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The New Zealand Railways Magazine is on sale through the principal booksellers, or may be obtained post-free for 6/- per annum.
Employees of the Railway Department are invited to forward news items or articles bearing on railway affairs. The aim of contributors should be to supply interesting topical material tending generally towards the betterment of the service.
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All communications should be addressed to The Editor, New Zealand Railways Magazine, Wellington.
I hereby certify that the publisher's lists and other records disclose that the circulation of the “New Zealand Railways Magazine” has not been less than 20,000 copies each issue since July, 1930.
The Department's accounts show that the sales of the Magazine during the year ended 31st March, 1936, were more than treble those of the previous financial year.
Deputy-Controller and Auditor-General 26/5/36.
The following letter was selected at random from the flies containing innumerable letters of a similar character conveying expressions of appreciation for services rendered to the public by members of the Railways staff all over New Zealand. The letter quoted was received by the Hon. D. G. Sullivan, Minister at Railways, from Mr. A. J. Campbell, Takapau, Hawke's Bay.”
Taknpau, Howke's Bay. Dear Sir, 29/5/36. “On behalf of my invalid wife and myself I beg to thank the officers of the Railway Department, especially Mr. Hayes, Stationmaster at Takapau, for their kindness in getting such a comfortable berth on the “Limited” for my invalid wife for her Journey to Auckland….
With the aid of Mr. Heyes she was given the best berth on the train and after a comfortable journey she arrived In hospital in Auckland none the worse for the journey.
I Just mention this so that you can see what untold heto and ralief can be given by your officer. We are only humble people with grateful hearts. I am hoping now that something can be done for my wife. At least she has had a chance, thanks to Mr. Hayes and the Railway Deportment.”
The rapid developments taking place in New Zealand at present are indicative of the trend of the times in most parts of the world.
New Zealand has two distinct advantages in dealing with the demands of the new age. The first is its extremely high proportion of British stock composing the poportion (in the vicinity of 94 per cent.), and the second is the high general standard of education. From the former, New Zealanders gain a common outlook or standard conception of first principles. From the latter they derive a poise which is not easily upset by the march of events.
The average New Zealander is not scared readily. because he understands most things—and what he does not understand he dismisses as unimportant. And he cannot he stampeded by emotionalism because his heritage of British doggedness does not encourage that sort of thing.
New Zealand is thus well fortified to pass through the changes demanded by modern conditions, without either breaking away on the “down” grades or losing steam on the “up.”
This steadiness of national character has enabled the country to “keep its head” through all the changing fortunes of nearly a hundred years of British settlement, and stays with us now, as all prepare for the forward movement on every front which the signs of the times portend.
What are these modern tendencies? Fairer trade, higher standards of life, greater social services, better understanding in business relations, more good cheer, healthier living, less personal acquisitiveness, and more altruistic aims.
These are some of the trends of the times which have only to be mentioned to gain a chorus of agreement.
How the desired results are to be achieved is the only count upon which opinions could differ. Some profess to see a lion in the path, and would prefer to go round the corner and over the fence. Others, who have the daring to face the supposed lion, often find it to be only a puppy dog—and frequently friendly, at that. Some would go over the mountain, some round it and some through it; but provided the objective is a common one, the ultimate result will be the same whichever route is taken. If happiness lies at the end of the road then all is well—but those who take the best route will reach it first.
New Zealand is undergoing a great national stocktaking, and the stock-sheets show that we are well equipped to develop every one of the assets with which nature has endowed the country-production for local consumption and overseas trade, local mamifacture on a scale never hitherto envisaged, and a development of tourist traffic that is profitable in itself and that leads the way, through a greater spread of personal knowledge regarding the Dominion, towards the increased settlement for which the country is eminently suited. The Railways, as special features in this issue of the Magazine indicate, are well prepared to play their part in any developments that the years have in store.
In this issue of the Magazine appears a special illustrated article descriptive of the railcar “Maahunui.” The article was written by a passenger on the car and the accuracy and inspiration of the description is a tribute alike to this talented writer's faculty of observation and to the enthusiasm which the car has induced amongst those who have travelled by it.
Amongst the public who gathered along the route traversed by the rail-car on recent trial runs, the enthusiasm and praise for this latest mode of passenger transport was as unbounded as it was spontaneous.
The interest that the people referred to have taken in the “Maahunui” was accepted by me and other members of the Department as a very great compliment to the Service, and substantiates the opinion expressed by the Minister of Railways, the Hon. Mr. Sullivan, that the railways are far from being decadent.
It is this spontaneous interest that encourages me in the belief that the future of the railcar, from the purely commercial point of view, is absolutely assured, and it is also, in my opinion, symbolical of the efficiency and virtues of the rail-car as an economical and comfortable passenger unit.
Whilst the public enthusiasm referred to was not completely surprising to me in view of the very great interest displayed in the smaller rail-car in which I have travelled many times throughout the North Island and over all the South Island lines, it was nevertheless most gratifying to actually witness the magnitude of the response by the people towards a type of passenger unit that will, I believe, most assuredly revolutionise passenger transport in this Dominion.
In a communication received from Australia from one who had received New Zealand newspapers containing descriptions and pictures of the “Maahunui,” the following comment appears: “I should say there is nothing finer in existence at the present time in the way of rail motors.” This comment, from a quite disinterested but well-informed source, confirms the impression the car has already made in New Zealand.
The effect that rail-cars will have on the passenger side of the business is not the only encouraging factor associated with their introduction. It will, it is hoped, be possible to eliminate practically all the “mixed” train services. These, although necessary under existing circumstances are, from both the passenger and goods points of view, entirely unsatisfactory.
Not only will rail-cars provide the desirable separate system of passenger services, but the separation will also assist goods services; incidentally enabling economies to be effected in the operation of both services.
General Manager.
“Majestic, stately, shining in the sunlight, it approached like the gorgeous howdah of some Eastern potentate,”
In those words Mr. O. N. Gillespie gives his first impression of the Rail-Car, “Maahunui” (Mah-hoo-noo-ee).
The following article describes the first of several newly-designed rail-cars for passenger transport between Wellington and Palmerston North, via the Rimutaka Incline and the Wairarapa.
I Went, a week ago, for my first ride in a rail-car. The man who first thought of “midland red” as the standard colour for the New Zealand Railways was a genius, but I would have liked him to have been standing with us when this handsome new landship backed into the Petone Station. Majestic, stately, shining in the sunlight, it approached like the gorgeous howdah of some Eastern potentate.
I have seen no more satisfying architectural design of a transport vehicle on land or sea than that of the “Maahunui,” the Dominion's aptly named first large rail car. Its lines are smooth and the contour graceful, and it lacks all the grimness and look of rugged and lumpish power that makes a locomotive engine so formidable and awe-aspiring. In the latter one has to be a “M'Andrew,” an engineer, to find beauty. In the former a dress designer, or a decorative painter would see good colour and exquisite taste in line and pattern. Even the headlamp is incorporated in the sweep of the front elevation, like a Cyclopean eye. I found, on entering, that there was already assembled a full team. As this was a “shop trial,” or test run, the General Manager had got a full muster of players, from the wireless expert to the transportation superintendent, from the guard to the engineers with rows of letters after their names. It was like a full meeting of the Professorial Board of the Railways, with a contingent of assistants, and a handy - looking crew of bright but earnest lads in overalls. These latter sat in the long back seat until some minor trouble intervened; then they rose as one man and went “over the top” cheerily. “Over the top” here means and includes as a legal tome would say, under sideways, lengthways and other ways. There were practically fifty of us, and it was an instance of the detailed attention provided for on the journey that one officer took a survey of our total weight. I should say that most of this population consisted of those who had taken an integral part in the creation of the “Maahunui,” and I am not ashamed to admit at once, that I found my interest wavering unsteadily between the car itself and its occupants. “The durned thing” as Artemus Ward would say, seemed to have developed a soul and these men were, in their last essence, component parts of a multiple personality. It was an indescribable atmosphere, a good deal of which, I am positive, was generated by the electric enthusiasm, the untiring vigour, and the sporting spirit of devotion to the job in hand, of Mr. G. H. Mackley, the General Manager. He gave a direct negation to all the book theorems of physics by being everywhere at the one time. A crowd of intent faces was gathered round at one piece of the journey, inspecting through the floor, the working of the
The interior of the car is a vision of comfort and aesthetic refinement. The chairs are in pairs, of tubular construction, and are chromium plated. This gleaming silver effect matches with the windows which are of half drop type set in aluminium frames. The window openings can be adjusted to any size. The seats are bucket shaped, of soft-toned brown leather, comfortably cushiony with head-rests and handy foot-bar rests. Sleep in them is easy, and the smooth motion is insidiously efficient in this direction (this is from experience). Heating is secured by hot air circulated by electric fans, and it is kept at an even temperature by thermostatic control. There is special roof ventilation. The electric light fittings were of a design new to me, neat oblongs of white frosted glass with plain borders. The floor is rubber-covered. There is accommodation for a ton of luggage, there being, as well as a special compartment, a container underneath the car.
Then there is the wireless. It is certainly a new thing in rail travel to hear, half way between The Summit and Cross Creek, “The ball bounced badly for Foley there, and Athletic are right down on the Eastbourne line … short throw … line out taking place five yards from the Eastbourne line — grandstand side … they're over, they're over!”
The only time the radio drops out is in the middle of the longer tunnels, and it is strange to hear it slowly reasserting itself as the hill above gets shallower and the tunnel mouth approaches. As you will readily perceive, the easy audibility of the wireless entails that the car running is practically noiseless. Even the “clickety-clack” is not so pronounced as in an ordinary carriage. Actual engine noise is non-existent except for a purr that is almost an undertone in velvet. There is the feeling of being on a magic carpet. Nothing seems to be producing motion; the scenery is simply slipping by, and Masterton getting closer. The wayside spectacle produces good bits all the way, too. Railway lines in New Zealand, in common with the rest of the world afford a succession of views of back gardens with many-coloured washing on the line and now and again little Billy playing with the kid next door, the back gate well shut by a careful mother. As our wonderful new affair on wheels goes speeding past, back doors fly open, kitchen steps are lined in a flash with open-mouthed, waving spectators. A long way up the line, one disrespectful country bloke dusted the line with his somewhat battered “lid” and bowed us past.
The sensation of swimming along through the atmosphere was rather increased by this processional reverence with which we were greeted. Inside the car, however, all was intense study and thoughtful concentration. This was the first trip over the Rimutakas, and every now and then something was looked over in readiness for its ordeal. It must be explained that the high central rail for the Fell engines to grip on the steep part of the world famous incline presented a very real difficulty to the rail car designers. The cars for use on this sector had to be specially built to overcome this, and they have an overhang of ten feet over the wheel base at each end. In the cars for other lines much of this can be eliminated. However, it is sufficient to say that on both sides of The Summit, including that dread piece of line with the projecting third rail, the car behaved angelically. Coming back from Cross Creek, the performance, compared with the doughty Fell engines, at one time regarded as the last word in powerful climbing mechanisms, was marvellous. It was the difference between Cuddle and a Clydesdate. “Maahunui” went down with caution but supreme confidence and climbed back like a chamois. It must be
On the way back, I had a seat in the driver's cabin. He has a panoramic view through a clear window and his personal control is complete. A large dashboard contains the self starter, light switches, and a button for shutting off the engine. Various levers for setting the car in motion and for brake control surround the driver, and he operates the mechanism that enables the doors to open, nor will they open until he touches the “gadget.” There are also, by the way, emergency doors at the back with a simple set of instructions. A picked team of world class in brains, expert skill and experience, has combed over every single item that makes for efficiency, speed, and the comfort of users. Not one item seems to have been forgotten, and every final decision has been made only after exhaustive discussion, endless trial and rigid selection.
On the mechanical side, when it comes to passing upon engineering problems, I have one very safe rule. I do not go into details or crossexamine with a scanty and amateurish knowledge of a few principles. The man who does this always reminds me of a meatworks’ hand offering a good surgeon advice on an appendicitis operation. I enquire, “Does it work?” Well, the answer here is, that the driving mechanism of the rail car not only works, but works perfectly. The idea of a vehicle running on its own power on a rail line is not new. The steam engine does that, as a matter of fact. Rail cars are a quarter of a century old. There was one on the books in 1915, and there had been others before that. The Electric Westinghouse Rail Car gave service for eleven years before it was written off. Then there were the Sentinel Steam Car, the Thomas Petrol Car, the Clayton Steam Car, and several others.
The trouble was the transmission. Anyone who has handled a car on the road across the Rimutakas, can imagine what sort of driving skill would be required to handle a fiftypassenger vehicle's gear changes on the much more mixed steep gradients on the rail route. These difficulties exist in a spectacular degree here, by contrast with other countries. A grade of 1 in 100 is practically unknown in England, whereas our Limited has to contend with plenty of 1 in 36. In addition, there is our curve problem with its bearing on speed control. We possess the world's record in our proportion of sharp bends, and over twenty-five per cent. of our total mileage of route is on a curved track.
It is the invention known as the “torque” converter that has made the rail car possible, expedient, and efficient. Be reminded that our engineers are familiar with the problems of rail cars. In 1926 two were built, one at Petone and one at Addington, and our men know of every fault which developed to make them failures in practice.
This new drive is simple, sure, and remarkably easy to handle. Those readers who keep up-to-date on motor car development know that something like it is in existence as standard equipment on several leading English and American cars. On the rail car the converter is used until a speed of about 15 m. p. h. is attained, when the direct drive is used. The upward movement of speed is natural, gradual, and there is a total absence of jolt either in stopping, slowing, or starting. Power is provided by a 150 horsepower engine, petrol driven, six cylindered. The first six cars will be petrol driven, but the seventh, a semi-goods car will have a Diesel engine.
As to the general construction, the body is of steel except the panelling which is of aluminium. The length is 50 feet, the width 9 feet, and the height 11 feet 6 inches. It is of the six-wheeled type, with reverse gear for shunting en route and at terminals. The next instalment, made larger for the longer journey to New Plymouth, will be equipped with dual engines with a drive at each end; in ordinary words they will be “double-enders.”
The next thing to examine is, “What will they Do?” Our railways management has one outstanding historical record. Its announcement is followed by performance. Like Napoleon, when a victory was promised, it duly arrived.
Apart from all the extra advantages of comfort and amenities, the rail car will cut the journey from Wellington to Masterton Nth., and from Wellington to Masterton, to a little more than two hours. It will safely negotiate the Rimutaka incline at from 15 to 17 miles per hour. Sixty miles per hour is an easy speed to attain on the flat. In railway language, for instance, rail car service will provide 261,000 more passenger train miles per annum in the Wairarapa area. Then there is, of course, their marvellous mobility. The running cost is so low that a close run schedule is practicable. These vehicles can weave in and out between terminals on a timetable so liberal that all passenger traffic needs can be met with case. Now vanishes that old bogey, the mixed train. Our scattered population is linked by rail with an intensity and a generosity of line service that are marvels to every visitor. Our terminal cities even, are of relatively small populations, and the intervening stopping places are naturally almost microscopic. Yet they all expect rail service and, where users are few and intermittent, they can only be provided for at present, by passenger carriages attached to goods trains. The length of these is purely a matter of the exigencies of the goods traffic. I have travelled on dozens of them, and they lengthen and shorten, stop and start, bustle up and slow down, like the speeches in a bad tempered debate of a country town debating society.
The passenger who has waited for a good three-quarters of an hour, is all unknowing that four wagons of gravel have suddenly been shunted on a few miles down the line, that a telephone message an hour ago meant the unloading of timber trucks at an unexpected station, and that delay on a down train has held up the next crossing for twenty minutes—in spite of all the feverish ingenuity of the traffic man. The passenger fumes and worries, and must find somebody to blame. The truth is that passenger traffic at this hour and on this bit of route is so slim and irregular that a passenger train with a full crew would be an economic absurdity. Now enters the fairy; the new magic vehicle, the rail car. It can take care of all the human freight, leaving the drudgery of the carriage of goods to the everyday steam engine. It will enable the latter also to concentrate on its proper job without worry and preoccupation as to passenger needs. I regard, anyhow, most of the advantages claimed for road transport of goods, compared with rail, as largely illusory, but I think the rail car is going to substantially assist in the further strengthening of the railway position in this regard. The fort will be impregnable when these red beauties are swarming over all the sectors of traffic where they are required.
All this array of modern mechanical marvels would not be possible without the team of human miracle makers who wrought it. I did not pay proper attention to the radio announcer from the “Park” on this journey. As a low user of slang would say, I was “earwigging” most of the time. There is no more fascinating language than the talk of experts who are in love with their job. There is no more fascinating and praiseworthy spectacle than the view of a body of men who think they are in charge of an achievement and the achievement is in charge of them. The calibre of the professional chieftains of the New Zealand Railways, is known the world over. They were all present to a man. They were all inspired with the one single ideal, to make a success of this national need, this new thing in traction. Night-and-day brain-and-hand work has gone into this task. One chap at the workshops is said to have laughingly complained of the effect on his interior economy of ten pies eaten standing. Work has gone on in that great temple of the machine until one in the morning. This devotion has been general, and it would be invidious to set out a list of names who should go on a roll of honour, or to particularise the lapels that have earned decorations. Some of them should rightly be pinned on denim overalls. It is right to say, however, that in G. H. Mackley, the General Manager, there is the epitome of the pervading ideals of the great State service entitled the New Zealand Railway Department. The loyalty to him of the crew of the “Maahunui” was so obvious, and it was shown with such easy warmth by such a wide diversity of men, that its foundation in the democracy of human hearts and minds was unquestionable. The children at Cross Creek would subscribe to this, as well as the most highly trained, subtle-minded of his expert professional helpers. An instance worth quoting is the “Red Terror,” the name given to the smaller rail car in which the General Manager has pioneered over 30,000 miles. The name is a combination of respect and affection. It neatly describes the instrument which enabled a man of Mr. Mackley's endless and untiring energy to cover the territory in the most unexpected fashion, so that he might arrive anywhere at any time. Maui, I think, if he could return from the Polynesian Long Ago, would take pride in this landship named after his big canoe, and he would appreciate its captain. He would say that the new high deeds done in his name were splendid, and that the new magic is better than the old, finer and more fruitful of human good.
John Masefield'S creed of human sympathies expressed in these lines was also the dominating principle of Harry Holland's life. His whole being was dedicated to service in its highest sense, the bettering of the conditions under which the nation's workers lived and toiled. His ideals were not fanatical or narrow; he had a broad and liberal conception of a State from which misery and poverty should be removed. He went farther than that and kept before him the great ideal of the fraternity of nations, a time when man to man the world o'er should brothers be for a’ that. Impossible perhaps, but to Harry Holland all things were possible to human effort, given a noble faith and hope; he hitched his wagon to a star. His faith in his fellow men was without limit. He inspired his fellow-workers with his wise and clearly expressed thoughts, by speech and pen. He never spared himself; he ever thought of others; and even his last hours were spent in paying respect and honour to a departed Maori friend.
He had ever before him the thought that he would pass through this world but once, and that all the good and kindness he could do should be done while breath remained in him. He suffered much from an accidental injury to a knee, and he was often in pain when engaged in his heaviest political labours; and his health could never have been called robust. But physical suffering never prevented him from carrying on his work; he struggled along to the limit of his endurance.
This brief sketch of Mr. Holland's career is chiefly concerned with his personal qualities and his capacity as leader. It is not possible here to describe all the measures and proposals which he and his comrades enunciated with such vigour and courage, and the crusade upon which they embarked with such determination, steering by the bright star of hope and faith. The daily news of the proceedings in Parliament, and the speeches of long-prominent Labour stalwarts who are now Ministers of the Crown, show the progress of the campaign which is gradually embodying the Labour programme in the laws of the land. At this moment the ideals of Harry Holland are being translated into reality, attained by long-drawn and truly heroic effort.
Harry Holland was a man for whom I had the warmest admiration, not so much for his great intellectual qualities and his literary ability and all that, as for his spirit of the noble rebel. Having always been somewhat of a rebel at heart myself—probably a hereditary virtue—I could never hear of a man setting himself up as an opponent of established rule and conventions without making some inquiry or search for the cause. Nothing worth while has ever been accomplished in this world except by rebels of some kind or another, and the rebels of to-day are often the Government of to-morrow.
The true Holland spirit is shown in the many pamphlets—more than one of them is a book rather than a pamphlet—which he wrote and published in Australia and New Zealand dealing with various abuses and persecutions and evil conditions that aroused his indignation and set his eloquent pen
His longest and most incisive and effective publication was that great little book “Armageddon or Calvary,” in which he took up the cause of the conscientious objectors in the war period. He wrote on a great variety of topics in his Labour newspaper work, and always forcibly and well.
He was a poet, too, with a touch of fine fancy and tenderness that betokened the golden heart within. His book of verse “Red Roses on the Highways,” contains much that is touching and beautiful, much that reveals his intense love of nature and bright life, much that reflects his love for the suffering onès.
The manner of
The pathetic Maori tangihanga over Mr. Holland, who was greatly liked by the Maori people, will long be remembered in Waikato and Wellington. The body of the white chief was taken to the hall of mourning in the kainga at Waihi and laid in the place occupied a few hours before by the dead King of Waikato. The Maoris, in their generous and loving way, insisted on bringing the remains of the leader to Wellington themselves, and handing it over to the family, the Labour Party and Parliament; and with this tender mark of respect
In 1901 he was prominent in the fight on behalf of the tailoresses of Sydney, numbering about 2,000 women and girls. No one was more keen or vigorous or eloquent, not to say fiery, on behalf of labour causes, and he was imprisoned several times for his writings and speeches. It was in Australia that he and Mr. Robert Semple first met in a common cause.
He came to New Zealand in 1912, seeking a better climate, and he at once found a task to his hand in unifying the efforts of the Labour forces. For some years he was editor of the “Maoriland Worker,” and he plunged with zest into every effort for the betterment of the workers’ conditions. After two unsuccessful attempts to enter Parliament, in Wellington, in 1914 and 1918, he was elected for the Grey seat, and when in 1919 that electorate was abolished, he stood for Buller; he was returned, and he held the seat until the day of his death.
When Mr. Hindmarsh, leader of the Parliamentary Labour Party, died in 1919, Mr. Holland was appointed to take his place. In 1925, Labour became the Opposition, as the second strongest faction in the House. There was an interlude of three years when Mr. Coates and his party became officially the Opposition, but on the formation of the Coalition towards the end of 1931, Holland again entered upon the duties of leader of the Opposition, and there he was for the too-brief remainder of his life.
“What man,” asked Mr. Holland, “is worth while if he is not an extremist? Would Christ ever have gone to the Cross if He had not been an extremist? Would the primitive Christians, especially during the first three centuries of Christian history, ever have been called upon to endure what they endured if they had not been extremists? Would the Christians have made Christianity the power it eventually became if they had not been extremists? Who would object to a man being extremely honest?”
One of Mr. Holland's most powerful expositions was his “Samoa: A Story that teems with Tragedy.” This is a history in brief of the unfortunate group of islands whose lovable primitive people have been used like pawns in a game played by trading gamblers. He shows that the inhabitants of the islands had a high degree of culture and a well-established system of local self-government when the first white men landed there. “But no primitive people could possibly govern itself according to the standards and requirements of a Twentieth-Century Capitalism.” That was his reply to the statement that the Samoans were incapable of governing themselves.
He often quoted Robert Louis Stevenson, who was a man after his own heart. R.L.S. repeatedly denounced the mismanagement of Samoan affairs by the white officials. “What strikes the reader,” Mr. Holland commented, “is the way in which these territories and peoples were bartered with little or no consideration for their own wishes.” He enunciated this Labour principle:
“We maintain that no people whatever is good enough to hold any other people in subjection; that all peoples are capable of governing themselves according to their own genius and in the light of their own historical period.”
We may take it that the Labour Government will now put this principle of wisdom and justice into practice—indeed, the Prime Minister has spoken to that effect—and that at last the right of the Samoans to choose their own destiny and exercise the fullest self-government will be guaranteed by New Zealand. Then New Zealand may hope to regain the respect and confidence of Samoa after a long and
In the House of Representatives on the Tuesday following Mr. Holland's death, members of both sides of the Chamber spoke in terms of deep sorrow of the so tragic passing of their fellow-legislator. The Prime Minister, Mr. Forbes, described his fearlessness, his integrity, his kindliness of nature, his thoroughness and his unsleeping vigilance in the discharge of his political duties.
Mr. Coates spoke with feeling of his admiration for the character of the late Leader of the Opposition. He described him as a clean fighter, one who never hit below the belt; he was straightforward, sincere of purpose, a man whose life was a great example to others.
The present Prime Minister, the Right Hon. M. J. Savage, has spoken and written much about his great predecessor in the leadership of Labour. There was eloquence in his character sketch of Harry Holland published in the memorial number of the “New Zealand Worker,” in November, 1933.
“… “In the days,” he wrote, “when legislators did not hesitate to make laws and regulations which would enable them to put their legitimate critics behind prison bars, the voice of H. E. Holland was not stilled… His quiet personal charm stood out in striking contrast with the word pictures of the man which were painted in the press from time to time. A great personality, a wonderful fighter. To fully appreciate the beauty of his nature, one must place it against the dark background of the period through which he came. No man ever felt the clanging of chains more than did our friend, but, while some tried to free themselves at the expense of others, he depended upon the justice of the cause which he advocated, his strength to play his part, and the strength of the movement for human freedom. Those of us who have survived him have had the satisfaction of seeing one of the greatest tributes ever paid to a public man in New Zealand. It is true that the tribute was paid in death, but it was a smashing reply to those who persisted in saying that H. E. Holland had lived in vain. We mourn, with those he has left behind, and we pledge ourselves as he would have wished, to erect a monument to his memory in the form of a united Labour movement, which will win for the people political and economic emancipation.”
Mr. Holland was described rightly as one of the great pioneers who blazed the track for a new social order. His staunch comrade and colleague, Walter Nash—now the Dominion's Minister for Finance—wrote of him—
“It is true that greater love hath no man than to lay down his life for his friend. It is equally true to say that no greater life can be lived than one devoted to the cause of humanity.
His life was spent in finding the facts which determined the course of political, industrial and social life. When he found the facts he used them to urge and inspire the people to travel the course which would give greater life to all … Expediency never entered his thoughts. A wrong had to be righted. The way to right it was to give full light to the facts. It was no use saying to him that the public would not understand, and that it was best to say nothing about it. His method was to drive the facts home until the injustice was removed. His work on behalf of the Maoris and Samoans will live long in the records of the Polynesian race. He never took the easy road. He never did the easy jobs first. He gave his life that more life should be available to all … His life will be an inspiration to all who fight to build a better world.”
Mr. Nash, coupling with Harry Holland's name that of James McCombs—both these fellow-workers had died while Mr. Nash was away in Canada—wrote that: “The loss of no two personalities could have made a greater break in the development of our Labour Movement. Two pioneers have passed. On the pioneers!”
And the pioneers won their way two years later.
There was a prophetic inspiration in many of Holland's speeches and articles. Mr. Nash recalled some lines quoted by his late leader in a Christmas message; they were a fighting cry:
Another comrade, D. G. Sullivan, now Minister for Railways, said of him:
“To serve the workers’ Movement he endured years of suffering and privation; poverty was his constant companion throughout his whole life, and often he must have been short of the necessaries of life. He went to prison more than once for the sake of his principles, and beyond all doubt, if circumstances had required and justified it, he would willingly have given his life for Labour's cause. His soul was cast in heroic mould, but I think he just killed himself, undermining his health and strength by overwork. He just never let up in his amazing devotion to duty.”
“His Courage was Indomitable.”
James Thorn—now M.P.—National Secretary of the Labour Party, wrote in a tribute to his friend:
“… Harry remembered the small things as well as the great. He was always warmly grateful for little kindnesses, though the stress of life was never so urgent or burdensome he never forgot. His courage was indomitable. Public spirit gave him an heroic quality. His soul was unconquerable… Diligent, of kindly humour, impatient only when he thought we failed in our sacred duty to Humanity and Socialism, hateful of every injustice and oppression, his soul, amid the dust and din of the battle, yearned for the everlasting hills, the stilly places and the harmonies of a fraternal society which he visioned for us all. May we draw inspiration from his devotion!”
Eileen Duggan wrote in a poem of deep and eloquent feeling:—
In his own book of verse, “Red Roses on the Highways,” published in Sydney in 1924, Holland expressed a passionate love of freedom and the right. His verses revealed also his deep love of nature and the beautiful, and his intense sympathy with the unfortunate, the poor, and the suffering.
His hatred of war was sharpened by the thought of the women whose hearts were wrenched with grief. In “The Mothers Left to Mourn,” he wrote:
Holland wrote of the night of sorrow, but always looked to the morning and the sunshine and peace that would follow. In the last poem in his book, there was a triumphant ring, and a cheerful injunction and a note of prophecy:
With that note of a cheering Reveille we leave Harry Holland sleeping there on his hill-top, a smile on the spirit lips.
Much has been recorded on this page in previous numbers of the Magazine concerning the beauty and the rich store of legend, history and poetry, and Maori customs contained in the place nomenclature of our country. A vast amount more could be written; I have the makings of a large volume in the notes I have collected from original sources, and there is much still to be gathered.
I give a few additional examples taken at random from the place-lore of these islands.
Oka:
The place of fires—O=of, ka=to burn. This is the olden name of Shelly Beach, and the vicinity, on the shore of Ponsonby, Auckland Harbour. Tauranga-mango, the landing-place of sharks, is another name for these shores. The names referred to the olden fishing customs of the Maoris who lived on the coast of the beautiful Waitemata. Great catches of shark, schnapper and other fish were made, and throughout the summer season the people camped on the beaches and kept their cooking fires going, and long lines of split and smoked fish were hung up to cure in the sun.
Motu-ngaengae:
Cockleshell Island. This is the islet called The Watchman, off Ponsonby. It is disappearing through gradual erosion.
Te To:
The hauling up place. This is the original name of Freeman's Bay, Auckland—a bay no longer, for it has been reclaimed and there is an amusement park where the Maoris formerly drew their canoes ashore.
Tokaroa:
The Long Rock. This is the long volcanic lava flow which extends out into the upper part of the Waitemata Harbour from the southern side in the direction of Kauri Point. In the folk lore of the Ngati-Whatua tribe it is the unfinished bridge which the fairy people built at night in order to reach the north side of the Waitemata, but which was interrupted by the coming of daylight.
Kakaho-roa:
The long reed stalks (of the toe-toe or pampas grass). This is the olden name of the shore of Rangitoto Island facing the west, at Rangitoto Reef and beacon.
Hihii-rau:
Hihii=the rare stitch-bird, now only existing on one or two offshore sanctuary islands; rau=many. This once secluded and sylvan place is now Karangahape Road, one of the business parts of Auckland City.
Onetangi:
The Sounding Sands. This is the name of the beautiful beach of firm, white sand on the northern shore of Waiheke Island, facing the Hauraki Gulf. One can appreciate the fitness of such a musical name on a day of fresh north-east weather, when—
“The sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and hard sea-sand,” can be heard at the other side of the island.
Tokatoka:
Rocks upon Rocks. The appropriate name of the conspicuous lava crag, going up to a pointed summit, on the eastern side of the Northern Wairoa River, above the township of that name. There was a Maori fortified post on a projecting rocky spur called Te Puru, a celebrated look-out place of the Ngati-Whatua tribe.
Pari-nui-Te-ra:
Great Cliff of the Sun. An East Coast name, transplanted from Tahiti by the crew of the Takitimu canoe, applied to the bright sunshine on a white precipice, reminding the new arrivals of their Polynesian home scenes.
Puatai:
Foam of the Sea. A village on the beach, on the East Coast north of Gisborne.
Mätangi:
This term (a Waikato place name) is applied to the warm winds of summer blowing from the north and north-east. (The poetical term of hau-mihi-kainga is also applied to these winds— “home-greeting breezes.” In this term may there not be an allusion to the old Hawaiikian home of the Maoris far away to the north-east in the islands of the Pacific?)
Te-Ahi-a-Manono:
This was the name of a village about a mile north of the present site of the Lower Hutt, Wellington. It is an expression applied to the burning of the New Zealand forests in ancient times, by the original tribes of these islands, or possibly by volcanic fires. The phrase means “The Flames of Manono,” and is of great antiquity. It originated in the Maori Hawaiiki, and its, first use was the description of the legendary burning of a great house, the hall of the Ati-Hapai tribe on the Island of Manono, in the Samoa Group.
Tapuwae-'nuku:
Footsteps of the Rainbow God. “Nuku” here is a contraction of Uenuku, the rainbow, which was the visible sign of an ancient God of the Maoris. This is the name of the highest peak of the Kaikoura mountains.
Mani'-rauhea:
Plain of the Shining Tussock. The original name of the Hanmer Plains.
O-roto-re':
In the Midst of the Swamp. The low-lying marshy land that is now the City of Christchurch was so named long ago. Re (pronounced “ray”) is short for repo=swamp.
This was a semi-facetious term applied by the outer tribes, at Kaiapoi and elsewhere, to the people who lived on the islands along the Otakaro and the Otautahi—now the Avon stream—and fed on eels and duck.
L.M.S. Station Commissionaire, or “Passenger's Friend,” on duty at Euston Station. London.
One of the pleasantest—though certainly not the easiest—of tasks that falls to the railwayman is that of providing travel facilities for the holiday-maker. In Britain the summer holiday season is now in full swing, and on all the principal routes to the sea, business is exceptionally heavy. While many holiday-makers find their way to their favourite beach resort by road, by far the bulk of the season's vacation traffic is handled by the railways. Every week-end the popular holiday expresses are run in duplicate and triplicate, and on famous trains, like the “Scarborough Flier” of the London & North Eastern line, and the Great Western “Cornish Riviera Limited,” the knowing traveller usually engages accommodation well in advance.
The modern holiday-maker has a wealth of facilities placed at his disposal by the railways. Fast streamlined trains; cheap fares; seat reservations; the helpful services of the “station commissionaire”; luggage in advance facilities; camping coaches; splendid dining car service; unlimited break-of-journey privileges; and travel literature of every kind; these are but a few of the many ways in which the present-day vacationist is helped by the railways.
Strewn on the table beside me as I write are copies of what are probably the four most remarkable travelguides in the world. Priced at six-pence each, these are the annual hand-books and hotels lists of the Home group systems. There is a “Holidays by L.M.S.” guide, of the largest group —a guide containing 1,072 pages, and 144 photographs. Then comes the L. & N.E. “Holiday Handbook,” with 824 pages of information for the vacationist, and more than 5,000 addresses of hotels and other accommodation. The Great Western “Holiday Haunts” runs to 1,000 pages, and contains a wealth of informative matter and nine maps. “Hints for Holidays” is the Southern Railway's publication, with 936 pages and over 1,000 illustrations. Many other smaller booklets are, of course, published by the Home railways for the guidance of the prospective holiday-maker. These four big books, however, form the main plank of Home railway travel publicity.
The average railway ticket is really a most unpretentious affair. Behind the grille of every railway booking-office, however, lies romance in abundance, and the story of the birth and evolution of the railway ticket is fascinating indeed. The modern railway ticket may be traced right back to the paper tickets issued to travellers in the old stage coach days. On these slips, or tickets, the booking-clerk had to enter by hand a host of details, such as the passenger's name; the coach in which accommodation was desired; whether inside or outside seats were preferred; and so on. One copy of the ticket was handed the passenger; the guard kept another; and a third was retained in the booking-office. The pioneer railways, in the main, followed out this complicated system. In 1832, however, the Leicester & Swannington Railway introduced, in place of paper tickets, brass octagonal checks engraved with the name of the company, destination station, and a serial number. The checks were collected by the guard on completion of the journey, and conveyed back to issuing point for further use.
The railway ticket as we know it to-day first appeared about 1836. It was the invention of Thomas Edmondson, stationmaster at Milton (now Brampton) on the Newcastle & Carlisle Railway. Edmondson not only produced the first cardboard railway ticket, but it was also to his inventive genius we owe the ticket issuing and dating machine. To-day, Edmondson-type ticket issuers are employed on railways the world over, and the firm which Thomas Edmondson founded in Manchester for the construction of the early ticket presses now supplies ticket printing, dating and issuing machines of the most modern type to railways everywhere. Incidentally, the modern electrically-driven printing machine turns out 10,000 perfectly printed railway tickets per hour, as compared with the 1,000 tickets per hour of the old hand-operated presses.
Electrification of the Southern Railway main-lines between London and Brighton, and other south-coast resorts, is proving most helpful in the movement of the season's holiday business. The Southern Railway, it will be remembered, already operates the largest suburban electric system of any railway in the world, and one of
Extensions of the Southern electrification are now proceeding with the utmost speed. The whole scheme is estimated to cost nearly £3,000,000, and involves the electrification of nearly 95 route-miles, corresponding to about 242 single track-miles. It is planned to complete the extensions by July, 1937. The new works cover the conversion to electricity of the London-Portsmouth main-line and branches. When completed, the throughout run from the metropolis to Portsmouth will cover 74 route-miles, and will be one of the longest stretches of electrified track in the country. Some 100 miles of high tension cable is being laid down, with about 10 ½ miles of low tension cable. Over 139,000 insulators and 150,000 copper bonds will be required. Forty-eight new four-coach motor units, nineteen of which will be provided with a kitchen-car, are being constructed in the railway shops to operate the new services. The stopping services will be operated by specially constructed new stock, consisting of thirty-eight two-coach units with lavatory accommodation, eight two-coach motor units, six three-coach motor units, and five two-coach trailer units. The total seating capacity of the new stock will be 17,804.
Germany has been to the fore in the news of late, and the turn of events has directed particular attention to that portion of the country known as the Rhineland. The railways of the Rhineland form a most efficient transportation machine, with the working of which your correspondent is especially familiar. During the Armistice period following the Great War, it was my good fortune to serve as Railway Traffic Officer at Cologne, and other Rhineland points, and the efficiency of the German railway machine and its workers will ever be an outstanding memory.
The Rhineland is served by two principal railway routes, one on either side of the Rhine, as well as by important east and west routes crossing the river by massive bridges. The main-line between France, Belgium and Germany enters the zone at Herbesthal, and makes its way via Aix-la-Chapelle (Aachen, as the Germans call it) to Cologne; crossing the Rhine by means of the famous Hohenzollern Bridge, completed immediately prior to the Great War as part and parcel of the work of preparation for that conflict. Cologne Central is one of the principal stations in the area, and it is between this point and Berlin that there is operated that unique fast daily passenger service, the “Flying Cologner.” This Diesel-electric train covers the Berlin-Hannover section of its run at a speed of 82 ½ m.p.h. There are, of course, many long-distance expresses routed via Cologne. Probably the “Nord Express” (Paris-Berlin) is the best known of all these daily travel links.
Science can, and does, aid the railways to an enormous degree in many branches. Now and again, however, the practical railwayman is inclined to ask: “Are we becoming too scientific in certain directions?” Railway signalling is a case in point. In his recent presidential address to the Institution of Railway Signal Engineers. Mr. W. S. Roberts spoke feelingly of the danger of relying too much upon scientific machinery, and disregarding the natural gifts of the signalman.
One of the most important and difficult problems confronting the signal engineer, it was stated, was that of harmonising the growing application of irrevocable mechanisms with the flexibility of operation and the freedom and intelligence of action of the human element.
Safer travel than that provided by railways nowhere exists. It is interesting to note that the total deaths recorded on the Home railways since the days of George Stephenson are actually fewer than the death-roll on our roads in a single year. “Safety First” is ever the railwayman's watchword, and New Zealand is naturally especially proud of its magnificent record of railway safety.
Apart from caring for the safety of the passenger, the railwayman is particularly interested in his own safety, and this need for caution exists in all branches of the service, and not merely among traffic workers. The Home railways are at present running a big “Safety First” campaign for the benefit of shopmen. Safety notices are posted in all workshops, lectures on accident prevention are being given by experts, and weekly and monthly “Safety” bulletins are being circulated. On the L. & N.E. line, an interesting booklet has been issued entitled “Safety Precautions for Railway Shopmen.” It has a striking red linen cover, and the contents include hints regarding the right use of tools and machinery, the use of eye-protectors, saw-guards, and respirators, and other sage advice calculated to spare the worker from accident.
* * *
The old-time glory of the Waikato River was the great flotilla of Maori carved-out canoes which enlivened the waterway. Indeed there was not one flotilla, but many; for the chief means of transport for the people along the banks was the convenient waka, and all the way down from Ngaruawahia to Waikato Heads canoes were very numerous. There are still many dug-outs on the river, but nearly all the large ones have disappeared or are hauled up to decay. At the great tangi over King Tawhiao at Taupiri in 1804 I saw about fifty canoes, large and small, moored at the banks of the Waikato and its tributary the Mangawhara Creek, and the beautiful broad stream was lively with waka parties of Maoris arriving, most of them bringing contributions of food for the funeral feast. About that period, we used to see very large canoes engaged in the exciting races that took place in holiday-time at Mercer and Ngaruawahia.
The Paparata, for example—this was old Major Te Wheoro's war-canoe—carried nearly fifty paddlers in those wildly-contested river matches between tribe and tribe.
Now Te Puea Herangi, the patriotic chieftainess of Waikato, who has taken so vigorous a part in the industrial rehabilitation of her people, is engaged in the worthy congenial task of reviving the all-but-vanished canoebuilding craft among the riverside tribes. Seven large canoes are to be hollowed out from totara tree trunks, and carved and decorated in the manner of the olden waka-taua. One partly destroyed historic war-canoe is now being restored at Waingaro, near Ngaruawahia, by a party of old tohungatarai-waka, or canoe-making experts; and others will be begun when suitable trees are procured.
Most of the canoes made on the Waikato during the last three or four decades have been of kahikatea or white pine, easy to work but prone to decay. It will be far more satisfactory to use the durable totara. But it will be necessary to go a long distance for suitable trees, probably to the Mokai bush, near Taupo, or to the Upper Wanganui River, where the best remaining forests of totara are found. The Pungapunga riverside was long ago a celebrated source of canoetimber. The people living there were almost constantly employed in making canoes for those further down the river, and even for tribes as far away as the Mokau.
This canoe-building project deserves practical encouragement from the Waikatos’ white fellow-countrymen, for such efforts as these to restore the ancient arts and crafts and athletic contests all add to the attraction of the country. The work is of particular interest in view of the coming centenary celebrations. Auckland citizens especially are concerned, for Maori gatherings and canoe parades and races are set down on the proposed scheme of Waitemata festivities in 1940.
Te Puea, in writing to me outlining her excellent plan of canoe-making, says that the cutting-out and carving will take a long time, necessarily, and that money is urgently required to keep the workmen in food. I think this is a cause in which the Auckland Citizens’ Centenary-celebrations Committee can reasonably be expected to supplement in a practical manner whatever assistance is given by the Government. It will be a noble and thrilling spectacle, that canoe flotilla of seven—sacred number, and a number with mystic meaning associations for Waikato—sweeping down the great river, with forty or fifty paddles apiece flashing and dipping, as in the ancient days. Not so very ancient either, as I have shown. But the really skilful canoe designers and artisans are few, and it is well that that fine woman Te Puea —whose model village and carved house have been constructed to help in the re-birth of Maori industry—should have been inspired to revive canoeing also. All these things call for the sympathy of New Zealanders, for they help to give the people new heart. Arts and crafts, poetry and tradition are the very soul of the race.
The merits of seaweed, of various kinds are well-known to the Maoris. These contain iodine, and although the Maori did not know that, he found that the globules which grow on seaweed contain a juice healing for sore throats and sore ears. Also, the kind called karengo is a popular vegetable, dried and then boiled, on some parts of the East Coast of both islands. The word karenqo is curiously like the Irish “caragcen,” for seaweed used in the remedy Irish Moss, and it contains similar properties.
A good poultice is made of the convoluted tops of the mamaku ferntree, boiled. The young leaves of the poroporo plant make a healing salve.
The root of the kawakawa plant chewed is a remedy for toothache; so is the juice of the inner bark of the ngaio tree.
There are many more, all useful for some ill or other; and certainly there is an abundant supply of the raw material, some of it in our own gardens where native trees are grown.
Impskill Lloyd's long arm shot out to the telephone in the first fraction of a second that the bell tinkled. (Impskill was like that—in thought and action, speed marked him out distinct from other men.)
The voice that reached him faintly over the wire was agonised and horror-stricken—just two words, in a high-pitched male voice— “Come quickly”—followed by a gurgle, the sound of a crash, then utter silence.
Lloyd noted the time on his desk pad— 11.16 p.m. —hung up, and called the Exchange.
“I had a ring just now,” he said. “Have you a record of it—a distance call to ‘City 50–984'?”
“Yes,” came the prompt reply, “from Marris, 17 Matamata.”
Again Impskill noted the time— 11.18.
Thus were the first facts accurately noted in the drama of the 13th clue— and had the call come to any other than Impskill Lloyd, the one great exponent of speed in criminal investigation, it is now certain that the mystery of the most baffling crime in the whole history of modern criminology would never have been solved.
But Impskill Lloyd seems to have been born to be an investigator. It was in his blood—a potent heritage. He came of a race of seekers and finders. Family history on his father's side included a chemist, a prospector, a chief of police, a successful breeder of racehorses, and a secondary inspector of fowl-runs. His mother's
Mystery stories and criminal detectives hold pride of place in popular fiction, but here is a new combination which points the way to brighter things.
The characters in the story are so far from being unflctitious that a number of leading: and following; writers, whose “Murder by Twelve” is soon to be published, have volun'eered to tell their side of “The 13th Clue,” from a more or less personal knowledge of the case as outlined in this first chapter.
The writers who will “carry on” are (as the lot fell): S. H. Jenkinson, Erie Bradwell, Wilson Hogg, C. A. L. Traadwell, P. A. Lowlor, C. Stuart Perry, B. B. Phillips, fames Cowan, C. A. Marris, G. O. Stewart, L. 8. Funning, O. N. Gillespie, Alan Mulgan and Victor Lloyd.
—Ed. “N.Z.H.M.”
side of the family tree could show a chess champion, a judge, a tea-taster, an inveterate gossip, and a meteorologist.
From his earliest years, Impskill had used and developed certain extraordinary personal gifts of speed and observation with but one aim in view —the solution of murder problems. He believed in keeping records—ran a secret shorthand index of his own to keep tab of everything, and was known as “Tab” Lloyd (or “Tabloid”) amongst his friends.
To the public he was always “Imp” Lloyd. In his rare moments of relaxation, however, when the whole man slumped, a sort of Jekyll and Hyde change occurred, so that “Imp” Lloyd became “Unimp” Lloyd.
The reason for his choice of a profession was not far to seek. When Impskill Lloyd, an only child, was aged but 4 years and 13 days, his father—a literary light of London, whose most famous work “Register” (sometimes called “Lloyd's Register”) is a classic of sea-fiction—was found dead on the left bank of the Thames below Teddington—buried under a truck-load of rejected manuscripts.
The circumstances pointed to murder, but the matter had never been cleared up, although the manuscripts were duly incinerated.
Thus left fatherless, the disconsolate lad was trained by his wealthy mother (after the first poignancy of her great grief had passed) in those exercises of observation which would help him later to become a master detective.
To keep the boy's clear mind unsullied by the smoke of the great Metropolis, his mother soon after
Here, by purely deductive reasoning he was able to suggest, when only 7 years of age, a solution of the Tank Road murder case. (It will be remembered that this murder was nicknamed “The Janus case” —two human heads, looking so alike that they were mistaken for those of elderly twins, having been found, threaded together with red tape, in the favourite Tank Road drinking well of Wellington.) Young Lloyd's solution was subsequently found—after six months fruitless police research in other directions —to be the correct one.
But above and beyond all his uncanny powers of observation and of deduction from the analysis of evidence, Impskill was chiefly remarkable as the living embodiment of speed. As a runner—and he easily captured all the championship cups he ever cared to compete for—speed off the mark, and an incredible burst of speed to the tape, explained his success. Everything about him was quick—electric. Even his meals were eaten with startling rapidity. He reached the sweets while others were still toying with the soup.
The Impskill Lloyd theory of crime detection was original and intriguing. It was that, following the crime, the criminal made as much speed as he could to erase the evidence; and detection depended upon whether the investigator made more speed in unwinding the clues than did the criminal in entangling them. He also held that the speed of both criminal and detective tended to be in inverse ratio to the square of the time elapsed ilnce the crime was committed.
“Come quickly…’ Marris, Matamata.”
Intuitively Imp. suspected murder, and sprang to action. A button pressed, to warn his chauffeur of his coming, and he was out of his bachelor apartments with the speed of a hurricane, into the electric lift, and down to the garage basement as Gillespie, his trusted chauffeur and companion in many a wild rush to the scene of a crime, threw the door open to admit him to the driver's seat of the already running car—they were “on their way.”
Three hundred miles must be covered before dawn, and the roads, for two-thirds of the distance, were rough, steep and winding. But Imp. knew that after midnight they would have the road almost to themselves and that his powerful Hispano Suiza was ready for a non-stop run at the fastest speed to which he dared put her.
“What's on? “said Gillespie, screwing his jocose face into an unwonted frown of concentrated curiosity, as the car driven at top speed, swung quivering from the Main Hutt Road through the gaping, jaws of the Ngahauranga Gorge.
“I think someone's murdered at Matamata,” said Imp., “and I want to find out.”
“Are the Police on to it? “asked Gilespie. He well knew his chief's dislike of entering upon a case after the police had, as he put it, “Mucked up the clues!”
It was one of Lloyd's policies to work in with the police, and they had on many occasions made grudging acknowledgment of his brilliant assistance—but he truly abhorred the deliberateness of their methods!
“No, Gill, I hope the police are out of this, so far,” replied Imp. “I did not ring them up—but that omission is easily justified.
“After 11.30 p.m. there is no ‘phone connection east of Hamilton, and from previous experience I knew there was no chance of even convincing Police Headquarters there was any need for speed in the 12 minutes left after I had checked my call. Then they haven't so speedy a car as mine, hence my ‘police policy’ conscience is ‘all clear at Lloyd's’.”
“So the call was from Matamata!” ruminated Gill, who knew a good story about that burg, but realised that this was not the time to spill it. “What did you make of the call?”
“Well,” said Imp., “I only got two words— ‘Come quickly’ —and then it sounded as if the man were being throttled.”
“Is that so? “said Gill. “Then it looks like an all night job. How about a ‘spot1?”
The suggestion was so good that it easily graduated with double first-class honours.
Replacing the well-worn pocketflask where it would be handy for the next emergency, and while the car zoomed ahead at speeds that seemed to defy all legal limits, he proceeded to lay out, on the back seat, some supper for his employer and also a large-scale road map of the shortest route to Matamata.
Gill then took over the wheel from Imp., while the latter bolted sandwiches in chaff-cutter fashion, and—taking huge drafts of hot coffee from the giant thermos with the speed and avidity of a watering locomotive—simultaneously studied closely the map, to memorise all the cross-roads and turns on the tortuous portion of the intricate route through the wild passes of the Tongariro mountains.
Just before daybreak, weary but alert, they crossed the railway tracks at Matamata and ran on towards the only building with visible light in the village—the high-set signal-box about 200 yards south of the station.
Imp. called, but there was no response from the cabin. He mounted the steep steps and knocked loudly. Again no response. Peering through the partly drawn door-curtains, he saw a human form slumped ominously on the coir-matting of the floor.
“Gill! My despatch-case, quick!” he called. This case always carried, besides medical aids, a useful, though unlawful jemmy. Lloyd lost no time in forcing the door. It took even less time to decide that he had a corpse on his hands.
“So this,” he thought, “is ‘Marris—17 Matamata'. Bad luck, old chap!” And then, as time counted for so much in his theory of crime detection, he seized the telephone and rang the house of the local police constable. He had counted upon this piece of luck in establishing communication with the authorities, as in most of these smaller villages where the exchange is closed over night, the few official ‘phones are usually switched through to each other for the period that the full exchange is out of operation.
A sleepy, gruff voice demanded “What's up!” But Imp. Lloyd knew his village, police, and with swift, vivid words in which “Inspector” occurred with painful familiarity, Police Constable Fanning; was stirred to unwonted activity. Within five minutes this burly representative of law and order arrived on the run. But at the first glance towards the figure on the floor, he turned suddenly, muttering— “Must get a doctor—don't touch a thing!” Gill hustled him into the car, and within a few minutes they were back with a pyjama-clad and much excited Irishman—the only medical man in the village—Dr. Eric Brannigan.
“Sure,” said Eric, breathlessly, “this is the first murder that's ever come my way, and I must make a real job of it! But, holy saints, I'm all of a ditheroo just the same, so I am.
“Let's have a good look at ye—me poor corpse—so ye are!”
He turned up the cowering head, but then started back, in the utmost consternation and grief. “Pat Lauder! For the love of Mike, look at that now! Me poor Pat—and us thinkin’ ye well on yer way to Buenos Aires an’ all! Poor ould Pat! Thankful am I, right now, that you're a single man —for it's sad I'd be to have to break this news to yer widow—if such there was, which, glory be, there isn't!”
While these wild ejaculations came pouring from the lips of Dr. Brannigan, he was proceeding swiftly and efficiently with his professional duties.
But no stethescope was needed to prove life extinct. And then, with Imp's, assistance, the full examination began—P.C. Fanning looking on wisely, and making obvious and irrepressible comments as the work proceeded.
And this is what they found:
The body was that of a strongly-built but incredibly thin man', of about 35 years, with crinkly, auburn-tinted hair, a large head with an immense forehead, a clean-shaved face of strongly marked features with strange discolouration round one eye. The eyes themselves were blue, and the hands large, but delicately moulded and. smooth.
The facts were recorded in Imp's, bulging notebook under twelve headings, and when the autopsy had been completed the record read like this: —
“1.Drowning. —The clothes and hair are wet, as if the whole body had recently been immersed in water for some time. The condition of the lungs, also congested with water, lends a suggestion of death due to drowning.
“2.Badly Burnt. —On both back and chest, under the clothing, are burns so severe that death might have resulted front them. It could not be decided definitely by Dr. Brannigan whether these burns occurred before or after death.
“3.Kicked or Struck. —The victim has been either kicked by a horse, or struck with a knuckle-duster, on the back of the neck so severely that the spinal cord is severed. Again, there is nothing to indicate to Dr. Brannigan whether this was caused before or after death.
“4. Poisoned. —Two inches below the back of the knee on the right leg there are distinct marks of a Katipo spider's bite. The Katipo is the only deadly insect—or, for that matter, the only deadly animal of any kind in New Zealand (if we except the wild bulls of the Taupo and the literary cows of the towns) and in certain conditions of the blood, a bite from one of these small spiders has caused death within a few hours. Katipos are only found in the rubbish of seabeaches above high water-mark.
“5.Knifed. —A knife wound in the back of the left shoulder was probed, and was found to extend through into the upper right lobe of the heart. If no other evidence were available, this would certainly be adjudged the cause of death.
“6. Garolled. —An extraordinary external pressure has been applied to the wind-pipe—probably the work of an experienced garotter. But choking of another kind may also have occurred, for wedged in the gullet was a sharp-edged lump of Teaswell's Tasty Toffee—the most cooly callous and cloysornely dangerous sweetmeat made in New Zealand.
“7.Fear. —The eyes, and the general expression of the face, portray fear in its most intense form—what is technically known as “frozen fear.” The sudden shock of this extreme type of fear might well have caused heart failure.
“8. Heart Disease. —The heart is in a seriously diseased condition, and the subject might have died from this cause at any time when some extra pressure was applied to this vital organ—such as undue exercise or excitement. Amongst precipitating causes must be considered the fact that in the victim's right hand was firmly clutched a page from the May “N.Z.R.M.”—New Zealand's national
monthly—containing on one side an advertisement of a book of Bird Music by Baron Munchausen, and on the other side a heady poem, “The Belfry Bats,” by the New Zealand Poet Laureate, Ben Ulysses. Two lines of this were heavily underscored with human blood: —
‘The belfry bats knelt to a passing dray,
While Sense and System slyly slunk away'.
“9.Electrocution. —An electric current of high voltage had passed through the body within the past 12 hours. This would have killed the strongest person.
“10. A Fall. —Both legs had badly comminuted fractures, and the cranium at the base of the skull, although of extraordinary thickness, was cracked. These injuries are typical of a straight fall, feet first, from a considerable height, as through a street manhole, or down a steamer's funnel. Or the
“11.Motor Smash. —The ribs are caved in—as when a body is struck in the chest by a motor car travelling at high speed. The broken rib ends have punctured the lungs—enough in itself to have caused almost instant death.
“12.Starvation. —The whole body exhibits extreme emaciation, typical of cases where death supervenes from lack of food over a long period.”
It was now 8 a.m. Imp. Lloyd's clue-conscious mind began at once to wrestle with the problem. Here were twelve proximate causes of death. Which was the real one?
And would each of these discoveries supply a possible clue to the murder? As time proved, they would; but was there any 13th clue which would provide the key to the other twelve? Lloyd's A. 1. mind raced at top speed among the infinite possibilities of the situation. There was still one factor missing—what was it?
Just then the telephone in the signal-box jangled. Again Impskill's long arm shot out—and again he heard—as from a great distance—two faint words “Come quickly” followed by a strangled cry and a loud crash. (To be continued.)
“O.K.,” said the weed merchant, “there's lots of brands of tobacco, as you say, but in a manner of speaking, you can divide them broadly into two classes—the toasted and the untoasted; yes, and I'll tell you something more—once you take to toasted—the real thing mind—you won't care a row of pins about the untoasted, no matter what the brand is.”The customer looked thoughtful. “Can toasting really make all that difference?” he ventured. “It can—and it does!” declared the tobacconist emphatically, “the toasting of tobacco is one of the most ingenious and efficient processes as yet invented. What does it do? Why it cuts out the nicotine and at the same time gives this tobacco that fine, pure, clean, sweet fragrance smokers love. You can smoke any amount of it with safety—and, my word!—you enjoy every whiff!” “I must certainly have a tin,” laughed the customer, “a small one just to try it out.” “You'll want a big one next time,” prophesied the tobacconist, “you wait and see.” *
I Notice that one of the latest travel books about this country—Alan Mulgan's beautifully writen and produced “Pilgrim's Way in New Zealand” —draws attention to the difference between the smell of North and South: the leafy, ferny, bush-mould fragrance of the Far North, and the clean, windy fragrance that blows from the tussock acres in the South Island.
The real poet of that grand South country has not arisen yet: but any writer whose chariot wheels happen to cross the Canterbury Plains will feel in the air the keen savour of a new inspiration. Plain and plain and plain, they sweep out from the little chocolate-and-green parallelograms drawn with quaint precision around lovely Christchurch; twenty miles from the city, they lose their decorous wellwatered green for the sunburnt, windburnt complexion of leagues where nothing whatever breaks the horizon except some square two-storeyed wooden “pub” —one can't possibly use the word “hotel” —in which the sole subjects of conversation are the price of wool, and what won the chief events at the Addington or Riccarton courses. The people here are very much alive, and tremendously interested in the world around them. Their eyes and their tongues are as sharp as needles. Their drawling voices pass many a shrewd comment when the tourist isn't supposed to be listening. Less than half a day's march from a city, they have won independence and salt. Some day the New Zealand parallel to Olive Schreiner's “Story of a South African Farm” will be written here. In the meantime, a field of corn sends a shimmering golden ripple over its full length: and the acres of the tussock country, tawny gold, with thousands of dustybrown sheep mobbing patiently along the roads, beckon to the seeker.
When I first saw little Hanmer Springs, which lies about one hundred miles to the North of Christchurch, deep down in a valley-basin with Canterbury Plains on one side and minor Alps on the other, I thought that the Alps above it looked like threatening giants. After the goldenbrown of the tussocks, they were both black-visaged and forbidding: not tame mountains at all. In a brief while, the stranger grows to love them with that respectful and rather romantic devotion which a good mountain should inspire in the pious: Mount Isabel, with your irregular massive peaks snow-crowned, and further guarded by those deceptive slopes of shale which ruin the boots and massacre the ankles… “Baldy,” with a flaming terra-cotta sunset of unbelievable beauty pouring like brandy-flames around your smooth white pate… do you still surprise the eye of the beholder as much as ever? Do people still look up, from those tiny interlacing streets which are all rusty, russet-needled pine-boughs and white Orpingtons running wild, and think. “Mine eyes have seen the glory?” Does the ancient Irish washer-lady still keep in a wicker cage a magpie whose oaths date back to the real old droving days? And the silver birch trees, the larches, planted delicately slender on the outskirts of the great forestry plantations… do they still stand naked as so many arboreal Phrynes each winter-time, necklaced and zoned with a million sparkling drops of dew? I remember the soft old voice of an artist who walked among those trees, just as they were returning to a springtime life. He couldn't get over the colour of the new willow-twigs. “Madder rose,” he said incredulously, “they're really madder rose.”
But this is a bad way to draw a ground-plan of little Hanmer—what is it, where is it, why is it? Before its mineral springs, which are the soporific rather than the smelly sort, achieved much renown at all, it was a tiny self-contained community, with the Canterbury Plains sweeping on the other side of its hill-basin, and Jack's Pass and Jolly's Pass leading out like two dark portcullis gates among the mountains. Some of the sheep-farmers in the district were large and wealthy and hospitable; others were just little folk, whose fragmentary orchards are ghostly still on the hillsides.
The genius who decided that Hanmer, between its loneliness, its beauty and its springs, would make an ideal health resort, especially for the overwrought and “nervy” who wish to get rid of pleasant little things like insomnia, probably builded, or rather laid the foundations, infinitely better than he knew. At first the health resort side of Hanmer life was on a small scale: I believe the old hospital
The sanatoria at Hanmer are Government responsibilities; and, personally, I think them one of the best and most valuable pieces of work, in every possible respect, to which any New Zealand Government can lay claim. True, the surroundings exceptionally favoured the idea of a place of rest and quietness, and the mineral baths, where you soak in sodium and other useful friends to the shattered nerve, were something of a godsend. But the hospitals are so very unhospital-like in their appearance, and so restful in their general procedure. The returned soldiers who still remain in quiet Hanmer—or who, from time to time, come back to “take it easy” for a holiday—are not at all tragical figures. One sees, in beautiful grounds, a public tea-kiosk where men and lightly-frocked women drift in from the tennis courts, and sit themselves down to devour scones and tea, with occasional attentions to a handsome golden collie, which sits hard by, cupboard love written all over him, from his coffin-shaped head to his splendid, plumed tail. The women gossip… women always do… the men seem happy and enthusiastic about the state of the tennis courts. The stranger might ask “Where are Hanmer's sick people?” The answer is, “Those are Hanmer's sick people.” Of course, there are hundreds who come to this beautiful spot in the South Island seriously, even desperately ill, or thoroughly worn out. But as convalescence approaches, there is so much of “free life and fresh air” introduced into the hospital regime that no aura of sickness hangs over Hanmer. The tennis courts and golf links, by the way, are more than mere local centres of attraction. People come up all the way from Christchurch, week-end after week-end, to play there in surroundings which cannot be found in a more urban retreat. And, if they choose late winter for their golfing sprees, they may pass through grounds where a myriad of little flame-blue and golden crocuses and whole colonies of wild daffodils lift their gay heads through the grass. For here Hanmer has followed the English pattern, and allowed its spring flowers to run wild.
The hospital side of Hanmer existence is only one aspect: the lean and rangy band of forestry workers provide another. Then there is one of the most enchanting camps motor-gipsy every sighed for—Hanmer's log-cabin. But, picturesque though this new haunt may be, the credit for the logcabin inspiration should go to the pretty girls who owned and ran Hanmer Spring's first little cabin. Built of rough-hewn logs, and in winter-time thatched and eaved with heavy snow, this looked exactly like a Father Christmas hut out of a fairy tale. Its quaintness appealed to the foresters more than the comparative formality of the Tea Kiosk in the hospital gardens, and, on snowy days, wild men out of the wild, wet woods would march in with kea feathers in their hats and enormous gum-boots on their legs, and sit dripping cheerfully over the queer old oil-heaters, tall enamelled relics of an older day. Snow falls in Hanmer to a depth of feet, and the building of snow-men is an established occupation—not merely among the urchins of the settlement, either. I shall never quite forget “Sorrow,” the snow-woman whom we found one day at the top of Conical Hill. Everyone, on coming to Hanmer, almost instantly climbs Conical Hill. It is a good little hill, a sharper pull than one would think, and surmounted by a huge, challenging boulder. Its only inhabitants are rabbits and birds, and in autumn, its grove of English trees flames in portwine and amber colours. In winter its snow-mantle is crisp and lacy: and there on its peak, looking out towards wild and dark Mount Isabel and benign old “Baldy,” stood the snow-woman called “Sorrow.” Nobody knew who had made her, but she was a clearfeatured and noble creature. Her portrait appeared in a Christchurch paper… some little survival of a crystal beauty which all too easily melted away.
For me, Hanmer Springs will always be a winter resort, because of the dark beauty of its winter hills, the slenderness of its naked trees, fringing the borders of the great, dark pines which press so closely together that, in their clearings, the sunlight, by contrast, looks as yellow as honey. And then, for a New Zealander and a North Islander, snow is something out of a fairy tale. Curiously enough, the climate there in winter is not piercingly cold, and the rainfall by no means abnormal. Before the snow falls, one certainly feels an affinity for the huge resinous pine-logs carted in for firewood from the forestry roads: then suddenly the air is filled with a flight of millions and millions of little crystal doves. The branches outside are first white-crusted, then weighed down to the earth. The moon rises, silver over a silver world. And the next morning, a blackbird pipes high and hearty, and irreverent village infants sneak up behind and go “Plosh” with snowballs as tough as cannonballs.
But the coming back of springtime and summer to this land is worth watching, and for those who don't enthuse over snow, might be more attractive than the winter season. The farming aspect of life comes into its own again: and gorse is heavy and sweet on the air, and over the valleybasin the wing of that grand old
Hanmer Springs, at all events, will always be a place for the cultivation and encouragement of wild men. I knew in Christchurch some respectable college youths. In Hanmer, one summer, I met them, burnt black and with kea feathers in slouch hats. Their trousers had diminished to shorts, and their shorts required patching. There was something different about them—the happy look of outlawry which dates back to Robin Hood and his Sherwood forces. What were they doing? They were just about to set out, these sophisticates, over the mountains on a three days’ journey to hunt, and possibly even to bring down, the red deer.
It is at a point a little north of where the wriggly black lines—which, on the map, represent the Main Trunk railway—cross the 40th degree of latitude that the Queen's Earrings may be found.
They lie in a wooden casket beneath the hearthstone of a farmhouse on the eastern slope of a fertile valley. The casket which is of Maori origin dates from about 1850, but the earrings, two exquisite fire-opals set in whorls of beaten gold are much older than that, for their story goes back to a day in May, 1568.
On that day Mary, Queen of Scots, her army in rout, fled from the battle of Langside, and came, hotly pursued, to the home of the Lenzies of Glenmayne. The gates were flung wide to her, but even as she drew herself from her horse the figures of the Regent's men appeared over the brow of the hill. Malcolm Lenzie, who was then laird of Glenmayne, drew her inside the gate, and, seizing the cloak from her shoulders and the cap from her head, himself leaped upon her horse, and shouting for her companions to follow him, led the pursuit far afield, and eluded them by hiding in a cavern in the glen.
Lenzie returned by himself, and the Queen, fed, rested, and mounted upon a fresh horse, escaped by another road to Dumfries. In token of her gratitude she presented Malcolm Lenzie with a pair of earrings and promised that when she returned to Scotland great wealth and power should be his.
* * *
The centuries are turned as the pages of a book, and there stands at the gates of Glenmayne Priory a wizened little man dressed in tight black clothes with an ill-fitting lum-hat crammed over his ears. He carries a hump on his back and a leather satchel beneath his arm, and to judge by the dour lines about his mouth he is not the type to conjure ghosts nor heed the fine flavour of romance that clings forever to age-old stone and iron-studded oaken doors. One would say that such impalpable things, having no counterpart in the chink of coin or the scrawly signature on a banker's draft, would be beyond his ken; so it is idle to suppose that he would realise that his coming marked the anniversary of a highly romantic happening.
It was the two hundred and eightyninth anniversary, to be exact, of the day on which old Malcolm Lenzie, standing by these very gates, had watched two figures on horseback grow small with distance as they cantered side by side down the lowland road. Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, and his own son Robin; and presently, as they turned their horses from the main road into a cow-path that would take them by devious ways to Michael's Cross, old Lenzie raised a hand to shield his eyes from the level rays of the sun which by now was low in the western sky. As though in answer to his movement one of the figures half turned in the saddle and flung up an arm in farewell salute. It was a gesture comradely and full of confidence. But old Lenzie, weary with the day's excitement and uneasy in spirit had read something final, a foreboding of the fate, perhaps that in spite of her brave assurances to the contrary, awaited the Queen in England, and which had already ordained that she was never again to set foot in Scotland.
The road down which old Lenzie gazed that day ran undulating through pastures bright with spring grass; there was flowering may in the hedgrows and behind stone walls the tumbled white and pink foam of fruit trees in blossom. Glenmayne Priory had at once dominated and harmonised with the countryside in all its moods, greystone walls, built with an artist's care for background, had toned perfectly with bright spring colouring, mellow autumn tints and the low grey skies of winter. But now all that was changed, for, like the hulk of an old ship dreaming at her moorings in a busy harbour, the house in May, 1857, had become something of an anomaly.
On all sides chimneys reared gaunt outlines. Slag heaps, reeking black cones, darkened the brightest noons with sulphurous dust and smoke, and lining the road, fouled now with coaly slime, were drab little worker's dwellings. Hideous erections these, of grimy brick and plaster, devoid of all the things that make a home a delight; mere kennels, to house in their less useful moments the men, women and children who went daily to toil fourteen and sixteen hours a day in the pits, the shops, and at the looms of the great industrial district which during the past hundred years had been growing up steadily on the south bank of the Clyde.
Mr. McWhin, for that, if it may be read as the son of a gorse-bush, was the rather fitting name of the caller at Glenmayne Priory, tugged at the iron bell-handle beside the gate and waited without any sign of impatience for some five minutes before his summons was answered, for he occupied the time in pleasant thoughts of the old house's demolition. Glenmayne, with its adjacent land occupied a position which represented thousands of pounds as a building site for yet more tenements, factories, and smoke-belching chimneys.
Mr. McWhin had not progressed very far with his vandalistic speculations when the gate was opened and an old woman of forbidding aspect, who acted as factotum to the Lenzie household, demanded his business.
“To see Mr. Ardoch Lenzie,” he replied.
“What would ye be wanting with him? He is only just got back from London, and in no mood to entertain,” —she regarded Mr. McWhin disdainfully—“baillies.”
“My business is private,” Mr. McWhin answered precisely, “and,” relapsing a shade truculently into broader speech, “I ken fine he has been tae London tae bury his father—that's why I'm here.”
The old woman favoured him with a sour look, “I'll tell him,” she said and, carefully chaining the gate, left Mr. McWhin some minutes more to the enjoyment of his own company upon the roadway. Presently she returned and led him towards the library where, seated at a desk littered with documents,
Ardoch, a man between thirty and thirty-five years of age, was a true son of his red-headed forebears, and he fixed Mr. McWhin with an uncompromisingly cold blue eye.
“What might your business be, sir?” he demanded when the old woman had left them. Mr. McWhin did not answer the question directly.
“I understand, Mr. Lenzie,” he said in his mincing, precise manner of speaking, “that you saw very little of your father during the last ten years or so of his life?”
Ardoch made an impatient gesture. “Possibly,” he replied, “I have managed the estate here since I came of age—my father lived in London.”
“In body perhaps,” Mr. McWhin smiled faintly, “in spirit he lived in ancient Babylon.”
“Be good enough to tell me what your business is,” Ardoch snapped, “I have a great many important matters to attend to.”
“Aye,” Mr McWhin returned smoothly, “I'll be coming to it fast enough. Your father was a grand scholar, Mr. Lenzie, and a charming gentleman, but he was a trifle careless, shall we say, about everyday affairs. You see he lived in a world of his own; a world of golden chariots and human sacrifices, a heathen, blasphemous world, but between you and me, a verra interesting one in spite of what the minister might say!”
“Many a time,” he continued holding up his hand, for Ardoch was about to interrupt him again, “I dined with him in a wee room overlooking Bloomsbury Square, and he would lay down knife and fork to fetch a piece of pottery like enough to an old broken flowerpot, but covered with scratchings such as a spider might ha’ made if it fell into an ink-well. ‘It's all there McWhin,’ he would say, ‘the key to the riddle o’ life, if we could only read it'!
“It seemed there was only part of these scratchings he could read, the parts about the horses and the kings with their jewels and the women's lips outlined wi’ scarlet paint. Oh aye,” Mr. McWhin chuckled, “he could tell about those things right enough, which perhaps was the reason why I was so lenient with him.”
“What do you mean.” Ardoch demanded, “lenient?”
“It takes money, Mr. Lenzie, to live in a world three thousand years old, even more it seems than it does to live in the present-day one. And those old flower-pots they dig up in Egypt or some such fantastic place, are mighty expensive to come by.”
“Do you mean my father borrowed money from you?” Ardoch's tone was scornful, for to be sure Mr. McWhin's appearance would not suggest any very great financial resources.
“Well,” Mr. McWhin fingered his scrubby chin, “often enough at the end of one of our evenings together he would mention the wicked prices he had to pay for things in London, and how this or that society wanted a subscription to dig up more flowerpots or whatnot, and after such a good dinner and such interesting talk I found it hard to refuse him.”
“How much altogether did you lend him?” Ardoch, anxious to be rid of his unwelcome visitor, dipped his pen in the ink and opened a book of blank cheques.
Mr. McWhin cleared his throat nervously, “The amounts were no’ large, Mr. Lenzie, not for a man like your father with this house and two hundred acres of valuable property behind him. But a scholar, a man whose thoughts are all in the past is apt to be careless about details of interest and such, compound interest ye understand, and the first of the loans was made over twelve years ago.”
“The amount, man, the amount!” Ardoch drummed impatiently on the desk top.
Mr. McWhin extracted a pair of steelrimmed spectacles from his pocket and adjusted them carefully over the bridge of his nose, then he opened his leather satchel and took from it a bundle of documents bound with black ribbon. Peering over the top of his spectacles he read from a slip of paper tucked beneath the ribbon.
The suavity was gone from his voice, his obsequious manner had become suddenly harsh and aggressive.
“The amount,” he said, “is eighteen thousand, seven hundred, and sixty-one pounds, eleven shillings.”
For a moment there was dead silence, then Ardoch leaped to his feet, overturning his chair with a crash.
“What the devil do you mean?” he shouted, “how dare you come to me with such a fabrication at a time like this?”
“It's no fabrication,” Mr. McWhin assured him calmly, “you'll find all the amounts there if you take the trouble to look.”
Ardoch caught up the papers and tore off the ribbon that bound them. For a moment he scanned them, and then faced Mr. McWhin again, his face dark with anger.
“Interest at fifteen per cent.!” he stormed, “what do you mean by such extortionate rates?”
“I was dealing wi’ a dreamy forgetful man,” Mr. McWhin replied.
Ardoch sat down with a mirthless laugh, “Well,” he said, “the farm is not paying, I have no such amount at call—how do you expect to collect your money?”
“Oh, I'm well covered.” Mr. McWhin turned once more to his leather satchel and took from it a further sheaf of papers. “Here,” he said, tapping them with a bony forefinger, “are deeds of mortgage over this house and property—shall I read them to you?”
All Ardoch's instincts prompted him at this moment to show Mr. McWhin the door at the toe of his boot. Indeed he was half out of his chair to do so ere he realised that it was an impulse as vainly incongruous as if old Glenmayne Priory itself, awakening from the sleep of centuries to find the web of industrialism spread over and about it, had tried with an angry convulsion to rid the neighbourhood of the grimy tenements and foul air that polluted it.
He was caught. Five minutes’ perusal of the usurer's documents convinced him of that fact. Desperately he sought a way out, there were cousins and distant branches of the family who had in the past looked to Glenmayne as its head. They perhaps would be unwilling to see the old place pass into alien hands. They could—they must help. He demanded time from Mr. McWhin in which to arrange a settlement.
But Mr. McWhin shook his head. He had laid his plans a long time ago, and laid them well. For thirty-five years he had watched the city of Glasgow and its environs growing like a monstrous fungus over the countryside. Coal-pits, factories, and their attendant rows of grimy houses had overwhelmed a farm here, a village there. Someday, some time, the old house and green pastures of Glenmayne would be able to hold out no longer, and that day would be a very lucrative one for the man who, untrammelled by sentiment, owned the title to the estate. Not for many years, not until well after Mr. McWhin could hope to be alive, would the Lenzie family be likely of their own free will to relinquish their holdings. Land speculators in the past had received short shift at their hands; it would only be by chance that an outsider might obtain a title.
Chance had brought Mr. McWhin into contact with Gavin Lenzie, Ardoch's father. Gavin had been delicate from boyhood and spent the greater part of his early life in Italy where, living with his doting mother in a Florentine villa, he developed a passion for archaeological study, and grew up unpractical to a degree. When he succeeded to the Glenmayne estate at the age of fortyseven he had little taste for the northern climate or the hard work therein. He left the management of his affairs to agents, and as soon as his son was of age took himself off to live permanently in London.
Mr. McWhin had told Ardoch only half a truth when he spoke of the archaeologist's dinners and talks. It was he himself who had all but forced the loans, professing a deep interest in the Babylonian fragments and musty manuscripts. He had cultivated Gavin's friendship and gained his confidence at the same time that he had spun his web about him. Gavin had belonged to certain societies interested in the excavation of ancient ruins and tombs in Asia Minor, and Mr. McWhin had found it an easy matter to pass off loans for the furtherance of these activities as temporary obligements between gentlemen of kindred interests. The notes of hand which he received in return and which were subsequently made over into mortgages on Gavin's property, were, he declared with wellfeigned unconcern, a mere formality.
Thus it was that he gained little by little a hold over the whole Glenmayne estate and no part of it was redeemable by the sale of the treasures which were occasionally unearthed, for he had always taken care that the loans, though contracted in Gavin's name, were for the benefit of the societies. As for allowing Ardoch time to try and get outside assistance to clear the debt, he smiled wolfishly: all the payments were long overdue; he preferred to foreclose!
And now, as he rose from his chair, “I'll give you a month,” he said, “in which to make your arrangements. At the end of that time I shall expect to find Glenmayne Priory and its adjacent lands ready to be handed over to my agents!”
It is doubtful if Ardoch Lenzie ever realised to the full how much he owed to the sympathy and understanding of his wife, Catherine, during the terrible weeks that followed Mr. McWhin's visit. At first he was completely broken, alternating periods of black despair with fits of violent rage. It was incredible to him (in whom the tradition and pride of family was implanted deeper than any religion) that his ancestral home should be taken from him, that everything he had worked for had perished. He would sit for hours brooding in the library, his eyes vacant, his strong hands idle before him, then suddenly seizing hat and stick, he would set off down the road, scarcely knowing where he walked, but with some vague idea in his mind of coming face to face with the wizened little man who had brought about his ruin.
But Mr. McWhin was far away in London, and when Ardoch returned, haggard, muddy and utterly worn out, it was Catherine who awaited him, scolding him gently as she helped him off with his boots and poured him a drink; bringing him back to reason with brave and consoling words.
“Ardoch,” she said one day, “have you ever thought that there is a certain type of man who always strives to maintain the balance of things. The man who brings order and peace and culture, the man who clings to the soil and enriches it with his work. The man who thinks more often of those about him than of himself?”
“I have known such men—in the past,” Ardoch replied.
“The Lenzies were like that,” Catherine continued, choosing to ignore the hint of bitterness in his tone.
“They were—“Ardoch retorted, “but there is no future for them in a country where human beings are herded like cattle, where the grass is withered before it can seed, and a trickster can—”
Catherine rose and laid a hand over his mouth; “there are still places left in the world where life may be worth living,” she said gently.
She said no more at that moment, but later in the evening she brought out a wooden box in which she kept odds and ends of sewing, trinkets, old letters and the like. Some of the letters in this box were written in a flowing, full-bellied script, decorated with quaintly scribbled drawings in
“What is it?” Ardoch demanded a trifle irritably from the other side of the room.
Catherine glanced sidelong, “only one of my brother's old letters—you always thought them rather silly.”
“Aye, and I still do.”
“But Ardoch, he has such fun—he always seems to be laughing.”
“There's more to life than just having fun. As the master of a ship he shows a deplorable lack of dignity, to my mind!”
Catherine pouted and was silent, presently she chuckled again, “Oh, do look, here's a picture of him being chased by a chief of the Ma-ories, I think they're called.”
Ardoch leaned forward and lit a long churchwarden pipe at a candle. Then he rose, and crossing the room, stood behind Catherine's chair looking over her shoulder.
“What's that?” he demanded, suddenly pointing with the stem of his pipe.
“That? That's a bird, I think, but it's very queer, isn't it? Charles calls it a K-I-W-I; how do you suppose you pronounce that?”
“I don't know. Where does he find these things?”
“In New Zealand. He has made four or five trips there now. The first was to the Otago settlement seven years ago: he says it's a wonderful country where it's always summer, and al the first Otago settlers are farming their own land and doing famously.”
Ardoch turned the letters idly while Catherine watched him covertly with a new-found happiness in her heart. A month ago he would scarcely have glanced up at her remarks about the drawings, far less have crossed the room to look at them. He had been a self-centred, rather austere, and wholly independent man, but the recent turn of events had struck at the very roots of his being, cast him all adrift from the settled habit of his life, and brought him nearer to her, perhaps, than he had been since the day they were married, five years ago.
Presently he selected a letter from the pile and laid it in Catherine's lap. “Will you read one to me?” he asked, and leaning against the mantlepiece, it seemed to him that as Catherine's gentle voice read from that flowing script, the script that swelled and bellied like topsails in trade wind latitudes, that the oak-panelled walls of the room faded and gave way to a vast expanse of ocean. There was a green island where gulls screamed and fought over the carcases of whales and try-pots flared and stank in the dusk of a summer evening. There was a deep winding river with new grass spronting along its banks; sunny pastures sheltered by tall bush trees and distant blue mountains. A vigorous life went pulsing through the pages. Stories untold of adventure and hardship and glorious triumph.
For a long time after Catherine finished reading Ardoch puffed at his pipe in moody silence. He said no more that night, but on other evenings that followed more of the letters were read and when the reading of them was done he began to ask tentative questions concerning them. How far was it to New Zealand? How much would it cost to go there? Where was Captain Barcle, who had written the letters and presumbaly knew all about the country, now?
Then one day he made a trip to the port of Greenock.
The days had spun themselves into weeks and the return of Mr. McWhin was at hand. All the treasures of Glenmayne had been packed up and stored, and on the morrow Ardoch and Catherine and the old woman who had acted as factotum to their household were to go to a house overlooking the Firth near Gouroch, there to await the ship “Druimuachdar” which, commanded by Captain Charley Barcle, was due to arrive in the Clyde in about six weeks’ time. Ardoch had made no definite decision as yet, but Catherine felt sure, and her whole being rejoiced in the thought, that it needed but little persuasion on the part of her brother to convince him that a new start together in a new land was the best course open to them.
There remained, however, one thing more to do at Glenmayne. After their evening meal Ardoch led the way by uncarpeted rooms and echoing passages to the library, where, in front of the open hearth a wide stone, fitted each end with an iron ring, was sunk into the floor. Bidding his wife and the old woman take hold of one of the rings, Ardoch himself took the other and between them they lifted the stone. In the hollow space beneath stood a small wooden casket very strongly made and bound with iron. Ardoch lifted this casket from its place, and opening it took from within two fire opals set in whorls of beaten gold, each one forming a pendant, for a lady's ear.
The Queen's Earrings, emblems of strife and unrest, that had come to the Lenzies when the din of battle was almost at their gates, were, after nearly three hundred years of safe keeping, to fare forth once more on a life of uncertainty and adventure!
A special amending Act of Parliament has been passed to validate the appointment of the Hon. M. Connelly to the Legislative Council of New Zealand. The first member of a Government Department to be appointed to the Legislative Council, the Hon. M. Connelly was, for 25 years, in the Railway service.
Mr. Connelly was born in Kakaramea in 1887, being a son of the late J. Connelly, who was well known on the West Coast, and Mrs. Connelly, who is now living in Runanga. In his early days he spent some time in the mines. Arriving in Wellington in 1911, he joined the Railway Service in March of that year as a Porter. He was later appointed Guard at Greymouth, being subsequently transferred to Omakau and Dunedin. Shortly after joining the Thorndon Branch of the A.S.R.S. he was elected Secretary, a position he held until 1918. On his transfer to Greymouth he was elected Chairman of the local Branch of the Society and attended the 1919 Conference. In 1921 he was elected to the Executive Council, and again in 1923, in which year he was appointed to the position of President until 1925. He has served on the Executive continuously since 1929, and at the time of his appointment to the Legislative Council he was Vice-President of the A.S.R.S
Mr. Connelly was a member of the Railways Appeal Board for a number of years, and he frequently acted as an advocate before the Board. He has also been Division II member on the Superannuation Board since 1927.
Mr. Connelly was always prominent in the Labour movement and whilst in Greymouth, along with Mr. J. O'Brien, M.P., and the Hon. G. R. Hunter, M.L.C., he was one of the founders of the “Grey River Argus” when that paper became a Labour daily. He was one of the first Directors and Secretary to the Company.
In 1925 he unsuccessfully contested the Chalmers seat against Mr. J. McDickson. He is now an Executive member of the Otago L.R.C. His appointment will be welcomed as it will afford him an opportunity to apply his knowledge of economic and social questions in a wider field for the benefit of his fellows.
Confidence in the future of the rail-car was expressed by the Prime Minister, the Rt. Hon. M. J. Savage, in course of a brief speech at Woodville. In reply to the Mayor of Woodville, Mr. H. P. Horne, who welcomed the rail-car on its arrival there, Mr. Savage said: “We are here because we have an enthusiastic and capable Railway Manager, and an enthusiastic and capable Railway Minister. I believe that, after all, the railways will come into their own, and the railway services will be revolutionsed.”
Science has invaded every department of human existence including food. At one time meals were just food. To-day “vittles” are vitamins, and the call of the calorie and the chemical properties of pie are table topics. Infants prattle in their prams of protein, gurgle of glucose and sneer at starch. To-day, cooking is a chemical exploration rather than a labour of love, and never was it more truly said that “the hand that stocks the table is the hand that rules the world.”
Of course, it is nice to know that science has taken our stomachs to heart, but there are times when oldfashioned folk feel that they would prefer a little food with their meals. But, we who love food for its entertainment value alone, are rightly reminded that if “love makes the world go round,” indigestion can make it go flat.
The fact that thousands of our forefathers lived to ninety without ever making the acquaintance of a calorie or getting chummy with a vitamin is discounted by the probability that they would have lived just as long even if they had been “au fait” with these bugs.
It is equally true that the battle of Trafalgar was won on beer and beef. Grape-shot rather than grape-fruit decided the issue, and it was as true then as it is now that “sailors don't care.”
But dieticians demur and cite examples of what might have happened to world history had the history-makers realised that nice food is always bad for us, and the most unattractive dishes are alwayes the most nourishing. They point out that if Caesar's slogan had been “diet now” instead of “do it now” he might have been in a position to say “Go to—Brute,” instead of “Et tu, Brute.” Also that, if Napoleon had turned his attention equally to calories and cannons, Waterloo Station, to-day, might be in Paris instead of in London.
But, if all this is correct, how is it that Mussolini was able to conquer Abyssinia on spaghetti and mustard (gas); and why Germany's claim to have attained to “kultur” on kraut. And, if Germany can on kraut, what about America's claim that she can by “canning”?
The truth seems to be that food is “all things to all men,” and the dish which, when eaten by one diner, will put “pep” into dyspepsia will give the jest to digestion when demolished by another.
The beef-eater says “‘nuts’ to nuts,” the vegetarian turns a cauliflower ear to the sins of the flesh, the oldest inhabitant of Waikikamookau cries, “beer kept me here,” and his contemporary at Urafake quavers, “I've always had beer and that's why I'm here.” It's all very confusing. But, in spite of all this gastronomous warring, we still maintain that mother knew best.” Memories of mother, and the things that mother made in the days when youth would be served, deter many a man from uttering those sinister syllables, “eat, drink and be merry for to-morrow we diet.” Chefs
can be wrong. We don't care a continental what they claim; we maintain that their Consomme de Boeuf is only Mother's shin-bone soup without a shin to stand on, that their Marsaillaise Bon-bon is nothing but Mother's Yorkshire pudding with a French accent. Their Pate de Pouf is Mother's rice pudding re-Ducoed and served with face cream, and their Fricasse du Fromage is nothing but Mother's minced cheese without the cheese and without a Mother's care. We lay our heads in our hands and sob.—
In those fair days, even had we known that there were vitamins in pie, we should have eaten it just the same, and had we found a calorie in the soup we should have just lifted it out and carried on.
The dieticians are right when they point out that, in these parlous days of dictators, a bout of indigestion in some high foreign quarters might quite easily embroil the world in a holocaust of bombs and bully-beef. We can believe that cheese and lobster taken late at night may raise hell-andTommy early next morning.
But even such grave danger as this, hardly justifies a diet of foods as difficult to digest as the brim of a minced straw hat, or breakfast cereals which apparently are manufactured from the thatches of the ancient cottages of rural England.
Such experiences cause us to hanker for a return to the days of Pepys, when men were men and meals were meals, and a light snack might comprise a barrel of oysters, a couple of capons, a brace of plaice, a boar's
head, an ox's tail, a calve's tongue, a pig's cheek and other spare parts sufficient to reconstruct a complete museum exhibit for the Un-natural History Section. Pepys and his boyfriends didn't care a hoot for the chemical constituents of pig's trotters. Sufficient unto the dinner was the trot thereof and had anyone suggested that their meals should be prescribed by bug-experts the fleet would have been piped to quarters and they would have taken it out of the French. For in those days the Empire's security depended on the wooden walls, and iron stomachs, of old England. But let's be thankful that the day has not yet arrived when we will be inoculated with meals, or vaccinated with vitamins.
In every respect nature has dealt very kindly with New Zealand, and has endowed this gem of a country with unique specimens of every description to gladden the heart of the zoologist and the naturalist.
This article deals with a gift of nature which is a remarkable commercial asset, and although a mere shellfish, has done much to advertise the Dominion all over the world. I refer to New Zealand's own and exclusive shell-fish—the Toheroa.
This is a most delicious edible clam, which is becoming known and popular all over the world, and is now firmly established as a delicacy highly esteemed by the most fastidious gourmet.
To be explicit, the Toheroa is a large shell-fish with smooth slightly curved shells. It is usually, when fully developed, three or four inches long, and about two and a half inches wide, always regular in shape.
The shell contains a fish with a plump pouch-like body (somewhat resembling a fowl's crop) which contains a quantity of green pulpy meat; it has also a most extraordinary long white tongue of tough flesh, shaped very much like the human tongue, and very often nearly as large. The name Toheroa is, of course, Maori for “long tongue.”
At the middle of the thickest part of the back the shells have a neat, strong hinge, which opens and closes with remarkable force.
The tongue of the Toheroa provides it with great strength for burrowing into sand, and is a very active means of propulsion.
The Toheroa is quite an exclusive gentleman in his haunts. He is found nowhere in the world except in New Zealand, and thrives, particularly, on the northerly portion of the west coast of the North Island.
The principal beaches where the Toheroa is found at its best in North Auckland are, firstly, Muriwai Beach, a couple of hours’ motor run from Auckland. Secondly, the Toheroa abounds all along the Kaipara beaches further north, and again the most prolific beds of all are along the whole stretch of sixty miles, the real extent of the so-called “Ninety-mile Beach,” in the most northerly part of the west coast of New Zealand.
Many experiments have been made to transplant the Toheroa to other beaches, apparently of a similar nature to its native haunts. All these efforts have failed.
It is said that like caviare and olives, the Toheroa is an acquired taste, but in these days of enlightenment, the popularity of Toheroa soup on the menu, to say nothing of curried Toheroas or Toheroa fritters, seems to indicate that the acquisition of a taste for luxuries of this nature is growing rapidly, especially as the Toheroa is now met all over the world having been despatched thence carefully preserved in tins.
The Toheroa has always been popular locally. However, it is the prerogative of His Majesty the King to set the fashion in most things, and during his visit to New Zealand, when Prince of Wales, he was introduced to Toheroa soup on the menu at a dinner party. He was so impressed with it that he signed the menu and added a mark of appreciation “Excellent” opposite the Toheroa soup course. This menu card is a treasured souvenir and is owned and proudly exhibited by Mr. Meredith, who pioneered and was the first to operate Toheroa Canning Works near the Kaipara Beach about twenty years ago, which enterprise has flourished and is operating at full strength right up to the present day.
Let us visit the Toheroa in his native lair. For this purpose we can select no better spot than the “Ninety Mile Beach.” Here, on one of the grandest stretches of clean unbroken beach in any part of the world, the Toheroa is most plentiful.
All that is necessary to gather “Toheroa is a spade or shovel, a garden rake and a sack—there being no difficulty in gathering a sackfull in half an hour. The best specimens are secured at about thirty or forty yards from low water, the bivalve decreasing in size towards the high water mark.
The process of canning Toheroa is a simple one. Parties of Maori or white labour go down the beach, select a spot and fill a long low wooden trolley, which has four broad, solid wooden wheels. Six or eight sacks are gathered, and the spoil is taken back to the factory.
The Toheroa always contains much sand, and the first process is to soak them in fresh water for twelve hours, when they eject all sand.
With a stout knife, the shells are then severed at the hinge, the fish is taken out whole, then washed, and weighed in the tins.
The lid of the tin is crimped on, the tin being then placed in a receptacle and steamed at a high pressure for some minutes to expel the air. They are then removed and immediately (while hot) soldered.
The cooking process then commences, the first of course being in a vacuum tin. After two to three hours cooking they are taken out (naturally five hundred to a thousand tins are cooked in one process). The tins are then stacked and left for some weeks, when they are carefully checked for faults, which arise through the admission of air.
The rest of the process merely consists of lacquering tins, labelling, casing and shipping. Carting and shipping is an expensive item, as the factories in both cases are some distance over sandy roads to the port of shipment.
The Toheroa has always been a food highly prized by the Maori, who regards it as his special perquisite; it forms a regular and staple diet, available for the taking.
The New Zealand Government policy respecting Toheroa beds, has been largely influenced by consideration for the Maori people.
Under the Treaty of Waitangi, the right to fish and take shell-fish for personal use were two items reserved to them for all time; and the problem of the utilisation of the Toheroa as a commercial asset was surrounded by considerable difficulty. However, it was solved eventually with satisfaction to all concerned.
The arrangement come to was that while rights to can or preserve for sale were leased by tender, the right to take for personal use was granted to all.
It is a curious fact that at least on two occasions wholesale mortality among the Toheroa “clan” has taken place, and in both cases, for brief periods, it was impossible to locate a Toheroa—they had vanished!
However, on both occasions the Toheroa subsequently returned, without notice, in full vigour and glory, and is still present and ready to compete with the turtle for the honours of the soup tureen.
Investigations by zoologists have not told us all we should like to know about the life history of the Toheroa.
The Toheroa may breed in a regular way, that is in a similar manner to the rock oyster. However, the process is still obscure.
The most important fact to be noted is that the Toheroa is generally in poor condition in the summer months, is in excellent condition, and especially delicious, from March to October.
The Toheroa, canned, is not a particularly attractive vision when the tin is opened; in fact its appearance does not do it justice, the green colour of the liquid and contents is perhaps uninviting to the uninitiated; but it is the richest of all shell fish in the necessary vitamins, is absolutely all nourishment, and only needs to be properly prepared (which is a very simple matter, the tins having full instructions printed on them) to be appreciated and eagerly sought after.
In fact the world's markets to-day ask for canned Toheroa, and in this industry New Zealand has a unique asset, which will certainly be a good advertisement in the years to come.
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One of the things Mr. Tom liked to do best was to lie in the sun, and think. Mr. Tom was the tabby cat who lived with the people in the cottage on Pudding Hill, and the things he thought about as he lay in the sun were sometimes things he liked to do, and other times things he would like to have. It might be poetry, and again it might be flying.
Lately he had been thinking a great deal about fish. It seemed to him that if he knew for certain that he would have a nice piece of fried fish for supper, he would be the most contented cat in the world. The trouble was that the people in the cottage very seldom had fish—not for weeks and weeks had they had it, and Mr. Tom began to wonder if he could not go and get a piece for himself.
Fish he knew came from the sea. His mother had told him that when he was a little chap, but she did not tell him how, and so he thought that nice pieces of fried fish could be found by the sea. From where he lay on the verandah he could see the sea. He looked very hard and long at it and decided that he would go down to the sea and get a piece of fish.
Mr. Tom rose and stretched himself, arching his back and scratching his claws in and out along the verandah rail, then he jumped down and set off along the garden path.
The first person he met was Miss Amelia, the tortoise.
“Where are you going?” she asked somewhat surprised to see him about at this time of day.
“Fishing,” said Mr. Tom, remembering suddenly that that was the proper word to use.
“Where is that?” asked Miss Amelia.
“It isn't where,” said Mr. Tom, “it's what.”
“What is?” Miss Amelia looked puzzled.
“Fishing,” said Mr. Tom, and with an airy wave of his paw passed on.
At the gate he met Jock, the Scottish terrier pup; they were very good friends, but Mr. Tom thought Jock a little too bouncy.
“Good morning,” he said rather stiffly.
“Hullo,” said Jock, “are you going far?”
“I'm going to the sea,” said Mr. Tom, “Fishing,” he added importantly.
“My word,” Jock wagged his tail excitedly, “I'll come with you,” and without waiting for an answer he ran on ahead down the path.
At the foot of the hill, he sat down and waited until Mr. Tom caught him up. Mr. Tom had never been to the sea before, but he pretended he knew the way, and set off in what he believed to be the right direction.
“Hi,” said Jock, who had often been with the people of the cottage, “you're going the wrong way.”
“Well,” said Mr. Tom, “you can go this way if you want to,” but he followed Jock along the other road all the same.
It was much further to the beach than it had looked from the verandah, and Mr. Tom was properly tired and a little cross by the time they got there; he told Jock he thought they ought to sit down and wait awhile.
“What for?” asked Jock.
“Well it isn't quite the right time for fishing yet,” said Mr. Tom.
“Oh!” said Jock, “you mean the tide.”
“Yes, that's it—the tide,” Mr. Tom said, although he had really no idea what the tide might be. Then he settled himself down by a rock which smelt deliciously of fish, and went to sleep.
Jock, however, could never sit still for long. He ran up and down and poked his nose into crevices and under stones, he barked at seagulls and splashed about at the edge of the water until even he began to feel tired. He sat down and looked about him, his ears laid flat and his little pink tongue lolling out with the heat. All of a sudden he pricked up his ears and drew in his tongue. The beach had become entirely surrounded by water.
This, he thought, was what Mr. Tom had been waiting for, so he woke him up and told him about it.
“Oh!” said Mr. Tom yawning, “Oh— ah—yes—fish—it does smell fishy here, doesn't it?” He was quite rested after his nap and very hungry.
“Now,” he said to Jock, “you go that way and I'll go this, and we'll see who can find a piece of fish first.”
“What's it look like?” asked Jock.
“Well,” Mr. Tom laughed in a rather show-offy kind of way, “fancy not knowing that. It's brown and crispy and smells delicious. It has very spiky bones in it which you must be careful of and sometimes it's a little too hot to eat at first.”
So they went off in opposite directions, Mr. Tom getting hungrier and hungrier, sniffing this way and that in his eagerness to discover the piece of fried fish which he was sure was to be found on beaches.
(Continued on page 60)
We were laying aside our wraps in the bedroom amid the usual chatter and manoeuvring for position before the mirror. Mary, just returned from a trip abroad, was the centre of interest—in fact, we'd all been undisguisedly eying her clothes for the last five minutes. Her velvet wrap in tawny gold (almost it became bronze in folds of the fabric) with its high ruched collar and voluminous sleeves, and her slippers in the same shade of velvet; her frock, paler, yellower, but still not quite yellow, with its bodice fulness held by a casual cluster of field flowers in nasturtium colours at the neckline—so we talked clothes.
* * *
We heard a little about shopping in London and Paris, and about a dressshow a London friend had invited her to. We enquired about the tweed suit she had worn to Estelle's morning-tea party and were surprised to hear she had bought it in Sydney. We listened to a description of a more exciting suit than that—with family tartan fashioned into a kilt-like skirt fringed and wrapped to the side; of her very smartest cocktail hat, a silver toque with a coarse stiffened veil standing out round it; of her most comfortable frock on the boat and even for semievenings—a very fragile hand-knitted woollen that somehow didn't look like wool.
* * *
But by this time a move to the drawing-room seemed indicated. On the way I asked Mary whom she went to for manicures now she was back. “No one,” laughed Mary. “I'm greedy of my time, so I do my own.”
* * *
Not until a week later, at an informal luncheon-party for the returned wanderer (Mary in a mannish worsted suit with chalk white lines, and a sailor hat with flattering upturned brim), did I again broach the subject of manicures. If a perfectly groomed hand like Mary's was the result of home treatment, I was eager to learn her methods.
Here is a resume of what Mary told me. She always keeps her manicure utensils together on a tray—scissors, file, emery board, buffer, cotton wool, orange sticks, cuticle remover, cold cream, small bottle of peroxide, liquid polish. (She explained that until recently she had preferred a dry nailstone for producing a polish).
If her nails are fairly long, she uses the scissors first and finishes up with careful filing from the corners towards the middle of the nail. The emery board last of all makes an even neater job of it.
Soaking of the hands for several minutes in warm soapy water is the longest part of the procedure. The hands are then carefully dried, the cuticle being gently pushed back with the towel. (“I always do that when drying my hands.” Mary assured me). A dab of cold cream is then smeared round the base of each nail. An orange stick, wound round with a wisp
of cotton wool and dipped in cuticle remover, tidies up the cuticle. Finally, the old polish is removed and the new applied.
“And the peroxide? Anything special about that?”
“No. Just for stains under the nail. I usually dip an orange stick with cotton-wool in the peroxide and wipe under each nail. They look cleaner. Occasionally, specially in the winter, I rub warm olive oil into my hands at night, and sleep in old gloves. The skin keeps in better condition.”
I've adopted Mary's manicure—and to-day Lucille, the rather supercilious Lucille, condescended to admire my nails! But I didn't tell her that I did them myself!
* * *
A day is not long, a year is short, a life-time is but brief. To the life-time we attach importance, to the year less as we grow older, to the day but little. In this, our mathematics, at least, are at fault. The significance of the lifetime is as the significance of a day multiplied by three hundred and sixtyfour, multiplied by the years allotted to us. Increase the significance of the day, and surely the significance of a life is increased amazingly.
* * *
Wherein can we give added significance to the day? So much of it is taken up with necessary things—sleep, eight hours or more (which we sometimes cut into for things we consider of more importance), eating (whose time we cut down only at the risk of spoilt digestion), earning a living (the hours of which are set for most of us).
Remain the meagre hours of our leisure, unless we are of the lucky few whose “work” is an outlet for self. Within these hours the conflict of interests becomes intense. There is never that dull feeling of “nothing to do” which oppresses sometimes in the adolescent stage. There is too much to do and too little time to do it in. Certain matters are definitely importtant
* * *
To nearly everyone, a manual skill is a necessary acquisition. Have some of your leisure devoted to the development and exercise of your skill. But don't let the praise of friends, or the taking of prizes at handwork shows, blind you to the other sides of your nature.
Every human being (whether he acknowledges it or not) desires the development of cultural aspects. Your choice will depend partly on favourableness of environment, but mainly on what you have discovered in yourself of musical, artistic or literary ability. For your own happiness, do not neglect this discovery of yours.
* * *
Most of your activities will take you among people. That is as it should be. There is so much we have in common that other humans not only contribute to our enjoyment of a mutual interest, but also enable us to understand ourselves a little better—perhaps as much by contrast as affinity.
But in each day, in each year, in each lifetime, it is those moments wherein you endeavour to know yourself, when, alone, you feel the daily routine suspended and yourself poised on the brink of understanding, when your limited intellect seems to expand but just not far enough—it is in those moments, rising above the clutter of your living, that you comprehend most nearly and live most fully.
It was in a book about rural England, a delightful book about a country cottage and its garden which seemed somehow to invade the cottage itself, that I discovered this recipe for preserving bronze beech leaves for the winter. Just plunge their stems in a mixture of half water and half crude glycerine. Do that, and autumn warmth will brighten dull corners of your home until the spring.
Late berries and tinted foliage are eagerly gathered by the woman who loves beauty. In arranging your treasures, remember that nature herself is not scared of mixing her colours or her types.
Use a large jar, a pottery bowl, an earthenware or copper jug, and in it arrange your foliage and berries. Any lingering flowers in your garden, or the frail early blossoms of spring, may be added. If you have placed a crumpled-up piece of fine wire-netting in your vase, the stems will stay just where you want them to, and you will be able to attain that balanced effect which is necessary. The result should be haphazard, unstudied and careless, but behind all, arrangement is the sense of balance.
For a buffet, and for the diningtable, a glowing bowl of fruit is effective—and easy. For a “special” dinner-table, add the rich glow of grapes to your fruit bowl or basket. For a fairly large table, the centre-piece may be flanked by two small bowls of dainty flowers.
Perhaps your dining-table is old and worn, or fairly new but marked by hot dishes—however it may be, it does not please you. You envy the fine gloss of Mrs. Next-Door's furniture. I asked my Mrs. Next-Door, and she said she kept the shine on it by rubbing up with a very little ordinary floor polish.
Here is how to re-do your diningtable. First, with fine sandpaper wrapped round an easily wielded block of wood, remove all the old stain. Of course you know to work the way of the grain. Now apply stain of the required shade and leave until dry. Rub in linseed oil with a very soft rag or cotton-wool pad—rub it in thoroughly. Last of all apply varnish, or shellac dissolved in methylated spirits. Apply very evenly, working always in the same direction (with the grain) and being careful not to have too much at the edges lest “tears” be formed. Leave to dry for several days away from dust.
An old bedroom suite may be given quite a modern appearance by painting. I saw one elderly duchesse given a beauty treatment. The knobs on the top corners of the mirror, and the old brass handles of the drawers were removed. The holes left by the screws were filled with plastic wood which was later sandpapered flat. Putty could be used instead of plastic wood, but is liable to shrink. Bakelitc knobs were screwed in to replace the old handles.
A small tin of lacquer in the chosen shade, and a paint-brush, did the job. The mirror was unhinged and its frame painted separately. A piece of cardboard was held at the edge of the glass to prevent splashes of paint. One coat was found sufficient, even for the bakelite knobs, and the owner of the paint looked covetously at a perfectly good oak-bedstead, but was finally prevailed on to leave it and transfer her attentions to an old cane chair, which suddenly became a possession of some value. New curtains and cushions transformed what had been a drab room.
Health Notes. Food.
In the last issue of this Magazine, we promised to take up the subject of Food in our next, so we start off with a brief explanation regarding the necessity of food. Why do we eat?
Continuous throughout life, the cells of the body undergo a process of breaking down, and building up; a process known to scientists as Metabolism. To maintain these processes at a normal level, food and oxygen are required. In the process of breaking down of cells, impurities are formed which are passed into the blood stream, carried to the lungs, and here exhaled as carbon dioxide. We then breathe in oxygen in the air which purifies the blood and through this medium is carried to all parts of the body to take part in combustion and the generation of heat and energy.
We ingest food which, in the process of digestion is broken up into minute particles, and then absorbed into the blood stream for distribution to all the tissues of the body. Remember that these processes are going on continuously even when the body is at rest, but then in a lesser degree than when the body is active. We partake of a meal, then set about our work, the strength and energy for which is provided by the proceeds of that meal in conjunction with the oxygen which we have breathed in. Now when the proceeds become exhausted, nature creates that hungry feeling which we call appetite, and we then require further provision for the needs of the body. Hence the necessity for a regular supply of suitable food is obvious. Let us stress the word “suitable,” as the ingestion of unsuitable food leads to indigestion, and lays the foundation for all sorts of bodily disorders and maladies.
This man of 31 was prematurely aged by kidney trouble, when he should have been enjoying the best years of his life. Here he tells how Kruschen Salts gave him back his health, after suffering months of pain:-
“I was in hospital for ten weeks, owing to kidney trouble. When I was discharged I felt like an old man, although I am only 31. If I stooped to do anything it was agony to straighten up again. I tried all sorts of remedies but they did not do me any good. Several people advised me to try Kruschen Salts as they had found them wonderful. I tried them and found they gave me relief from pain and I felt better in every way. I cycle 28 miles a day to and from work, and shall keep up the daily dose of Kruschen because I can now do the journey to and from work and a night's work, and not feel any the worse for it. After those months of pain and weakness it is splendid to feel fit and strong again.”
S.V.C.
The kidneys are the filters of the human body. Unless they function properly, certain acid wastes, instead of being expelled, are allowed to pollute the bloodstream and produce troublesome symptoms: backache, rheumatism, and excessive fatigue.
What is needed is a special kidney aperient. Ordinary aperients cannot do the work. In the light of present-day knowledge, Kruschen Salts is one of the finest diuretics or kidney aperients available for assisting the kidneys to excrete acid impurities.
Kruschen Salts is obtainable at all Chemists and Stores at 2/6 per bottle.*
There is no field connected with the processes of life, which offers greater scope for exploitation by the “quack” and the faddist than the field of dietetics. Pick up any paper or periodical, and see how far you will read before coming to some highly advertised article of diet which is guaranteed to make a new man of you in no time. The mere multiplicity of articles of diet provides this scope, while vagaries of the palate, and sometimes credulity of sufferers, encourage exploitation.
Much valuable work has been, and is being done by leading scientists throughout the world, in connection with the properties of various foods and their assimilation and distribution in the body. Of late years notable advances have been made which have largely contributed to the extension of longevity.
We do not intend taking you into the scientific intricacies of calories, basal metabolic rates and so on, but will endeavour to outline guiding principles with regard to diet, in the simplest possible terms.
Remember that so far, our Health Notes have been addressed to those blessed with normal healthy bodies, and have been written with a view to helping you to maintain that condition, for surely it is of much greater import to prevent ill health than to cure disease. Later, however, we hope to be able to deal with some of the maladies of life, and offer suggestions which may help the sufferers.
This article will be continued in our next issue, when we will discuss the composition of foods and briefly outline simple directions for selection of diet.
Butter bread and put in baking dish buttered side down. Sprinkle with cheese and butter more bread and put on top, buttered side up. Bake in hot oven until pale brown. When cold cut into fingers. Heat up when ready to use.
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Line fairly deep patty pans with puff pastry. Fill them with finely chopped ham or bacon. Make a custard and pour it over the ham (or bacon). Bake in hot òven until pastry is well risen and then reduce heat until cooked through.
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Whites of two eggs beaten very stiffly, add six tablespoons sugar, one at a time. Fold in half teaspoon vanilla and half teaspoon vinegar.
Grease a sandwich tin and then line it with greased paper. Bake in slow oven for one hour.
When cold, cover with whipped cream and passion fruit—or pineapple, strawberries or other suitable fruit.
The People Of Pudding Hill.
(Continued from page 56)
Jock, however, who had gone the other way, was not looking very hard. He noticed that the water was creeping up and up, and the beach was getting smaller and smaller; but as he thought Mr. Tom knew all about it he didn't bother very much, but just went ambling on.
Suddenly, however, he was surprised to see Mr. Tom coming towards him. He was quite sure he had not turned round, so he supposed it must have been Mr. Tom, who was going very slowly with his head almost on the ground. The truth of the matter was, of course, that if you go on walking and walking on a round island you mast come back to where you started from, and if there are two of you and you start in opposite directions and go on walking and walking you must meet somewhere on the other side of the island, which was, exactly what had happened to Mr. Tom and Jock.
Mr. Tom was alarmed when he saw how the water was creeping up, and said to Jock that he thought it was not really the right kind of day for fishing. Then they both sat down and thought for a while, and presently they had to climb up on the rock under which Mr. Tom had gone to sleep. And the water kept on rising.
“I think we should go home,” said Jock.
“How?” asked Mr. Tom.
“We could swim.” said Jock.
“No,” said Mr. Tom very decidedly, “I don't like swimming—you get all wet.”
So they sat and thought a bit more until the water had come right up the rock and there was only a little dry patch left on the top.
Mr. Tom's tail was hanging down into, the water, and presently something tugged at it sharply. Mr. Tom gave a little gasp of fright and sprang into the air.
“What are you doing?” asked Jock.
“I felt something,” said Mr. Tom shakily, and then began to shiver as a shape glided slowly past them in the water.
“I saw something,” said Jock, “did you?”
Mr. Tom looked very hard at the sky. “I don't think so,” he answered.
Presently there was a loud plop and a fish, a very large fish, jumped out of the water almost under their noses.
“Mon,” cried Jock who was apt to become very Scotch when he was excited, “did ye see yon?”
Mr. Tom said he thought he did, but before he could say anything further the large fish poked its head out of the water and eyed them severely.
“Ah—ha,” he cried, “caught by the tide eh?”
“We're fishing,” said Mr. Tom boldly.
“Well I'm a fish,” said the Fish, “why don't you catch me?”
“Don't take any notice of him,” said Mr. Tom to Jock.
“Is it really a fish?” whispered Jock.
“No, of course it isn't.” Mr. Tom shifted his feet unhappily because the water was right over the rock now and he hated to get his feet wet.
“I'm as much a fish,” said the Fish, “as you are—well—whatever you are.”
And with that he went back under the water again, and Mr. Tom and Jock who by now had the water up to their knees began to wonder very seriously what they ought to do.
Presently the fish reappeared and he brought with him a lot of other fishes, some big and some little. They all began blowing bubbles and splashing the water with their tails as they swam round and round the rock, and they made waves which splashed up underneath Mr. Tom and made him feel very uncomfortable indeed.
And the water kept on rising.
It rose and rose until it reached Mr. Tom's chin and the waves that the fishes made flopped over his nose and he heard Jock say very loudly.
“I'm off,” and the next thing he knew they were both swimming towards the shore.
Mr. Tom, like all cats, could swim very well when he really had to, and he reached the shore first. He fluffed out his fur and blew his nose, and when Jock landed they both rolled about on the hot stones to dry themselves, and then set off home as hard as they could go.
As they were going up the path to Pudding Hill, Mr. Tom said, “I don't think we will tell the others about this adventure,” and Jock said, “no, p'raps not.” But there was a surprise waiting for them.
Johnny Black whistled “See the Conquering Heroes Come,” from the gatepost; the Fieldmice called out rather rudely, “Fish-oh,” and Miss Amelia who met them on the path said how clever they were not only to have caught a fish, but to have sent it home to be cooked as well; and sure enough, there was coming from the cottage the most delicious smell of frying fish.
Mr. Tom looked very wise and being fond of using long words which nobody else could understand, said, “What a co-incidence!”
But after supper when he had eaten as much fish as he possibly could, he sat on the verandah rail and sang a song to himself as he licked the salt out of his fur. And the song which the people in the cottage thought was purring went like this:-
“Fish, fish, I do like fish that's cooked in a pot with no lid,
I saw a thing in the sea to-day which said it was fish, but I swam away
For I knew better I did.
Fish is curly and brown and sweet and sometimes a little too hot to eat,
It can't blow bubbles or splash your nose, so whatever it is in the sea that goes
It—can't—be—fish!”
“How do you like that?” he asked Jock who lay on the floor below him. Jock thumped the floor with his tail. “I'd rather have a bone,” he said sleepily.
“I sometimes hear or read that tobacco is an evil thing,” writes “Old Fogey” in the “Onlooker,” “but as a medical man I agree with. Huxley that smoking is really no more harmful than tea-drinking. Of course, just as there is inferior tea, so there is inferior tobacco. As for myself, I have derived not only the greatest comfort, but the greatest help, from my pipe, and that tobacco is invaluable in many cases of brain fag and mental stress, I know well. The best advice I can offer fellow-smokers is to use discrimination in their choice of the weed. Purity is essential.” Well, if that is so, as it assuredly is, what about “toasted” ? Practically without nicotine (eliminated by toasting) its equal for flavour and aroma has yet to be found. It is at once the purest and most delightful of all tobaccos. But there are only five brands of the genuine article, remember: Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Cavendish, Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold. ‘ware imitations!*
Eleven literary murders were committed at a unique gathering of writers in Wellington recently. The meeting was the result of a decision to produce a composite murder mystery novel, some thirteen or fourteen writers being asked to collaborate. For the initial meeting each writer was asked to produce his idea as to how the first chapter should be written. Eleven writers attended With eleven first chapters, each reading his effort in turn. For two hours blood dripped from MSS. with deadly persistence. Indeed the morgue-like atmosphere would have been overpowering had not suitable refreshments been provided and had not one writer produced the first chapter of a humorous murder mystery—and it was humorous. Then when the last literary corpse fell with the conventional dull thud, a secret ballot was held as to which was the chapter most suitable for the relay literary murder race. The choice fell on Victor Lloyd's first chapter of “Murder By Twelve,” Eric Bradwell's “Murder In A Box” coming a good bloodstained second. Then lots were drawn as to the chapters to be written by the other participants, the following being the order of selection: A. E. Mulgan, O. N. Gillespie, G. G. Stewart, C. A. Marris, James Cowan, R. B. Phillips, C. Stuart Perry, Pat Lawlor, C. A. L. Treadwell, Wilson Hogg, Eric Bradwell and S. H. Jenkinson.
The humorous murder mystery was voted so good that it was decided to complete it on the same basis in serial form in the “New Zealand Railways Magazine.”
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As briefly stated in last issue, James Cowan has had a volume of South Sea stories accepted by Jonathan Cape. This is the first book Mr. Cowan has sent to London. The stories are the memories of the author's other days, the days of schooners and schooner men, a cruise to Samoa in the native war days, and stories of, the New Zealand coast. The book is named “Suwarrow Gold” after the title of the longest story in the collection—a tale of treasure-finding on one of our great coral atolls, Suwarrow. It is a strange tragic story of actual adventure.
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Norman Lindsay's wonderful book, “The Magic Pudding,” was first published in an impressive edition by Angus & Robertson in 1918. Later a cheaper edition also met with great success. I understand that an edition will shortly be published in London and New York. I venture to predict that after his pen drawings and etchings, the future fame of Lindsay will be built largely on this delightful phantasy. It is the “Alice in Wonderland” of Australia.
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When I was in Auckland last month I was lent, for a night only, an advance copy of “Robin Hyde's” “Passport to Hell.” I thought I could skim through it in that time, but the book was too vital. I had to read line for line, and then leave it most regretfully until I could have a copy for myself. Although one of the most compelling novels yet written by a New Zealander it could not be recommended to everyone. It is raw meat, and raw meat is not for babes. It must stand as one of the most remarkable feats ever achieved by a woman writer, for “Robin Hyde” has written of a man's life, of the prison cell, of the lust and- blood of war, as only could a deep thinking, deep feeling man who had plunged off the deep end of life.
Mr. J. A. Lee, M.P., Parliamentary Under-Secretary, author of the much discussed “Children of the Poor,” has had his second novel accepted for publication. I understand that “New Zealand Truth” has bought the serial rights of the book.
Hector Bolitho has completed his biography of the first Lord Inchcape. It is being published by John Murray.
Professor Sewell's masterly Authors’ Week Address on Katherine Mansfield will shortly be published in booklet form.
Gloria Rawlinson has completed a book, in prose this time, and is sending it to London.
“The New Industrial Legislation,” a book dealing with legislation passed by Parliament this session is to be published shortly by Butterworth & Co. The author is Mr. A. J. Mazengarb.
Monte Holcroft, of Christchurch, has had a novel, “The Papuan,” accepted for serial publication in “The Bulletin.”
A New Zealand novel attracting interest in England is “Show Down,” by M. Escott.
New Zealanders are said to quick at adapting themselves to sport and this also holds good for those who have resided in the Dominion for a period of years, although they were not born here. The visit last year of a team of Indian hockey players aroused keen enthusiasm, not only among those who had been playing or following the game, but also among those who were seeing hockey played for the first time.
Among those in the latter category were many young Indians whose employment has kept them busy in Wellington. They showed a desire to take part in hockey, and Eddie McLeod, New Zealand representative at cricket and at hockey, agreed to coach them in the fundamentals of the game. It has been generally supposed that hockey comes to Indians as second nature, but this view is not held by the stars of the Indian team. In an article written for a New Zealand sporting paper by M. N. Masud, vice-captain of the team, this famous player drew attention to the little-known fact that Indian players undergo a great deal of preparatory training, taking each movement step by step. He assured New Zealand players that the high standard set by Dhyan Chand, “the wizard of the willow,” is not beyond their scope providing that sacrifices are made and attention paid to a long period of training.
But granting Masud his point, it must be admitted that there is some inherent ability possessed by native races which gives them an advantage over the white races—some sense of rhythm and timing that is particularly noticeable in hockey or football. The percentage of Maoris who excel at football—and at hockey, although the stick game is not given so much encouragement as football—is sufficient evidence that the native has a start on the white athlete in specified sports.
Tours of New Zealand by visiting sports teams do a vast amount of good to the game by giving an impetus to public interest. One sport to receive a fillip of late is cycling. A team of Australian pedallers—F. Thomas, P. Veitch and two New Zealanders who had been residing in Australia, H. Turtill and A. Ralston—competed at two meetings in the King Country, and at Otorohanga attracted an attendance of 14,000. Unfortunately these pedallers came over under contract to the Te Kuiti and Otorohanga clubs and were unable to compete at other meetings during their stay in New Zealand, although they took the opportunity while in the South Island to give demonstrations on the “rollers,” those whirring wheels which assist cyclists to train indoors.
Another sport to get a helping hand as the result of a visit by overseas competitors is boxing. When Cyril Pluto and Reg Hickcy, taking their courage in both hands, decided to make a hurried trip across from Australia to Auckland they little dreamed that their action would be the means of starting a mild boom in the N.Z. fistic world. The Auckland Boxing Association staged a bout with Pluto as one of the principals and, although there was a big wrestling match to follow a night or two later, they managed to draw a house in excess of £230. Since then the boxing game has had a definite revival in the North and with the advent of the negro boxer, Roy De Gans, in Invercargill, there have been record houses down South. The result of all this is that many prominent boxers are casting envious eyes on the prospects in New Zealand and before long the halcyon days of Clabby, Uren, Bell, Purdy, Murray and Heeney will be here again. All that was wanted was a little enthusiasm at the right time and it fell to a son of a veteran Australian boxer in the person of Cyril Pluto to set that enthusiasm alight at the psychological moment. New Zealand has produced some great boxers in Billy Murphy, the only man from N.Z. to hold a world's professional title, Dan Creedon, Tom Heeney, the Griffen Bros., and Bob Fitzsimmons—he came to New Zealand when only three years of age and learned his fistic trade at Timaru. The latter town by the way, is where Phar Lap, mighty champion of the turf, was bred and also where Jack Lovelock, hero of many a famous mile race, attended secondary schpol. Not a bad record for one town? And to cap it all, Pat Boot of the N.Z. Olympic team for the Olympic Games this year, also comes from Timaru.
The Games commence on August 1st, and by the time the next issue of the “Railways Magazine” is on sale New Zealand's representatives will be ready to carry the flag into the Olympic Stadium.
Captain Evan A. Hunter, Secretary of the British Olympic Association, in a personal letter to the writer, mentions that “we (the British Olympic Association) are glad to have the New Zealand team housed with us. I do hope they will do well and I can assure you that Porritt and Lovelock will look after them excellently and do everything to encourage them and help them.” Captain Hunter was in New Zealand with the British and Finnish athletic team in 1935 and it is partly due to his work that the New Zealanders are attached to the British party.
Seven-a-side Rugby is not taken with any great degree of seriousness in New Zealand. In fact in some districts the season is commenced with a seven-a-side tournament, it being overlooked that this particular brand of football is more strenuous than the regular fifteen-a-side game. But in England, seven-a-side Rugby plays a big part in the football season. Instituted eleven years ago by Middlesex, the annual tournament has been the result of more than #11,000 being raised for the funds of the Middlesex Hospital. This year the championship was won by the Sale Club, which included some of Wales’ best-known internationals.
The manner in which seven-a-side Rugby has taken on in England is surpassed by the growth of basketball, which threatens to be the most popular of ball games. Basketball was started by Dr. James Naismith who will be a guest of the German Olympic Committee to see the game played for the first time at the Olympic festival. Basketball was evolved as the result of a challenge following on a chance remark by Dr. Naismith that there was “nothing new under the sun, but everything new is simply a recombination of the factors of the already existing things.” He had been discussing for some time the necessity for a game for the winter season at his college and on making that remark was answered by “Well, Doctor, if that statement of yours is true, then you can invent a new game.” Taken up in this manner Dr. Naismith evolved the game which has now swept the globe. Basketball is not yet 45 years old but it has a greater following among New Zealand women than hockey and is gaining added followers every season. The story behind Dr. Naismith's evolution of the game would require too much space to recount, but he explains that it is a combination of Soccer, Rugby and polo.
Cigarettes led to an amusing breach of promise case at Adelaide recently. Juliet, it appeared, dotes on cigarettes, while Romeo loathes the sight—and smell—of them. So love's young dream became a nightmare, and quarrels were frequent. At last the young man bluntly told the girl that if she wouldn't give up smoking he'd have to give her up! Hence these tears! Amid roars of laughter some of the early love letters were read out in court. At last the. judge remarking that it seemed to be “a silly lovers’ quarrel,” advised the parties to retire and see if they couldn't “make it up.” They did! The fascination that cigarettes possess for some women—men. too!—is simply irresistible! Look at the run on Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold, the two leading cigarette blends, so fragrant and soothing! Both are “toasted.” That's why they're so good—and so harmless! There are also three toasted brands for the pipe, Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Cavendish, and Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog). No finer tobaccos are manufactured. But beware of imitations!*
[In 1846 Sir George Grey became convinced that Te Rauparaha, the stout old warrior who had got himself into such bad odour at the Wairau, was secretly giving aid to Te Rangihaeata, who was in open revolt. He prepared quickly, surprised and seized Te Ruaparaha in his pa, hustled him on to a ship, and conveyed him to Wellington as a prisoner. Te Rangihaeata, hastening to Porirua, arrived only in time to see the ship receding into the distance.]
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The mother being; indisposed, it devolved upon the father, a locomotive fireman, to feed their infant son, aged two years, with a spoon.
Hearing the child spluttering and apparently choking, the mother came hurrying in to see what was happening. The father explained that he always “led off with one under the firedoor, then one left, one right, and one well down the far end.” The “far end” in this case corresponded with the unfortunate child's throat.
“The Railway Gazette.”
The Railway Department's slogan, “Safety, Comfort, and Economy,” was typically illustrated on a north-bound train recently. In a mixed first-class carriage three men occupied separate seats. The first was a clergyman, the second presumably a commercial traveller (he would be the popular conception of a man of the road), and the third a Scotsman. The last-named was not clad in kilts, nor did he have the traditional Scotch walking stick, but his voice revealed his nationality.
The clergyman, with his straight and God-fearing look, represented safety, and the commercial traveller, equipped with a rug and a modern novel, comfort. It was difficult to associate the other member of the trio with the latter part of the slogan, for the fact remains that he was travelling in a firstclass carriage and (softly) gave threepence to a newsboy for a twopenny newspaper and refused the change. The climax to this little story, however, does not altogether fit in with the scheme of things. After the train had travelled several miles and before the guard was due to inspect the tickets, one member of the party suddenly arose, grabbed a suitcase from the rack, and made for the carriage door. In reply to the kindly advice of a fellow passenger that the next station at which the train stopped was some distance off, the man candidly stated that he had just realised by the appointments in the carriage that he was travelling first-class and that he only held a second-class ticket. One caught the words “waste of money” as the traveller passed through the door. At a rough guess one would say it was the man from Glasgow (or Aberdeen) who made the sudden exit. It wasn't; it was the clergyman!
“Wells.”
This year, 1936, being the fiftieth anniversary of Thomas Edison's initial experiments with moving pictures, it is interesting to recall that the first actual story picture—produced in 1903 —was a railway drama entitled “The Great Train Robbery.” It was a onereeler, and the principal players were Marie Murray and George Barnes. The story was the idea of Edwin Porter, one of Edison's early cameramen.
“O. W. Waireki.”