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Result “Four-Sum” Competition: 569 points with TASS, TESTS, SPATS, SETS, (or SAPS or SPAS). Submitted by J. Herd, C. Young, G. Simmonds, E. White-law, E. Coleman, A. McCormick, Auckland. R. Wilson, G. Weston, G. Chambers, Wellington. L. Mitchell, Milton. J. Lawrence, Hokitika. Sass, Stys, Sess, disallowed.
The desire of every decent person is that 1937 may be a year of peace and goodwill. If we could have twelve months under these conditions, the increase in human happiness would be so great that no one would care to disturb that state of bliss in the after years.
But there are too many warring elements in the lives, conditions, temperaments, and mentalities of the peoples of the world for a desire such as this to be realised in the brief span of a year. The most that each individual can do is to live as peacefully and act with as much goodwill towards others as conditions will permit, and to encourage others to be of a like frame of mind.
Comparatively speaking, New Zealand might be described at present as a place of peace in a world of turmoil. In fact much of the tendency of world travellers to visit New Zealand and Australia is derived from the knowledge of unsettled and uncertain conditions elsewhere.
But before peace and goodwill can come completely into their own there must be, the world over, greatly increased opportunities for all to share more fully in the joys of life.
Here are just a few of the things that are desirable, and doubtless obtainable for all, in the years to come:—A plentitude of pictures and other art objects, to give in small space the aesthetic pleasures of colour and form; books, to set thoughts in motion; some adequate share of sunshine and seashore; plentiful parks with trees and lakes, rivers and flowers; gymnasia and other helpful inducements to exercise; abundance of food and drink of the right sort properly and pleasingly prepared and served; adequate opportunities for social intercourse under agreeable conditions; travel of all kinds to places of educational interest and attractive pleasure resorts; genuine endeavour to reach points of agreement regarding principles of behaviour and outlook upon life to avoid the distress of disagreements; intellectual activity and technical craftsmanship along the lines of personal aptitude or predilection; and friendly opportunities for showmanship of some sort—to strut for admiration, to gesticulate or talk or sing or orate either as a competitive exercise or for the pure pleasure of the effort—to relate facts and invent fictions—to have something to laugh about or to cause friendly laughter amongst others—to be kind and helpful, and to create and accept happiness as the chance comes along. These may not be great and gorgeous aims and objects, instinct with the rarified spirit of a lofty nobility, but they are at least among the things that are possible to all, if the right spirit exists along with a willingness to work cheerfully in any way possible that peace and good-will may reign in the affairs of men.
In contemplating the New Year upon which we are about to enter, there are, I believe, good grounds for satisfaction both regarding the progress of the Department's business during the past year and also in the prospects of the coming one.
We change over from 1936 to 1937 in the knowledge that a great deal has been done to prepare the way for the considerably augmented traffic of all kinds that we may be expected to handle. The whole of our staff will agree with me, I feel sure, that 1936 was a year of outstanding activity in the Department's history, both in respect to the many changes and improvements introduced to advance the range and quality of service the Railways could give the public, and also in the upward tendency of every class of traffic through the more favourable economic and other conditions existing for the use and extension of railway services.
We are now ready to advance into another year in which even greater internal developments of the service may be expected, in keeping with the increased commercial and tourist activities already planned and the general buoyancy of trade that 1937 promises.
In a recent review of the many ways in which the members of the service can and do assist the public I had occasion to go into some very minor—but none the less very important—matters of detail where, perhaps, the best was not being done on all occasions by some members of the staff. As possibly certain members of the public may be inclined to judge railway performance rather by the minor failure than by the major accomplishment, I would again, while expressing the strongest appreciation of the good work done by the staff during the past year, ask members to examine carefully their actions and attitude in those matters of detail that come within the scope of their duties and opportunities, to see whether in some of these things they can effect further improvements—by some keener attention and greater zeal and more commonsense outlook in performing to the utmost of their capacity those duties which are covered by the specific instructions of the Department, and also those other obligations towards the patrons of the Department and their fellow-employees that develop from moment to moment in the course of the day's work but for which no hard and fast rules can be laid down.
Given this intensification of determination not to let the Department down in any respect, every member of the service may look forward to 1937 with a great deal of pleasurable confidence, and the public will find still more justification for faith in the ability of railwaymen to attend to and solve all their transport problems.
General Manager.
“The beauty which old Greece or Rome sung, painted, wrought, lies close at home.”
The finest flowers of our New Zealand national growth are our lovely provincial towns, and Wanganui is the water lily in this garland of civic blooms.
The river winds down from a faraway wonderland of bush beauty, and as it flows past warehouse and home, park and busy wharf, it becomes the formative element in the distinctive qualities of the city. Wanganui, like so many of our urban dwelling places, is provided with countless prospect points which furnish views of bewildering richness and variety; but here, in every case, the broad silver ribbon of the river fills the eye, and dominates the picture. It also, by the way, presents the municipal administration with its most awkward problems. The city clusters on both sides of the river, gradually thinning out both lengthwise and laterally, with the result that within the long lengths of its boundaries, the population of Wellington could be comfortably housed. The river compensates for all of this, however, by its investiture of romantic and decorative values. From the sylvan beauty of the willow-planted banks as it enters Aramoho, to the wide reaches before Castlecliff, it is never anything less than picturesque. As a waterway of historic memories, it has left a legacy of delightful names. On its banks London is only four miles from Jerusalem, and I visited the craftsmen at work on the Maori carvings for the church at a place with a name as long as a tributary, but full of music—Putiki - wharanuia Tamatea - Pokai-whenua.
I took a tram ride from Castlecliff to Aramoho, a trip which measures up to most terminus to terminus journeys possible in Wellington or Auckland. As I have often said, this is one of the best methods for a quick survey of the “make-up” of a city. Castlecliff is possibly one of the best achievements of Wanganui folk. The rough sandhills, dotted with utilitarian “baches” have been replaced with a glorious and spacious level green, waterfront park, smart streets of good houses, and all the facilities of a modern seaside resort. Castlecliff is on its way to be the Caroline Bay of the North Island west coast. The joy of the tram-ride is the ever-changing spectacle it offered. Passing the handsome suburb of Gonville, the imposing grandstand of the racecourse shows up, and there is a peep of its teahouse on pretty ornamental waters.
The river is just glimpsed before the substantial business buildings starten to thicken round the route, but on the final run to Aramoho, the river is skirted nearly all the way. Here I found a place which might be best described as a pleasuance. Huge English trees, a wide spread of velvet turf, a sparkling swimming pool give Aramoho Park the air of restful-ness of an old English pleasure ground. This is the principal camping ground for motorists; it is electrically lit at night, and there is an extraordinary range of amenities, including gas, shower baths, cooking equipment, and so on endlessly. But an individual touch is given by the ingenious use made of tram car bodies. These have been fitted with bunks, kitchenettes, furnished comfortably, and some thoughtfully artistic person had them painted a quiet green. A honeymoon couple permitted me to look through, and they already had the air of permanent inhabitants. A big Wanganui store, Kernohans Ltd., has instituted a “travelling shop,” a most complex and complete miniature warehouse on wheels. These pay regular calls to all camping grounds and a telephone call will bring a special trip.
Here at Aramoho, I found some explanation of the riot of colour in Wanganui gardens. Tucked away within arms-length of many great industrial undertakings are the extensive
The climate needs no commendation in these pages. It is midway between Auckland and Wellington, and the swift tree growth, the good sun-tan already visible on the bathers, the universal provision for open-air enjoyment, all comprise evidence that the district has a good weather certificate.
For the tourist and holiday maker, Wanganui has a specially attractive menu. The river naturally takes first place both for sight-seeing excursions, and for aquatic sports, and I must not overlook the well known championship rowing course. Naturally, with a topography ranging from river flat to sandhills, from easy gully to high hill, perfect golf courses are in plenty, and the municipal links have a set of charges that are in the microscopic scale.
Scenic drives of varied and breath-taking beauty are numerous, and I instance the Waipuka glen where the tall cliff sides are patterned with giant tree ferns like a titanic mural fresco.
The hotels are famous throughout the Dominion and outrank many of our main capitals. There is a wide range of choice and tariff, and a well earned reputation for good service which is common to all. I found the lounge of the Provincial Hotel just as full of cheery “bright young things” and their elders as any metropolitan hostelry, and host Larsen's opinion is that the social life of Wanganui is as joyous as any in his experience.
The beauty spots of the city are in profusion. Three minutes from the Post Office are the Moutoa Gardens, containing monuments of aesthetic and historic charm. Virginia Lake is on the tree-feathered St. John's Hill, a clear sheet of ornamental waters surrounded by exquisite gardens. Durie Hill is a possession personal to Wanganui in a real sense. This immense bluff overlooks the town, and is reached by an electric lift as well as by paved winding roads. From its pretty hilltop park can be seen the roof of the North Island with Ruapehu on the one hand and Egmont on the other. This residential suburb is growing apace, and here is, of course, the lofty shell rock Memorial Tower. My own choice of these attractions, however, is the magnificent Esplanade Walk which “goes in beauty” from the town bridge to the Dublin Street bridge. By the way, if a citizen suggests a run up Roberts’ Avenue you will get a revelation of Wanganui's essential qualities. Roberts’ Avenue soon stops being a street and becomes a fascinating mountain road from whose top curve the breakers on Castlecliff beach can be seen, the enormous level airport area, and in between a panorama of matchless beauty.
Victoria Avenue, the principal street, retains an individuality born of the time when it first ran between the Rutland and York stockades. The Pukenamu slopes, once fort-crowned, are now adorned with splendid public buildings, and the tree-lined “Avenue” breaks into a bustling, motor packed, well-thronged street of modern business premises. In common with the rest of our provincial capitals, Wanganui has a type of emporium which would set the standard in cities of a quarter of a million souls in older lands. Its deep drainage, paved streets, electric lighting, and the rest of the range of startling amenities which we treat as customary, are not in any sense peculiar to the river city, nor, of course, is the idea that Wanganui had the exclusive rights of the depression. I have found this latter notion in many other places, and have marvelled at the enthusiasm with which many “oldest inhabitants” furnished reasons why their town was specially
(Continued on p. 49.)
Miss Jessie Mackay, who has been described as a Celt transplanted by fate to the Antipodes, is the most honoured and admired figure in New Zealand literature to-day. She combines in her character and her writings the true spirit of our own land with the fire and enthusiasm and intense love of country of the Gael. Her ardent sympathies and her eloquent tongue and pen have throughout her life been devoted to humanitarian progress and to the helping of just causes. The weaker side, the little nations oppressed by the powerful, have drawn her passionate championship. Fire and compassion, one of her fellow-writers has well said, abide together in her nature. She has written much that is distinctively New Zealand; she knows the land as only the native-born and the country-bred know it. With that knowledge and affection there is blended the profound love of the older lands and their associations, and inspiring all is the soul of a mystic. Rightful honour was paid to her when she was chosen some years ago to visit Ireland and England and Europe as a delegate to the Irish Conference in Paris, where she met many of the great figures in the world of Celtic culture. Jessie Mackay, daughter of Robert and Elizabeth Mackay, was born in 1864 at Rakaia Gorge, among the Canterbury foothills of the Alps, where her father had his sheep station. The greater part of her life has been passed in Canterbury, and she lives now on Cashmere Hills, looking out over Christchurch City and the great Plains she knows so well.
The quality in Jessie Mackay's poetry and her prose writings in the newspapers, that first greatly attracted me long ago was her divine spirit of rebellion. All that has ever been done in this world for the betterment of mankind has been done or begun by rebels against established tyrannies and long-persisting wrongs. Jessie Mackay's chivalrous soul was fired by the Celtic race's long struggle for self-government in Ireland. I imagine that if she had lived in New Zealand a generation earlier she would have championed that great patriot Wiremu Tamehana and his lost cause which a more just appraisal of Maori national rights by the pakeha has now given its proper place in history. Jessie Mackay could never conceivably have been found on the side of a land-acquisition war upon a weaker people. I do not at the moment recall her published views on the Boer War, that most debateable of subjects, but I can imagine that her opinion of the root-causes of that campaign agreed with mine. The mainspring of her life, in fact, has been her immensely strong sympathy for the peoples whose homes and liberties are threatened or demolished by the hand of wrongly-based authority and power. The Highland clearances in the name of the Law by the usurpers of the people's ancient rights were the first burning wrongs that gave a note of passion to her pen.
The sorrows of “Dark Rosaleen” and the lament of the evicted crofter for his home-glen and his ruined clan were the two national calls of the Celtic race that inspired our sweet singer. She wrote, too, of the pioneer spirit, and she gave her own touch of mysticism to the poetry of that other most imaginative of folk-poets the Maori.
Only Eileen Duggan of all our poets has approached her fine quality—the inner dream-vision that informs everything it touches with the essence of spirituality.
Jessie Mackay's volume of verse, “Land of the Morning,” first published more than a quarter of a century ago, is a glorious treasury of such thoughts, as well as of great poems that incite to action like a war-song. She is a true daughter of New Zealand in her love of the country scene in the outer parts. Early memories colour one's outlook through life. Jessie Mackay was reared in a rugged tussock land. Like another Canterbury woman country-bred, she could say of her childhood surroundings:—“From the dark gorge, where burns the morning star, I hear the glacier river rattling on And sweeping o'er his ice-ploughed shingle bar.”
Something from those solitary places must have gone to shape her character, predispose her to calm, clear thinking, the “harvest of a quiet eye” yielded by the sight of far stretching ranges and roomy landscapes of the downs. Like yet another Canterbury-lover, her thoughts must often have returned in the noisy places of the crowds to the leisurely scenes of heartsease far back: “…. the pastures and peace Which gardened and guarded those valleys With grasses as high as the knees, Calm as high as the sky.”
She saw and felt her land in its every mood. Here is the nor'-wester, the hot and dusty wind that Canterbury knows only too well:—
“A tinder earth, a burning blue With eyes of Nemesis glaring through, Heavy as death and hot as hate! Windy brown to the mountain-gate—
But relief comes in the evening, “the hour between the lights,” when the breeze of solace comes down from the Southern Alps:—
Returns the Wind of Paradise!”
Family and clan tradition, and her reading, long before ever she saw the homeland of her fathers, implanted convictions that made her a crusader for the Celt:—
This dreamy early love of kin and ancient glens grew “by the bright unstoried waters” round the world where the children of the clansmen found new life and room to grow. The story of the infamous Highland clearances and the eviction of the clans from their native straths and glens set the indignant grief-song ringing in two of her greatest poems. “For Love of Appin” is indeed a heart cry as poignant and pathetic as the tear-bringing “Lochaber No More” of the pipes.
It is a kupu irirangi of the Celt. The Maori was in spirit a very Celt himself. He heard that unearthly message in the upper air, the voice of the dead, or soon to be dead, that sang to the awed and weeping people below.
“Strathnaver No More” is a tangi poem that embodies the great sorrow of the Clan Mackay and their kin. Stern, sharp, indignant, it is a terrific indictment of the clearances that reft the land from the people and accounted them less than the aeer that roamed the hills:—
* * *
It was gold of London town, it was foreign dross that dulled The sea-bright crown of the Naver; ‘This by English gold and gun and the lisping English tongue That the land lies undone by the Naver.
For the sea has opened wide her gates to bear away The flower and the pride of Strathnaver; And the songs of Rob the Bard, they will never sound again Where men loved and warred in Strathnaver!”
The ruin of the land of the good Highland fighting men is complete; the clan has sought new fields where there are no petty tyrants to rob them of their homes. “Let the salmon and the deer be your righting men to-day,” contemptuously says the poet to those who swept the people away from their homes. Let the salmon and the deer plead for the landlords when those who made the clearances are called “at the bar of heaven high, ye that swept the gallant glens, and reft away Mackay from Strathnaver!”
It was, however, some consolation to our poet of the Gael to hear later that the resumption of farms for deer-forests had been stayed in some parts, and that Strathnaver was being re-peopled by the children of its former occupants.
There was the reverse side of the Highland clearances, the New Zealand settlement reform, that inspired the grieving yet triumphant pibroch note in “The Burial of Sir John McKenzie.” This is the greatest of Jessie Mackay's poems in a New Zealand setting. It tells how the Minister of Lands, who had been a Ross-shire shepherd, went to his grave, lamented by the young nation:—
Miss Mackay has taken some of the dramatic Maori traditions that appealed to her and made poems of them, one or two with the true flame and vigour of the war-god Tu, others with the lilting charm of a fairy-lorist. The tale of Rona has the truth and simplicity that you find in Stevenson's Child's Garden of Verse:—
In those two lines the singer captures the essential character of these lands in Kiwa's Great Ocean.
Jessie Mackay is a very practical idealist and apostle of the political and social reforms that have engaged her pen for so many years. She was and is a keen pleader for improvement in the lot of women. She was a pioneer feminist, and she worked hard in the election which resulted in the return of her friend Mrs. McCombs as the first woman member of the New Zealand Parliament. For about ten years she was the woman editor of the “Canterbury Times,” and she put an immense amount of thought and effective writing into that work. She wrote much also for the “Otago Witness” and often for the Auckland “Star.” Educational methods and ethics engaged her pen; she had practical experience, for she taught in country schools for some years.
Miss Mackay's visit to Europe and to Ireland, Scotland and England in 1921–22, on her mission as a delegate to the Irish Conference in Paris, enabled her to realise the hopes of a lifetime, to see the lands of her ancient race, and to meet the leaders of Scottish and Irish thought. Her work and her genius were thoroughly well recognised. A colonial Scots-woman, she was yet thoroughly at home among the Irish politicians and writers, and she contributed appreciably to the successful issue of the gathering of enthusiastic Celts and Erse scholars.
The sunset of life gives one mystical lore, said a poet of the Gaels. Miss Mackay, we all hope, is still far from the sunset of, life, but mystic vision has found expression all her writing years. Long ago she peered like a priestess into the sunlit mists where the faerie land of Tir-nan-oge may lie.
Interior of Dynamometer Car, employed for checking the “Silver Jubilees” record runs.
A Happy New Year to all! Time's pendulum swings with unerring precision, and here we are once again at the beginning of another chapter in transportation's ever-varying story. Looking back, outstanding among railway activities of 1935, were the energetic measures taken to speed up passenger movement on both main and branch lines. At the opening of the New Year, Europe is immersed in still more ambitious plans for passenger train acceleration, through the introduction of new streamlined steam and oil-driven trains, many of almost futuristic design.
At Home, the most interesting streamliner is the “Silver Jubilee” Express of the L. & N.E. system, covering the 268 miles between King's Cross, London, and Newcastle-on-Tyne, daily in both directions in exactly four hours, with a single intermediate stop at Darlington. This service has proved exceedingly popular, and recently the “Silver Jubilee” set up a new world's speed record for steam-operated trains conveying ordinary fare-paying passengers. Four 4-6-2 type streamlined locomotives are allocated to the “Silver Jubilee” service, and it was No. 2512, “Silver Fox,” which established the new record. With a load of 270 tons, a maximum speed of 113 m.p.h. was attained over a half-mile section. More than 100 m.p.h. was averaged for 11 miles, and for over 6 miles the speed was 110.8 m.p.h. A light-weight, seven-coach train, seating 198 passengers, the “Silver Jubilee” is decorated outside in silver. Two restaurant cars and a kitchen car are included in its makeup.
While experiments are being conducted by the Home lines in the way of introducing high-speed streamliners, the need for a general acceleration of passenger trains is not being over-looked. Normally, this season does not see any very important accelerations, but actually the winter time-tables show marked speeding-up throughout all the four group systems.
On the L.M. & S. Railway, for example, no fewer than 1,146 passenger trains have been accelerated this winter. The “Royal Scot” throughout run from Glasgow to London (Euston) has been cut to 7 hours 25 minutes, the fastest booking ever recorded. The “Irish Mail” (Holyhead-Euston) has been speeded up, reducing by as much as 25 minutes the journey times between Dublin and many important cities.
A noticeable feature of the winter time-tables is the greatly improved Sunday services on many routes, and the bettered interchange arrangements between the four groups. Week-end travel has grown by leaps and bounds of late, and it is essential the railways should cater suitably for this demand, and not allow so valuable a source of revenue to go untapped.
On the Continent of Europe, probably the best all-round showing from the viewpoint of speed is made by the railways of France. The Nord Railway comes first, with a splendid array of fast, daily heavy main-line trains, linking Paris with a hundred important centres. On this system, “Pacific” type locomotives daily haul 700- to 800-ton trains at average start-to-stop speeds of 55 m.p.h. Daily speeds recorded start-to-stop include runs between Paris and Calais, 59 m.p.h.; Boulogne, 61 m.p.h.; Aulnoy, 62 m.p.h.; Brussels, 64 m.p.h.; and St. Quentin, 65 m.p.h.
The Paris-Lyons-Mediterranean is another system which prides itself upon its high-speed attainments. A noteworthy run is that between Paris and the Italian frontier town of Ventimiglia, averaging 54 m.p.h. throughout. This includes speeds of 66 m.p.h. between Paris and Laroche; 68 m.p.h. between Dijon and Macon; and 67 m.p.h. between Avignon and Marseilles. On the Midi line, there are daily recorded in
Plymouth ranks as a most important ocean gateway into Britain. For the comfort and convenience of the large number of passengers who disembark from ocean liners at Plymouth Docks, the Great Western Railway have recently provided greatly improved and modernised accommodation. A new reception room has been constructed, large and lofty, having seating accommodation for 170 persons. It has a single entrance, and serves generally the purpose of a waiting and writing room. Fronting the reception room is a roomy refreshment buffet. In suitable positions, kiosks have been installed for the despatch of telegrams and cables, the transaction of postal business, money exchange, and luggage registration. The scheme of decorations throughout the building gives a marked effect of cheerfulness and brightness. The walls are tiled in white to about half their height, where the tiling finishes in a pleasing green border. The floor covering is of tile pattern, and the furniture is upholstered in leather.
Attractive passenger stations are now becoming the order of the day throughout Europe. During the last few years a great deal of attention has been paid to this question, with the result that the old drab terminus is becoming a thing of the past, and in its place has sprung up a really pleasing structure, attractive alike inside and out. After a series of experiments, the L.M. & S. Railway has adopted a range of six standard colours for painting its 2,500 passenger stations in a more cheerful and more attractive guise. The colours comprise two light shades (deep cream or Portland stone), either of which can be used in conjunction with any one of three dark shades (middle brown, middle Brunswick green, or Venetian red). The sixth colour—golden brown—is being used sometimes by itself, and some-times with another paint. It is most useful at stations where there are electric trains, and there is consequently iron dust in the air. This iron dust, peculiar to conditions of electric traction, causes a rust-like stain on the paint, but its effects are minimised when golden brown paint is used. No hard-and-fast rule is observed as to any particular colour scheme in any particular district, the scheme adopted for each L.M. & S. station being considered individually in relation to its environment and architectural characteristics.
Wonderful progress has been recorded in recent years in passenger carriage design. A development at Home is the buffet car, providing a quick service of light meals on trains where there is insufficient demand for a full restaurant service. Four new buffet cars have just been brought into use on the L.M. & S. line, between London and Manchester, York and Manchester, and Worcester and Manchester. Each carriage is 57ft. long, and has a kitchen and service counter at one end, with a quick-service cafeteria bar adjoining. The remainder of the interior is devoted to tables, of which there are four, seating four passengers each on one side of the car, and four seating two passengers each on the other, giving total seating accommodation for 24 persons. The chairs strike a new note in Home railway carriage furnishing, having chromium-steel tube frames, with red leather upholstery.
Other features of the cars include the employment of delicately-grained Empire timbers for the interior panelling, and the provision of deep, wide windows, affording an absolutely unrestricted outlook.
Of the thousand and one jobs within the railway service, few carry such heavy responsibility as that of the storekeeper. In theory, maintaining stocks of stores appears a relatively simple task, but when one thinks of the hundreds of thousands of items of equipment involved, upon the soundness and suitability of many of which depends the safety of human life and limb, there comes realisation of the importance of the storekeeper's work.
With the idea of enabling a sample of every item of equipment in use on the system to be available for inspection either by railway officers or suppliers, the L. & N.E. Railway has opened in London a new department, classed as a “stores museum.” Here there have been gathered together sealed samples or drawings of every conceivable article used on the system, and a staff of four men spend their days classifying and testing new “exhibits.” Altogether, there are about 5,000 samples and 2,000 drawings in the building, and the equipment includes machines for testing all manner of stores supplied. It is part of the policy of the L. & N.E. Company, in cases where contracting firms supply articles superior to those standardised, to scrap the standard pattern and replace it by the improved article.
These incidents are complete in themselves, but the characters are all related.
For those many brave souls who have become immersed in this highly complex tale of mystery, it will be sufficient to remember that Imp-skill Lloyd had returned to Matamata in an aeroplane and a pair of bathing V's, after adjudicating in the British Llama Festival at Dunedin. His encounter in that city with Archie Teaswell, the manufacturer of Teas-well's Tasty Toffees, provides the basis of this month's instalment. Do not forget the milkmaid's sad lapse, or the strange circumstances of Gillespie's disappearance. Forget all about the dizzy doings at the coroner's inquest and read on.
All night long Impskill wrote, and into the next day and the next, his fingers quivering and cramping as they drove the pencil across a vast white acreage of paper. The pencil circled and zig-zagged on a seismological track, pirouetted and stabbed, reeling under the impact of cerebral shocks that illumined and penetrated the clue-cluttered labyrinth of his mind. His nerves were trembling telegraphic wires, thought impelled, whipping his digital extremities into a frenzy of performance.
The disordered events of the last few days, the over-heated dream and phantasmagoric entrance of the coroner's witnesses, the milkmaid's confession, the llamas and Gillespie's strange disappearance, no longer tortured him. The solution he had arrived at was clear-cut and ridiculously simple. He cursed himself for his stupidity in failing to distinguish the really important aspects of the crime. It was only a chance remark of Teaswell's at the Llama Festival that gave him the idea. How could he have suspected the existence of a secret society? It gave the crime a different complexion, and pointed to the work of a great but warped intelligence directing, not an individual, but a group. The twelve Possible Causes were the work of a detestable organization, and history would have a new crime to, set down in its calendar—crime by community. And so he stumbled on the existence of the Matamata Vice Squad….
As he wrote he saw the bespatted Teaswell chiding the llamas into domestic submission. Archie, bland and debonair, in strange communion with llamas. It was all so funny, and yet somehow neither ridiculous nor obscene, but fundamental and absolute. Teaswell, distributing Teaswell's Tasty Toffee to avid but perplexed llamas. Why had he allowed himself to become involved? Six months before he had doubted the very existence of the absurd creatures, and was not sure whether they were some kind of Tibetian ecclesiastical dignitaries, or a species of Peruvian goat. Even now, when he was still uncertain, he could not rid his mind of the picture of Archie making nice little after-dinner speeches to rows and rows of llamas.
Day came. The wife of a bag snatcher slunk with her bucket under his casement, and the unshod mare excruciatingly pawed the gravel. A Hindu, bottle in hand, eluded the Schipperke and trod savagely on the alley cat. All this was real and urgent and immediate. Gillespie was gone, by what dark channel might never be known. He knew he must go out and take up the search, yet could not. The Possible Cause held him, and always he saw a sharp-edged lump of Teaswell's Tasty Toffee, the most coolly callous, and cloysomely dangerous sweetmeat, wedged in the gullet of Patrick Lauder. “Lauder still in coffin. Stop. Toffee in throat. Stop. Throat in advanced state of decomposition….”
As long as he lived, he could never forget that night of the Llama Festival, how he stayed with Teaswell when all Dunedin slept (or did that cautious city sleep, but only crouch watchfully in its tartan bed?). It was the queerest confession that his host had made, and he offered it not with contrition and tears, but blandly and archly with twinklings of suppressed triumph. He might have been Maske-lyne performing before an incredulous Houdini.
Three facts were clear to Impskill Lloyd, and from them he built up his theses with mathematical precision:
(a) Teaswell was the manufacturer of a toffee, a specimen of which had been found in the throat of Lauder.
(b) Teaswell had lived in Matamata until recently.
(c) The third fact, so clearly established, was the man's unbounded depravity. He had seen him with the llamas—and that was enough.
“You may remember this pamphlet of mine, Lloyd,” he said. He vanished behind the arras and dragged a saratoga into the middle of the floor. “These are the Society's minutes. Wouldn't Fanning and the Mayor love to have them!” He selected a typed folder and held it up to the light. “It contains the entire philosophy of the cult as propounded by myself. I called it. ‘The Things that Matter in Matamata.’ Wholly delightful. Something had to be done for those young people. They were dying of boredom, and didn't know what to do with their leisure. I suppose they have the five-day week now. God, how awful! The milkmaid was my first disciple, and so zealous….” He chuckled and tweeked his bow-tie. “She it was who set fire to the manse, and threw the District Nurse into the horse-pond. She brought her mother-in-law, and within a fortnight we were twelve.”
And then the disgusting recital began. The mysterious ills that had befallen Matamata during his years of occupation were jauntily explained. Impskill, sunk low in an ottoman, froze with horror. When he had seen Teaswell at the Llama Festival performing with his llamas he had suspected the man of complex and unfathomable depravities. The whole atmosphere of the Toffee Factory, which he had inspected in the morning, was overcharged. A man could not grow straight and hard there, and Teaswell had his roots in candy. As they walked, a column of peppermint rock crashed and splintered in their path. A young girl, struck with the flying fragments, uttered a wild scream of pain and collapsed on a tub of candy floss. The whole place was like that. Phantasmagoric and saccharine. And here was the prime cause of Possible Causes, expounding his infamies, boasting of his debased experiments, little suspecting the deadly trap he was setting himself. Had he not been so nauseated Lloyd would have rubbed his hands with glee at what was tantamount to an unequivocal confession…. They called themselves, under his fiendish tuition, the Disciples of Death. It was they who gave home-brew to the King Country, and birth-control to the Urewera. Grave-snatching, bag-snatching and cradle-snatching were not the least of their villainies, and petty larceny was a fait accompli amongst the merest novices in the group. It was a cult that set small-town boredom at defiance, that began with minor breaches of the law, and ended….?
Impskill lurched out of his chair and anchored on the saratoga. “Call me a taxi, Teaswell,” he managed to say.
Teaswell touched his cuff links and beamed implacably. “I regret,” he said, “that I cannot render you that service. The taxi-drivers are much too busy completing their questionnaires for the Taxi Commission. You will have to walk.” His hand went out and he pressed a small knob protruding from a handsome bas-relief panel which depicted the growth of agriculture in Thessaly. Teaswell was a cultured man…. The wall fell away, and Impskill found himself standing at the head of a narrow flight of stairs. “Down there,” said his host with an imperious gesture, “and turn to the right.” He dumbly obeyed and after much groping found himself once more on the open road….
The Twelve Possible Causes, abstractions mathematically conceived, had become gibbering phantoms. But now, standing in the open window, shorn of the V's that had so cunningly disguised him, he saw them as twelve men and women, real and wicked, evil-doers with blood on their hands. The blood of Patrick Lauder. His report was completed and he was tempted to file it with the proper authorities and leave the Police to prosecute. But the insatiable curiosity of the Lloyds would not be satisfied with this procedure. He burned to identify the personnel of the Disciples of Death. Who were the depraved souls sheltering behind its anonymity? Would the Public Livers of Matamata be incriminated by the exposure? Teaswell had named no names, and the identification was a task that appealed to the sleuth. “To Matamata,” he muttered, and hurriedly disguised himself as a dental nurse….
P.C. Fanning had little to report, save that the coroner had made an open verdict.
“They're buryin’ wot's left in the mornin'. Might be worth a walk to the cemetery.” The strange disguise of Lloyd left him unmoved and, indeed, had the Great Man effected an entrance in orthodox habiliments, his disappointment would have been profound.
“It is absolutely essential that I should remain anonymous,” he said to Fanning. “The Twelve Possible Causes may be twelve leading citizens.”
“You might take a look at the horse-doctor,” volunteered the constable. “That draught horse we examined the other night ‘ad been interfered with … and keep your eye on the County Chairman. Look's a thorough-goin’ garrotter that bloke.” The idea of plurality of murderers delighted his simple heart, even if he failed to grasp the complex psychology of the experiment motive. “Seems to me you oughter have a proper motive,” he argued. He produced a copy of the licensing poll for 1904, and the two of them combed the lists until early morning. At midnight, the suspects stood at twenty, but after a careful reexamination it was decided to place the entire population under observation. The next night and the next, he devoted to a careful study of the nocturnal habits of the Postmistress. She was a squat little woman with a black mole on her right eyelid, which gave her an alert and suspicious appearance. She was dressed from head to foot in unbleached linen and disappeared every evening at nine-thirty into a grove of lupins near the Post Office.
Lying in a bed of water-cress he watched her, and could find no apparent reasons for her dubious behaviour. It was wet and odorous in the ditch, and his blue nurse's smock was ruined. He thought of the creature comforts of the police station, and stealthily moved in that direction…. Before a blazing fire he allowed his mind to travel over the incidents of the day. Out of a population of 1,200, seventeen had been wholly exonerated. The old inductive method never fails, he thought drowsily. Never fails. The flames licked and danced, and sap foamed at the ends of logs. He heard the clock strike three in uncanny silence, and rural noises far off. He heard a faint scuffling at the door, a noise of a lock being turned, and before he could move in his chair the door was flung open, and a heavy form lurched into the room.
Gillespie stood there, white and motionless. In one hand he held a pyrex dish, and in the other, Lloyd saw to his horror, a cucumber.
(To be continued.)
Still they come! The long list of successful railroad film romances is further extended by “Florida Special,” in which the whole of the action takes place on the train. Jack Oakie, Frances Drake and Kent Taylor are the stars of this romantic, and often vastly amusing production. The printing press is also adding its quota to the undiminished popularity of the railway. “Famous British Trains,” by R. Bernard Way, is a book every train lover will enjoy. It tells the history of British trains, and much about the country through which they travel. A volume that would make a splendid Christmas gift book to a railwayman friend.
—O.W.W.
Mr. Punch's famous advice “To those about to marry” was “Don't.” Stevenson counselled girls if they thought of marriage, to “marry a smoker.” He knew! Smokers are easier to get on with, 99 times out of 100, than non-smokers, less exacting, easier pleased, less faddy, more generous, better tempered. Good tobacco rubs the rough corners off life and makes for contentment. But a whole lot depends on the quality of the tobacco. For brands there are which do not tend to make the smoker a model husband! On the contrary if they contain a lot of nicotine they may make him far from amiable and render him cross and peevish. The safest tobaccos are the genuine “toasted.” Toasting extracts the nicotine and makes for good health, bodily and mentally. There are five brands only of these famous blends; Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Cavendish, River-head Gold and Desert Gold. The two last make the most delicious cigarettes money can buy. All these brands are harmless. Attempts to imitate them have all failed. They are inimitable!*
In the calm peace of Queenstown's cradled beauty, in a setting of mountain and lake, exquisite in contour and overwhelmingly impressive in grandeur, there is found every desirable holiday pleasure.
You may walk by the lake, in the clear sunshine of a peaceful morning, to the jetty where the big trout leap for minced meat and the little ducks dive for bread. You may steam to the head of the lake and watch from the deck the unfolding of soul-stirring panoramas, where the scenic beauty of sheltered coves and mountain ravines and forest verdure charm and inspire the spirit. You may motor through the precipitous passes of the Skipper's drive up the route of the treacherous Shotover, or down to the old-world restfulness, the placid content of Maestown and Arrowtown—dreaming, in quiet stillness, of those bustling gold-mining days of last century. You may tramp in the early morning to the top of Ben Lomond, or fish the banks of the Kawarau below the ramparts of that now-famous Kawarau Dam; or you may shop in the heart of Queens-town for local curios in many small bazaars of quaint old-worldness that cater for the desires of memento-hunting tourists. In the season there is no fruit more pleasing than the strawberries picked in the gardens adjacent to the township, and the Peninsula Park has the loveliest of gardens, looking out through lazy tree fronds in both directions over the blue of Lake Wakatipu. Here tennis and bowls are played, and an amazing variety of native trees grow in a cultivated luxuriance.
Kinloch and Glenorchy, the townships at the lake head are the starting places for many very wonderful alpine expeditions. “Grandest of all the peaks in the Wakatipu country,” writes Mr. James Cowan, “is Mt. Earnslaw, and here, at Glenorchy, one is reminded that that climbing pioneer, the Rev. W. G. Green, with his two Swiss guides and two other companions, set out for the ascent of the eastern arete of Earnslaw in 1882. But few people want to tackle such a giant of the icy Alps. Most of us are content with easier jaunts, and, of course, everyone wants to see Paradise. That elysian spot is more readily reached than the stranger would imagine, it is only ten miles or so away.
“The Rees Valley and the Lennox Falls make another expedition of unusual charm—a river of utter peace—except in the time of floods—a tussock plain shut in by long shouldering slants of ranges, Earnslaw's shining glaciers, and grand old forests hanging on its mountain side. And water-falls—they are so many in this land of streams that a cascade has to be of a beauty almost indescribable in words to be singled out for mention over the others. Mere photographs are inadequate for the proper picturing of this country; even an artist's brush is not altogether satisfying.”
“I always come here in the spring time, to get fit for the Christmas rush, and I always come up in the autumn—to get over it!” In these words one wise business man explained both the healing virtues of Queenstown and his own unfailing youthfulness. For this place of heartsease has its clientele of regular visitors who have tried elsewhere but found nothing quite so good.
The Railway bridge over the Waikato River at Hamilton was designed in 1880 in the office of the late Mr. John Blackett, M.Inst.C.E., Chief Engineer for the North Island. Mr. Blackett came to New Zealand in 1851, entering the service of the General Government of New Zealand in 1870, and becoming Chief Engineer for the North Island in 1878, in which capacity he let the contract for the bridge. In 1884, he became Engineer-in-Chief for the Colony.
The original bridge was of three pin-jointed Warren deck girder spans of steel, each 132 feet long and continuous over two cast iron cylinder piers and supported at the ends on massive concrete piers. At each of the shore ends of the main spans were two 20 feet timber built-beam spans. The cylinders were 7 feet diameter, the pair nearest the Hamilton side being 160 feet long, and the pair nearest the Claudelands side 136 feet long. The respective depths below rail level would be 181 ft. and 157 ft., and depth below the river bed 78 feet and 54 feet respectively. The bridge was designed for a combined live and dead load of I 3/4 tons per foot, giving very little margin over the weight of the locomotives then running.
The first contract for the construction of the bridge was let on 3rd November, 1881, to W. Sims, for £5,519, but nothing was done and the contract was terminated. On 18th September, 1882, a new contract was let to J. R. Stone for £4,312/13/6, exclusive of the casting of the cylinders. These were supplied by A. & G. Price, of Thames, the contract price being £1,376. The bridge was completed about the end of July, 1883, but was not brought into use until the opening of the Hamilton-Morrinsville railway on 1st October, 1884. The line to Cambridge was opened a week later.
The bridge was tested by the late Mr. John Coom, M.Inst.C.E., Resident Engineer at Auckland for the newly constituted Working Railways Department, on 5th December, 1884. A class F engine, and a class L engine coupled together, a total load of 40 ½ tons distributed over 40 feet, were placed on the centre of each span in turn. The deflection was about ¼ inch on each span, the effect of the continuity being noticeable in the adjoining span rising about one-sixteenth of an inch at the centre in each case.
The load was then increased to 117 tons on 123 feet by attaching to the locomotives three pairs of timber trollies loaded with rails. The deflection was from ½ inch to 5/8 inch, and this train was passed over the bridge at 10 or 12 miles per hour without appreciably increasing the deflection. Both Mr. Coom and Mr. F. W. Mac-Lean, M.Inst.C.E., who was associated with him on that occasion, later rose to the position of Chief Engineer to the New Zealand Railway Department.
The F and L class of tank engines, approximately 20 tons each, were the heaviest engines in use at that time in the Auckland district, which was then an isolated section. No example of the original L class engine is now in existence, but there are still several F engines in use for shunting purposes only. The heaviest axle load of any engine in use on the Auckland section at that time was 7 tons, and the designers of the bridges of that day did not think it necessary to design for any heavier loading, not visualising the remarkable expansion of railway development in the next fifty-years. A bridge of this class would to-day be designed for 18 tons axle loads.
There was no footbridge over the original bridge, but planks laid down the centre for the convenience of Railway
The opening of the Rotorua line in 1894 called for heavier engines to cope with the through traffic, and in 1902 the N class engines were brought up from the south. These were tender engines, six-coupled, weighing 45 ½ tons including tender, in working trim. The tenders had to be lightened, the overall length increased by putting in a false headstock, and the speed kept down to 10 miles per hour to keep the engines within the capacity of the bridge. The strengthening of the structure began to be contemplated as early as 1898. The Railway Department would not allow a footway to be constructed on the bridge until it should be strengthened.
In 1900 the Hamilton Burgesses’ Association carried without dissent a resolution “that the Government be asked to construct a road for foot passengers on the Hamilton Railway bridge when carrying out the contemplated improvements to the structure.” The Minister replied that “when this bridge is re-constructed a footway will be constructed. It is not, however, intended to put the work in hand for some considerable time yet.” Similar answers were given to further requests from the Mayor of Hamilton, the Chairman of the Kirikiriroa Road Board, and the Claudelands residents. A deputation waited on Sir Joseph Ward in 1902, who advised the Council to go in for an independent suspension bridge, estimated to cost £850. A deputation to Mr. Seddon in 1903 reminded him of Sir Joseph Ward's promise, but Mr. Seddon, after reading the letter produced, “smilingly remarked that the letter was very diplomatic, and that his colleague had not committed himself very deeply.” He added that he believed in the old French proverb, “Heaven helps those who help themselves.”
The opening of the Waihi line in 1905, and the Taupo Timber Company's private line made the strengthening of the railway bridge an urgent necessity, and early the following year plans were prepared for the work, to be spread over the next two years. The Waikato County Council agreed to pay £500 for the construction of a footway on the strengthened bridge, and £25 per annum for maintenance. The £500 was ultimately paid, however, by the Roads Department.
The accompanying photograph, taken in 1906 just prior to the strengthening of the bridge, shows the bridge of two girders on two cylinders to each pier, with no footway and the sleepers wide-spaced. It also shows the sparseness of settlement on the Claudelands side and gives some indication of the expansion of the town in the subsequent thirty years.
Plans were complete in 1906 for strengthening the bridge by adding a third cylinder and a third girder, the railway being shifted to the centre of the three girders, over which the load was distributed by long steel cross-girders. The built-beam shore spans were replaced with steel plate girders. A contract was let for the cylinders on 14th September, 1906, to S. Luke & Co., Wellington, for £2,354, and one for the fabrication of the superstructure on 8th January, 1907, to A. & T. Burt, Limited, Dunedin, for £5,872, the erection to be carried out by the Railway Department.
The decking was completely renewed in jarrah in 1920, and in 1932 another renewal was contemplated. At the same time a further strengthening of the main structure became necessary to carry the new K class locomotives weighing 135 tons with 15 tons axle loads, and renewal of the decking was held over pending the larger works. In 1934, Mr. R. Worley, A.M.Inst.C.E., Borough Engineer, submitted an attractive design for a new footway in steel, of electrically welded construction. The footway, which consisted of 14 feet 8 inch spans supported on the cross girders and main rail beams, was fabricated by the Borough staff and inserted in place by the Railway staff as the work of strengthening proceeded. The deck consisted of a bituinastic surface carried on a steel plate. The Council agreed to pay the Department £105 for the extra work due to the presence of the footway, to lay and maintain the asphaltic surface, paint the completed footway and maintain the footway in lieu of the previous annual payment.
The strengthening of the bridge consisted in the are welding of flange plates on top chords, cross girders, and main rail beams, while the pin joints were strengthened by welding on plates uniting adjacent lower chord members in such a way as to relieve the pins of part of the load. This work was completed in May of the present year. The whole superstructure is now of steel except the subsidiary rail beams of 12 inches by 9 inches ironbark. The total cost of the strengthening was £5,200, and with the one exception of the Makohine Viaduct the bridge is the most notable example in the Dominion of the strengthening of a large steel structure by electric welding.
We New Zealanders frequently hear of the glories of our West Coast. Our East Coast, too, gets its share of the limelight. Of North Coast, of course, we have practically none, but of our very interesting and quite extensive Southern Coast we scarcely hear a whisper. Far down “at the bottom of New Zealand” it lies, Murihiku, where one of the canoes was beached at the first coming of the Maori, and along which and about which we had an opportunity some little time ago, to make a leisurely and entrancing journey.
From Balclutha, that flourishing South Otago town, we motored over a fine metalled road to Waikawa at the northern end of the South Coast, and the real starting point of our journey. The road from Balclutha takes the traveller through magnificent bush and coastal scenery, notably the Catlins River district, named after an early pioneer, Captain Edward Catlin, of Sydney, who, following the profitable practice of many others, early on the scene in New Zealand, bought 650,000 acres of this country from a Maori chief for £30. It was then densely forested, and still has large areas of splendid bush.
Waikawa, whence our journey was to be continued on foot, on horseback, and occasionally by car, was once a busy whaling station. Now it is a sleepy little village, prettily set on the coast among beautiful native trees.
We did not linger in little Waikawa, but rode off down the beach next morning to Curio Bay. That glorious three-mile ride over firm white sands, on a heavenly morning was something to be remembered, and so indeed was Curio Bay, when at length we came to it. This tiny bay has been visited by geologists and scientists from all over the world. It presents the extraordinary features of an extinct forest which was buried in the mud during the jurassic period. Here are the petrified stumps of trees, solid fossils showing all the natural markings that the trees had before they were turned to stone, and one finds on the beach fragments of rocks containing perfect fossil forms of ferns and other plants. Geologists say that millions of years have passed since these forest relics were living things. A great many of Curio Bay's fossilised trees and shrubs have, of course, gone, piece by piece, into the insatiable maw of the souvenir hunter.
So down the beach we rode again to Slope Point, and here we turned inland through bits of beautiful bush scenery. Temporarily we were leaving the Southern Ocean behind us, for we were now to spend a few days at a Southland farmhouse. Here, besides learning among other interesting things that the Southland “swede” (turnip, of course) stands practically supreme among the turnips of the world, and that modest little Southland also makes some of the world's finest cheese, we were fortunate in meeting and talking with Mr. John Ross, to whom, with his brother, belongs the distinction of having discovered, in 1898, the last found specimen of the Notornis or takahe, that rare native bird which inhabited the wild mountain country of South-western Otago, and of which only three specimens had previously been found. This particular one was caught in the vicinity of Lake Te Anau by one of the Ross brothers’ dogs, and unfortunately too badly hurt when recovered for its life to be saved.
Being students of bird life the Rosses realised that their find was a valuable one and lost no time in sending it to Invercargill to be correctly treated. When the fact was established that the bird was a specimen of the rare takahe, the Rosses offered it for sale to the New Zealand Government, who asked for a fortnight in which to consider whether or not they would buy it. During that time several cables were received by the Ross brothers from Rothchild's, offering them more and more tempting sums for their find. They kept faith with the Government, however, to whom they had offered the bird in the belief that it ought to remain in New Zealand, and when at the end of the fortnight the Government elected to buy, the bird was sold for a very modest sum indeed, and may be seen in the Otago Museum at Dunedin to-day.
To these two brothers belongs the further distinction of having been the very first guides on the Milford Track, and Mr. Ross has many a wonderful tale to tell of his years there, when the famous track was lonely, isolated and splendid indeed, and when none but a real he-man might tackle its rigours.
Southland abounds in bird life. Tuis and bellbirds and other natives generally thought to be growing rather scarce, are a common sight along these country roadsides. The pretty little shining cuckoo, with his gleaming bronze wings and his barred breast, here sits on the fences and heralds
But we must be moving on—to Wai-papa Point and Fortrose. Down to the sea once more. At Waipapa Point there is now a lighthouse, for it was off here that the steamer Tararua was wrecked in a thick haze on the morning of Friday, 29th April, 1881. Down behind the yellow sandhills we found the burial-place of those of the hundred and thirty-odd victims whose bodies were recovered from the sea.
Upon the beaches in these regions sensational finds of ambergris have been made from time to time. Of course, ambergris is not now what it once was as a commercial proposition, though it is still well worth finding, but in the past, fortunes have been made from the discovery and sale of a sizeable lump. A story is told here-abouts of a certain farmer, the owner of a good, though heavily mortgaged farm. This man was riding along the beach one evening when his horse shied violently at a dark chunk of something lying on the sand. The farmer, enraged at this flightiness, used his whip till the animal was forced unwillingly to pass. Two young-men riding a short distance behind, idly curious as to the cause of this little episode, dismounted and investigated. The dark lump was a large piece of ambergris, and with the proceeds from its sale—some thousands of pounds—the two brothers purchased the property of the farmer, who, if he had not been so preoccupied with making his horse behave, could have paid off his mortgage twice over with the object of its fears!
Fortrose was once a busy whaling station. Now, it too, sleeps beside the sea—a cluster of cottages, a store or two, the yellow gorse, and a battered little cemetery.
From Fortrose there is a glorious view across Foveaux Strait to Stewart Island, whose highest point, Mount Anglem, rises a soft deep blue between sea and sky, and far down upon the horizon lie the titi or mutton-bird islands—faint, blue, mysterious, as isles of faery.
The road from Fortrose to Inver-cargill, a distance of some forty miles, is rather unimpressive, though one crosses on the way one of the most prolific whitebait rivers in New Zealand, the Titiroa, on whose banks parties of whitebaiters live in huts for the whole of the whitebait season. To these men whitebaiting is no idle sport, but a stern matter of business, as much as £4 or £5 a kerosene-tin full being realised at the beginning of a season. Also noticeable on this route are some of Southland's country schools, all painted a pleasant buff colour with white facings, and with the name set in a prominent position in black letters on a white board, all very neat and natty.
In Invercargill, a flat sensibly-planned and wholly admirable city, we did not linger, but sped on our way to Bluff, seventeen miles away. Immediately one leaves Invercargill, there bursts upon the view the solitary great hill of Bluff, the bluff, of course, and also that impressive landmark, the Awarua Wireless Station—towering from the plain—a four hundred foot latticed steel mast, built by Telefunken Ltd., a German company, just before the War.
Maoris are plentiful in Bluff, though there are few of them now who do not show some admixture of pakeha blood. On the outside walls of all their houses may be seen hanging the kelp bags in which the mutton-birds, those highly-prized delicacies, are stored.
The taking of mutton-birds forms part of the inalienable rights of the Maori. No white person may accompany the expeditions which leave every year when the season opens for the titi islands, rocky uninhabited islets scattered in and about the waters of Foveaux Strait. On these islands the mutton-birds breed, and it is early in
Quaint little Bluff! Many a pleasant hour we spent there gazing from the sunny hillside across the Strait to Rakiura (Stewart Island), “Land of Glowing Skies,” while the surface of the ocean was clouded with flocks of mutton-birds and gulls, or we would sit on the beach and dream and plan, as one does when on holiday, and eat hot fried oysters and potato chips, sultana biscuits and buns, washing down this dietician's nightmare with copious draughts of beer, ginger or otherwise, and feeding on our left-overs the hordes of greedy seabirds that hopped about the rocks on their slender red legs.
It was with some regret that we left Bluff at length to continue our journey. Back to Invercargill we went, and out through Otatara where the golf links are, to Oreti Sands, a firm white sandy beach, one of the finest in New Zealand, upon which the long rollers of the Southern Ocean break and roar, and where, they told us, the inimitable toheroa is to be found.
It is possible by riding or walking round this beach to reach Riverton, the oldest settlement in Southland, but instead we drove the twenty-four miles to Riverton over a good road. It is a picturesque little town situated on the estuary of the Aparima River at the point of its confluence with the Pourakino, and as far back as 1836 was established as a whaling station by Captain John Howell. The names of many of the old whalers are perpetuated in the place names hereabouts, a rather noteworthy one being “Gummie's Bush,” named after a notorious old character, who amongst his other attractions had scarcely a tooth in his head. Hence !!
From Riverton we now drove on through Colac Bay and Round Hill, certainly the roundest hill one could possibly imagine, to Orepuki on the coast once more. In the romantic “early days” Orepuki was one of the “gold” towns, unique in that the gold, over £1,000,000 worth, was mostly recovered by beach-combers from the shores of Te Wae Wae Bay, on which the town stands. Since the gold days, extensive shale deposits have been found in the neighbourhood and worked with varying degrees of success from time to time.
Still following the coast for some distance we now made for Tuatapere. The character of the country here began to change rapidly. The level, fertile plains were left behind, and hills appeared once again, growing taller and more rugged as the road proceeded. There was heavy bush—Tuatapere is the largest saw-milling centre in Southland—and there were too, alas, large areas of sheer gaunt desolation, caused by bush fires. Tuatapere is a very bushy bush township, literally hacked out of the forest. We began to realise here amongst the dense forest and the grim grey hills, just a little of what the mountain country of the south-west, whose fringes we were now barely touching, must be like.
Tuatapere stands upon the Waiau River, outlet of Lake Manapouri, and the swiftest river—and one of the most beautiful—in New Zealand. Overhung by heavy bush, the Waiau whirls along, powerful, deep and menacing. At its mouth, six miles from the township, it is responsible for
The Waiau has excellent trout, and is, besides, the only river in this country frequented by that wonderful fighting fish, the Atlantic salmon. In the spring and early autumn the salmon may be seen leaping three or four feet out of the water on their way up the river. Wonderful flounders, too, are caught at the river's mouth.
We were now almost on the last lap of our journey. We had determined that we would reach Puysegur Point at the westerly end of the Southern Coast, and though we had no idea before setting out just how we would do so, we trusted that some way would present itself. Now, however, we were told very firmly that it was quite impossible for us to go any further than Port Craig, the very last outpost before the inaccessible mountains of the west begin. Port Craig is a large sawmill and practically nothing else, on the western shore of Te Wae Wae Bay. Even that we could only reach by launch, as the beach was soft and treacherous and in many places barred by rocks.
Reluctantly then we gave in. We took the launch across the bay to Port Craig “away down under,” and quite literally the last place in the South Island. Here we had a ride on the sawmill train, great high unwieldy object, locally known as the “pie-cart,” which lumbers along on wooden rails, and we had an interesting talk with an old Maori who lamented the fact that there was now scarcely a pure-blooded Maori left in Otago or Southland. Most of them, he said, could trace their first white ancestor to one of the whalers who once swarmed about these southern shores.
Many of the place names, too, that passed as Maori were not true Maori—Orepuki, Tuatapere, Monowai, all showed the pakeha influence—even Manapouri should be Manawapouri.
And so our holiday was over! We were a little wistful about our failure to reach Puysegur Point, and thus round off completely our journey along the Southern Coast, but, we reflected, if we had not seen this, the point of land first sighted by ships coming from Melbourne to New Zealand, we had seen much else that was “rich and strange,” and some day perhaps, who knows, we shall be experienced enough to take that track.
It is not generally known that a son of the famous Dr. Arnold, of Rugby, came out to New Zealand as a settler in the early days. I recently learnt this in an interesting book of reminiscences written by the Arnold in question. His impressions of the infant colony are those of a man of culture, and consequently are of unusual value. His brief connection with New Zealand, moreover, is an addition to our country's pioneer literary associations.
Thomas Arnold, junior, was born on 30th November, 1823, at the village of Laleham in Middlesex, where his father was then parish incumbent. He first went to school at Winchester, but afterwards, with his elder brother, Matthew Arnold, attended Rugby. There he had the advantage of his father's splendid training and spiritual influence. He was a contemporary of Thomas Hughes, the author of “Tom Brown's Schooldays.”
In 1842, Arnold went up to Oxford, where he numbered amongst his friends Arthur Hugh Clough, Jowett, Stanley, and J. C. Shairp. In 1845, he took a good degree; and the next year he commenced to read law. A desire to know more about the colonies, however, made him accept a Colonial Office clerkship in 1847, and in 1848 he left for New Zealand. His reasons for this step were that his father, before his death in 1842, had purchased two land sections from the New Zealand Company, and that he had become dissatisfied with England's social institutions. He had long read about New Zealand:—“The descriptions of virgin forests, snow-clad mountains, rivers not yet tracked to their sources, and lakes imperfectly known, fascinated me as they have fascinated many since. And joining the two lines of thought together, my speculative fancy suggested that in a perfect locale such as New Zealand it might be destined that the true fraternity of the future—could founders and constitution-builders of the necessary genius and virtue be discovered—might be securely built up.”
Thus expectant the young man took a passage in the John Wickcliffe, Otago's first immigrant ship, and sailed to New Zealand in the company of Captain Cargill, the Rev. John Nicholson, and other well-known early settlers. His first impression of the New Zealand scene, as represented by Otago harbour in the grip of a strong south-easter, was “cheerless,” and that of its human element, a squalid camp of southern Maoris, was “discouraging.” But later, when he reached Wellington and made the congenial acquaintance of Alfred Domett, then Colonial Secretary of the Province of New Munster, Godfrey Thomas, stepbrother to Governor Grey, Frederic Weld and others, he felt more at home. And when he made a journey on foot up the west coast to Otaki, the scenery impressed him very much:
“The country was a Paradise. For miles to the north and east the land was nearly level, richly grassed and thinly timbered; gentle wooded rises succeeded; and behind these rose a chain of mountains of noble outline and delicious colouring, pierced by the deep gorge through which descended soundingly the beautiful river.”
Afterwards he enquired about his father's sections, and found they were in the Makara Valley, 100 acres each. On Colonel Wakefield's advice he exchanged one of these for a more accessible section adjoining the Porirua Road, about ten miles north of Wellington; he wrote home to his father's trustees for official permission, and began clearing the land. This
Even to himself Arnold's intentions were not very clear. He had no idea of becoming a settler in a large way, but thought he might “raise some tons of potatoes and a little wheat, besides garden vegetables on the land cleared, and gradually become the possessor of a cow, a horse or two, and a few sheep.” One day Governor Grey came to see him, attracted no doubt by his name, and offered him his private secretaryship, but the young idealist, convinced that “men of independent character ought not to have anything to do with the Colonial Government so long as it was carried on by means of nominee, not representative assemblies” respectfully declined the offer. A few months later, when his section was beginning to look really shipshape, he received word from London that his father's trustees would not consent to the already consummated Porirua exchange.
This effectively closed young Arnold's career as a farmer. Thoroughly disconsolate he returned to Wellington and sought the advice of Domett. Once again his luck turned, for Domett had an immediate suggestion. This was that the young man proceed to Nelson, where there were at present no educational facilities, and open a school there. Arnold liked the idea very much, and on 4th October, 1848, departed to his charge. He was accompanied by Frederic Weld, afterwards Prime Minister, Knight, and Governor of the Straits Settlements.
En route, Arnold stayed at Weld's Flaxbourne Cove station, and experienced the famous 16th October earthquake. This was the shock that killed two persons and threw down every house of stone or brick in Wellington. Arnold records his impression thoughtfully: “The sensation produced was singular and awful, its chief element being the feeling of utter insecurity, when that which we familiarly think of as the firm and solid earth was thus heaving and rolling beneath us.”
Arnold was much taken with the scenery of Nelson, which he thought resembled that of Athens. He secured an old wooden barrack for his school, and soon had a number of pupils—“sons of the principal residents, the Swans, Elliotts, Martins, etc.” At that time Francis Dillon Bell was agent for the New Zealand Company at Nelson, and Arnold became very friendly with him. Other acquaintances he made and enjoyed were Major Richmond, the resident magistrate, Edward Stafford, later Prime Minister, Doctors Monro and Renwick, and the Redwood family. During his stay at Nelson, moreover, Bishop Selwyn called to see Arnold, who found him “very friendly” and “a remarkably handsome man.” Not long after, a naval corvette came into port and aboard was a Lieutenant Clarke, on his way to Tasmania, where, he told Arnold, Charles Stanley from Oxford was private secretary to the Governor. As a result of this encounter Arnold received an invitation to fill the position of Inspector of Schools in Tasmania. This was too good an offer to be ignored. He left Nelson almost immediately, and, at the conclusion of a long stay with friends in Wellington, sailed away from New Zealand on 2nd December, 1849.
But he was a disappointed man. “I left New Zealand without seeing any of the vague hopes of the rise of a regenerated society within its borders fulfilled.” He could not help comparing New Zealand with ancient Greece: “Two centuries hence, should English civilisation and power be overthrown, a few ruined embankments, bridges, fragments of locomotives and dynamos, and ugly buildings of all sorts, would alone testify that here the English Empire had been planted.”
His classical education might be blamed for all this; but Arnold may yet be justified.
In the early ‘eighties, when an All-British route across the Atlantic, Canada and the Pacific was first mooted, Lord Strathcona described it as the “British highway between Great Britain, New Zealand and Australia.” To-day it may be said of this, one of the busiest Pacific lines, that it is in truth a highway. It was, however, the last of the British mail and passenger services to be established on a Trans-Pacific route, and the credit for starting this important line, now known as the All-Red route, belongs to the late Mr. James Huddart, an Australian shipping man.
Huddart had on his hands two new steamers, the Miowera and the Warri-moo, of 2,393 tons and 3,800 Ind. H.P. each, which were engaged in the Australia-New Zealand inter-colonial trade in competition with the Union Line, but there was not enough traffic for both. In 1893 Huddart secured a contract with the Canadian and New South Wales Governments to carry monthly mail between Sydney and Vancouver, calling at Brisbane, Honolulu and Victoria, B.C. The yearly subsidy was £35,000, of which the Canadian Government paid £25,000. Leaving Sydney on the 18th May, 1893, the Miowera was the first All-Red mail steamer to cross the Pacific, she being followed a month later by the Warrimoo. In order to maintain a monthly service, it was found that another steamer was needed. The New Zealand Shipping Company's Aorangi was chartered, and after proving her suitability for the run, was bought by Huddart's new Company.
Built by Wm. Denny & Bros. in 1883, the Aorangi was a 4,163 ton steamer of the highest class. With her graceful clipper bows, barque-rigging, three masts, and one funnel placed between the foremast and mainmast, she was a splendidly built ship of really striking appearance. Originally fitted with compound engines she was, after her purchase by Huddart in 1893, sent Home to have triple-expansion engines installed, the total cost of this work being £40,000. In consideration of the ships calling at Wellington instead of Brisbane, the New Zealand Government in 1896 voted a subsidy of £20,000 to the new service. In 1897, however, the Company went into liquidation, the control passing into the hands of the Union Company.
The year 1913 was a milestone in the progress of the All-Red line, the Union Company bringing out the palatial new mammoth liner Niagara, of 13,405 tons. As there was now no further use for the Aorangi, she was disposed of. In 1915, she was sent Home to spend her last days in usefulness by being sunk at Scapa Flow, along with others, to block the channel against submarines. She was difficult to sink, struggling as if in protest against her enforced demise. In 1921, she was found to be in such good condition that she was raised and made use of at Scapa Flow as a store ship for the Navy—a magnificent tribute indeed to the excellence of her construction. It is interesting to note that during her long service in the All-Red mail line, the Aorangi had only three commanders.
So successful was the Niagara, that the Union Company went a step further and ordered an improved Niagara. The name selected for this vessel, of which great expectations were held, was Aotea-roa. When the Great War broke out she was being built at the Fair-field Works, Scotland, and while yet devoid of her superstructure and palatial fittings, was requisitioned by the Admiralty. She was immediately converted into a cruiser and given the temporary name of H.M.S. Avenger.
With her cruiser stern and two funnels placed well apart, she bore, despite the absence of her superstructure, a remarkable resemblance to the present Aorangi. A vessel of 14,744 tons with a speed of 20 knots, she rendered good service as a cruiser, being engaged on important naval work. She was unfortunately sunk by a torpedo attack in the North Atlantic, on the 14th June, 1917, but fortunately without loss of life. Her sinking was a keen disappointment to many who had anticipated her trading in the Pacific at the conclusion of the War.
After the great disappointment caused by the loss of the Aotea-roa, the Union Company decided to keep up their prestige on the All-Red route. When ship-building once more became normal, they ordered from the Fairfield Company, Glasgow—the builders of the Aotea-roa—a new vessel, the present Aorangi, designed by Professor Hill-house. Anxious to be up-to-date, the Aorangi was constructed as a motor ship, and was, when launched, the largest motor ship in the world. She is a vessel of 17,491 tons gross, 20,000 indicated H.P., and a speed of 18 ½ knots. The engines are of the Sulzer two-stroke single acting type, comprising four engines with six cylinders each, the diameter of each cylinder being 27 ½ inches, and the maximum revolutions 125 per minute. The piston speed is 825 ft. per minute, which is regarded as moderate, and she consumes 54 tons of oil per day, as compared with 100 to 150 tons used on oil burning steam engines of similar size. The smallness of the engines, which look scarcely larger than four powerful six-cylinder motor-car engines placed in line, effects a considerable saving in space. She has quadruple screws and a cruiser stern, and carries three classes of passengers. Everything of the most modern kind is included in her equipment—in
In November, 1924, the Aorangi left Glasgow on her maiden voyage to Sydney, via Southampton, Kingston, Panama, Suva, Auckland and Wellington—a pleasure cruise and Pacific mail run combined. About her was the glamour of ultra-modernity, of something so new that she seemed to be of the future rather than the present. She incorporated innovations hitherto unknown, and was justly described as a floating palace. At each port of call she aroused the admiration of all who saw her. The eyes of ship-builders all over the world were diverted upon her, for on her performances depended the future of the motor ship. Her engines worked without a hitch, and she registered runs up to 440 miles per day. As a result of the Aorangi's success a phenomenal motor ship building campaign was immediately commenced. Although when launched the Aorangi was by far the largest motor ship afloat, others of larger dimensions were soon under construction, culminating in the building of the White Star liner, Britannic, of 35,000 tons.
The Aorangi's first mail run commenced on the 6th February, 1925, when she left Vancouver for Sydney via Auckland, and since then she has been exclusively employed in the Sydney-Auckland-Vancouver All-Red run. She has to her credit some remarkably speedy passages across the Pacific, on one occasion arriving at Vancouver 36 hours ahead of time. The Aorangi still remains one of the world's notable ships.
No tobacco! Can you picture what it would mean to millions of people if the world's supply of tobacco were suddenly and for ever cut off and no more could be had for love or money? Airily classed by this government and that as a mere “luxury”—tobacco has yet become almost as necessary as food to mose people. Fortunately there is no danger of such a catasthropic state of things eventuating as a world without its weed. The huge output is constantly increasing; demand creates supply. Happily for Maorilanders some of the choicest leaf is grown and manufactured right here in New Zealand. Visiting experts and connoisseurs who have sampled the four popular brands, Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Riverhead Gold, Cavendish and Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead) have pronounced them equal, if not superior to, the finest tobacco produced in other lands with the added advantage (an enormous one) that they are practically without nicotine—eliminated by toasting in the process of manufacture, so that they are powerless to harm even the most inveterate smoker.*
This decision was reached by Mr. W. C. Growcott, Tomoana, who, in a letter to Mr. G. H. Mackley, General Manager of Railways, expressed his appreciation of the Railway Dept's arrangements for the transport of young live-stock:— “Recently I had a valuable week-old thoroughbred foal railed from Hamilton to Hastings,” reads Mr. Growcott's letter, “and I wish to express my appreciation of the arrangements made by officers of your Department for its transportation.
“I first broached the matter to Mr. J. P. Cassidy, Stationmaster at Hastings, who undertook to advise the Stationmasters at Frankton and Hamilton, and to impress on them the necessity of careful handling. The foal was put on the ‘Limited’ at Frankton on the evening of Labour Day and arrived in Hastings at noon the following day. Such was the care taken that, despite the abnormal rush of traffic usual at a holiday period, the foal arrived in the pink of condition, showing no ill effects whatever from the long journey.
“I should be pleased if you would express my gratitude and appreciation to the Stationmasters, Guards and other officers concerned who spared no efforts to ensure a comfortable trip for this valuable young horse. I shall certainly have no trepidation about transporting young stock by rail in future.”
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The Hon. W. E. Parry's recent utterances on the subject of country sport and on racing and hunting must have found cordial approval among the farming people, and in fact among all who hope for a return to the rational use of the horse. As one who was brought up in the saddle, so to say, I rejoiced to read Mr. Parry's enunciation of his racing ideals. He believes in encouraging the hunter type of horse, as opposed to the sprinter, the racing breed which has been reduced to a mere machine for short bursts of speed.
He believes also in encouraging the country race meeting, instead of centralising all the horsemanship and speed tests on the large city courses. The “picnic race meeting” is his ideal; he considers it will help to increase interest in country life among young people and assist to stop the drift to the cities for amusement.
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A great deal could be written in approval of Mr. Parry's views for the reform of racing. Undoubtedly the hunter type of horse, the good all-round animal that can be used as a stock-horse and hack, and carry a fair weight on a long run, is the type we should encourage in this country. Speed and utility are combined in such a horse. The farmer and his sons and daughters would take pride in breeding and training it, and in using it for sport as well as farm and station duty. The light cavalry troop horse that was bred in large numbers in New Zealand in other days is my own ideal of a horse, an animal fit for sharp cross-country runs and stiff jumps, and capable of carrying fifteen stone weight of man and gear on a day's journey.
Riding to hounds helps to produce such a breed, and a country hunt club deserves strong official encouragement so long as it keeps in view the excellent purpose of combining sport with utility. This is a country in which horses will always be needed, away from the motor traffic speed routes, and the well-bred horse which blends in itself the desirable qualities mentioned will always be in demand.
In my young days when nearly everyone in the country used a horse, and when country people had to rely on their own resources for amusement and recreation, the township's annual race meeting was a popular and pleasant institution. There was a comfortable picnic air about it that made it a gathering for young and old. Farmers and their sons rode their own horses, Maoris rode their horses too; and I remember one meeting on the Upper Waikato frontier at which our doughty neighbour, Te Kooti, of warrior fame, entered a horse of his own; and one of his young Hau-haus rode it. That helped to cement the newly-made friendship between the races. Sport is a great leveller of barriers and animosities.
Racing to-day, centralised on the large city courses, has become a business rather than a sport. Anything that will tend to decentralise it, and to restore the small sports meetings in the country, the more the better, will be a change for the better, a healthy revival of the olden pride of locality and interest in the breeding of good horses.
The last great unspoiled area of native forest in the North Island is the Urewera Country. Comparatively unspoiled, that is, for it is not now in exactly the condition in which I first saw it when I travelled through it on horseback and foot nearly forty years ago. A motor highway has been made through the heart of it, and timber cottages are replacing the Maoris’ primitive whare in the cutlivated valleys. There are pakeha commercial interests that have turned an acquisitive eye in that direction and there are those who ask, “What's the good of all that bush? Cut it out and open up the Urewera! Turn the timber into cash and put sheep on the hills.”
Bless their eyes, those people would soon make a ghastly ruin of the glorious wave upon wave of forested ranges as they have of other hilly parts of the Island. Happily they are not to have their way, if the present Government can prevent it.
The Hon. Mr. Langstone's announcement that the whole of the Crown's interest in the Urewera Country, totalling 482,000 acres, is to be declared a State reserve, is the best news New Zealand forest-lovers have heard for many a day. This area includes the noble Huiarau and various other ranges, in fact all the wildest and highest parts of the mountain land.
The Minister deserves the warmest praise and congratulations on his timely action.
The conservation of our hill forests, for river-protection and climatic and scenic purposes, is the urgent duty of those in authority. Now the exact nature of the official reserve is important. I hope it will be declared a National Sanctuary, to make it perfectly tapu and secure against all undesirable interference.
January in New Zealand is a period of freedom and friendliness; for communion with air and earth, with sea and sky.
It demands the primitive palliatives of wind-in-the-hair and sun-in-the-face which never fail to soothe the seething soul and jazz up the juices of the jaundiced. For in January the cogs of commerce whirr less wildly, the mills of money slow their gristing and much of humanity shakes off the shackles of shekels. There is a pause in life's pitful fever. Vocation is on vacation. Men, maids and matrons camp under canvas, or the star-studded dome of night, defying dyspepsia with pan and pannikin wooing Morpheus and moreporks, and braving the hazards and haphazards of the mosquito belt.
The rivers are rife with fly-fishers, the sands are strewn with torso-tanners and cuticle-colourers; on the breakers are brokers; there are bankers in bunkers, and on the sea-shore enjoying the overdraft in the undertow. Bakers are throwing their “dough” about, dentists are doing all their pulling in boats and humanity is human.
And what is your brand of agitated alleviation? Perhaps it's a'yachting you would go. Let's say that you've never yachted before. You are invited by a bunch of sea-dogs to brave the bounding billows in twenty feet of bucking kauri. So you buy yourself a captain's hat, stick a Popeye transfer on your chest, sink a couple of rums, learn to growl “luff ‘er” or “aye aye, skip” like a real dare-devil of the deep, and proceed to board the hooker. You make your approach with a rolling gait, you trip on a rope and fall into a dinghy as big as a saucepan lid. When climbing aboard the yacht you put your foot through the glass of a porthole and go for a skate on your chin in the stab'rd scuppers. Beyond having the anchor dropped on your toe and a halliard or two wound round your neck you keep your end up until the yacht gets all yachty. You sit in the stern and feel Captain Bloodish and yo-ho-ho-ish; at least, that's how you feel until the boom swings over and catches you a wallop on the off ear; while you try to look as if you are used to this sort of thing it swings back and slams you one in the other ear. You are still a bit under the weather when a following sea poops you and washes you through the skylight. But you are not discouraged. This is the kind of thing Columbus and Magellan would have laughed at, thinks you; you try to laugh; but something seems to have happened in the laughing department and you make a noise like an oyster-dredger moaning in a fog. But you manage to crawl on deck. The skipper tells you that the breeze is freshening and that there is likely to be a bit of a joggle. You ask if there isn't a jogglishness about everything already.
“Pah!” barks the skipper. “A mere cat's paw!” It feels more like the tiger's whiskers to you, but you are too busy trying to keep your stomach under your jersey to argue the toss.
Then the whole works heels over at an angle of 99.09 degrees and you get a good view of Davy Jones's locker with the lid off. You remember about the Three Fishers who went sailing and never were seen in the fish market again. Then you notice that everyone is hanging over the lee scuppers or the t'gallant taffrail, or whatever the safe side of a yacht is called, as though poised for a back double dive into the swirling swell, or the swilling swirl. You do a bit of leaning yourself, but your mind is not on yachting for the moment. After getting your stomach reparked in the safety zone and ascertaining
But, on second thoughts, you are glad to be at sea because there is a terrific, earthquake going on ashore. The hills are skipping about like spring lambs and the wharves are bobbing up and down like father when he does the washing.
“Nobby day for sailing,” says the skipper.
You feel tempted to reply that it is a nobby day for cricket or flying or even for a crown-and-anchor tournament, but that for yachting you consider that there are far too many knobs on it. “I'm afraid she missed stays,” apologises the skipper when a broadside sluices you fore and aft. You had already noticed that she missed something and are about to remark that a bit of tight-lacing wouldn't do her any harm when she stands on her tail; sea and sky go into partnership and liquidation, and Cook Strait falls aboard.
When you come to, you are outstretched on a settee, and the crew are laying out a lunch of beer and sausages on your chest.
All appears to be calm and through the porthole you spy the most beautiful sight you have ever seen in your life—about thirty-six square inches of good hard solid immovable land.
“One more day of this and you'll never notice it,” encourages the skipper.” “One more day like this and I'll never notice anything,” replies you.
But perhaps you prefer “baching” to yachting. Ignoring the organised sports, baching is the most disorganised of disorganised pastimes. To get the full flavour of baching you hire a bach as big as a piano case and fill it with three times as many people as it will hold.
Every bach designed to house six people has sleeping accommodation for three and will hold fifteen. The other dozen roll themselves in the window curtains and toss for the softest floorboards. In good weather, however, it is possible to open all the windows so that they can sleep with their non-breathing ends in the open air. By this means it is practicable to accommodate twice as many people inside as it would be if they were inside. In the morning the chief fun is in trying to get on your socks without poking your neighbour's eye out.
Meals are fun too, because, even if there were anyone willing to cook, the stove isn't. Bach stoves are always like that. The previous bachees invariably have removed the essential parts for fishing-line sinkers; and even if they hadn't, there is always a magpie nesting in the chimney—if there is a chimney. But fancy cooking on a holiday! Mother declares that she has been cooking all the year and doesn't intend to do any now—even if she could.
Everyone agrees that it's up to the tin-opener and it's certainly stiff luck that there's no tin-opener. Furnished bachs never supply tin-openers; it would make baching too easy; so bachees usually live on sardines because every tin of sardines has a key which will open three tins out of every ten. The Sardinians are evidently a nomad nation of bachees who recognise that the tin-opener is mightier than the stiletto.
But how close the bond of fellowship in a bach! So close that when you dress in the morning you have to watch out that you don't put your leg in the wrong pants; and each bachee has to stick a pin in his foot to make sure that it is his before he pulls a sock on it.
And the sunrises! You never saw anything like them. With two-thirds of you out of the window you can't help seeing them. Of course, you must expect rain. Baching is a dry business without it. Not that you need rain to fill the tank because the tank won't fill, anyway, on account of there being no tank. But there's a nice stream down at the end of the paddock. The water is perfectly pure; the tadpoles enjoy it even more than you do. It's splendid sport laying odds as to who will get the tadpole in his tea. Childish pleasures, no doubt, but it is these simple delights that make baching so jolly. When it rains you get a complete rest because you have to lie under the table and chairs to keep the drips out of your eyes. It is the only time when you can say that there is water laid on all over the house.
If you take a dog you should see that he wears his tail short. No reasonable person objects to a dog in a bach but a tail lying all round the house is awkward if there is a dog on the other end of it.
You're not going baching? We hope that nothing w've said has put you off.
Every sign in the business places to-day shows that the bad times have passed into ancient history. I was in the departmental store known as Londontown, and it was well packed. Elaborate preparations were being made for the youngsters’ Christmas attraction, and perhaps youthful squeals of ecstacy may finally banish Old Man Gloom from this bright section of the city. I found in conversation with the proprietor, Mr. W. J. Robinson, that, with characteristic New Zealand thoroughness, he had spent years in London, specialising in the several branches of the art of clothing New Zealanders.
I would like to be present in the Avenue when the Christmas Carnival Week opens this year. If ever an ideal street had been planned for processional purposes, it is the stately Victoria Avenue. Be reminded, too, that there are other broad thoroughfares bordered with fine edifices. The residential districts have their own distinction. St. John's Hill is a remarkable dress circle plateau, with so many lovely homes and gardens that one wonders where the gold mines are, that belong to their fortunate owners. Here again appears the constant feature of New Zealand tree and verdure growth which gives garden and lawn of ten years’ standing an air of immemorial age.
It is in partial explanation of the incidence of splendid homes that I discovered that this was a city of wide-spreading industries, any of them of national importance. At the mouth of the river, for instance, is a factory which supplies every man, woman and child in New Zealand with a bar of soap every year. Messrs. J. B. Gilberd and Sons, Ltd., have been going for fifty years and more, and among their achievements is the skilful use of the pumice which is in such easy reach. “Waxine” is a household name, and the establishment is impressive in its scale of plant and equipment; there is something almost awe-inspiring about 10,000 cases of sandsoap which permanently fill the drying room. Nearer to the city proper is another nationally known name. This is the home of the Southern Cross Biscuit, a great enterprise which has contributed something to the morning cup of tea, and the clubman's luncheon cheese everywhere in the Dominion. It is a hive of cheerful operatives, and is working at full pressure. The plant is the last word in modern efficiency, and I take the opportunity of using these two concerns as texts for a contention that I have so often urged. It is of the utmost importance that decentralisation of industrial production should be encouraged. Industries situated in these delectable provincial centres can, more easily than the crowded city, furnish sound and pleasurable environments for their workers. The word “provincial” is often used to denote a certain type of narrowness of outlook, but with one or two boyish exceptions I have found just as progressive views and accumulated stores of experience in places like Wanganui as auy-where else. Then there is the all important phenomenon of the advantages of locality. Canning works should be near the orchards, wood-working plants near the tall timber, soap works near the sources of tallow and pumice, woollen mills near the flocks and so on. The last illustration suggests that Wanganui should have half a dozen woollen mills, for its pastoral production figures are stupendous. It is the fourth wool sale centre in the whole Dominion and had the distinction of having nearly one-third of the total “carryover” in the years of the depression, showing that the district had the largest proportion in New Zealand of primary producers able to smile at their bankers.
I have reserved for the last part of this article the feature of Wanganui which is as distinctive on the man-made side of its being, as the river in its natural endowment. Wanganui
On the gentle slopes of the hill that rises immediately out of the town, stands a trio of buildings without peer in the Dominion. First there is the majestic Sargent Art Gallery, a shrine worthy of its exquisite contents. No city of less than five times the population of Wanganui can claim such a cultural treasure-house. In line on the same brow of Pukenamu is the most modern public library in these southern lands. It is an artistic delight, a lovely thing of multitudinous windows and all permeating light. As is the logical result of the investiture of Wanganui in all these ways of enlightment, the reading standard of the city is exceptionally high. For good measure, there is the Alexander Museum, a veritable storehouse of wonders and historic treasures. Enumeration is impossible in the space I have and I have tried to just give a shadowy sketch of this distinctive personality of the city of Wanganui. In whatever direction one looks, the utilitarian scene of every-day life is relieved by the graceful outline of some building devoted to cultural purposes. This aspect of life is as pre-ponderant in Wanganui as in Boston or Cambridge and invests the river city with an atmosphere which is its own; which permeates and elevates the beauty of the place and ensures it a destiny of worth and dignity.
For some reason, not altogether clear, Wanganui has not rejoiced in any regular annual festivals. The enterprising body known as the Tourist and Development League is effectively remedying this, and at Christmas and New Year the river city will be en fete. Skilful use is being made of every advantage the city possesses, and a full week of gaiety contains, inter alia, rowing races, the New Zealand Championship motor boat races, Maori canoe racing, cycling, greyhound racing, axemen and surf clubs; indeed, everything that relates to carnival. I can imagine no more satisfying way to spend a holiday than to be in Wanganui at this time, or (as my last word) any other time.
The visit to his homeland by Jack Lovelock. New Zealand's most famous track athlete, aroused great enthusiasm, and wherever he appeared to give exhibition runs the attendances were excellent. Lovelock gave we New Zealanders much good advice—good if it is assimilated! But just how genuine is the desire for New Zealanders to improve—physically? It may not be a typical example, but on asking twelve different persons if they had been doing the excelent physical exercises broadcast by Station 2YA, the answers were all in the negative, although the reasons for not doing the exercises were as far apart as the Poles. Sufficient was it that a dozen people, chosen haphazardly, didn't see fit to devote ten or twelve minutes a day to improve their physical make-up. Was Lovelock on the right track when he emphasised the enthusiasm of the Youth of the European nations who have to thank compulsory training for their splendid physique?
But New Zealanders, like their kin in the Old Land, take sport haphazardly—in other words, purely as a recreation. Only a very small percentage of an enormous sport-loving community take the trouble to make any attempt to specialise or to excel.
One sports administrator who has not forgotten his visit to New Zealand is Captain Evan A. Hunter, honorary secretary of the British Olympic Association, who toured New Zealand with the British athletic team two seasons ago. In a letter to the writer he expressed the hope that: “Jack Lovelock will have a nice time—I fear Jean Batten has rather taken his thunder—still she, too, is marvellous, and New Zealand should and no doubt is very proud of both. Give Jack my regards, and tell him not to have too many oysters, or drive trotting horses at Christchurch as I did—and enjoyed doing!”
Captain Hunter is also secretary of the Dominion Students’ Athletic Union in England. New Zealanders are prominent in this organisation as the notepaper reveals. The President is A. E. Porritt, M.A., M.Ch., F.R.C.S. One of the honorary vice-presidents is Hon. Sir James Parr, while J. Lovelock and M. McG. Cooper fill two of the three vice-presidential chairs. Cooper was selected as captain of the Oxford University Rugby team against Cambridge this year. Lovelock is secretary of the athletic committee, W. E. Henley, secretary of the Rugby committee, and J. E. Giesen the secretary of the Lawn Tennis committee.
The success attained by local “Learn to Swim” weeks has decided the New Zealand Amateur Swimming Association to sponsor a Dominion-wide movement. It is staggering to learn the number of people in New Zealand who cannot swim, but much of this may be traced to the lack of suitable swimming baths in the suburban areas. Wellington is one case where bathing facilities have been most conspicuous by their absence. The impetus given natatorial sport by the erection of the up-to-date Riddiford Baths at Lower Hutt has not been lost on the citizens of Petone and Karori. Baths now grace these localities, and good work is being done in teaching the younger generation. But learning to swim in a modern swimming bath lacks the “colour” of mastering the “dog paddle” down at the “old swimming hole”!
Wrestling, not the one hold per hour, perhaps, of forty years ago, but the modern style which enables the contestants to wrestle every night in the week and travel in the meantime, has consolidated its place in the hearts of New Zealanders who have been rolling up in their thousands to see two American matmen in action. Each year has seen something new introduced into the mat sport—be it a new hold or another method of disabling an opponent by the use of a forearm or a well-applied pair of feet. Apart from its appeal to the spectators, there is also the undoubted value of wrestling to the business world. This is revealed by questionnaires returned by radio listeners. A survey of the most popular “listening night” gave Monday as the choice—and Monday is “wrestling night” even if it be no longer “washing day.” The number of radio sets sold—indirectly—to wrestling enthusiasts must reach into thousands with consequent financial return to hundreds of workers. Wrestling is truly an industry!
Success should reward the efforts of the New Zealand British Empire and Olympic Games Association in its endeavour to make a public testimonial presentation to Jack Lovelock. Over a period of thirty years New Zealand has had representation at Olympic Games without material success on the track. And Lovelock did more than win an Olympic title—he won the admiration of the sporting world for his attitude to sport. This attitude, laudable in every respect, has called for many sacrifices by the young medical student, and New Zealanders are given the opportunity of expressing their feelings in a tangible manner.
Prospects are bright for New Zealanders to see a first-class English Soccer team next winter. Plans, according to English newspapers, are already well advanced, and a survey of likely players is being made. The team, it is suggested, will tour Australia and New Zealand. Such a good-will tour would go a long way in consolidating the round-ball code in the Southern Isles. The finest exponents of soccer to visit New Zealand were the members of the Canadian team, but they fell below the class of good English amateur teams.
The suggestion made early in December that a team of New Zealand schoolboys should be chosen to represent the Dominion against other schoolboys from England, Canada, Australia and South Africa during the Coronation festivities in the Old Land is a good one. Financial arrangements will have to be made in New Zealand if the tour is to be gone ahead with, but what school or college could not raise a large sum to send its best bowler or batsman away to represent New Zealand?
The honour of representing New Zealand at sport during the days at school falls to few lads. Unless it be at swimming, where there seems to be more frequent occurrences of the schoolboys being up to representative standard, the only opportunity given in recent years was in the Secondary Schools’ Athletic team to the Melbourne Centenary. It is passing strange that a team of Secondary Schools’ Rugby players has not been sent abroad ere this. About twenty-five years ago a team of Maori Rugby footballers was sent to Australia from the great college—Te Aute. This team amazed Australians by the display of the type of football for which the Maori players are noted.
Before long New Zealanders will—one and all—be talking nothing else than Rugby football. Next season will see the invasion of these isles by the Springbok team from South Africa. Memories of the scoreless Test match at Wellington—it started to rain and never eased—are still retained by those privileged to attend, and it seems that all Wellingtonians and half the other New Zealanders were at Athletic Park on that great day in 1921!
The average New Zealander would not allow any weather conditions to interfere with his attendance at a Rugby Test match between the sworn rivals, South Africa and New Zealand.
The Otago Centre of the New Zealand Swimming Association showed commendable enterprise when it arranged for a tour of its province by a small but select band of Australian watermen. Accompanying the team as manager is Mr. Dudley Hellm-rich, renowned as one of the world's best swimming coaches. The land that has produced Cavill, Beaure-paires, Charlton, Ryan, Fanny Durack, and Claire Dennis—all famous in international swimming—owes much to the painstaking efforts of Hellmrich. His stay in New Zealand should prove of material assistance to swimmers.
“Tatrine worries me,” said her mother. “She's a dear girl, but she's going through a difficult stage—the latest trouble is clothes.”
I knew Katrine. Earlier, about eight or so, she won my interest—a little, compact thing, well-built, but with an elfin aspect due to the pointed chin and mischievous eyes twinkling below a dark fringe of hair. For years, while her father was working in another town, I had not seen Katrine; but now they were back again, and her mother and I had resumed the old friendship. At first glance I hardly knew Katrine, a leggy young lady in her second year at high school. But though the fringe was gone and her hair brushed away from a middle parting, the eyes at times showed the old glint—only at times though. One had to watch and wait for it. The chin, delightfully recognizable, showed a firmness one had not noted at eight-to-nine.
“I'm not really worrying about her,” said her mother, “but I should really like to settle one part of the problem, that of clothes. During the winter she seemed quite happy in her school clothes, but now summer is here she has been worrying me at week-ends. She doesn't like the little summer frocks I make for her, and hates the idea of a plain panama hat for best. Now I always think a girl at the growing stage looks best in plain things. And shoes! I took her to buy some white shoes. We bought a very nice pair, low-heeled and round toed, with an ankle strap. But the grizzles when we got home. Of course, I'd switched her away from the high heels she coveted and she resented it. And about her frocks, too. You know I have always made the children's clothes. Well, she has decided she doesn't like the dresses I make for her. I can hardly make her stand still for a fitting.”
Poor Katrine! Poor Mother! Of course, the influence of older sister, now in an office job, was partly to blame. Katrine, now conscious of appearances, admired and wished to copy her sister's grown-up wardrobe.
I did what I could. I suggested that it was a matter for compromise. As regards frocks, knowing that Katrine was taking a dressmaking course at school, I advised co-operation. Between us, the mother and I concocted a plan, and this is how it worked out.
In a talk that seemed to happen in quite a casual way, the mother suggested that Katrine was quite old enough to plan her own wardrobe, and that it would be an excellent idea if she helped with the sewing as well as the planning. Katrine seemed not too enthusiastic at first, but when it came to a shopping expedition she perked up and approached the pattern counter with confidence. The array of styles rather bewildered her, but Mother stood by offering no comments. Katrine turned pages and made one or two remarks about the pictured styles. Mother was non-committal. Katrine puzzled some more, and seemed to waver between three frocks. Still Mother did not offer an opinion. It was only when Katrine asked for advice that Mother said which style appealed to her and gave reasons. Katrine was grateful for the helpful remarks and chose the style indicated.
Having bought a pattern, Katrine wondered what material she would choose. Mother pointed out that suggestions were given on the pattern envelope. Katrine read them—silk crepe, taffeta, shantung, novelty cottons, light-weight wools.
“They seem so different,” said Katrine.
“Yes,” said her Mother. “They are—on purpose. The style you chose is suitable for an afternoon frock for either summer or winter, for sports or for beach wear with short sleeves. You decide what you need the frock for and choose the material to suit.”
“Oh, I see,” said Katrine in a relieved tone, and proceeded to the cottons department to choose a print that was just right for beach picnics. Mother was so pleased with the suitability and economy of her choice that she thereupon offered her another dress-length.
In the making, of course, Mother did most of the work, but Katrine was eagerly helpful. The finished frock was a success, and the two embarked on the second dress-length—a pretty silk crepe for “best.”
Somehow the hat problem melted away. In studying styles and materials Katrine had recognised the value of simplicity, and when it came to buying a hat she chose a wide-brimmed straw with a plain ribbon trimming.
A family discussion (engineered by me one night when I was there to tea) on feet, high heels, pointed toes and the resultant corns and bunions, influenced Katrine's footwear ideas in the right direction.
Now Katrine's mother says that the complete solving of one problem has somehow helped with the other problems resultant to the process of “growing-up.”
Many a housewife when straining vegetables wonders whether, with the water, she is discarding some of the most valuable constituents. According to experiments recently carried out in the kitchen of King's College Hospital, London, even the most careful cooking, using very little water and a trace of fat, would increase the calcium, phosphorus and iron in a mixed diet by only 3 per cent. The addition of three-hundredths to the amount of mineral salts consumed seems not worth worrying about. As the report of the experiments is published by the Medical Research Council, we may rely on the statements made.
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An interesting observation was that, though the addition of bicarbonate of soda to green vegetables increased the rate of cooking, it made little difference to the losses.
If the housewife is eagerly endeavouring to retain that 3 per cent, of mineral salts, she will be pleased to know that the skins of potatoes almost completely prevent the outward diffusion of salts. She will thus content herself with scrubbing potatoes before cooking, and will congratulate herself that her family really prefers potatoes baked in their jackets to those roasted in the meat dish. But wait! The Doctor and his assistants found that the friendly potato loses nothing but water when cooked in air or fried in fat. So, as far as salts are concerned, chips and roast potatoes may still figure on the menu.
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Still trying to conserve the 3 per cent., the housewife notes that when such vegetables as carrots, swedes, mushrooms and spinach are cooked in steam, they lose water, salts and other soluble materials. The rate and extent of this loss increases as the temperature is raised.
Another interesting point is that a large piece of vegetable loses less in proportion than a small piece. There-fore the housewife who cooks her cauliflower whole retains an infinitesimal amount of salts more than the careful cauliflower-cleaner who cuts her vegetable into small and easily inspected pieces—or perhaps cauliflower, owing to its branching nature, is not a good example of cooking in bulk.
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The salt-chaser will be very careful to remove her vegetables from further loss in water as soon as they are cooked.
She will be glad to know that fresh vegetables, when soaked in cold water, lose only negligible amounts of salts, but she will be horrified at the thought that dried legumes (peas and haricot beans) lose from 5 to 50 per cent, of their more soluble contents in eight hours. She will make a vow never to soak her peas for eight hours, and will gloat over the percentages of salts she has saved for her family in the past by always using the water.
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According to these experiments, then, the housewife need not worry over her method of cooking vegetables.
An interesting point in the report regarding green vegetables, is that the outer leaves, usually discarded, contain more salts than the inner leaves. So now you know the reason why white butterfly caterpillars, slugs and snails eat the outer leaves first.
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The warmth, of summer days affects cut flowers. They wilt, they droop, and the housewife finds herself raiding the garden afresh every day or so. She may even decide to have no
When cutting dahlia blooms, the garden should be raided in the early morning and a good length of stem secured. Dip the stalks in boiling water for several minutes. Other flowers which benefit from having stalks dipped in boiling water are asters, roses, sunflowers and poppies (all varieties).
A useful treatment for such flowers as chrysanthemums, perennial phlox, celosia and salvia, is to recut the stems under water. Foliage of all kinds may also be treated in this way. The foliage should then be left lying in water for a short time before arranging.
Shrubs should have the stems bruised before arranging.
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Sweet peas require special care. Cut them when the dew is off them and allow them to stand in water in a dark room for several hours. Wrap small bunches in thin wax tissue paper, and pack closely, but not too tightly in a strong cardboard or light wooden box.
For all flowers, boxes should be shallow, holding only two layers of flowers. The flowers, not full-blown, should be gathered early and stood in water for four hours. The “packing” in the box should consist of wax tissue paper, and not of cotton wool which takes moisture from the flowers. See that the flowers are packed firmly, as too much shaking in transit will ruin them.
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Never irritate the skin and set up inflammation which harms the hair.
Move the scalp, not the fingers.
Wash the hair in soft water.
Massage tonic lotion into the hair daily.
Use a little shampoo, lather well and rinse well.
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1 cup raisins, chopped, 6ozs. butter, 2 cups flour, ½ cup sugar, 1 teaspoon baking power, little milk.
Cream butter and sugar. Add milk, then other ingredients. Roll fairly thin. (No. 5, about quarter hour).
These biscuits require to be buttered.
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8 ozs. butter, 4 ozs. sugar, 2 cups flour, 2 teaspoons baking powder, 1 egg, pinch salt.
Cream butter and sugar, add egg, then flour and powder, and roll out as for shortbread. Cut into rounds and cook until light brown.
Fasten two together with jam and ice top. Decorate with chopped nuts.
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3 eggs, 3 tablespoons flour, 1 teacup milk.
Beat whites and yolks separately. Make batter with yolks, flour and milk. Stand for an hour or two. Fold in stiffly beaten whites just before using the mixture.
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½ cup milk, 1 dessertspoon cornflour. Cook and then cool. Then add quarter cup sugar and 1 oz. butter beaten to a cream. Whip until mixture is beautifully light. Flavour to taste.
Here is a story of a young man who had given up hope of taking part in active sports with his fellows again. He tells how he tried one remedy after another and how finally a former sufferer put him on the way to recovery. Here is his experience in his own words:—“Two years ago I started with pains in the feet which gradually got worse. I tried ‘everything under the sun,’ but to no effect. Whilst waiting for treatment one evening, another patient advised me to try Kruchen Salts. That was twelve months ago; the relief was not sudden, but the pain and swelling gradually left my feet and in six months I amazed my friends by taking long walks into the country. This year I have played a good deal of tennis, a thing which I had begun to think I should never do again. Only a few weeks ago I threw away an accumulation of bottles, packets, tins, etc., containing the remains of different ‘remedies’ which I had tried in vain.”
—C.W.
Most rheumatic pain and swelling is caused by an excess of uric acid accumulating in the body. Kruschen will quickly dissolve away the needle-pointed crystals of uric acid which are the cause of all the trouble. It will also flush those dissolved crystals clean out of your system. Then if you keep up “the little daily dose,” your inside will be so regular, so free from stagnating waste matter, that no such poisons as uric acid will ever get the chance to accumulate again.
Kruschen Salts is obtainable at all Chemists and Stores at 2/6 per bottle.
If the tin of stove polish is empty, rub up your grate with black nugget.
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Save all ends of toilet soap for making soap jelly, for use in shampooing hair.
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Almost as quick as the using of marking-ink, and certainly more attractive, is the embroidering on linen of initials or names in chain-stitch.
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When hanging curtains, place a thimble over the end of the rod to be inserted, thus preventing the possibility of catching the material.
It is proposed by the leaders of the Maori people in the Auckland country that the great gathering of the tribes in the early part of 1940, as part of the nation's Centennial celebrations and pageants, shall be held in the beautiful domain of Maunga-Kiekie, otherwise Campbell Park or Cornwall Park. This shrine of history, culminating in the pointed hill where Sir John Campbell lies buried, is a particularly appropriate place for the rendezvous, for it is the centre of the whariki, as the Maoris symbolically call the Tamaki isthmus. The whariki is the domestic sleeping mat. It was the castle and citadel of the closely-populated Tamaki country centuries ago. On its entrenched summit lived Kiwi-Tamaki, the last great chieftain of the ancient Waiohua.
It is a pathetic thought that the descendants of the warriors, Ngati-Whatua, who conquered Kiwi and his people, now own only a miserable few acres, the little flat at Orakei, hemmed in between a new pakeha suburb of Auckland and the city's sewer. Ruin in every sense has fallen on Ngati-Whatua but the leaders of the Maori cause in Auckland bravely cherish hope that the people will be reinstated in possession of sufficient land for a living; and the proposed gathering of tribes on the sacred ground of the Tainui stock will serve to preserve and restore pride in the old tradition and culture.
The great terraces, sheltered levels and slopes of the ancient pa will be peopled again for awhile; thatched whares will once more stand where the pre-pakeha workers and warriors lived within the defences of two centuries ago; the park of Maunga-Kiekie will resound again with dance and song, and the great war-gong will again send its summons across the plains. That is the plan before the Auckland and Waikato leaders; and there is linked up with it the ideal of a noble memorial to the race. A great memorial to the glory of the Maori people was an ideal of Sir John Campbell; he did not live to give effect to it but he made a certain provision for it in his will. The restoration of the old headquarters of Ngati-Whatua at Orakei, too, is an ideal that every friend of the Maori will support. The general idea is one to commend; we may expect it to be developed in detail during next year.
When we consider how skilfully the pakeha has possessed himself of most of the land of the Maori, recollections arise of a spirit of chieftainlike liberality that often astonished the commercially-minded purchaser. Here is one example of the generous old ways.
In the early ‘eighties, when Rotorua town was being established, the Government desired to purchase about 20,000 acres of bush land on the hills about Tarukenga and Mamaku. Judge F. D. Fenton, of the Native Land Department (after whom Fenton Street in Rotorua is named) offered the Arawa, on behalf of the Government, the price of ten shillings per acre. But the old chief Paora te Amohau said that ten shillings was too much. “We want to assist the Government,” he said; “we want to assist the parent who is going to protect us and bring prosperity to Rotorua.”
So a compromise was arranged by which, at Captain Gilbert Mair's suggestion, the sum of five shillings per acre should be paid for the land. And that was the price at which the valuable timber lands of the Mamaku hills and plateau were sold to the Crown. The Arawa thus made the State a present of £5,000 on that transaction alone. Probably no race of people but the Maori would have refused a purchaser's offer because they thought it was too much. As for Pukeroa pa, they would not consider selling it at all; they made a free gift of the famous hill to the Government for a recreation ground. Now it is the site of the Rotorua hospital buildings.
Mention of the Arawa reminds me that a grievous insult to the tribe and its fighting fame was inflicted recently by some pakeha vandals who smashed up the bold warrior figure on the Arawa Soldiers’ Memorial in the Rotorua gardens. This piece of sculpture, the fighting man with uplifted taiaha, represented according to the Maori designers, the chief Rangitihi, a famous forefather, and a marvellous warrior. His name is a synonym for endurance and valour. Rangitihi of old, in a battle, had his skull cleft open; his wife bound it up with a strong bush-vine, and with this vine tied tightly about his head the champion once more charged into the fray and led his men to victory. “Rangitihi upoko takaia ki te akatea” (“Rangitihi whose head was bound with forest vine”) is a popular local allusion to-day. And there the heroic figure was poised, with his upoko takaia carved “lively as the deed was done.”
The warrior whose name has passed into a fine proverbial saying had a hill fort near the north-eastern shore of Rotorua Lake, a level-topped height of which a near view is obtained from the main road to the Ohau and the Kaituna outlet of Rotoiti. The pa was named Rangi-whakakapua; it was terraced, trenched and palisaded. Rangitihi, who lived three hundred years ago, had eight children, and these are represented on the war memorial by supporting figures. The “Hokowhitu a Tu-matauenga” (the War-god's Band) who fought so well at Gallipoli and in France included many descendants of Rangitihi.
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Rapahoe:
This name, a place on the West Coast near Greymouth, is mentioned because of its beauty, and because it is popularly mispronounced. It means “Blade of the Paddle.” It should be pronounced Rapa-ho-ay, but the common error is the omission of the final vowel. Similarly in the North Island, the name Patu-mähoe is vulgarly mispronounced “Patter-ma-hö.”
Wanaka:
South Island form of Wananga, meaning sacred knowledge, ancient wisdom, also the learned people in the house of instruction.
The year just completed was a record one for New Zealand authors, more books being published at home and abroad than ever before. At the present moment I know of at least half a dozen novels in preparation or just completed by New Zealand writers, and in addition quite a number of books of general interest are in course of construction. Of course, how many will be eventually published is another matter. One thing I would strongly advise writers against, and that is where a publisher is not prepared to take the risk of publication, for the author to have his work published at his own expense. After all, where a book is rejected by, say, three or four publishers, the author is courting disaster if he decides to go ahead and take the risk himself. Reputable publishing houses simply will not accept publication at author's risk. Frequently therefore the author goes to some obscure publisher and more often than not the book is a failure.
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Now, what does it cost to print an average novel? Writing to me from Australia some time ago a friend of mine in the publishing game told me that in England a novel, say, of approximately 300 pages, printed in eleven point, with twenty-nine lines to the page and with an edition of 1,500 copies, would involve approximately £300 to pay all publishing costs, pay 10 per cent, to the author and leave a profit of 16 2/3 per cent, to the publisher on all costs. That would mean an average wholesale price of 4/- per copy and a retail price of 6/-.
The interesting details of this estimate are as follow:—
I understand Australian and probably New Zealand costs run fairly close to the above figures. Australian publishing houses reckon they must clear 1,500 copies to show even a small nett profit.
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The first impression on opening a booklet of verse “Dunedin and Other Poems,” by Samuel Hulme Bridgford, is that the printers (Thomas Avery & Sons, New Plymouth) have made of it a job of appealing artistry. I note that as a prelude to his poems the author quotes Mary Webb: “The poet enjoys because he suffers.” This, in a way, is the motif of the twenty or so poems that follow. Here is a Mary Webb disciple sounding, in a much smaller way, of course, the glories of Nature, wedded with a deep religious feeling—unusual in poets these days. I like the verse because it is sincere, although the poet strikes age old chords of music. (Just as we go to press, the sad news of the death of Mr. Bridgford, following a long period of illness, is announced.—Ed.).
By way of sharp contrast I might mention another book of verse, or to be more exact, jingle, published by J. H. Claridge, one time printer and newspaper proprietor. The title is “The Iron Horse,” and the printer is candid enough to advise readers that “you are well advised to retain this booklet as an Enzed literary curiosity.” I note, too, that in a dozen opinions about the book an M.A. (unnamed) is quoted as describing it as “decidedly quaint.” Heartily do I endorse the judgment.
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“Marsden and the Missions.” Eric Ramsden, a versatile journalist who has made good on both sides of the Tasman, has written a book that must fill an important place in the historical library of the Dominion. Its title is “Marsden and the Missions,” and its New Zealand publishers are A. H. & A. W. Reed. It is a bulky volume of over 300 pages, with 22 illustrations and has been admirably produced. A tremendous amount of research work had to be undertaken by the author in his compilation of this absorbingly interesting story of the struggle of the various denominational missionaries for religious control in this country. However we may read the text, the author confesses that “while one recognises the weaknesses of the missionary system of that period … the men employed in the New Zealand field were in the main imbued by high ideals and conscientious motives.” This is the very point that must not be lost sight of by the reader. Human nature is weak and often petty, but many of these missionaries were obviously working, often perhaps along the wrong path, yet nevertheless towards an ideal. How far they succeeded
“Wonders of the Great Barrier Reef,” by T. C. Roughley, B.Sc. F.R.Z.S. (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) reads in parts like some H. G. Wellsian phantasy. Yet the wonder tales of this famous reef, the greatest in the world, are all true and, in fact, are illustrated by the many plates in colour and black and white distributed throughout the book. Indeed, after reading this fascinating story of Australia's star attraction we may without hesitation place the Great Barrier as the ninth wonder of the world. Here Nature is found in her most fantastic moods in her creations of marine life, here she has given her animals and plants her most vivid colours, here she has made giants of creatures that elsewhere are of a growth comparatively insignificant. Yet among all this beauty of colour and form roam fearsome monsters, and the tales of their battles with other sea creatures and occasionally with man give a thrilling touch to a wonderful story. In production, the book is one of the finest and most artistic jobs ever produced by A. & R.
“The Third String,” by Stuart Gurr (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) is a tale of love and adventure in the New Hebrides. There are powerful characterisations in this unusual novel—Heinecken, the one-time German secret service agent ever fleeing from memory, and the vengeance that follows a Service deserter, Ezra Neale, the fanatic Island missionary and his beautiful wife Marcia, and then Braddock, the young Sydney doctor. With a menacing volcano ever in the background and the menace also of the island savages, these central figures carve out a strange, thrilling existence.
“Khyber,” by Edmond Barclay (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) is good reading. I use the word “good” advisedly, for it is a clean, thrilling yarn. The author hurries you away to the frowning cliffs of the Khyber Pass. You'll meet two wonderful women, Ruth and Myra, Captain Garvie a hundred per cent, hero, the unscrupulous cigar-chewing Deeming, Ali Khan, who had dreams of sweeping British Indian control to the sea, and the mysterious K21. You'll be literally swept off your feet with the excitement and romance of it all.
“Big Timber,” by William Hatfield (Angus & Robertson, Sydney) is an exciting novel, the background of which is a wonderful picture of the timber lands and timber industry of Australia. With this double appeal of fiction and fact the book should have a big sale. True the hero, Dale Garnett, takes everything in his stride with an ease that is amazing, yet he is a vastly appealing figure. The love interest is nicely interwoven with the scenes and action of the story.
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W. R. Kingston Smith, who has made the “New Zealand Financial Times” such a wonderfully interesting journal, has edited and published a New Zealand Financial Year Book.
Quentin Pope is busy on a novel.
Will Lawson's latest book “Old Man Murray,” will deal with the later days of Cobb & Co., and their battles with the railways.
The conjurer was producing eggs from a top hat. He addressed a boy in the front row.
“Your mother can't get eggs without hens, can she?” he asked.
“O, yes,” said the boy.
“How's that?” asked the conjurer.
“She keeps ducks,” answered the boy.
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Mistress: “Marie, when you wait at table to-night for my guests, please don't spill anything.”
Maid: “Don't you worry, ma'am; I'll keep my mouth shut.”
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Pat wanted to borrow some money from Michael who happened to have a small boy with him at the moment.
“‘Tis a fine kid you have there, Mike,” said Pat. “A magnificent head, and noble features. Could you lend me a couple of pounds?”
“I could not,” replied Mike. “'Tis me wife's child by her first husband.”
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“You ain't one of them men wot drops their tools and scoots as soon as knock-off blows, are you?” “Not me, Why, I often have to wait five minutes after I puts me tools away before the whistle goes.”
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Foreman (shouting to workman who is falling from high scaffold): “Fall on yer head, Bill—you'll get more compensation!”
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Wifey: “I think you ought to talk to me while I sew.”
Hubby: “Let's change it around, and you sew to me while I read.”
Mistress: “I've asked Mr. and Mrs. Smith to dinner at seven, Mary; but I think we'll give them a quarter of an hour's grace.”
Mary: “Well, ma'am, I'm religious myself, but I think that's rather over-doin’ it!”
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Prospect: “What's the difference between this new model and last year's car?”
Salesman: “Well, the cigarette lighter is about an inch nearer the steering wheel.”
Diner: “I see that tips are forbidden here.”
Waitress: “Lor’ bless yer, mum, so was the apples in the garden of Eden.”
A young farm-hand visited London to spend a holiday with a relative.
His clothing being decidedly rustic in appearance, his host suggested that he should get a suit from a city tailor, to which the young man agreed.
“What about a small deposit, sir?” asked the tailor when measurements had been taken.
“Just as you like,” replied the other, “put one in if they're fashionable.”
* * *
“Martha, did you wash the fish before you baked it?” “Lor', mum, no! Wot's the use of washin’ a fish wot's lived all ‘is life in the water?”
* * *
Passenger: “Does this tram stop at the quay?”
Conductor “There'd be a terrible splash if it didn't!”
* * *
Geordie Simpson to his friend Sandy, “Weel, Sandy, and hoo are ye likin’ married life?” “No’ at a',” replied Sandy. “She's aye ask, ask, askin’ for money.” “Hoo much hae ye gien her?” “Nane as yet.”
* * *
A tramp called at a wayside cottage and asked for a little food to help him on his way.
“But you're a big, strong, healthy-looking man,” said the cottager. “Why don't you do some work?”
“Well, madam,” said the tramp, with a shrug of his shoulders, “I'll tell you my trouble. I'm what they call an unhappy medium.”
“Unhappy medium!” echoed the other. “What do you mean by that?”
“I'm too light for heavy work and too heavy for light work,” was the reply.