Water-cooled Patriotism.

During a launch trip in the Pelorus Sounds I was a witness of an example of the noble sentiment which might have ended in disaster. The launch was jazzing through the tortuous channel which guides the mariner to Havelock—between sticks topped with jam tins and discarded billies, which serve to mark the course. Every time the skipper jammed his hellum hard a'starboard or harder a'port we all page 15 clutched the rail as a precaution against an over precipitate entry into the hereafter. The skipper's tiller-hand was so nicely adjusted to his optical sense that I am sure he could have struck a match with his prow without bending the match. He wore white whiskers, a billy-cock hat, a slow grin, no laces in his boots, and his three score years and ten with youthful ease. He was as laconic as a “Captain Cooker” and as humourous as a weka.

A globe - trotter from Norway, and a length of human magnetism from Michigan, U.S.A., sat together on the edge of the deckhouse comparing notes. The Norwegian spoke in broken English, the American in a species of Morse.

“Yust like d' fjords of mine Norway beloved,” mused the Norseman sentimentally. “So blue the waters iss.” The Michiganian sniffed. “Blue,” he snorted, “I'll say th' w-a-a-tors of th' great lakes'd make your-r-r frauds an' this here look as pale as an ice cream sundae with a liver attack.”

“Not so,” countered the Norseman. “My fjords beloved—” It was unfortunate for both that their hands should be employed in gesticulation just as the skipper turned a figure of eight and swung the boat on her tail with a wriggle like a captive tuna, for they both shot off the deckhouse as if their understandings had been greased, and disappeared simultaneously beneath the Pelorous Sounds. With much backing and filling and nice seamanship on the part of the skipper they eventually were salvaged—a sorry pair of waterlogged tourists.

Perhaps the skipper's remark was ill-timed, but it was certainly pertinent.

“Well, gents,” he drawled, “did ye find th' waters of ole Pelorous as wet as th' waters of the fords an' the Mitchagains?”

But the skipper was in the sere and yellow leaf, and much latitude is allowed age.

“Pro patria!” What a noble sentiment.

We of New Zealand—but no, let the Publicity officer tell you all about it; after all, it's his job.

They love their land because it is their own, And scorn to give aught other reason why.