangatira” is the latest of them and is a six thousand ton turbo electric liner. The cabins have their own bathrooms and luxurious beds. There is a reading lamp over every pillow in every cabin on the ship and there are splendid lounges, smoking rooms and vestibules. The consort is the aptly named “Wahine,” 4,436 tons, a triple screw turbine steamer, also beautifully equipped. These ships have a speed of twenty-two knots. They slip in and out of Wellington and Lyttelton harbours like motor launches, and any dilatory reveller who is saying “just one more word” will find that 7.45 p.m. on the departure announcement does not mean 7.46 p.m. At 7.48 p.m. at Wellington the stern of the “Big Green Beauty” is roaring past the wharf-end at railway speed, and in five more minutes the porthole lights are moving jewels flashing past Point Jerningham. Then there is the flying “Tamahine,” a well-appointed ocean greyhound of two thousand tons which has brought the wonderful Marlborough Sounds to within an hour and a half of open water from Wellington.
These boats handle the crowds that move between the two islands with ease and expedition and the connecting time-tables are a record of ingenuity and efficiency. You can leave Wellington after dinner on Monday evening and dine in Dunedin or Queenstown on Tuesday. You can leave Napier or New Plymouth on Monday morning and reach Invercargill—more than 700 miles by rail and sea—for supper on Tuesday evening.
The two big boats constitute a night bridge between the two islands on which you sleep your way over in sheer comfort.
The Company is also largely responsible for the fine service across the Bass Strait, of which the leading ship is the magnificent modern ship, “Taroona.”
However, the U.S.S. Company goes far abroad. Its ships “Sail the Seven
Our illustrations also show the “Monowai,” another 11,000 ton vessel whose luxury cruises have carried thousands to the glorious fiords and sounds of our delectable country.
To-day the U.S.S. Company's fleet, with the “Aorangi” and the “Niagara,” totals forty-two vessels with a tonnage of over 175,000. Since its start, with replacements and losses it has handled a tonnage of half a million. This is not the end of the story, however, for the Company's subsidiary interests are widespread. It owns the Grand Pacific Hotel at Suva, known to the uttermost ends of the earth; it owns its ship repair works, and runs the Wellington Patent Slip; it has coaling plant, oil tanks and laundries, and now the air service across Cook Strait is to have its assistance. The towering fourteen storey office building in Sydney, the perfection of whose design is well-known in the architectural world, is one of a chain of fine buildings in the Dominion and the Commonwealth. The Head Office building shown in our picture is in our own capital city.
The new boat for the Tasman crossing has not yet been named. She will, as has always been the case with each, successive major ship built by this Company, be the “last word.” She will be approximately 14,000 tons with an expected speed of twenty-three knots, reducing the journey to Sydney to two and a half days. No single item of luxury that can be conjured by the imagination of the most exacting globe-trotter will be missing. Inter-telephone communication, up-to-date talkie plant, cabins with private bathrooms, men's and women's clubrooms, a gymnasium and ornate lounges, verandah cafes and dance rooms will adorn her. The staterooms will be furnished exactly on the lines of a good bedroom in the best type of modern hotel.
That is a little about the present day structure of the fleet.
It is an imposing edifice, this U.S.S. Company. It is almost unbelievable that it was planned in our own small country by our own folk, that it grew to its present proportions solely through the efforts, the energy, and the brains of our own countrymen.
Always, in a large scale achievement of this kind, there has been one dominating personality. There was no question or doubt as to whom I should look for, and I was afforded the privilege of a talk with Sir James Mills. He is approaching his eighty-eighth year. In spite of three generations of strenuous endeavour, the years have been kind to him. He is alert and kindly and his talk is lit with the best and driest of humour. He is still Chairman of the Board, and thus his leadership of the Company spans the whole period of its existence, a phenomenal record of sixty years' service. His biography would be the full history of steam navigation in these Southern Seas.
No tribute in words can be made to the qualities of the man who makes great dreams become realities, and the very magnitude of this feat of truly British enterprise takes it outside the pictorial possibilities of cold print.
On Sunday, 16th April, 1848, the Revd. Thomas Burns preached his first Presbyterian sermon in Dunedin. Approximately two hundred and fifty souls had arrived in the first two ships. I have always had a respect for the Scotch preacher since I bought on one journey to Invercargill six pennyworth of peppermints. I got a small sugar bag full of large, comfortable white mints, about the size of draughts, and learned that they were for use during the preacher's remarks. This sermon must have been particularly good for it started great things. In twelve yearse' time, the University of Otago was founded, and in the next couple of decades, Dunedin citizens commenced a series of business enterprises which were destined to spread through the whole of the Dominion and many of them over the wide world. The well-known Scotch mixture, compounded of daring and caution, of liking for profit and love for culture, of foresight and swift action, has been a dominating force in the progress of New Zealand. One of these days, some historian of Gaelic ancestry will write with zest and accuracy, the extraordinary history of Dunedin leadership. No other of our cities has an answering case. I would like him not to overlook the fact that the first Dunedin Jockey Club Handicap was run there in 1863, two years before the first New Zealand Cup.
Very easily the greatest enterprise emanating from the “Edinburgh of the South” was, however, the U.S.S. Company.
Mr. John Jones had, since 1861, been interested in the “Golden Age” and other small steamers engaged in cargo and passenger traffic between Dunedin and far-away Port Chalmers. He died in 1869 and the young man, Mr. James Mills, who had been his manager, was forced to deal with the problem of disposing of his interests. Subsequently, in association with Mr. Darling, the Harbour Steamship Company was formed, and the two ambitious owners aspired to stretch out along the coast as far as Timaru and Lyttelton. They bought the “Maori.” and then Mr. Darling was sent Home on a still larger project. This was to build the “Bruce,” of no less than 335 tons. Mr. Mills in the meantime had endeavoured to float a company to undertake the long journey to Auckland, but times were bad and money scarce. However, he tried again, and armed with a few thousands and encouraged by Mr. Darling, then still in
On the return of Mr. Mills to Dunedin, the various ownerships were combined, the name “Union Steam Ship Company” was born, and the certificate of incorporation was issued on 12th July, 1875.
In one of our illustrations, we show the “First Four Ships.” There they are, none of them much larger than a harbour tug. They tell their own story.
One misconception should be at once removed. Even where there is some knowledge of the wonder of the U.S.S. Company's development, it is often believed that theirs was an easily obtained leadership, achieved against little competition after a bloodless struggle. The facts are far different.
A screw steamer, the “Queen,” had steamed up to the Dunedin jetty in 1858. She was in the Wellington-Dunedin trade, and I have a record of her excursion trip to the Christchurch races in March of that year. The fare was £5 cabin, single; steerage, £3/10/-, but the return fares offered a substantial reduction to £8/8/- and £5/10- respectively. Quite palatial boats, the “Pirate” (built regardless of expense for the Liverpool-Glasgow trade and costing her Australian owners £15,000), and the “Geelong” were trading to Oamaru and other distant ports in 1859. Then there was the famous “City of Dunedin,” who mysteriously disappeared with all hands on a trip to Hokitika in 1865. In the North, both at Wellington and Auckland, companies were formed. In 1859, the Wellington “Independent” of 18th February, says: “Wellington presents a more than usual bustling, gay appearance, there being no less than four steamers, three ships, three barques, two brigs, six brigantines, and nine schooners at anchor in the harbour.”
Wellington was proud of having the first lighthouse in New Zealand, and it became the centre of the long, desultory warfare in shipping that struggled on for many years. The Wellington Steam Navigation Company, the New Zealand Steam Navigation Company, and many Australian Companies were not only fighting for the trade to Australia but for the coastal business as well. There were also endless hostilities arising from mail contracts and subsidies. Naturally, also, the enormous business interests of the continent of America cast eyes on the shipping trade to Australia and New Zealand, and there began, in 1870, the “Thirty-eight Years' War” with time and distance over the San Francisco mail service.
Through all this rough and tumble of ceaseless struggle, one company steadfastly held its course. The little Dunedin venture, overlooked in the early part of the combat between the Titans, kept on growing. Its movement was in an accelerating progression, each new boat a definite advance on the last, each step considered before taken, but action following swiftly upon decision.
In 1883, the U.S.S. Company had 24 ships of a total tonnage of 24,216. After a pause, the next great move was made. The San Francisco mail service was undertaken in conjunction with the American “Oceanic” Company. This was carried on with regularity and efficiency until the acquisition of Honolulu gave the U.S.A.
The next years are records of steady growth, invincibility against attack, and, above all, a genius for adopting revolutionary improvements in mechanical and shipping design. In 1913 the fleet consisted of the vast total of 75 vessels with an aggregate tonnage of 232,147.
The outbreak of the Great War, filling the world with smoke and bloodshed, brought all commercial progress to a trembling standstill. But it demonstrated the tremendous value to the Empire of our great carrying organisation and its vast fleet. Union Company boats took over 60,000 New Zealanders to the front, and 45,000 other troops. The two hospital ships, the “Marama” and the “Maheno,” carried 47,000 wounded and sick soldiers. At one time, no less than eighteen vessels aggregating one hundred thousand tons were in the service of the Empire, and U.S.S. ships steamed altogether three million miles in military duty. One great passenger steamer of fifteen thousand tons was transformed into a cruiser, the “H.M.S. Avenger,” only to fall to an enemy torpedo. During the War, the Company's losses were ten ships, eight of them due to direct enemy action.
The world over, golden opinions were expressed as to the assistance rendered by this New Zealand institution, but perhaps this note from the Defence Expenditure Commission of 1918 is the best human tribute of all; “The bargain of transport vessels is the most favourable that can be learned of anywhere.”
It is a proud record. I will say at once that I regard the marvel of its growth, the sureness of its progress, its steady and certain defeat of competitive attack, all to the fact that one great man was at the helm.
His courage may be seen from the collection of facts which, for clarity's sake I am enumerating. It is a record that will live for ever in mercantile history and is unique in the world's history of navigation.
The U.S.S. Company, among all the fleets of the world had
1. The first ocean-going merchant ship built of steel.
2. The first ship with bilge keels.
3. The first steamer lit throughout with incandescent electric light.
4. The first steamer steered by hydraulic machinery.
5. The first ocean-going turbine vessel.
6. The first passenger vessel to use oil under Board of Trade certificate.
7. The first large passenger boat driven by motor engines.
It is colossal. All these innovations, regarded as daring at the time, are to-day world-wide practice. It is a new thing in the story of commercial undertakings.
It means that not only had Sir James Mills supreme ability and initiative genius, but that he had selected and surrounded himself with a general staff of great men.
Here again the principle of continuity arrives. That great Scot, Sir George McLean, was Chairman of the Board for its first thirty years. Sir Charles Holdsworth joined the Company in 1885, and even then had much experience in shipping management.
The jubilee of the company in 1925 was a revelation as a parade of veterans. Joining the Union Company seemed to have earned a ticket to longevity. Men who had started before 1880 were there in plenty.
Let us consider what these dates mean in a new country such as this.
When the Company was formed Dunedin was approximately the size of Timaru. Sir George McLean, though he had won the Dunedin Cup in 1868, with Lady Emma, had been Chairman of the Board for ten years before Carbine was born. Dunedin, when the Company was incorporated, had been a borough (the first in New Zealand) for only ten years, but its gas lights in the streets were two years older.
(Continued on page 16.)
The magic of the sea makes everything different that it touches, somehow, and that difference is intrinsic even in the commercial enterprises that work upon its waters.
The U.S.S. Company's history, is, after all, the history of the men who made it, men who dealt with the things of the sea. It is their qualities that defied the storms that beset them. It is their human attributes that created this world-ranking achievement.
This far-away land, as I have said so often before, is strangely like our Homeland in its constituents of soil and cloud and sky and its sea-girt contours. We should be proud that here the maritime tradition that is our rightful heritage should have had such tried and true knights-errant.
It would have been of no avail, either, if it had been merely a matter of keen brains. The U.S.S. Company present the miracle of sea and shore forces working amicably. The heads of this enterprise were good, but so were their hearts. I do not suppose, in the history of business gatherings, there has been such a spontaneous exhibition of brotherly warmth and the rich fellowship of service as was given at the Company's Jubilee in 1925.
This month is the Company's Diamond Jubilee. The good work has continued. The Union Company remains a distinctive New Zealand achievement, officered and administered by New Zealanders, and made by New Zealanders. We show the picture of the present Board. Under the wise counsel of Colonel Falla, the present Managing Director, the great tradition of this great fleet will be nobly maintained.
May I, as a concluding word, pay a tribute to the efficiency of the passenger and publicity department whose help in my search for records was given readily and, it seemed, without once being defeated in finding an answer to any question, however obscure.
The U.S.S. Company, in its essence, in the personality of its great founder and the unswerving loyalty of its people, simply remains a reminder that we, in these distant islands, can be mindful of the land from which we came.
The title of Richard John Seddon to permanent fame in New Zealand and the British Empire rests in the first place on his pioneer work in liberal and humanitarian legislation, and in the second on his vigorous development of the Imperial sentiment. More intellectual men than he occupied the position of Premier of the Colony that is now a Dominion but none so forceful and dominating in character. In his thirteen years of office as head of the Government he overshadowed all others; he was the uncrowned king of the country, the popular hero of the democracy. Like every strong man he had many enemies, but many more friends. He has been described as the most autocratic of democrats. His leadership in experimental Socialistic legislation attracted the attention of statesmen and writers in the outside world; his fervent advocacy of close relations with Britain and the despatch of New Zealand Contingents to the war in South Africa made him a most popular figure in England. In this character sketch by one who knew him well, party politics are touched upon but lightly; the writer endeavours to give a personal study of a great builder of New Zealand who is held in affectionate remembrance for his courage, his championship of the people's rights, and his devotion to the cause of a united Empire.
When we think of R. J. Seddon we think first of the West Coast, the Golden Coast. It was there that the twenty-one-year-old Seddon set foot on New Zealand soil in 1866. He came from Victoria, but he was not many years out from his native Lancashire; the accent of his birthland was strong on his tongue all his life. It was the rough-carved, bold, manly life of gold-digging Westland that developed his spirit of enterprise and resourcefulness, vigour and self-reliance as it developed his burly frame. The first great rush of diggers was over, but the Coast was still a scene of amazing strident treasure-hunting activity, and Mr. Seddon had a taste of almost every phase of industry there. His name is associated most of all with the gold-sluicing township of Kumara; there he went into business, made his weight felt—very literally sometimes—in local affairs; he mastered the ways and laws of the goldmining industry, and raised a young family.
The West Coast made Seddon, not as a man of wealth as it had many others, but as a bold, confident young man of affairs and presently as member of Parliament. And once he entered Parliament—he was returned as member for the district in 1879—he never looked back. The crude excitements of local politics developed into the Parliamentary fever that never left him. He was captured by the newly-born Liberal ideas and the personal enchantment of that great and enigmatic figure Sir George Grey.
He won his way in politics by force of character, the rugged power and the straight speech that close contact with the fearless men of the Golden Coast had developed in him. His opportunity came when John Ballance became Premier, on the rising tide of legislation for “the masses.” Seddon became Minister for Public Works, Mines and Defence. Thus the strong man from the half-tamed West Coast put on the yoke of office from which only death was to release him—the death that came upon him at sea in 1906 after a health tour in Australia that became a kind of triumphal march.
It was soon after John Ballance's death in 1893 that I first saw Dick Seddon. Every New Zealander from North Auckland to Stewart Island soon dropped the “Mr. Seddon.” The more his fame grew, the more affectionately familiar did the populace become, as is the way with great men. It was “Dick,” “Old Dick,” “Good old Dick,” with the crowd; there were those who used less friendly terms, but they were in the minority. In the newspaper world, we soon came to see a good deal of the new Premier, and his spirit of unaffected friendship and his vigour of speech went a long way to win our hearts. He was still a good deal of a rough diamond, but a jewel in the rough is no less a jewel. I for one developed a great admiration for the Premier's downright character. I frequently travelled with his party in the course of my always-varying duty as “Auckland Star” reporter. I think it was Seddon who set the fashion of speech-making tours throughout the land, by way of meeting the people—he soon came to call them “my people,” with a majestic wave of the hand. At any rate it was he who developed that trick of travel until those tours of his became triumphal processions. They became indeed royal tours. There were glorious days, and more glorious nights (often prolonged into the morning!) at Huntly, or Waihi, or Hawera, when the Premier's train landed him there, often with the local brass band to meet the Ministerial party at the station.
Interlude—a royal visit now and again to “my Maori people”; scene, King Mahuta's kainga at Waahi, on the Waikato, on the opposite side of the river to Huntly. Mahuta usually sent his beautiful war-canoe, the Taheretikitiki, as a royal barge, manned by a score or so of bare-backed paddlers, to ferry the “Pirimia” and his party down-stream from Huntly to the meeting-place. (One of our illustrations shows the Premier and party in the big canoe, in 1898). “Timi Kara,” otherwise James Carroll (he was not Sir James then) always accompanied his chief in his capacity of Native Minister. All the village played carnival that day; flags of Kingite designs were flying; Maori brass bands blaring away, all the aristocratic dames of Waikato beckoning us to them, undulating their pleasing forms in the ancient dance of welcome as they retired gracefully before us to the green marae. Timi Kara himself would take a stone mere or a taiaha or a paddle from the nearest Maori, and go through a stately dance of greeting in return, preceding his portly belltoppered and frockcoated Chief. Haere mai, haere mai, haere mail—and everyone delightfully noisy and merry; and then the dignified elders to greet each other, King saluting King, on the parade-ground, the speechmaking arena under the shining sun.
Those meetings with Waikato—they were invariably the same. The Maoris wished to discuss land grievances, and the Treaty of Waitangi. The Premier never wished to commit the Government to anything tangible. He was a perfect master of the art of oratorical bluff. “Now, my dear Maori people,” he would say, “all this will be looked into, and I must give you a word of advice in conclusion, because of my great love for my Maori people. Be industrious, set to work, farm your land, grow a lot of wheat as your fathers and grandfathers did before you. Keep away from the public-houses, do not gamble, do not go to the races and waste your money like the foolish pakeha. Do not forget what I say for I have great affection for my Maori people and I do not want them to become spoiled by bad pakehas. And now, I must run away, for my train is waiting for me to take me to the great city where we make all the laws for your good. Good-bye, and God bless you!”
And, so, the procession was reformed to the royal canoe; and Haere ra!
They were perfectly joyful interludes, those koreros on Waikato-side.
Mahuta and his people perfectly understood the Premier. They sat politely silent, while he dished them out grandmotherly advice and in return they dished out a bountiful feast whenever they could induce him to stay. They liked the big man; they admired his commanding form, his belltoppered leonine head; they liked his booming voice. And when he died, they composed the most eloquent and touching songs of lamentation for him. A Waikato farewell to the dead “Hetana” which I give at the end of this article is the most poetic piece of blended mourning and philosophy that I have ever read from a Maori tribe, a tribute that far transcends anything from the prosaic pakeha.
But leave the Kainga and survey the man and his methods in the Legislature, and his masterful and victorious career. Seddon was a blend of many qualities, many virtues and many faults and foibles. I think he can be described with truth, as chivalrous, generous, tyrannical, downright, diplomatic, perfectly unscrupulous, fair-dealing; he could play the bully, he was full of human sympathy and prejudices; he was capable of dissimulation for political ends, he was as straight as one of his West Coast kahikatea trees. All those contradictory qualities he displayed; he was a strange mixture of incongruities. But one thing shone out above all others, his supreme courage. He feared no man or body of men. Once he had made up his mind on a desirable course he would push on with it no matter who came in his way. He could be ruthless to his political opponents; he was often over-generous to his friends. “Spoils to the victors” was sometimes said to have been one of his working principles. But perhaps he was in that no worse than his opponents. It is not in human nature to be unmindful of those who have helped you to victory. One thing he lacked, and that was a sense of humour. He was without sense of proportion; he made a great fuss about non-essentials. We who knew and liked him often wished he would develop those saving qualities and make an end to a speech before he said something supremely ridiculous.
One of Seddon's most admirable traits of character was his unwavering loyalty to old friends. We all know how his beloved West Coast adored him. He never forgot the old-timers of Westland. A veteran friend of mine in Wellington, Jack Caldwell, a good old digger who had made money and lost it, was in his declining years manfully holding a job as messenger in a Government department. He told me that one morning he went to the Wellington Hospital to visit an old mining mate who was dying. When he went to his friend's beside Dick Seddon was sitting there. He was holding the dying man's hand, and tears were running down his checks. Jack Caldwell sat on the other side, and there the three old Coasters wept unashamed; their last meeting. They were united, Premier, messenger, and dying miner, by the spirit of pure and generous mateship, memories of other days, the comradely fidelity that is better than gold.
Seddon's popularity was at its pinnacle, perhaps, just at the beginning of the present century when the Boer War was attracting all the foot-loose young and adventurous from New Zealand, as from Australia and Canada. That period was marked by an enthusiastic wave of military life. Not even the Great War in its early stages aroused more eagerness to enlist for foreign parts than the Boer War did. A perfect war for these oversea countries; we had the kind of men that the conditions of South Africa needed most. And Mr. Seddon made the very most of it. He leathered the big drum of Imperialism for all it was worth; he was the perfect recruiting
In Dr. W. P. Morrell's new book, “New Zealand,” one of a series of world historical studies, the young New Zealand scholar—he is Reader in History in the University of London—makes shrewd comment on Seddon's complete domination of his party, “not altogether to its own good.” No democratic leader ever excelled him in making it appear to the people that he was indeed one of themselves, and thought as they did. How true this remark is, many a contemporary of Seddon can testify to-day. He is accused by Morrell of a propensity for breaking with clever young men. W. P. Reeves is evidently in mind. But Seddon did not actually break with Reeves. He simply translated him to London, which I believe was well to Reeves' taste by that time.
The Seddon manifestos, which were rather numerous, trumpeted forth the cardinal aims of his Government. He proclaimed that in his view Government should provide conditions which would reduce want and permit the very largest possible number of its people to be healthy, happy human beings. “The life, the health, the intelligence and the morals of a nation,” to quote his last manifesto, “count far more than riches, and I would rather have this country free from want and squalor and unemployed than the home of multi-millionaires.” That summed up very well the excellent ideals of the man who was more truly the leadel of the people than any politician who preceded or succeeded him.
The law-making of the Seddon period was well described as adventurous legislation. One Labour law after another, one Socialistic measure after another, were passed in rapid succession. Seddon and his colleagues carried on and amplified John Ballance's programme of legislation regulating hours of labour, the conduct of factories and shops, the regulation in fact of every department of industry.
Labour was liberated and enthroned, greatly to the disgust of very many employers. Industrial Conciliation and Arbitration was provided for as a means of settling disputes. Women were enfranchised; old age pensions were established; advances to settlers were instituted (on the initiative of Sir Joseph Ward), and various other measures all making for the betterment of social conditions were placed on the Statute book. These measures attracted a great amount of attention in the outside world, and publicists from Britain, Europe and America visited the Colony to study its wonderful essays in experimental Socialism. There were naturally loud complaints from those with whose interests the new brand of legislation conflicted. But as a historian has expressed it, Seddon held New Zealand in the hollow of his hand until the last. He had for better or for worse captured the country. He was the big voice, and that voice was heard with apparently undiminished vigour until the giant frame suddenly collapsed and he died at only sixty-one.
Sir John McKenzie, his most stalwart supporter and the breaker-up of big estates in an almost ruthless manner, wore himself out like Seddon, and as Ballance had done before him. Sir Joseph Ward, his successor, similarly followed the fatal lure of militant politics until his health broke down, and still he held to office and what he considered the call of duty.
It was fortunate for Mr. Seddon and his fellow-apostles of advanced legislation that for the greater part of the Liberal regime the country was in a prosperous condition. Economic conditions had improved steadily since the freezing process for export of dairy produce and meat had been developed satisfactorily. Markets were good, land was being settled rapidly and a fleet of large steamers of the latest design for carrying refrigerated cargoes was engaged in the trade to England.
The end of the Nineties was high-water mark for the products of the land. There had been hard times, but Seddon was never faced with a period of heavy economic pressure and a huge unemployment problem. What a Seddon would do to-day if he were with us makes a tempting subject for speculation. I shall leave it to others to debate.
A New Zealand historian (Miss N. E. Coad) has summed up the great Premier's work and efforts in these words: “He was indeed the poor man's friend.” He could have no better epitaph.
Such a man could not but have a loyal and devoted family. Mrs. Seddon accompanied her husband on many of his long journeys, including two visits to England as guests of Royalty. Her serene, kindly nature was the needful foil to Seddon's often fiery character; a refuge from the continual strain and irritation of political life. Captain Richard Seddon—Dick the Second—served gallantly in two wars and fell in France. Mr. T. E. Y. Seddon followed his father as M.P. for Westland and held the seat for many years with an interlude of service as Captain in the Great War. Mary Stuart Seddon (Mrs. Hay) was her father's treasured helper for many years, and Mrs. Knox Gilmer (May Seddon), is a vigorous worker for charity and other amenities of Wellington life, and a fervent and eloquent advocate of native forest protection in the Dominion.
Never can I forget the thrilling and heart-touching Maori gathering in Parliament House on the morning of the burial in 1906. The tangi chants, the weeping for the beloved White Chief, the high wild calls of farewell, were a grief-cry from the primitive. But even more deeply poetic than those tangi voices was a written farewell from the high chiefs of Waikato, signed by the Hon. Mahuta, M.L.C., the old chief Patara te Tuhi, Henare Kaihau and others. This is a translation:
“… . We farewell him who has been taken away by the Great Creator to the pillow which will not fall, and to that bed which cannot be raised. Alas! Alas! Our grief and pain overwhelm us. Depart, oh the mooring-post of the canoes of the two races. Depart the mighty totara tree of the forest, felled by the axe of Death the irresistible; death the swallower of greenstone treasures… . Death is the great King of this earth; it comes in many forms; it has all power, and none can disregard its voice, be he ever so great or so small. We, your people, lament. The heavens, too, have cried out; the storms arose, the lightning flashed, the thunder rolled across the sky; the soft wind of the crying of the earth was heard; the great stormy wind passed through the forest. The other trees are sad, the cry, they suffer and groan with pain. Afterwards the people know of the death; and there is nothing greater than death… .
“A man imagines he will continue for ever in the world, but he dies. The world thinks it rules itself, but when an earthquake shatters it, that is its form of Death. In like manner the waters think they have dominion, but when they dry up that is their Death. Stones rejoice in their hardness, and consider they cannot be broken up, but when they are shattered their death is accomplished. Death in its various forms rules everything and cannot be averted… . But the results of our parent's work, the great treasure left by him, the result of his life's labours in this world, will not be lost and will ever be remembered by succeeding generations. Heaven and earth may pass away, but good works shall never pass away—they live for ever.”
Advertising for one of the week-end excursions from Wellington to Waitomo (313 miles)recently, had to be stopped some days earlier than usual beacuse bookings indicated that the limit of motor accommadation (300)had been reached, at the Waitomo end, between Hangatiki station and the Caves (7 miles).
A very convenient time-table which enabled the complete trip to be made without loss of business time and without accommodation costs, and the provision of first-class carriages and a low combined rail and motor fare, with effective advertising, all contributed to this happy issue. The Department was quick to announce that a further excursion would be run at an early date, thus satisfying those who did not book early enough to be included in the first excursion.
Bright and early the other morning an old Maori woman, wearing a man's battered felt hat and a brightly coloured shawl was seated on the steps of a warehouse in Customs Street, Auckland, calmly smoking a blackened clay pipe. Two smartly dressed laughing girls passed. Said one: “How happy that old thing looks!” “She's enjoying her after-breakfast pipe,” said the other. They seemed much amused. “I wonder,” said the first, “what kind of tobacco she smokes—must be something special, I should say.” “Let's go back and ask her,” said her friend, “just for fun.” So back they went and asked her. The old dame smiled, and said “Cut Plug No. 10,” adding that she always smoked it. It is one of the five famous toasted tobaccos: Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cavendish, River-head Gold and Desert Gold, and their rare flavour and delightful fragrance appeal to pakeha and Maori alike. And they have another outstanding merit—they are harmless! It's the toasting that eliminates the poisonous nicotine! But beware of worthless imitations!*
New world's records for steam-driven trains were created recently, when a special London and North Eastern Railway express, travelling from London (King's Cross) to Newcastle-on-Tyne and back, attained a speed of 108 miles an hour at one point on the return journey, this being the highest speed ever recorded for a steam-driven train. At the same time, a second record was established when the train travelled for more than twelve miles at an average speed of over 100 miles an hour, and covered more than 240 miles at an average speed of over 80 miles an hour.
We have previously referred in these Letters to the experiments which are being conducted by the Home railways in their effort to speed up passenger movement; to the doubts now existing in many official quarters regarding the future of main-line electrification; and to the likelihood of main-line passenger services in the years that lie ahead being operated by self-propelled units, such as the steam locomotive and Diesel engine. Favourably impressed by the working of the Diesel-engined train of the German railways, between Berlin and Hamburg, the London and North Eastern authorities some time ago approached the makers of the May-bach engine used on the “Flying Hamburger,” as this train is styled, and invited them to submit schedules which trains of a similar type could be expected to achieve over the L. & N.E. main-lines. In the case of London and Leeds, the answer was that a Maybach-engined train could perform the journey in 165 minutes, at an average speed of 67.6 miles per hour. For comparative purposes, a light steam train was then tested out over the same route, and this train actually performed the journey in 151 minutes in one direction, and 157 minutes in the other. The result of the London-Leeds trial led the Company to take the view that, under British conditions, better results can at present be obtained from the use of light units drawn by steam locomotives, than by Diesel-engined trains. With the idea of submitting this theory to a further test, the run from London to Newcastle-on-Tyne and back was arranged.
As time goes on, it is probable that several high-speed trains, operating on schedules considerably in advance of any at present existing, will be introduced on the L. & N.E.R. main-lines. First, however, there are important factors to be considered such as coal consumption; the effect of high speeds on the permanent-way; wear and tear of the locomotive; the possibilities of streamlining; and the disturbance involved to existing time-tables by the putting into service of exceptionally fast trains. Then, too, there is the question of the commercial justification for running trains at high speed at half the normal weight and of half the passenger capacity. Supplementary fares will probably be a necessary feature, and consideration must be given to the extent to which accelerated travel will attract additional business.
On the Great Western Railway, which at present operates the world's fastest daily passenger train—the “Cheltenham Flyer”—new speed bids are shortly to be made, following the streamlining which is being put in hand of several express locomotives. An engine of the “King” class, No.6014, “King Henry VII” is the first locomotive to be streamlined, and this is being followed by experiments of a similar type with engines of the well-known “Castle” class. In the case of the L. & N.E.R. record run, previously referred to, the locomotive (Pacific “Papyrus” No. 2750) was not streamlined, so that added interest thereby is being given to the Great Western venture.
Coincident with the streamlining experiments at Home, on the German railways a new 4-6-4 three-cylinder steam engine completely streamlined, has recently been put into service. This is intended to haul a 250-ton
Still following up locomotive news, we have to record the interesting move by the Southern Railway of christening a batch of new locomotives, known as the “Remembrance” class, after names of famous locomotive engineers of the past. Seven machines constitute the first group of this class, and they have been named respectively “Remembrance,” “Trevithick,” “Hack-worth,” “Stephenson,” “Cudworth,” “Beattie” and “Stroudley.” The three latter names are those of early engine-builders on the railways now embraced in the Southern group.
The production of the “Remembrance” class of locomotives involved the transformation of the 4-6-4 “Baltic” type of fast passenger tank engine, constructed for use on the London-Brighton route, but now rendered redundant owing to electrification. The alterations include the removal of the trailing bogie, coal bunker, water tanks, etc., the provision of a 5,000 gallon tender, the raising of the boiler pressure to 180 lbs. per square inch, and other minor reconstructions which make the machines of general utility, and bring them closely into line with the existing 4-6-0 “King Arthur” class locomotives. Total weight in working order of the “Remembrance” locomotive and tender is 130 tons 13 cwts. Tractive effort is 25,600 lbs.
Air conditioning of passenger carriages is being steadily developed in Europe. On the London Underground Railways special research is now being undertaken with the object of bettering air conditioning arrangements and reducing travel noise. For the purpose of the experiment, a typical passenger carriage has been taken, and all ventilators and windows sealed up. Air conditioning apparatus by Frigidaire Ltd., has been introduced, most of the plant being bolted to the under-frame.
Air is drawn from inside the car, to pass over the cooling coils of a refrigerator system located beneath the floor. This refrigerator consists of a compressor, condenser, and air-cooling coils, the compressor being driven by belt from a 3-h.p. motor. Leaving the refrigerator, the clean air passes up into a space between the outer shell of the car roof and the ceiling, from whence it is distributed into the interior. Unlike some systems of air-conditioning, where ammonia or similar media are employed, in the new London Underground plan the refrigerating fluid favoured is known as “Freon.”
An ambitious improvement scheme to facilitate the formation of passenger trains is being carried out by the Great Western Railway at Old Oak Common, the locomotive and carriage depot for Paddington Station, London. This depot handles some 2,000 passenger carriages daily, empty stock from incoming trains from the West of England, South Wales and the north, there being re-formed to provide the outgoing trains from Paddington. At present there are 101\2 miles of sidings at Old Oak Common. To these facilities there are to be added another 31\2 miles of track.
There will be seven reception tracks, each of twenty car capacity. Separate in and out tracks to and from Paddington at both ends of the yard are being provided, and there will be twenty 1,000 ft. long storage tracks under cover, in addition to accommodation in the open. The covered carriage depot will, in fact, be as large as Paddington Station itself. New central-heated offices and mess-rooms are being built for the staff, which numbers nearly 600. An automatic telephone exchange, with connections at more than seventy selected points throughout the depot, will be another feature. Britain possesses many commodious carriage depots, but the new establishment at Old Oak Common, London, will be the largest facility of this kind in the country, covering an area of more than 100 acres.
Reference has previously been made in these pages to the centenary which is this year being celebrated by the German Railways, and also to the fact that 1935 marks the one-hundredth anniversary of the opening of the Great Western Railway of England. In addition to these centenaries, we celebrate this year the hundredth birthday of the Belgian railways.
The first steam passenger train on the continent of Europe ran from Malines to Brussels on May 5, 1835.
Noel Devlin glanced in the bag he had packed; everything seemed to be there; it had been quick work. There was a grin on his handsome young face, and a jauntiness in his stride as he proceeded to his taxi, for by nightfall he would be far away from Dunedin, in the paradise, “thousands of feet above worry level,” the Hermitage, Mt. Cook.
The taxi stopped at his direction in front of Dr. Cain's residence; for the beautiful Donna Cain was coming too, with some of her girl friends. Strange the way Donna and Noel always happened to be at the same place— almost too often for coincidence.
As the taxi sped to the station, Noel glanced at Donna's profile while she busied herself with a puff and handbag. Aquiline nose—aristocratic. Firm delicate chin—determination. Luminous wide, blue eyes—affection. Broad forehead—intellect. Ensemble—divine. Thus Noel soliloquised. He determined it would not be long before Donna was his betrothed. He had been holding back because—well, it's rather an appalling responsibility, but, now his salary had been raised, there was no excuse. He would ask her during this week-end perhaps—in the romantic setting of the snow-clad mountains. Noel smiled with anticipation. Life was sweet.
Noel seemed bored with the rest of the party in the train. As soon as he saw Donna alone he sauntered up and murmured: “Donna, come with me.”
They were soon comfortable in a bird-cage which Noel had the foresight to reserve.
“Bright idea of yours, Noel,” she taunted.
“Yes, I like a little quietness—especially with you; we don&t see each other much in town—just we two—alone.”
She ignored his remarks. “Don&t you love this sensation of freedom—getting away from everything like a convict escaping from prison. Every puff of the engine pulls us farther and farther from home and office and ties. It's wonderful!” Her eyes sparkled as she gazed out at the sea below.
“You've said it, Donna,” he replied flippantly, “but I prefer the sensation of being alone with you.”
“Don&t be stupid,” she remonstrated. “You're spoiling my holiday.” She stamped her dainty foot.
Noel laughed outright. He loved annoying her; usually she could take his banter; but to-day she seemed aloof. It hurt him.
At Timaru, after a hearty lunch, the party was driven inland in a powerful service car. The peaks grew nearer. Donna and Noel spoke little; they were watching the changing scene; it was their first trip here. They were delighted with Lake Tekapo and Lake Pukaki. The air became rarer and colder as they wound along the gravel plains. They seemed to have entered a huge basin guarded by snow-capped mountains. In contrast to the city they had just left, this grandeur was inspiring.
They reached the Hermitage at dusk, rather weary; but a convivial dinner restored their flagging spirits. On the morrow, an early start would be made for the Ball Hut.
Next morning, Noel awoke with the sun streaming in his window. From his bed he could see Aorangi in all its majestic whiteness. He was elated—must be the air, he thought.
He breakfasted at Donna's table; he was eager to hasten her away to the equipment room.
“You'll want rucksack, boots, sunglasses, face-cream, skis, sticks,—“ he rattled off.
“One moment,” she interrupted. “Hadn&t I better write it down?”
Noel looked daggers. “Now do hurry, or we'll miss the bus.”
At length, when the skis were strapped on, and the party were seated, the bus started off down the gravel flat. They followed the narrow twisting road around the foot of a spur, coming out onto a steady grade up the Tasman morraine. There was snow on the road here. Here and there a Chamois goat was to be seen on the scree slopes. The guides pointed out the peaks and glaciers and other features of interest.
They stopped at the garage with the Ball Hut nestling in the snow, hundreds of feet above. The gear was unpacked and had to be carried up the zig-zag track. Some keas impudently came along to watch.
There was much enthusiasm over the “Hut.” They decided to give it the dignity of its rightful name, “The Tasman Chalet,” thereafter. Donna and Noel made a tour of inspection; there was a drying room, a sun room,
Setting out together, clumsily lifting their feet, they reached the steep slope; they gathered speed; they lost control; with waving arms, they both fell sprawling into the soft snow. They sat up and laughed at each other. Nothing daunted, they got to their feet after an ungainly struggle, and made another attempt—and another—until they reached the gentler slopes of the valley below. Here they paused for breath, watching the others. Some of the efforts were ludicrous.
“Exhilarating—isn&t it? said Noel enthusiastically.
Donna nodded. She was watching a slim figure in a scarlet sweater, speeding down from above, turning this way, turning that way, sticks poised, with a wake of snow flying behind him.
“Oh, Noel, just look at that!” she cried.
“And he's smoking a pipe!” exclaimed Noel, dumbfounded. “We'll have to do some practice before we can do that, Donna.”
They found they could now make a straight run without a spill. However, on approaching an obstacle, the only way they could stop was to fall over.
Noel stripped off his sweaters and went away by himself, bent on mastering a turn. It was difficult. He did not seem to have any idea. One of the guides showed him how to stem first and then turn. He tried that with a little success. Perhaps he would get it in time. By jove, there was Donna with the man in the scarlet sweater; he was showing her the turns—and she was shaping well. Good for Donna. But Noel vaguely resented the attention this expert bestowed on her.
That evening they all gathered round the huge oil stove. Here it was cosy, especially when one looked out at the clear frosty night. As is usual when people are thrown together thus, tongues were loosened, and talk was turned to mountaineering. The man in the scarlet sweater was Roy Lambert, a tea-planter from Darjeeling; he was a vivacious young man, and, once he started to tell of his experiences in the Himalayas and the Italian Alps, a hush fell on the party; they listened absorbed. Donna especially seemed gripped by his tales of daring and endurance in the snow. Noel was interested, but his lips had a suggestion of sulkiness.
Next morning Donna and Noel set out early for the Ball Glacier, just over a spur. Here the slopes were gentle, and the frost had made the surface good. They took a run together. It was glorious, the crisp air, the bright sunshine.
“I'd love to be able to do all those complicated turns,” said Noel.
“Roy is coming over soon,” Donna ventured. “He can make it seem so easy.”
Must have done a lot of ski-ing,” grunted Noel.
“I'll give you an introduction if you like,” Donna offered.
“Don&t want one,” he replied savagely. “You can have your Roy Lambert —I'm through.” And he was away. He heard her mocking laughter; it went through him like a sword.
Thereafter, Noel took more than a friendly interest in Rene King, who, attractive and desirable though she was in other circumstances, was hopeless at sports. He helped her up after her falls; he disentangled her skis; he showed her how to stem and turn, but it was pathetic to watch her. Rene was delighted.
Late in the afternoon, the bus left for the Hermitage; Noel with Rene sat as far away from Roy and Donna as was possible in that small space. Rollicking choruses sung heartily by all, made the trip seem very short. Now and again a look of defiance passed between Donna and Noel.
There was a dance in the lounge that night. Donna found Roy an exquisite dancer, and she was embarrassed though pleased by his flattery. It annoyed her, however, to see Rene captivating Noel. The air was electric.
After breakfast, next morning, Noel thought everyone seemed in a hurry to get their things into the service car—there was plenty of time. He went to his room and packed leisurely. Going to his window, he gazed at the scene before him; it was beautiful—comforting–inspiring. It had been a wonderful week-end, he reflected–but for Donna. He realised now that she meant everything to him–and she was not, as he had imagined, waiting to fall into his arms; but he was not going to let her know he cared—that would be fatal.
The blare of a horn below interrupted his thoughts. They must be waiting. As he came down the stairs, he saw Donna just ahead of him in the lounge. She was late, too. He was almost beside her as she stepped into the car. She was the last person he wanted to encounter. There was only one double seat left at the back. Donna occupied the half next to the window, from which she idly viewed the landscape. Noel thought furiously; in looked as if it had been planned; or was it fate? At any rate he did not want to make a fuss. Resignedly he took the seat beside Donna, and lit a cigarette. The car moved away.
Half an hour later as the car swung round a bend, their lips met.
And we're coming back here for our honeymoon,” pleaded Noel.
“You haven&t changed a bit, Noel,” murmured Donna, as she snuggled against his shoulder. “You're still taking everything for granted.”
The annual competition for the best kept garden in the Otago railway district attracted keen competition this year and the members of the Gardening Circle of the Otago Women's Club— Mesdames H. J. Guthrie and A. Lee Smith, and Miss Martin—who acted as judges, could not separate the two leading stations, with the result that they placed Fairlie and Allanton first equal. Wingatui and Burnside were placed second equal.
Lady Ferguson, president of the Otago Women's Club, together with the judges, travelled to Fairlie for the purpose of presenting the cup for first place. Lady Ferguson handed over a miniature of the trophy to the stationmaster, at the same time congratulating him on the fine display that had been made.
Mr. H. Gibson, District Traffic Manager, thanked the members of the Women's Club for coming to make the presentation and congratulated the Gardening Circle on the interest it had shown in the competition.
Lady Ferguson and the judges went to Allanton some days later, where a function of a similar nature took place. Miss Allen was also a member of the party. Mr. Gibson and Mr. P. A. Morey (District Engineer) thanked Lady Ferguson for making the presentation and congratulated the Gardening Circle on the keen interest they were showing in this work.
Fairlie and Allanton will hold the cup for six months each, besides receiving a miniature.
At Wingatui and Burnside the second place trophies were presented to the stationmasters, Mr. Bulman (Wingatui), and Mr. J. Duncan (Burnside).
Some notable displays were also made at a number of stations in the Canterbury district this year, the annual competition in connection with these gardens being carried out under the combined auspices of the Canterbury Horticultural Society and the Railway Department. The judges were exceedingly pleased with the work accomplished during the year by the officers in charge, as the maintenance of an exposed railway station garden in a satisfactory manner during a trying season must have required a vast amount of care and attention. Still further advance next year is promised by the interest taken in the movement by the stationmasters and their willingness to take advantage of any suggestions for improvement made to them by the judges.
Every square inch that could be utilised for garden operations was brought into the plan of the winning class A garden at Rakaia, which, notwithstanding its exposed position and the difficulty of providing shelter from the prevailing winds, maintained a remarkable display throughout the year. Heathcote, second in this class, had a garden of perfect design. The station gardens at Little River, Dunsandel and Papanui also were kept up to their reputations, and each had some special merit. Much good work was done by the officer in charge at Dunsandel, where the conditions experienced made gardening anything but a sinecure.
“The gardens inspected were so well maintained that one could hardly realise that the season had been so trying from a horticultural point of view,” is a comment made on the B class gardens. The competitions were organised by the District Traffic Manager, Mr. E. S. Brittenden.
(The writer of this article was for many years Government Surveyor and Ranger for the Crown Lands Department. He was one of the survivors of the memorable early morning of June 10,1886, when the eruption of Tarawera volcano and the upheaval of Rotomahana lake overwhelmed Te Wairoa, caused widespread terror and destruction and killed more than 150 people. Mr. Lundius here describes briefly his experiences in Te Wairoa village, and some incidents of the eruption)
We had come in from the Urewera Country road survey to rest awhile at Te Wairoa in the winter of 1886. The early morning of the 10th June was beautifully clear. It was full moon. In fact, there was an occultation of Mars by the Moon at 10.30 that night. There was no wind. My first sight of the outbreak was the finest and most remarkable I have ever seen. From Tarawera Mountain, with an awful noise and earth-rending, there rose a huge column of black smoke, straight up in the air, the summit of which took a mushroom shape, round the edges of which a chain of lightning was playing. I was told by persons who were at Galatea, and to windward of the mountain, that they saw flames and smoke being emitted, but we at Te Wairoa did not see any fire. I was staying with Mr. Haszard, the school teacher. In the house also were Mr. and Mrs. Haszard, four daughters, one son, one nephew, Mr. J. C. Blythe (the surveyor), and an old Maori woman called Mary te Mu. We were all gathered in a small building close to the main residence. It contained a large sitting-room and two bedrooms.
We did not know at first what was going on outside, except continuous earthshakes and a terrific noise. Then came a fall of some solid matter (scoria I afterwards found it was) on the roof. One extra large lump penetrated the iron on the roof and went through a picture hanging on the wall. It was then that Mr. Haszard thought it wisest for his wife and the young children to sit in the middle of the room right under the ridge. I was standing at the window all the time trying to see what was going on outside, but I could see nothing. The darkness was so great that one could feel it. Miss Haszard was sitting at the harmonium playing and singing hymns. I saw her get up and stoop to look at the bottom of the door, when a cracking noise was heard and I found that the roof had collapsed.
I soon discovered Miss Haszard and Mr. Blythe near me. It then occurred to me that the present situation was a good one to get out of, so I set to work to break the windows. The glass I could break with my hands (later on I found that I had cut my hand rather badly in doing this). The wooden part of the window was not so easily broken, so I set to work and completed the job with my foot, and eventually got both my companions out. We then made for the old residence close by. Mr. Blythe wanted to go inside, but one experience of a collapsed roof was enough for me. I found that the ground was covered with mud to the depth of some 4 feet. That would be a fairly good test for a roof to stand, so I insisted on our standing under the verandah, so that if the roof should collapse we had a chance to escape the consequences.
I went out in front of the building we had just left and called out, trying to ascertain if anyone else had escaped or were alive, but the noise was so terrific that I could not hear anything. After a short while (it seemed ages to me) we found that the house was on fire. What caused it I do not know. Probably it was some hot stones. Occasionally we experienced a hot suffocating wind and possibly the house was struck by lightning.
We were then obliged to leave the shelter of the verandah and go out into the paddock. By the light of the burning house I discovered the fowlhouse intact, so we took shelter there. As the mud was still falling, I took the precaution to shore up the rafters in the fowlhouse with some timber I found there. We did not know what our end would be. I was often asked, “Did you not feel frightened?” My reply was that I was beyond being frightened. All I hoped for was that the end would come quickly.
About nine o'clock in the morning the fall of mud somewhat abated, and it became lighter. The wind, fortunately for us, changed towards the south. Shortly afterwards we saw Joe McRae, the hotelkeeper, and the two Birds, his brothers-in-law, coming up to see if anyone had survived at the schoolhouse. We all went up to the ruins and found Miss Ina Haszard and old Mary sheltering under some furniture in what had been my bedroom. We soon got them out and the two sisters were once more together. We did not hear a sound or indication of anyone else being alive under the debris.
By that time everyone was leaving Wairoa, and we wanted the girls to go with the rest, but they refused unless we came as well. As we did not think there was much chance of anyone being found alive amongst the ruins, and as we did not know but what there would be a recurrence of the fall of mud, we thought our duties lay more towards the living than the dead. We decided to go out with the rest. The only inhabited place within reach was Rotorua, and that is about the last place one would look upon as a haven of refuge at the time of a volcanic upheaval, still it was the only place for us to seek.
When we got through Tikitapu bush, we found to our delight Ted Robertson there with a buggy and pair. I do not think I was ever so glad to see anyone as I was to see Ted. He told us Rotorua was intact, but most of the people had gone towards Tauranga or Oxford (now Tirau). We got the girls into the buggy and returned to Wairoa, and began to clear away the debris of the demolished house. I soon found that the cut I had received when breaking the windows was more severe than I thought, and I could not do much digging.
After a while we saw a hand move up through an opening made by the digging, and found Mrs. Haszard alive. We soon got her out. One of her legs was badly crushed. She told us that her children were all dead. We improvised a stretcher and started to carry her out. Just as we were leaving I discovered my horse Charlie; I had left him in the paddock near the house. He had several inches of mud all over him, although he was not injured in any way. I think that for once he was glad to see me!
On our journey to Rotorua, we took it in turns to carry Mrs. Haszard. Fortunately, we were reinforced by several men from Rotorua, and at last reached that place weary and famished.
I could fill pages relating what we did for weeks afterwards. I guided several parties to the site of the upheaval, and I was one of the late Mr. S. Percy Smith's party making a survey of the crater of Tarawera, the old mountain that had done all the damage.
On the night of the eruption, a roadmaking party was camped at the east side of the Kaingaroa Plain. The late Mr. J. Morgan was in charge of the work. Only Maoris were employed. The camp was some miles up the Rangitaiki River, south of Galatea. The men had a good view of Tarawera mountain; the wind was from the east. They could see the awful spectacle of fire and cloud arising from the mountain. The Maoris were very frightened. Morgan told me that one of them came into his tent scared almost to death. He evidently thought the end of the world had come, and that it was time for him to make peace with his Maker, especially as he had rather a bad past. He prayed with fervour and ended by saying earnestly:
“Oh Lord, if you will allow me to live through this night, I will give you a pound. Morgan can stop it out of my wages.”
That Maori survived, but I do not know if he redeemed his promise.
I had been asked by the late Mr. James Stewart, C.E, to act as guide to a party intending to go as near as possible to the site of the upheaval. We started from Rotorua on the morning of Saturday, 12th June. As we entered into what had once been Te Wairoa, we heard from beneath a mound (where we concluded a whare had stood) most distressing, bloodcurdling cries.
body was taken from the place where Louper had buried it and interred in the cemetery at Grey.
This is only one story of the early struggles and defeats of the pioneers in New Zealand, but it is a typical one. But I have wandered far from Dunedin. When I was in Christchurch I asked John Schroder what was the sight that I must see in Dunedin.
“The sight,” he said, “is my dear old grandpa, Archdeacon Whitehead. Go and see him and tell him I sent you.” “I think not,” I said. “Archdeacons are hardly in my line.”
“This one is,” John assured me. “He is a revolutionary archdeacon. From that moment I was deeply interested in John's grandpa. The dear old gentleman! So brave, so persecuted ! And at such an age! Why, he must be getting on for ninety; grandson John was forty if a day, I knew. When I arrived in Dunedin I took a taxi to Selwyn College, of which he is the Principal, to meet him. The parlourmaid at the door told me that he was teaching at the moment, but would I come in and wait? I would. The Archdeacon's study was lined with books. Books were on every chair and table.
At last the Archdeacon came in. But, dear me!–whatever ….? This was no venerable old gentleman but a vigorous clean-shaven man in the prime of life. He could not be John's grandpa. But did John say “grandpa” or “godfather”? For the life of me, I could not remember. Fortunately, the Archdeacon had heard of me; he conversed on a number of subjects with considerable ease and tact. Also, better still, he rang for tea. Thoughtfully munching a chocolate biscuit I planned my explanation.
“I must tell you,” I said at last, “that John sent me to see you.”
“John?
My heart sank. Not a gleam of recognition shone in the Archdeacon's eye. He seemed never to have heard of John.
“John Schroder,” I quavered with a sinking heart. “I think you are his grand—er,–his godfather.”
“Not that I know of.”
“I don&t know if you have ever heard of a Christchurch editor named John Schroder,” I said desperately, “but he told me to come and see you. He said you were his revolutionary grandpa.”
The Archdeacon had more than a gleam in his eye now. He had a twinkle which developed into a yell of laughter.
“That scamp! He has played a trick on you. He and I were at the ‘Varsity together years ago. I was three or four years older than he, so he used to call me grandpa.”
Well, the Archdeacon was neither venerable nor revolutionary, but he was kind and interesting, and his college was beautiful.
Dunedin abounds with fine educational buildings. The Otago University, the Medical School, the Dental School and the School of Mines, are all housed in fine and dignified buildings. The place is full of students, of course. I had the honour of lecturing to their Social Discussions Group one night. Before I spoke to them one young man drew me aside.
“I want to warn you,” he said earnestly, “not to introduce anything sentimental into your speech. Most of our lads are medical students and you know what they are—hard and cynical and disillusioned. They'd simply laugh at anything sentimental.”
When I stood up to speak to them I looked round the room for hard, cynical and disillusioned faces, but they were conspicuous by their absence. Whenever I am entrusted with this sort of secret I immediately entrust it to my audience.
“I have been warned,” I commenced, “that I must avoid anything sentimental in speaking to you because many of you are medical students and you are very hard and cynical and disillusioned. Now, as a woman of the world I want to tell you that I have found that hardness and cynicism are not characteristics of men and women in the medical profession, but that they are sometimes characteristics of immaturity. The medical student is a young person who, at a most impressionable age, is confronted by sights and sounds which shock and horrify him. If he is to endure such things he finds he must put on an armour of pretence or he will break down. Because his soft heart may betray him, he pretends to be hard. It is what Freud calls ‘over-compensation of a secret doubt.’ So if any of you are very hard-boiled, please know that I understand it. It is an infantile complaint and you will get over it in time.”
Several of the students laughingly told me afterwards that they thought my diagnosis quite correct. Interesting young people, I enjoyed my discussions with them very much.
New Zealanders always talk of Dunedin as being one of their coldest cities, but as to climate, it is 4 1/2 degrees nearer to the equator than any town in England; and its climate is similar to that of Venice. One of the most charming natural features of the city is the Town Belt, a reserve of five hundred acres of natural bush and shrub land. This delightful area is traversed by motor roads, and footpaths. People who are weary after the day's or week's work find it a haven of rest, refreshing the jaded spirit with its noble trees and green swards, its birds who sing unendingly.
Other healthful features, of course, are the harbour and the sea-beaches. At St. Clair there is a very fine natural bathing-pool hollowed out of the rocks by the action of the sea. With a little concrete work and the erection of sheds and diving-boards, this has made one of the nicest swimming baths in the Dominion. By and large, I consider that New Zealanders are the world's best swimmers. The climate here lends itself to six months' swimming in the year, and there is a sort of tradition extant that one must not only swim but one must swim correctly. Little children of two or three go into the water and teach themselves by means of dog-paddling, but they soon get ashamed of this primitive method of locomotion and by the time they are six they are usually doing a technically perfect hydroplane crawl that would grace an aquatic carnival.
(To be continued)
We naturally came to the conclusion that someone was entombed there and hastened to get some implements to effect a rescue. After frantic efforts we reached the woodwork of the whare. When we succeeded in making an opening, out jumped a big black cat. He went like the proverbial “scalded cat,” streaking for Rotorua like the wind. Nine lives! That cat must have had a hundred lives.
In those days all stores and other commodities had to be brought from Tauranga by wagon. One of the Bird family, a brother-in-law of McRae, had arrived the day previous to the eruption with a full load. Amongst the cargo was a box for us, sent by Mr. E. Adams (now Borough Engineer at the Thames), who had been in our camp some weeks previously. We had then discussed a new explosive called “blasting gelatine,” of which we had no knowledge. Amongst the contents of the box was a parcel which, from its outward appearance, we judged to be this “blasting gelatine,” and, in consequence, treated it with the utmost respect. I handled it most carefully, and placed it in a large earthenware jar; it was left in the wash-house, detached from the main dwelling (which was burnt down).
During the night we spent in the fowlhouse I wondered what would happen if the fire from the dwelling spread to the wash-house where the earthenware jar was deposited. However, the wash-house was intact, and a few days afterwards I went to see what the explosive was like. On carefully undoing the parcel I found it contained preserved bananas!
400 Prizes at £2 each: All tickets the numbers of which end in the figures 500 and 024.
Consolation prize, £242: 161013.
N. Mcarthur, Secretary.
When I first commenced practice 35 years ago,” said the Doctor, “I set up my plate in the township of Hanawiri.”
“To the great majority of people who travel up and down the country nowadays Hanawiri presents itself as an uninspiring huddle of roofs as the train halts there for a reluctant two minutes.
“In the days of which I am speaking, however, it was a township of considerable importance and the trains stopped there all night, and, turning round, went back again in the morning—for it was the terminus of the Main Trunk line which was slowly creeping north to meet the line being built south from Auckland.
“It was a thriving, prosperous place in those days, with its railway construction works and sawmills, and its population was four times as great as it is now. It provided me with a sharp lesson in the intricacies of my profession, an experience in the unravelling of the tangled threads of two peoples' lives, and a lifelong friendship which has just been further cemented by my being made godfather to the grandson of the two people concerned!” He smiled, settled himself more comfortably and, listening a moment as though to attune his thoughts to the rhythm of the flying wheels, began as follows:
* * *
The young doctor swung himself stiffly from the saddle as his horse passed beneath the arch of the livery stable.
From the shadows, a figure, grotesque in the uncertain light of a hurricane lamp, came shambling towards him.
“Hullo Mike,” said the doctor, “what keeps you out of bed at this time of night?”
“Noight?” answered the figure in aggrieved tones, “‘tis daylight it will be in an hour, and be the same token here's a letther that came for ye last evenin’.”
With a glance at the postmark the doctor hastily tore open the envelope, damning the stableman to hold the light steady as he eagerly scanned the close written scrawl.
“Dear Alan,” he read, “the tubes you sent me for testing contain no trace of precipitate, the presence of which would indicate organic disease, but there are factors which suggest a form of alkaline poisoning—possibly strychnine.
“Your diagnosis therefore in regard to the Hogarth case appears to be …”
He read no further, but straightened himself up with the fatigue all gone from his limbs.
“And was it a bhoy now or a girl that was born to O'Reilly this day?” asked the stableman.
The doctor stared at him uncomprehendingly a moment, then “Strychnine !” he said thoughtfully, and turning strode from the stable, leaving the bewildered Irishman scratching his head and muttering, “Strychnine is it? And what kind of a child moight that be at all?”
In the few months that the doctor had been practising in and about the township of Hanawiri he had encountered but one case which had tried his skill beyond the everyday misadventures of a healthy and active community, and as he made his way through the chilly darkness to his surgery his mind was busy with this new development.
Tom Hogarth was the owner of a big cattle run in the high bush country. He was a typical specimen of the best type of outback farmer—a tall, well set up man, with keen grey eyes and a frank manner. It was all the more distressing, therefore, when he had visited the doctor two months previously and complained, almost shamefacedly, of symptoms which had been troubling him for some weeks past.
From being a man who had hardly known the meaning of fatigue, he had become the victim of weakness and nausea; a lassitude which at times took all the force of his innate energy to combat, and worst of all, on occasions, a disquieting palpitation of the heart.
The doctor, who had from the first conceived a strong liking for him, had thumped him reassuringly and told him that it was probably due to overwork. He prescribed a tonic and rest. He was far from reassured himself, however, as he watched the tall figure go striding down the punga side-walk, for he felt it was absurd to suppose that such a man should become debilitated by mere physical toil. But he had been unable in that preliminary examination to discover anything organically wrong.
During the next fortnight, however, he saw little of him until one evening they met by chance in the local club, and then he was shocked-not so much by his appearance, as by his general demeanour. He seemed like a man fighting every instant to hold himself erect, his manner was abrupt where before it had been breezy, and his eyes were strained and self-conscious.
The doctor had some difficulty in persuading him to come round to the surgery, but the thorough examination to which he subjected him this time left little doubt in his mind that Hogarth was suffering from some pernicious form of wasting disease.
“And what exactly does that mean?” Hogarth had demanded. The doctor did not reply immediately, but said finally, “We should tell your wife.”
“No you don't,” his patient retorted sharply. “If I am really a sick man (and I can see by your face that you think I am), then I'm not going to tell her one instant before I have to.
“She is a nervy, town-bred girl,” he added, “and while she is happy enough while I am with her, I know the bush frightens her at times. To think that I was—going to leave her perhaps—would drive her out of her mind.”
He paused, then rising from the couch he took the doctor by the shoulders, “How long can you keep me alive for, Doc.?,” he asked.
“Oh come, it isn&t as bad as all that,” the doctor replied without much conviction. “I suppose you won&t consider taking things easy for a bit.”
The other shook his head. “Less chance than ever now,” he said, “I've got to get the place in better shape before the winter really comes; it will make all the difference to the sale—if—er anything happens to me.”
The doctor nodded and remained silent for awhile, then—
“We shall have to take a chance with you, Tom,” he said. “Some experiments have recently been conducted with the injection of serums in cases like yours. They have proved nothing one way or the other as yet-but there might be a chance. Would you agree, if I am able to obtain samples, to give the injection cure a trial. It may mean that you would have to visit me two or three times a week.”
Hogarth nodded and held out his hand. “I'll do anything you say,” he promised, “if you think you can keep me going for a while longer.”
In the weeks that followed they kept to the compact they had made, and Hogarth's condition varied considerably. Generally he became worse, although there were periods when he appeared to show a definite improvement.
During this time they became firm friends, the doctor admiring Hogarth's courage, the latter finding in the doctor a sympathetic confidant. Indeed, there was no one else to whom he could turn in his extremity, and on his visits to town he would talk eagerly and incessantly while the doctor conducted his examinations or injections.
Mostly he would talk of the farm, and the way the work was progressing, but there were tragic moments, when enthusiasm ran away with him and he would rattle on about the crops and the stock, and then suddenly stop as the shock of realisation laid hold upon him.
He would be silent for a few minutes, as his eyes met the doctor's in an understanding glance—but presently he would rouse himself with a gruff laugh and set off on a new tact.
He seldom spoke of his wife—there seemed to be some hurt there, that was too poignant for even the doctor to share.
“But now,” thought the doctor, as he lit the surgery lamp, “this report from the Dunedin Laboratory puts a different complexion upon the whole affair.” And divesting himself of his oilskin coat, he sat down at the table to read the letter through again.
“No organic disease—a form of alkaline poisoning—possibly strychnine—“
“Strychnine”—if only he could make sense of that, then Tom Hogarth might not be doomed at all. He drummed with his knuckles upon the table and was immediately startled to hear it echoed by a sharp rap upon the panels of the door.
Almost before he had time to rise it was pushed open and a young woman stood upon the threshold.
Little more than a girl she appeared to the doctor, a girl whose fine violet eyes were black against the ashen pallor of her face, and whose lips were bloodless and trembling with nervous tension. Her long coat was smeared and spattered with mud.
“You are the doctor?” she asked in a voice husky with emotion, and as he nodded in reply—“Please come at once, there has been an accident.”
He gathered up his bag and was about to follow when he noticed a dark stain upon her sleeve; raising the latter he revealed a hastily tied handkerchief bound about her forearm.
“Never mind about that,” she said, with a grimace of pain, and stepped out into the darkness.
Two gig lamps were burning dimly, and by their light the doctor could discern the outline of a jaded horse and in the vehicle itself the huddled figure of a man.
The girl led the way, and as they drew closer the figure resolved itself into that of a youth sprawled across the seat. His head hung back and he was breathing stertorously.
With difficulty they removed him from the gig, and the doctor carried him into the surgery and laid him upon the couch.
“He is suffering from concussion,” he announced presently. “No bones broken apparently. I wonder if you would be good enough to fill a kettle and light the kerosene stove for me?”
He loosened the youth's clothing, and hearing no movement in the room, turned to repeat his request, and was astonished to find himself alone. Hastily he made for the door. The gig lamps were still burning, the horse still drooped, but the girl lay prone upon the muddy side-walk.
With an exclamation of dismay, he assisted her to rise and once more inside bade her rest, until he had attended to the immediate needs of the unconscious youth.
The doctor had separated his living quarters from his surgery by a curtain drawn across the middle of the single-room building which formed his domicile; and when the kettle boiled and the hot water bags were ready, he carried the youth from the surgery couch and laid him in his own bed, wrapping him in blankets with the hot water bags at his feet and sides.
When he returned, the girl was upon her feet leaning weakly against the table.
“Now,” he said smiling, “I want you to sit down for a moment while I look at your arm.”
“No,” she replied, “I must go—I have to catch the train.”
“The train—surely it can&t be—?” he pulled out his watch—a heavy old-fashioned affair of chased silver—the hands of which showed half past five. The daily train left at six.
“I'm sorry,” he added, “but you
“He was not going by the train; it was I who—“
Again the doctor shook his head, and taking a brandy flask from a cup-board poured a little of its contents into a glass.
“Drink this,” he said, “and forget the train for a moment while I see what is wrong here.”
Her forearm proved to be painfully lacerated and swollen, and, while he was dressing it, the doctor chattered inconsequently in an endeavour to lighten the strain in her brooding eyes. The brandy had brought a spot of colour to her cheeks and now that she had removed her hat her hair revealed itself—piled high in tawny coils which shone with a red gold lustre in the lamp-light.
As he finished he sat back, surveying her critically.
“Do you mind telling me how all this happened?” he asked.
She stared at him fearfully a moment, and then, biting her lip, replied sullenly: “The horse fell, and we were thrown out.”
The doctor rose.
“I don&t want to pry into your affairs,” he said, “but if you would like to tell me a little more, I might be able to help you; I should, of course, respect your confidence.
“You see,” he added, “it's rather a desperate situation isn&t it? I don&t know who you are, or the boy either, and he will have to stay here for a while. Again, your own nervous state suggests bed, rather than an arduous railway journey; and then there is the horse and gig; all rather embarrassing if you want to get away without anyone knowing.”
“Why should I want to do that?” she asked hurriedly.
“I don&t know, but if there had been any straightforward reason, you would have told me.”
For answer she buried her face in her hands and remained some moments in silence. When she looked up again her eyes were calmer.
“You're right,” she said tonelessly. “I am running away. Running away from a man who has drained my life of everything that made living worth while.
“I am running away because I can no longer bear to live in misery where once I was radiantly happy.
“Can you realise, I wonder, what it means to have found a new life of love and happiness in the most beautiful spot on earth, and then when that life has been smashed to have to go on living with the beauty mocking you and reminding you at every turn of what you have lost?
“I was married about fifteen months ago,” she continued in a low voice; after a pause in which she strove not very successfully to control her emotion, “when my husband was on a visit to Wellington. We had not known each other long, and I suppose I was carried away by the glamour of it all. I had had little to do with the country, and I was rather awed, when we came home, with the vast distances, and the bush.
“But my husband was kindness and consideration itself, and soon enough, when I had learned to live the bush life, I came to love it. The trees touched with gold at sunrise, the mountains blue in the mid-day heat, the piping of birds at evening. We had no near neighbours, but what with my new home, pottering about my garden, and going for rides in the afternoon, I was happy and busy all day long. And always in the evenings there was that precious, intimate hour to look forward to, when, just by ourselves we could talk over all our doings and plan for the future.
“The future,” she went on bitterly. “It was during one of those evening hours, when we had been married little more than a year, that I first noticed the change in my husband. He spoke but little, and seemed abstracted when I told him of my trivial doings. I was hurt, but I put it down to weariness, for it was during the busiest time of the year.
“Then one day he announced that he was going to town—there was nothing unusual in that, except that he did not want to take me with him; he made the excuse that he could travel faster and be home earlier by himself. Instead of which it was nearly midnight when he returned. I had my first taste of real fear of the bush then—black and mysterious with rustlings and mutterings among the branches, and the sudden harsh cry of some weird bird!”
“He laughed at my fears, however, and in my relief I laughed with him, nor did I think it strange at the time that he gave no reason for his delay, but I thought so later, when those visits to town became more frequent.
“I began to dread the long afternoons and evenings alone. I lost the faculty of being happily busy—so that any sudden noise set me tingling with fear.
“At last I could bear it no longer. I taxed him to his face, and he told me it was business that took him to town three times a week. What business could he have that I might not share? I knew—I had had plenty of opportunity to reason it out—that his business was merely a cloak for another woman.”
“But you had no definite proof?” asked the doctor, and she laughed sharply.
“Proof? What proof did I need but his secretiveness, his strangeness. Why he even made some vague excuse about sleeping badly, so that he could be by himself at night.”
“Perhaps he was ill,” the doctor suggested gently.
“Ill?” the word seemed jerked from her lips in a sharp crescendo. “Ill that's very funny doctor why I'm the one that's ill - ill with suspense and anxiety, and the knowledge that I'd been cheated.” She laughed mirthlessly for some moments twisting her hands together in her lap, and the doctor, seating himself at her side, took her uninjured arm in a steady pressure.
“Please go on,” he said quietly.
“Go on? You can guess the rest,” she said. “How the familiar things of my life, now that the love in it was dead, all turned traitor, the blank staring hills and the bush pattering and sighing with the winter rains.
“I had meant to steal away last night, so that the boy could have been back before daylight with the trap. My husband seemed unable to settle down. A dozen times I crept out to see his light still shining. Twelve o'clock struck, and time was getting short. At last the light went out and I ran to the stables and woke the boy. We harnessed the horse in feverish haste the dogs all began barking, and I was petrified to hear the window thrown up and my husband whistle to them.
“At last we got away. In my anxiety I felt we should never get to town. The road was awful. I lashed the horse in panic he broke into a gallop and stumbled.” Her voice died away into silence- a silence that seemed only intensified by the laboured breathing of the youth behind the curtain until it was rent sharply by a long-drawn whistle which roused the echoes all down the valley.
They both started to their feet, the girl wild-eyed, quivering like a trapped animal.
“The train,” she gasped the doctor laid a restraining hand upon her arm; at the same instant there came the rapid drumming of a galloping horse a labouring, driven beast pelting up the road in a welter of flying mud.
Another whistle, the rush of escaping steam, and then the heavy puffing of an engine starting from rest. The sound grew in intensity; the exhaust beats quickened, yet another whistle for the level crossing and the rumble of cars waned and died away as the first filtering of light greyed the surgery window.
The girl sank back upon the settee-head in hands, a listless beaten figure, and the doctor turned away to attend to the youth when the sound of returning hoof-beats was heard. They halted at the surgery door, and a dishevelled haggard figure came crashing through it and stood blinking a moment in the lamp-light.
“Hogarth!” cried the doctor, “what the-” but the farmer was paying no attention to him instead he stood staring dumbly at the girl upon the settee.
“Tom-!”
“Lucy!”
The words were hardly whispered between them. The doctor came forward and laid his hand upon the girl's shoulder.
“Tom,” he asked, “is this your wife?” Hogarth nodded.
“Tom,” he asked again, “have you been handling poison lately?”
Hogarth- nodded, and then roused himself, crying savagely: “What the devil has that to do with all this?” he waved a comprehensive hand.
“Everything,” said the doctor, “if you will give me a chance to explain. You say you have been handling poison where and how.”
“Rabbits,” replied the farmer shortly. “We've been cleaning them out for months past on the top place.”
“Then,” said the doctor, “I'm the guilty party. Mrs. Hogarth for many weeks now I have been treating your husband for what appeared to be an incurable disease, with a new remedy which might or might not have saved him, had he really been suffering from it. Under the circumstances perhaps he was justified in not telling you, although now I realise it was a mistake which narrowly missed ending in tragedy.
“This letter, which I received an hour ago, is a report from the Dunedin Laboratory, and negatives the idea of organic disease, but tells me to look for a slow form of alkaline poisoning, the symptoms of which are virtually the same. There have been rare cases,” he added, “of systems which are particularly susceptible to poisons, absorbing it through the mere handling of it.”
A groan and a muttering from behind the curtain reminded the doctor of his other patient. The youth was recovering consciousness and needed attention; but when the doctor returned to the surgery he hastily drew the curtain again, for that tawny hair, red-gold in the fast fading lamplight gained an added lustre from its proximity to the dark serge that clothed Tom Hogarth's shoulder.
“And so,” concluded the doctor, “my story also ends happily-”
The others were silent a few moments, thinking perhaps, as the train roared through the darkness, of the other lives and stories that were working to their fulfilment in the lonely homesteads and among the scattered lights of townships that ever and anon twinkled and were lost in the gloom.
A fine rain was falling, streaking the windows with jewelled threads of light, and the banker turning from them shrugged his shoulders slightly.
“I'm glad I'm not any old-fashioned doctor riding the roads this night,” he said, “I'd rather be sitting here in comfort and telling you a yarn which also has to do with a horse—and some gold—!
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Most of the pioneers of New Zealand now lie in their last resting place, “dreamless dust,” with yesterday's seven thousand years. Not a few sleep with British Regulars in those eternal memorials of the clash of Maori and Pakeha— the Military Cemeteries that are scattered around New Zealand. Happily, the majority were allotted a long span, and slipped off one by one in recent years to their long rest, greatly wondering the marvellous changes they had witnessed in this their adopted country.
Sometimes I pass by the old Symond Street Cemetery where rest many of those whose eyes beheld Auckland in her cradle days. Sentimentalist myself, I wonder if the New Zealander lacks that something in his heart—that reverent homage to those who bore the storm and stress of pioneering days?
Nearly 100 years ago, Hobson, first Governor of New Zealand, was laid to rest. Misunderstood perhaps, at the time, we know now how well and truly he had done his duty. How many of those who speed past in cars, on cycle and tram, have ever wandered quietly and reverently along those hallowed paths and communed with the past? Great is our debt to those who sleep there, but in an age where speed is King and Monarch, when excitement is as bewitching as the voice of “Lorlei,” there are few pilgrims to Hobson and “those others.” The City of the Dead is truly given over to the dead. But the weather-beaten and crumbling tombstones are tenacious of their trust, and reveal the price paid for peace.
The little cemetery at Tauranga is eloquent with history. The early Church authorities when dedicating the ground could little have dreamt that in a few years it would be filled with the harvest of Gate Pa. Gate Pa! what memories it awakens! Linked with Orakau it remains one of the classic episodes of the bravery and fighting prowess of the Maori warrior. The little cemetery is beautifully situated. At its foot the blue Pacific laps her eternal music. Yonder, at the back of the town, is the spot that was once Gate Pa, where British Naval guns belched fire and death and so many braves of two races fell. In fancy the white clouds become for a moment the whiffs of naval guns, and we are in the magic spell of the past. Across at the Mount we see the sheer forbidding cliff scene of pre-European bloody tribal fights. Maunganui forever holds your secrets. A skeleton here, a skull there, but the tale remains untold.
Out in the bay where is heard the chug chug of a launch, once flew the ensign on a “wooden wall of England.” There is food for much thought and inspiration for many a poem. Russell gives us other pictures. Sitting in that little Churchyard we think of Marsden, of Waka Nene, of whalers and rum-soaked sailors ashore to celebrate after their hard and oft-times brutalised life aboard ship. Looking up at Flagstaff Hill comes memories of Hongi and of the power and ascendency that the traders' guns and tomahawks so quickly and happily gave to him. Under our feet is the dust of many a warrior. Over at Pahia, across the harbour, in fancy we see Busby, the “man-o'-war without guns” valiantly endeavouring to carry out a hopeless task, and getting only knocks and rebuffs for his pains. And then the picture so fraught with the whole subsequent history of New Zealand, the coming of the man-o'-war with Governor Hobson.
Down at Te Awamutu we find another link with the old times, the little Anglican Church and its adjoining cemetery, where the brave of two races lie. Shadows gather over Pirongia, as perhaps they did on that fateful and never-to-be-forgotten day of the attack on Orakau, now so long ago. Pirongia is unchanged save for the smiling foot-hills,
but it looks down on a changed world. Gone are the old Maoris. All have set off for Te Reinga. In the kaingas of the King Country the Maori to-day dresses Pakeha style. The gramophone and the wireless supersede the Maori flute and his adorable Jew's harp. Jazz challenges the poi, the honk of motor-cycle fades out the thud of galloping hoofs. The pride of the permanent wave replaces that of the tattoo. But Pirongia remains eternal, and save for the foothills she is little changed. In the dusk of the evening listen and maybe you will catch the echoes of the immortal challenge—“Ake! Ake! Ake!” “We will fight forever and forever.”
New Zealanders of the present and future should be grateful to those faithful recorders of its natural beauty and its Maori and pioneer life who have passed on after their strenuous and faithful work. Such artists as John Gully and Kennet Watkins, such landscape photographers as Josiah Martin and Henry Winkelmann did a vast amount in their day to make known the peculiar charm and wonder of our scenery and to preserve pictorial memories of remarkable phases of the Dominion's life and character. Such vigorous veterans of the camera as we have with us still, such outstanding men as Leslie Hinge, whose work for the Railways is before us every month in this Magazine, can speak of the difficulties and troubles they met a generation ago in the never-resting duty of photographing wild scenes and great events. It was not easy to get about New Zealand in their time when they penetrated all but unknown country in the search for something new. It is different now, with the aeroplane to conquer once inaccessible regions.
Mr. James McDonald, who died at Tokaanu recently, at the age of seventy, was one of those who had done a vast amount of good photographic work to make New Zealand known in the outside world. For six years he was almost constantly in the field for the Government Department of Tourist and Health Resorts, in the pioneer days of that office under its very energetic head, Mr. T. E. Donne, now living in London. Later he was artist and assistant director in the Dominion Museum. He was an all-round able man in the artistic side of our national advertisement work, before that much-used term publicity had been coined. He was an artist with a special liking for Maori life as a subject for pencil and brush.
McDonald's Student and Field Days.
In his young days at the Melbourne Art Gallery McDonald studied under McCubbin, and he was contemporary there with Longstaff, John Roberts and other Australian artists of note. In 1890 he married May Brabin, of Hawksburn, returned to his native Otago some twelve years later, and it was not long before the newly-established Tourist Department engaged him as the needful man for the picture-making campaign that was to make the Dominion's scenery famous. He travelled from end to end of New Zealand, he illustrated the Department's books; he was a sculptor also and modelled the heroic Maori group that decorated the main hall in the big Exhibition in Christchurch in 1906. “Mac” was not only a good artist but a good sport, a capital travelling mate, always cheerful, resourceful in camp. I write with knowledge and affection for “Mac,” for we travelled some thousands of miles together and camped in all sorts of queer corners in those days. There was the faithful trio of us, with T. E. D. to boss the party in his genial capacity as official head.
I see them now, “Mac” jogging along on his horse with a brace of cameras slung over his shoulders; far down the bush tracks of Westland—we had a wild week of it there once, a hundred and fifty miles from the Franz Josef Glacier over the Haast Pass and out to civilisation again at Lake Wanaka.
Rough country! There was only one bridge in all that journey, and there was a swift alpine river to ford every few miles. All the better for picture making, was “Mac's” point of view. There was a whole bookful of adventures on those backblocks horseback cruises—and in our Tongariro National Park climbs, long before a Chateau was dreamed of.
Depicting Maori types and Maori tattooing, carving and all manner of native artistry was quite a passion with James McDonald. When he retired from the Museum's service he settled at Tokaanu, as a suitable place for pursuing his Maori work, and he was a greatly popular character with the native folk all about the Taupo shores.
That courting-days' 100-miles ride I mentioned in the “N.Z. Railways Magazine” last month, a one-day journey from the King Country frontier to the Tamaki, Auckland, was comfortable going in good weather, for all its roughness, for only the more northern portion of it was a hard metalled road, sixty odd years ago. But probably only the fact that there was a girl at journey's-end would have taken the young farmer at such a pace. It was wise advice the old ostler gave in George Borrow's “Romany Rye,” when he told his roving listener that “no gentleman—supposing he weighs sixteen stone, as I suppose you will by the time you become a gentleman—ought to ride a horse more than sixty-five miles in one day, provided he has any regard for his horse's back, or his own either.” However, I don&t think there were many sixteen-stoners among the young settlers and cavalrymen of Waikato.
Thinking back over some of my own long back-country journeys in the pre-automobile days, many a good horse mate comes to mind. Horses always travelled better in company; but even alone, when rider and horse were old friends the bon accord between them would appreciably lighten the journey. I recollect a day's ride of something over seventy miles, which both my horse and myself finished well, and there were others almost as long; but there was one horseback journey which was more than enough for both of us. That was only fifty-five miles, from Rotorua to Taupo, but the circumstances of a blistering hot midsummer day and a pumice road which was both dusty and eye-dazzling, made us right glad to see the flickering lights of Taupo that evening. Yet there was one thing worse, and that was the pumiceland coach journey. On horseback you could at least get ahead of your dust; aboard the mail-coach you travelled all a summer day in a cloud of it, and swallowed more dust than lunch.
Relaxation To The Rescue.
This is not to be a diatribe on how to sleep o' nights, on night-caps and exercise, cheese - suppers and mattresses, snoring and sedatives. To relax at night, of course, is tremendously important, especially to our friends, who hate the reiteration of “I haven&t had a good night's sleep for weeks,” or “I heard three o'clock strike before I slept”; important even to ourselves, as it is necessary for us to live through the intervening fourteen hours or so e'er our head hits the pillow again.
But my topic is daytime relaxation, physical and mental. The physical and mental, as ever, is allied. There is no need to expend a paragraph of explanation on when it is necessary to relax. We all know that when we are bounding with enthusiasm, oozing with “joie de vivre,” metaphorically clapping the world on the back and seeing ourselves as an important figure on our little stage, there is no need to relax. Go slow a little, perhaps, save a little steam for later on, carry our mood with us as far as possible, but relax—no!
Heigh-ho, alas and lack - a - day! There are other times, of too frequent occurrence when various aspects of life, as it affects us, have drained away our enthusiasm, drowned our contentment and done all sorts of mixed things with our psychology.
Perhaps our previous enthusiasm has carried us too far, exhausted our enthusiasm for the time being. Let us recognize what has happened and decide to set apart our next bit of leisure for recuperative purposes. Relaxation does not necessarily mean lazing in a chair-and letting the world go by. It need not even mean an “eight o'clock to bed” night. Each of us has some pet form of relaxation for those occasions when we do not require absolute rest. I know a man who can rise like a giant refreshed from a feast of gramophone music, another, a mechanic, who sighs with sheer content when he snatches a free evening to recuperate with the aid of a solid tome on the economic crisis. We have all met the tired business-man who eases his aching brain by an application of detective yarns, the crossword puzzle expert, the tatter, the wood-worker, the gardener, the knitter, the chess-player, even the draughts addict.
When life seems simply rotten and we feel like putting a thousand miles between us and our job, and two thousand between us and our friends and relations; when we sigh for a new existence as a panacea for our own bleak thoughts—then is the time to push all our worries out of our brain, and to apply the simple remedy of a little relaxation of our own choosing. After a short time we will find ourselves fit to live with again.
To me, “spaciousness” and “graciousness” are practically synonymous. Both give a sensation of soothing, mixed with a little awe. Each has so many aspects. Even if we push back a little the four walls of our home, we gain a little.
Economic circumstances force most of us to live in houses far different from what we would plan for ourselves. Many have rooms far smaller than we would like. But even the small house, by careful planning, may be given a gracious aspect.
A small floor-space means that body-carpet is not outside the scope of a moderate income—and in a small house broken spaces must be avoided. The hallway, then, and the principal rooms should be carpeted all over in some unobtrusive design—or preferably no design at all. It is a recognised thing, nowadays, that the walls of a small room must not draw attention to themselves. They, too, must be plainly dressed. Upholstery follows suit.
Furniture is being built now on a scale suitable for small houses. Have nothing unwieldy in your home. A baronial buffet or an oppressive chesterfield may ruin the whole effect. Furniture pieces must be reduced to the minimum necessary for comfort. Endeavour to arrange furniture so that there is an uninterrupted view from the doorway.
The focal point in a small room must be the window. Do not obscure the view by heavy hangings. If privacy is necessary, semi-transparent net curtaining will ensure it, but detract hardly at all from the outlook. Heavy side-curtains should not overlap the window-space.
The touch of colour necessary is introduced in curtains and cushions—and remember that the small room prefers one colour stress, or two at the most.
The dictionary definition of the word “hobby” is a favourite pastime. It is desirable that every person should have a hobby in addition to the ordinary work or duty. It really does not matter what the hobby is so long as it is interesting and helps to broaden the mental outlook.
There are many worthwhile hobbies for the woman who wishes to make the most of her spare time. Sewing knitting, cards, music and painting, out-of-door sports, gardening, etc., are all fascinating adjuncts to the more prosaic side of life. Many women—and men, too—often at first look on their work in connection with social welfare as merely a hobby, but after a while their absorption in it has become so much a part of them that it almost supersedes their other interests. Some folk have an idea that a hobby is essentially an enjoyment just to the person concerned, but when we look into the question, it is surprising how
It was little short of a tragedy to this railway worker to have to give up his job after 30 years. But his rheumatism was so bad that he had no choice—he could only walk with a stick. The advice of a friend led to his taking Kruschen Salts—and he went on taking it until he was able to go back to work again. This is the story in his own words:—
“For three years I had arthritis very badly and had to walk with a stick. Also I had to give up my job as a railway shunter, after 30 years in the Yard. I was advised by a lady to try Kruschen Salts, and I took bottle after bottle to give it a fair trial. I found it was doing me good, and continued until it cured me. If it had not been for Kruschen, I am sure I should not be here now. A lot of people used to tell my wife I was going home fast, but to-day I am in the best of health and am back at work again. If you saw me now, and could have seen me three years ago, you would not think I was the same man. I cannot praise Kruschen Salts too much.”—W.T.
The pains and stiffness of rheumatism are caused by deposits of needle-pointed uric acid crystals in the muscles and joints. The six salts in Kruschen stimulate your liver and kidneys to healthy, regular action; assist them to get rid of the excess uric acid which is the cause of all your suffering. When poisonous uric acid goes, with its deposits of needle-pointed crystals, there's no doubt about those aches and pains going too!
Kruschen Salts is obtainable at all Chemists and Stores at 2/6 per bottle. much general pleasure can be given to others by the taking up of that particular hobby. The fact to remember is that hobbies take the mind into a new country where all the troubles and cares of the workaday world are left behind. Generally speaking, a hobby loses much of its usefulness in this respect if it is turned into a sideline for money-making purposes, and although this often presents many temptations, it should in almost all cases be resisted if the full benefit of the hobby is to be reaped.
Many hobbies, such as stamp collecting or modelling bring together people of a congenial outlook into a pleasant relationship and often lifelong friendships are encouraged and developed from the fountain of a mutual hobby.
At this season of the year and in the early Spring there is a prevalence of infectious diseases. Colds, influenza, whooping cough and various skin diseases are apt to pay us a visit when the broken winter weather is with us. To safeguard the children's health it is necessary that they should be adequately clothed, but not superfluously clad in layers of thick or shrunken woollen under-garments. It is essential to allow free access of air to the body, so that the skin may function in a satisfactory manner. When the atmosphere is warm or when extra heat is produced by muscular exertion, sweat is poured out from the glands and evaporates on the skin, thus extracting heat and cooling the body. The idea is to keep the body warm by active exercise. A child who is constantly active will not require to wear a number of extra garments to enable him to keep warm. The tendency to overclothe the child in winter will make him over-sensitive to cold, so that it is better to underclothe him. An extra outside garment can always be worn if necessary. Over-clothing and coddling tend to break down resistance to colds and other ailments.
It will be seen that the ideal wear are porous, loosely woven undergarments, to allow for evaporation of moisture and free ventilation of the skin. Frequent changing of under-clothing is an important factor for the maintenance of good health. It is especially necessary in the case of children. The garments become impregnated with sweat and germs, and wearing them day after day, and often during the night as well, infects the skin, frequently causing rashes and spots, or even boils. Vests that are worn during the day should on no account be worn at night. One warm garment at night is all that is necessay. Loosely woven and porous garments are very easily washed and dried, and the little extra trouble is offset by improved health and vitality.
Children should not be allowed to go from overheated rooms into cold ones or outside without putting on an extra garment, such as a jumper or cardigan. The sudden chilling of the body frequently causes colds. Pure air, and as much sunshine as possible, is necessary for the well-being of the child. Sleeping rooms must be well ventilated with a continuous stream of fresh air flowing through them. It is also necessary to keep them out of direct draughts.
Children should be trained from the very earliest age in regular habits of hygiene. A daily bath helps to keep the body and skin free from infection. Cold baths are stimulating and beneficial to the normal child, provided the skin reacts to it well. After a quick rub down with a rough towel the body should be in a glow and feel warm to the touch. No dawdling should be allowed and brisk exercise should be taken afterwards.
Meals should be simple, regular and well-cooked with no “pieces” in between. Three good meals a day are sufficient. Milk should be given at the end and not between meals. Give plenty of water and some fruit juice between meals. Teach children to drink an adequate amount of water. It can be taken either hot or cold. The diet should be well balanced. Foods that leave a certain amount of undigested residue in the intestines enable them to work efficiently by stimulating
A child's chief meal should be given in the middle of the day.
Chilblains are really a slight frostbite. They develop when there is poor circulation in the parts affected. The best preventive, therefore, is to get fit before the cold weather comes, eat nourishing food, wear suitable warm clothing, and have sufficient healthy exercise. Persons who are predisposed to chilblains should aid circulation by massage of the hands and feet. The use of methylated spirits with massage is helpful as it hardens the skin. Any affected parts may be painted with weak tincture of iodine—it is quite a good remedy—but this should not be applied to broken chilblains. If the conditions persists it is well to get medical advice.
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To Remove Ink Stains From Wood. Cover the ink spots while wet with shredded blotting paper. Remove the paper as it becomes saturated, and apply this method until the paper no longer absorbs the ink; then rub the spots with lemon juice and salt until they disappear. If white marks result rub them with oil and turpentine.
To Remove Grease Stains From Unvarnished Wood.—Scrub with a solution of washing soda or ammonia.
To Remove Stains From Porcelain.—Rub with kerosene, followed by washing with soapsuds and warm water.
To Remove Iron Rust or Ink Stains From White Fabrics. — Soak the stained part in warm water until it is thoroughly moistened, then cover the part with lemon juice and salt and place in strong sunlight. Keep constantly wet until the stains become faint. Wash in diluted warm ammonia water and rinse in clear water.
To Remove Coffee, Tea and Fruit Stains.—Soaking in boiling water is generally sufficient. If this is not successful, spread the spot over a bowl of boiling water and rub with lemon juice and salt. Wash in ammonia water, then rinse in clear water.
N.B.—It is important to remember that stains are more easily removed while they are wet.
To Remove Blood Stains.—Wash with soap and tepid water.
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Plain biscuits, 6 olives, 1 tablespoon grated cheese, 1 slightly boiled egg, salt and pepper, curry powder.
Method: Chop up the olives with the grated cheese, add salt, pepper and a little curry powder to taste. Mix all together with the lightly boiled egg and pile on to the biscuits. Garnish with slices of olives.
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Line patty pans with good puff pastry; fill with the following mixture: 2 level tablespoons flour, 1 beaten egg. 1/2 teaspoon mustard, 1 cup grated cheese, 1 cup milk, salt, pepper, cayenne to taste. Mix all together and cook till thick, stirring all the time. Cool slightly before filling cases. Bake in good oven for ten to fifteen minutes. Reheat before serving. Garnish with parsley.
Two-three ounces grated cheese, pinch mustard, loz. butter, little cayenne, Worcester sauce to taste. Mix with anchovy sauce or vinegar; spread on fingers of hot buttered toast.
One tablespoon butter, 1 1/2 cups bread-crumbs, 1 cup milk (or cream). When thoroughly melted add two hard-boiled eggs, chopped small, and a small tin of mashed sardines. Season to taste. Serve very hot on slices of buttered toast cut in fancy shapes. Garnish with parsley.
“If all the money expended on tobacco were banked there'd be enough before long to wipe out the National Debt,” thundered the orator. “That'd be a fat lot of good to smokers, wouldn&t it!” came a voice from the back seats. When they'd done laughing the lecturer barked: “Tell me how much tobacco costs you a week, you there, and I'll show you you're wasting your money and running your health.” “I smoke four ounces of Cut Plug No. 10 a week,” answered the voice. “It costs me something over three bob, and I get a quid's worth of enjoyment out of it. And don&t you worry about my health, mister. Been smoking same brand for years, and I'm still going strong. It's toasted, and can&t hurt you if you smoke a ton a week.” The lecturer dried up. Just five brands of the genuine toasted: Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cavendish, Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold. They're harmless because they're toasted—and there's enjoyment in every whiff!*
No modern novelist would dare to tell a story such as surrounds the running of the Derby in 1867 when Hermit won the race by half-a-neck and gained revenge for his owner over a man who had done him a grievous wrong.
The principals in this drama were Henry Chaplin, afterwards Lord Chaplin and the Marquess of Hastings. Chaplin, the Squire of Blankney, had an income of £40,000 a year. Hastings, well-born and rich, had entered on a path which cost him all he had. The Marquess had inherited his fortune while still a boy; his high spirits and easy-going ways made it easy for him to find friends to help him waste it. At Oxford he was associating with the wrong people, and before long it was seen that the traits of his mother had been repeated in him. (She had frequented the foreign casinos for years and was known for her nonchalant staking of enormous sums on the turn of a card and for her utter lack of emotion whether she lost or won). The attraction of the turf was too strong to be escaped by such a boy and thus the Marquess became an ardent racing man. It meant the end of his University career, for a forbidden visit to a famous training stable at Danebury was discovered and young Plantagenet, the last of his family, was sent down from Oxford.
This early freedom merely aided the young man in his new interest. He soon owned his own string of racehorses and began winning a number of the minor races. When he succeeded in the Cambridgeshire with a horse named Ackworth, however, he collected so much money from his wagers that he was encouraged to begin plunging in the manner of his mother and to head towards his complete downfall.
It was in the same year that he began the love affair which had its aftermath in the 1867 Derby.
The third person in the triangle was Lady Florence Paget, second daughter of the Marquess of Anglesea, called by her friends “the pocket Venus,” small, high-spirited, and of a loveliness which brought her unremitting attention from the young men of the Sixties. For some reason Lady Florence had been attracted to the steady-going Henry Chaplin, a young man just down from Oxford, whose head was always the master of his heart. But hardly had their engagement been announced when the Marquess of Hastings, far more the girl's type and far better able to strike response from her, began to pay attentions to her. Chaplin was unperturbed, it was nothing new for a young man to be conquered by “the pocket Venus” at first meeting, and the assiduous young Plantagenet did not trouble him in the least. Chaplin had complete faith in Lady Florence, but he was to find that his faith was misplaced. Five days before the date set for the wedding the girl was out shopping with her fianceá when she stopped their coach in Regent Street and told him to wait while she made some purchases. When she stepped out of the vehicle she went completely out of his life.
It was after a long wait that Chaplin impatiently set out to find her and was told that she had met Lord Hastings and that they had left together by another door. Anxious inquiries soon established the staggering fact that the pair had been married that afternoon by special license. It was a tremendous blow to Chaplin, whose freezing manner prevented any friend from mentioning the affair to him from that day. But the wealthy young landowner had not the nature which forgives easily and he was determined that his successful rival should pay dearly for the foolish figure which he had cut in front of all England.
An odd twist of fate is to be found in the fact that the horse which gave the commoner his revenge was actually bid for by both Chaplin and Lord Hastings. Hermit, an apparently valueless horse, was auctioned at a race-meeting where both men were in attendance, but Chaplain had seen possibilities in the animal and determined to buy him. Dislike probably spurred him on when he found that Hastings, too, was bidding for the horse. On his side, Hastings was determined that, if Chaplin wanted Hermit he should pay highly for him and the Marquess forced up the price to a thousand pounds, after which Chaplin raised the bid another £50 and became owner of a future Derby winner.
At the time no one but Chaplin believed that the real worth of the horse was even a thousand shillings, and though Hermit was entered for the Derby, that fact did not cross anyone's mind save that of his new owner. This was all into Chaplin's hands. Lord Hastings was betting heavily, paying enormous prices for horses which were completely useless, losing tremendous sums on ill-judged wagers. As the Derby of 1867 drew near the Marquess looked around for a method of improving his extremely shaky financial position, and in Hermit he saw the very thing he seemed to need. By the time that the race-day came Lord Hastings was pledged to such an extent that he stood to lose £100,000 if Hermit won the race while Chaplin
Hermit recovered sufficiently for him to go to the starting post, but his chances of winning were considered so small that when he was seen on the course one humorist shouted an offer to purchase the horse for £15. The starting price of sixty-six to one revealed the public valuation of his ability. On the morning of the great race there was a fall of snow and the ardent racegoers had to face the added discomfort of biting wind and showers of sleet. During the process of lining up the horses the field was ten times recalled because of false starts. When they got away at last Hermit dumb-founded the crowd by revealing his pace from the beginning, sweeping past the field and, in a terrific finish, winning by a neck.
Lord Hastings was ruined, but no one on the course saw him show any sign of distress at his plight. His mother's ability to remain unruffled in the face of reverses had been passed on to her son. He was not only wrecked financially, but before the end of the year, after a series of wild attempts to win money in various ways in order to meet his creditors, all of which failed hopelessly, the Marquess died. “Hermit fairly broke my heart,” he said on his death bed, then adding anxiously: “But I didn&t show it, did I?”
“Lumme,” said the bus driver to the fare alongside, “that's a bosker pipe of yourn mister!” “Ten bob's worth,” replied the owner, “it's a patent—works the nicotine out, see?” “Ain&t no time for patent pipes meself,” remarked the driver, “always going wrong. Just a ordinary pipe wif no frills for your ‘umble. This ‘ere” (a stumpy briar) “never goes wrong, smokes as sweet as sugar, and cost ninepence. You've no call for patent pipes s'long as yer bacca's right.” “What kind d'you smoke?” queried the passenger. “Toasted, of course,” said the driver, “Cut Plug No. 10. Ain&t ‘ardly no nikerten in toasted. The toasting does the trick. Talk abaht yer imported, it's not in it wif toasted—the reel tossted I mean—not one o'them blanky imitations.” “Often heard tell of it,” said the “fare.” “I'll get some.” “Can&t do no better,” declared the driver, “there's five brands, Cavendish, Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold. You pays yer money and you takes yer choice. Getting down? Ta! Ta!”*
One of the most likeable men I have met in Australian journalism is John Barr. When he first gripped my hand and looked at me with those keen kind eyes of his I knew I had found a friend. I was then barely in my twenties and John Barr was assistant editor of the “Bulletin.” He could not have found me very interesting, yet he did what young fellows love most of all. He treated me as though I were of his own age and mental calibre. And at that time, remember, John Barr was in his prime. He was one of the big men of the “Bulletin.” He was the perfect craftsman of that great art—the art of the paragraphist.
In later years I was fortunate in being associated with John Barr on “Aussie” magazine. As sub-editor of the paper he handled my copy from New Zealand. I learned much from the master touch he would give, by adding to, altering or deleting a word here or there in what I wrote. Most important were his lessons in the art of condensation, for John Barr could not tolerate copy that was padded. This came hard on him in later years when he had to rely for his existence on free lancing. While another writer could pad a paragraph into a short article. John Barr adhered to his old habit of bovrilisation, and therefore did not draw lineage commensurate with his work, which proves once more the anomaly of paying for matter at so much per line. Only too often is a twelve line condensed classic, worth, in the eyes of an editor only a few shillings, whereas he will willingly pay a guinea for a column of padded piffle.
John Barr was thrown on the free lance field because “Aussie” was not able to pay its way. In a desperate effort to keep this magazine going the proprietors decided on drastic retrenchment and Barr was one of the first to suffer. The paper contained his famous page, “Men and Other Sins,” which later was to provide material for Barr's first book.
I think John Barr's relationship to this book is unique in the world of authordom. He did not know it was being produced until it was practically on the market. He told me that he got the shock of his life one day when a friend of his congratulated him upon its forthcoming appearance. I do not know the inside mystery, but it must have had a happy ending, for when “Men and Other Sins” appeared it contained Barr's dedication which was to his wife.
John Barr still battles on in that arduous fight for existence—the fight of the free lancer. He glimpsed the future many years ago in his poem. “The Men Who Battle Through.”
They stamp along the pavements of the Cities of the Wrong
Where the weak are Juggernauted by the System of the Strong,
And I doff my hat before them all, those sloggers good and true—
The rough men, the tough men, the Men Who Battle Through.
* * *
I always look forward with the keenest of interest to the annual “Sketcher” of the Otago University. For years Dunedin has been particularly strong in cartoonists and caricaturists. Viewing the work in the latest Varsity production I feel that the dour town still holds the black and white laurels of the Dominion. A tower of strength, is the versatile artist Russell Clark. His work in this 1935 production emphasises his genius—and I do not use the word loosely. Whether in caricature, cartoon, or joke blocks, Russell Clark outstands. Gordon McIntyre, too, is well represented. His work is always sound. The artist responsible for the Continental subtlety of the picture on page 47 may be “meet,” but not just. There are other items in the issue on the risque side.
* * *
I am not surprised to learn that a rapturous reception has been given to The Friendly Road's publication “Hello Everybody,” because it is giving in instalments “The Life Story of Uncle Scrim.” Although you have to go to Auckland to touch the vortex (and it is something of a vortex) of “Scrim's” popularity, this outstanding Radio man is well known throughout New Zealand. Many a politician must envy the publicity aroused by his unique personality. “Scrim's” biography is being written with engaging candour by Harry Bell, who is one of the greatest enthusiasts of 1 Z.B., Auckland. “Scrim's” biography will occupy four instalments.
I found the other day a quaint thought beautifully expressed in an essay by that exquisite stylist Richard le Gallienne. He is writing in justification of limited editions and inquires: “What would you not pay for a ticket to see the moon rise, if Nature had not improvidently made it a free entertainment? … Yes from scarped cliff and quarried stone, Nature cries, ‘Limit the Edition! Distribute—the type!'—though in her capacity as the great publisher, she has been all too prodigal in her issues and ruinously guilty of innumerable remainders.”
* * *
In Australia and New Zealand Will Lawson has made a big reputation as a poet and a short story writer. Now he has made his debut as a novelist in his South Sea story “The Laughing Buccaneer,” just published by Angus and Robertson, Sydney. From the average reader's point of view this is a novel that should very quickly have a lengthy waiting list at the libraries. The story simply grips you with its wealth of exciting happenings. If you have the time you simply won&t leave it until you finish the last page. From the critic's point of view the book is an interesting study. In the first place Will Lawson has actually created a new novel of the South Seas—an achievement in itself. Obviously the book was written in a tremendous hurry and yet it is not slovenly done. Had Will Lawson held the book, repolished it and extended it, it would have been one of the finest South Sea romances ever written.
At any rate the publishers might have “bulked” it into a full size 6/- nett. The reading public are the gainers for they get the best 4/6 worth turned out in Australia for many a long day. With good marketing the book should have almost record sales. The introduction of Bully Hayes into this romance of the Island of Women is effectively carried out. His romantic personality is well suited to the whirlwind excitement of the story.
After the lean years we have been through it is very heartening to learn that more books were published in Australia last year than the whole of the output of the preceding decade. Small wonder that a literary agency is now operating there. This organisation (Napier, Gardiner and Co., 79 Pitt Street, Sydney) has been formed to deal with the work of established and amateur writers. For the former, valuable contact is made with publishing houses in Australia and London and for the amateur helpful advice and criticism are given. A pamphlet giving details as to terms, etc., is free on application.
* * *
“The Spirit of London,” by Paul Cohen-Portheim, is one of the most interesting of the year's prolific book output of Angus and Robertson Ltd. of Sydney. Countless books have been written about the great city but in this volume a new and most interesting atmosphere is revealed. As the author states in his introduction he has taken for granted the famous sights and curiosities of London. Where they are mentioned it is not for descriptive but for explanatory purposes—it is a critical and not a descriptive guide. The uncanny insight displayed regarding unknown London is a revelation. This is going to be one of the most popular travel books of the year. Enhancing the brilliant letterpress are 140 photographs taken from all angles of London life. The book sells at 8s. 6d.
“The Iron Duke,” by Philip Lindsay (Angus and Robertson, Sydney), will be welcomed by all who have seen the great film in which George Arliss took the leading part. To those who have not seen the much-discussed talkie it should provide one of the most interesting of historical romances. A great yarn for the fireside these winter nights. The book is illustrated with seventeen full page plates taken from the film. On sale at all book-sellers, price 2s. 9d.
* * *
Whether it is the possibility of another war being thrust on us or merely a psychological cycle among the reading public I do not know, but it is very evident that there is a big demand just now for books and pictures dealing with the Great War. Messrs. Angus and Robertson, the well-known Sydney publishers, have produced quite a number of war books of late, all of them interesting and generally regarded as important additions to the library of authentic books on the war. Two noteworthy books in this connection have just been publised by the same firm.
“Comrades of the Great Adventure,” by H. R. Williams, gives us a series of wonderful sidelights on the War. Here we see our friend the Digger as the great conversationalist—training and the serious fighting business are in the background. Human nature stands revealed in the light of the camp fire in billet and in trench. Something different from the usual war book, and vastly entertaining in spite of its sombre patches. The author well lives up to the big reputation he established with his “The Gallant Company.” The other book takes us under the sea and reveals in a gripping manner the part the submarine played in the War. “Watchdogs of the Deep” is the title, and the author is, T. M. Jones, ex-leading torpedo-man of H.M. submarine J2. Here we see the detective of the deep searching, ever searching, for his quarry. An extremely dangerous game, simply bristling with thrills. I can imagine no theatre of the Great War that could produce a more exciting drama. A brief foreword is supplied to the book by Rear-Admiral W. T. Randle Ford, Commander of the Australian Navy. Both books sell at 6/- each.
* * *
I have had a peep at the proofs of Ian Donnelly's “The Joyous Pilgrimage” due any day now from Dent's, London. Brilliant stuff. I predict a record sale in New Zealand.
Dr. A. J. Harrop, who visited New Zealand last year, has just had published by Allen and Unwin an illustrated guide entitled “Touring New Zealand.”
“The Irish Tribune,” the first issue of which recently came from Auckland, is developing into a most interesting paper. Pleasing to note that it is strictly non-sectarian.
Due to be published in Sydney in August is a magazine to be called “South”—all-fiction with two serials.
Hector Bolitho has bought a country house in Saffron Walden. Essex.
This country must have the distinction of giving to the world the first all embracing book published on the subject of beer. The MS was sent to London last month.
It must seem to the wise child unversed in the weird ways of the world that “dad may come and dad may go but mum goes on for ever.” Motherhood is a full-time job but fatherhood also has its responsibilities. And yet, how is it that fathers seem to get so little good advice on a job they do so badly, while mothers, who know their maternal alphabet from “ache” to “zip,” are honoured by tons of advisory tomes?
Do fathers need advice? There are fifty million mothers who will say they do. And yet thousands of fathers are left to grope through fatherhood with not a father-expert within coo-ee to pep up their paternal patter so that they may, in time, become a credit to their children instead of a “thing of duty and a cloy for ever.”
The fact is that few fathers realise what a glorious thing it is to be a father. On the contrary, there are times innumerable when fathers wish that they had been born a bowl of goldfish rather than a father; especially during the stilly A.M.'s, when merry bachelors hibernate, and all is hushed—except the white man's burden who whangs the welkin in its father's arms, and makes a morepork of Morpheus. But there are joys and jubilations attached to fatherhood, even if, at first glance, they seem as remote as Ever-rest.
First of all, what is a father? Is he just a mother's husband, or is he an entity in whose bosom there surges the fierce protective instinct of fatherhood? Do fathers fight for their young with that primeval ferocity attributed to mothers? We doubt it. The only primeval ferocity they register is when Willie kicks his football through the bathroom window. Do fathers “organise” to make themselves better fathers? Do we hear of Fathers' Guilds, Fathers' Day, or Fathers' Meetings? We do not. Any such meetings are conducted in the secret sanctums of lodges, social clubs, bars, and suchlike haunts of fatherhood, where the happy cries of little children are never heard. All of which seems to indicate that the chief aim of fathers is to forget for a few fleeting hours that they have been called to the solemn state of fatherhood. Taking everything into consideration, it seems clear that fathers are made, not born.
Do biologists, sociologists or apologists ever refer to our bounding young bachelors as “the nation's future fatherhood”? Is it ever said that in them as the fathers of posterity, reposes the sacred responsibility of the race? Not to any noticeable extent! And why? Because mothers are mothers by instinct. Not so with fathers.
Mothers are enthusiasts. They meet to chat over such problems as what makes a baby cry, or the care of the first tooth, or why baby refuses to stack up the adipose according to the book of Plunket, or any other topics conducive to the building of bonny babies.
But if you listen in to the male descanting on weak knees, lack of staying power over the distance, shortness of breath or paucity of pace, you can bet your celluloid shirt cuffs that he is speaking either of himself or his favourite racehorse.
Thousands of fathers imagine that their paternal responsibility ends at the cheque butt, whereas this is only where it begins. Consequently we make no apology for publishing this short treatise on “How to be a Good Father.”
But what is a good father? We know, of course, that a good husband is what his wife makes him, or what he makes his wife think she has made him—according to which one happens to be having the say; but the only judges of a good father are the ones who made him a father. He may intend to be a good father; he may
know by feminine intuition.
He may be a big noise in the market place, but a dumbell in the nursery. For it takes a good man to measure up to Mickey Mouse, Jack the Giant Killer, or Sinbad the Sailor in the infant estimation.
Fathers! Do your children call you “pop” to your face and “pop-eye” behind your back? Are you a pal or a pall in the home? Do your children mentally put you on a pedestal or do they put you on the spot? The answer to these questions decides whether or not you are a fit and proper person to be a father. But we can help you! No case is so hopeless that we cannot give instant relief. By following a few simple misdirections you can alleviate your paternal pain. Here are a few short “Don'ts for Daddies”:
Don&t fly off the handle if baby pokes you in the eye with the potato masher or pours treacle into your boots.
Don&t try to enter into your children's play; after boasting about your athletic prowess they are bound to discover what a liar you are.
Don&t try to be funny in the presence of your children; let them retain the illusion that you have some intelligence until they are old enough to find out that you haven't.
Don&t try to be all nursery-rhymeish, story-bookish, and iggley-wiggley with your little daughters. Remember that girls are practically grown up in the cradle and prefer strong silent he-men to sugar-daddies.
Don&t let your children discover how little you know; answer all their questions just as if you knew what they were talking about.
And finally—if you must be a father, take a long sea voyage, lasting about five years if possible, so that your children's mother can bring them up properly; because you know as well as I know that you will never be fit for fatherhood.
Not that you are to blame. Fatherhood has been neglected, while the welfare of mothers is so copiously catered for that it must be great to be a mother. She has visiting nurses to advise what to do when baby swallows the scissors, lectures on the vitamins in dill water, and “mothers' helps.” But did you ever hear of fathers' helps? When he has been up all night “Walking out with Baby,” when the mortgages are due, the income-tax is imminent, and life seems just one long dull thud, can he ring up for one of the Plunket boys to come and stroke his burning brow? No, gentlemen, he cannot. Even the fire brigade is not available for burning brows. He just carries on—unstrung and unsung.
Whilst mothers are sung to the skies, fathers are talked to the earth. There are pitifully few songs about fathers, but a whole heap about mothers. The only song we can remember about fathers is a disrespectful ditty.
The Maori of the old generation had a shrewd wit, with which he often made play at the expense of the pakeha. There was a Wanganui chief of whom my old friend the late Rev. T. G. Hammond used to tell this story. Hammond was “Te Hamana” among the Maoris; he was a veteran Wesleyan missionary to the West Coast Maoris. He and the Wanganui man had many an argument concerning the pakeha missions. The Maori waxed sarcastic. “Oh, you missionaries,” he said. “Do you know why you were sent to us? You were really sent to break us in, to tame the Maoris as we break in a wild horse—rub them quietly down the face to keep them quiet. Then when the missionaries had tamed us, another set of pakehas took the land from under us.”
Really, there was sound truth underlying that sagacious figure of speech.
Another simile bearing upon the white man's steady advance is an expression I have frequently heard among the Waikato and King Country Maoris. The surveyors sent into the Maori country to spy out and map the land were likened to a wedge. The Kai-ruri, they said, was the first wedge of maire wood driven into the log of Maori nationality. Presently other wedges would be driven home and the pakeha Government would split the log up. And therein, too, truth is embodied. That splitting-up process in the Rohepotae was inexorable and inevitable. The log symbolised not only Maori nationality but the land, and all that great territory could not be allowed to remain in its wild state when it was so tempting a place to be split up for the land-needing thousands of the pakeha.
Mention of “Te Hamana” recalls to my memory another story told by him, one day of long ago. We were sitting on the flat top of an old hill pa called Pa-matangi, near the Whenua-kura River in South Taranaki. We had been treasure-hunting there, searching for greenstone relics—the missionary's favourite diversion, concerning which his Maori flock sometimes passed rather sarcastic comments. Mr. Hammond talked of his early mission life at Hokianga, and narrated that when he left there in 1887 to take up the work of his church among the Taranaki Maoris he sold his sporting rifle to a young Maori in the Waima Valley. That valley eleven years later was the scene of Hone Toia's armed but bloodless little rebellion against pakeha authority. When Hone and his principal men surrendered to Colonel Newall at Waima village after the Government military column had marched in from Rawene (the present writer was an eye-witness of that episode), one of the chiefs who laid down their arms was this man who owned the sporting rifle. On the previous day he was one of the seventy men and lads of the fractious Mahurehure tribe who lay in, ambush on the bush road aching to let drive at the troops as soon as the order was given. (Fortunately Hone Toia stayed his hand only just in time and fighting was averted).
When Mr. Hammond re-visited Waima in 1900, his friend told him of the happenings two years before, and laughed as he described how he lay in ambush with his finger on the trigger of his rifle.
“Why do you laugh?” asked Te Hamana. “It was no laughing matter, was it?”
“I laughed because it was a great joke,” the Maori replied, “to think that it was your rifle, the gun you sold me, that I was going to shoot pakehas with—the missionary's gun.”
“Well, well,” said Te Hamana, “I had quite forgotten selling my rifle to you. But did you surrender it to the Colonel when you all gave up your arms?”
“No,” said the Maori, with a grin, “I wasn&t so foolish as all that, Hamana. I put it away in a safe place—I have it still—and I gave the Government an old muzzle-loader with a broken lock. That was all the gun I had for the Government!”
I read lately that a settler family in Taranaki had made friends with a colony, or shoal, of the little indigenous fish called kokopu, in a stream near the homestead. The kokopu were so tame, or unafraid, that they came up near the bank to be fed by the farmer and his daughter; they would eat out of their hands.
Other country residents have found that eels can be fed in the same way? and all visitors to Rotorua know how well tamed the trout are in the ponds in the Sanatorium grounds. But the Maori is entitled to regard all this small-fry petting with a superior kind of smile. He can—or could—do much better than that! He didn&t bother with kokopu and tuna. He had tame whales and even dragons, or something very like a dragon. It was all a matter of mana, he says; a chief possessed a hereditary powerful mana, the spiritual increment of generation after generation of, sacred ancestors, had amazing powers over the lesser world. There were famous whales which came at call, the Maori-Polynesian wireless, the exercise of will-power. A tohunga marooned on White Island by his enemies once escaped from that isle of volcanic terrors by means of his whale-god, which responded to his call and took him to within easy swimming distance of the mainland. There were pet ngarara—probably large tuatara lizards—around which all manner of folktales were woven by the tale-loving Maori.
The idea of taking conducted parties of English elementary school children to London, not merely on pleasure bent, but also for the purpose of improving their general knowledge, is one that might commend itself to New Zealand education authorities.
There are many children in this country who would derive educational benefit from a visit of inspection to Wellington, whilst it can safely be assumed that Dominion parents would not be averse to emulating their English cousins in denying themselves, if necessary, in order to enable their children to visit the seat of Government.
In England the young folk accompanied by teachers, travel at excursion rates, in batches of 1,000, from the home towns of any size, two trains being required for each contingent.
Free admission is granted the visitors to certain national institutions, together with every facility for gaining first-hand knowledge of the metropolis.
If a child is to grow up imbued with a proper degree of pride in, and loyalty towards, his country, it is essential he shall see beyond the boundary of his own town. At any-rate this fact is recognised at Home.
* * *
A good map of New Zealand will show you Wedderburn, Kyeburn, or Gimmerburn in the Maniototo Plains district of Otago: you may not find Eweburn, Sowburn, or Pigburn, though such names do exist. The former are of townships, the latter of streams or settlements. The origin of these names is both interesting and amusing.
Many of the official place names of Otago were bestowed by Mr. J. T. Thomson, who was Chief Surveyor and Engineer of Otago. Among the names he chose was a list pertaining to the various streams and creeks of the Maniototo district, and this list comprised all euphonious Maori names. The Provincial Council in considering the names decided they were rather difficult to pronounce and sent the list back to Mr. Thomson with instructions to alter. Thomson was rightly annoyed, and indignantly changed them to the unpleasing, Wedderburn, Kyeburn, Gimmerburn, Eweburn, Sowburn, Pigburn, Cowburn, Hogburn, Oxburn, Horseburn, Mare-burn, and so on, maintaining that anybody could surely pronounce them! The names were approved of and passed, and in most cases are still in use to-day.—C.H.F.
* * *
Upon the top of a very steep hill at the entrance of the Manakau Harbour there is a signalling station with a solid-looking mast. The other day one asked an old resident how the mast was got up there, and suggested that it must have cost a lot for haulage.
“How much does a fair-sized keg of beer cost?” he asked.
One sighed profoundly and admitted one's ignorance on grounds of poverty.
“Well, it cost three kegs,” one was informed.
On asking the obvious one was told that the builders couldn&t get the mast up, so they tried a new idea. They got three kegs of mellowed ale and three dozen thirsty Maoris. The kegs were placed at intervals up the hill and the natives at intervals along the pole.
And the keg at the top of the hill was empty in half an hour.—Boz.
Phormium Tenax, or New Zealand flax, is a most valuable plant, and to the Maoris was almost indispensable. Scraping with mussel shells was the slow method they adopted when cleaning the fibre, the first shipments for commercial use, all being prepared in this primitive manner. Its fibre is far superior in strength to that of any other plant, and once its qualities were recognised by cordage manufacturers, a considerable demand for it set in, large quantities being exported to Sydney, which, in those days, played the part of clearing-house for New Zealand produce, and elsewhere. In 1831 one thousand and sixty-two tons were shipped from Sydney to England.—A.J.
* * *
When Dad booked in at “Sea View” the landlady informed him that the large billiard-room was especially for the use of guests. Later, Dad met a friend on the premises and proposed a game, suggesting that they should visit a billiard parlour just across the street. “Why not play here?” the friend asked. “You're a guest, aren&t you?” Dad shook his head. “Oh, no,” he replied. “I'm only a boarder.”—O. W. Waireki.
Judge: “Will you waive your right to appeal?”
Husband: “Don&t let her wave any more rights, Judge. That's how I got this black eye!”
* * *
“Good morning, Mrs. Kelly,” said the doctor, “did you take your husband's temperature, as I told you?”
“Yes, doctor, I borrowed a barometer and placed it on his chest; it said very dry' so I bought him a pint o' beer and he's gone back to work.”
* * *
“She sings, plays the ‘cello, is a champion golfer and paints beautifully!”
“Well, if old George can cook a bit, they ought to get on very well together.
* * *
The county hall was packed while the dairy inspector lectured on “Cows that Pay.” Having concluded, he announced that, by way of an encore, he would give a short talk on “Cows that Won&t Pay.”
Suddenly at the back of the hall, the town grocer started clapping vigorously, shouting, “Give it to them, professor, the hall's full of them.”
* * *
The office manager was interviewing a waiting line of applicants for the job of office boy. Presently a very diminutive youth with a most alert manner was ushered in.
“Now, my boy,” said the manager, impressively, “I want a boy who is smart and neat—he must look around the office and note the things that need to be done. I'm tired of boys who never see what requries doing, and I'm determined to have a boy with some idea of fixing things the way they should be. Do you understand me?”
“Certainly, sir,” replied the applicant. “Shall I put your tie straight, sir?”
Mrs. Brown (seeing Rugby scrum for the first time): “Oh, isn&t it terrible. Why, they'll kill my poor boy underneath there.”
Knowledgeable Daughter: “Don&t be silly, mother. George doesn&t mind it, he's unconscious by this time.”
* * *
“Why did you break your engagement to Tom?”
“He deceived me. He told me he was a liver and kidney specialist, and I found out that he only worked in a butcher's shop.”
* * *
“Would you mind walking the other w'y and not passing the ‘orse?” said a London cabman with exaggerated politeness to the fat lady who had just paid a minimum fare.
“Why?” she inquired.
“Because, if ‘e sees wot ‘e's been carryin’ for a shilling ‘e'll.'ave a fit.”
* * *
Wife: “Don&t you think I have put too much salt in the soup, dear?”
Model Husband: “Not at all, darling. There is perhaps not quite enough soup for the salt, that's all.”
* * *
Housewife: You said I would find that coal an economical kind to buy. Why, it won&t burn at all.
Coalman: Well, ma'am, what could be more economical than that?
“Of course,” said Briggs, as he commenced to tackle the portion of chicken with his knife and fork, “I may be wrong, but it strikes me that this chicken—–”
“Well,” snapped the landlady tersely, “and what's the matter with the chicken, pray?”
Briggs shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, nothing—nothing,” he said offhandedly. “I was going to say that it is quite evident that the bird was an off-spring of a hard-boiled egg.”
* * *
When an engine driver was asked why a locomotive is called “she” he said: They wear jackets with yokes, pins, shields and stays. They have aprons. Not only do they have shoes, but they sport pumps and even hose. They also attract men with puffs and mufflers. Then they need guiding, and they also need a man to feed them. And last, but not least, they all smoke.
* * *
Passenger: “Please, guard, will you help me out of the train?”
Guard: “Certainly, madam.”
Passenger: “You see, it's this way. Being rather stout, I have to get out backwards, and the porters always think I am getting in, so they push me back into the carriage and say, ‘‘Urry up, madam!’ I've passed four stations that way already!”