Other formats

    TEI XML file   ePub eBook file  

Connect

    mail icontwitter iconBlogspot iconrss icon

The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 5, Issue 5 (September 1, 1930)

Steeped in Steam and the Call of Cash

page 12

Steeped in Steam and the Call of Cash

The Plough of Progress.

Dear reader, history is steeped in steam. Steam has always been man's bountiful benefactor. Even before Master George Stephenson's time steam was recognised as a perfect prophylactic for pork and a consolation for corns, but with the expansion of the high-pressure hypothesis the railway engine has proved itself to be the mighty plough of progress, breaking up the virgin lands of the back o’ beyond, and weaving in its wake a pattern of prosperity and prestige. The railway engine, dear reader, has proved a money-spider weaving its web athwart our lusty lands. But hark you: where would you be to-day, thankful reader, but for the staunchness of steam? The hinterlands would be nought but a rooting arena for the wild pig, and you and I and our like would cling precariously to the shores like shellfish. Your eightcylinder “flitmobile” would be as useful to you as a pair of running pants in an aeroplane, for there would be no roads to rack with roasted rubber; you would be all fussed up and no place to go. It is no idle boast to affirm that all roads run from the railroad. The bounties conferred by steam cannot be computed in cash alone, any more than contentment can be capitalised.

Hoot Horticulture.

After all, dear reader, money is not the sole factor in the best business; cash certainly is not a curse, but a custom; money is a necessity, but the necessity is a curse and a blight on the fair flower of freedom. True, money is a mere medium of exchange, but it is not the happy medium. Banks bulge with bullion, the wheels of industry revolve on the milled circumference of coin, and “profit” is the prophet of prosperity; but money is merely a morbific morbidity of man, and not a normality of Nature. Had money been earmarked as one of the original sins it doubtless would fructify in the field and “hoot” horticulture would prove the primary pastime of Cambria. But the history of humanity favours the finding that money is revolutionary rather than evolutionary; that cash is a rash on the hide of humanity, and finance a fever productive of total blindness to the gifts of Nature.

Profit and Slosh.

You protest, dear reader—and rightly so—that, things being as they are, you are obliged to pursue the delusive “deener” and the quondam “quid,” in order to keep the wolf off the visiting list. True, true, poor reader, but if things were as they are not, the scales would fall from your eyes and the weights from your mind; you would note with gladness that grass is green. You would wot the wonder of the earth's awakening when, as the sun rises flushed and sweet over the edge of the earth, all things hold their breath at the glory of her coming. page 13
“Steam has been the greatest benefactor of man.”

“Steam has been the greatest benefactor of man.”

Compared with this miracle, the cost of cough-drops and the dearth of doughnuts would sink in significance; your daily dozen on the field of profit and slosh would fall as flat as a tape-worm's shadow. If circumstance released you from the bondage of “boodle” you would have leisure to contemplate Nature's great all-sound natural-coloured, singing, talking comedy-drama, with its galaxy of stars and Lydian luminaries—and all on the blink, without tithe or tax. You would have leisure to ponder the meaning of Man and the majesty of the mustard seed; to contemplate the looming grandeur of the storm and the perfection of the bee's knee; to scent the drifting fragrance of Nature's breath.

Men Must Talk and Women Must Sweep.

But, alas, men must talk and women must sweep; the wild bee must drone along his scented way unheeded, and the tui trill to stone and stick. But this, outraged reader, is heresy. “If.” you protest, “we linger to laud the tulip or the tinted tip of a lagging cloud at sunset; if we fall by the wayside to commune with the cricket; if, in short, we neglect our L.S.D. we will be O.U.T.”

'Tis passing true, dear reader, but only because our antecedents made it so; hence I would that the first felon who lightly flipped the first token of travail over a counter had been mopped up and wrung out before he could utter his coin.

The Curse of the Purse.

Money of evil,
'Tis said is the root,
Money's a curse,
And deceiver to boot,
If such is the case,
It's incredibly funny,
This curse of the purse.
And the evil of money,
For man who invented
The coin of the realm,
Is merely the captive
Of Hoot at the helm;
For cash has created
Such numerous “needs,”
Like houses and trousers
And festivous feeds,
That man who created
Pestiferous pelf,
Must keep on creating,
Or end on the shelf;
The “needs” he's created
With cash are so many,
He's tied by the toe,
To the profluent penny,
And roped so secure
To his cash, as related,
He finds little joy
In the “needs” he's created.
He's nought but a weevil
Enclosed in a coop.
Forever performing
His wearisome loop,
For cash coined his “needs,”
And his “needs” need the kale,
It smacks of a guinea-pig
Chasing its tail.
And thus he proceeds,
Everlastingly busy,
Gyrating grotesquely,
And dazedly dizzy,

“Men Must Talk and Women Must Sweep”

“Men Must Talk and Women Must Sweep”

page 14

Until, when he feels
That he's feathered his nest,
He finds all he craves,
Is an absolute rest.
And so, gentle reader,
Creators of “dough,”
Who made Man's existence
A wig-wag of woe,
I'd gag them with guineas,
A few at a time,
And thus make their punishment
Fit for the crime.

The Moa is No Moa.

After all, dear reader, money is merely a fashion; certainly it has so far survived the rages; but the Moa was a fashion once, and now he is no moa. No doubt he started modestly, but ambition got him down. He grew moa and moa and moa until he outgrew his strength. Now he is only a fossil of a fowl—mere material for the moa-constructor at the museum. But, in his day, he was the whole air force, until he sacrificed aviation for avoirdupois, and was no longer a wing commander because he had no wings to command. The “moa-pork” is no relation to the Moa, who was a strict greengroper. Moas were sometimes tamed and allowed to roam about the garden; these were called lawn-moas, but were never borrowed on account of the difficulty of lifting them over the fence. The ancient Maori sometimes used the Moa as a means of transport. They were then called “moators” and their riders “moa-torists.” The Moa never washed its neck because this meant practically taking a bath, for the Moa was one of those birds with the deuce of a neck.
Catching The Goods

Catching The Goods

They still exist, but nowadays they don't wear feathers. The Moa's dislike for washing its neck was so intense that, at the slightest hint of rain, it would stand on its bowsprit and spread its tail like a “gamp.” When it readjusted its underpinnings the Maoris knew that bad weather was over; hence that old song of rejoicing, “It Aint Gonna Rain No Moa.”

The Moa was the greatest egotist that ever feathered its chest. The Maori used its eggs for dropping on one another in times of stress and strain hence arose the military term “shelling the enemy.” This, dear reader, is all I know about moas, but is sufficient to prove that when a big noise like the Moa fades out in Nature's “rowdio” and is only valued because it is no moa, it is possible for anything to happen. We may be happier than we are if Moas were apt to amble among the radishes, and it is possible we would be more content if money followed the Moa.

Unique Record of Railway Service

A further interesting case of father and son being on the retired list of the New Zealand Railways Department has just come to our notice. It is that of Mr. Chas. Cleverley and his son. Mr. Cleverley Senior joined the Service in the early days and had charge of the first official train to run between Dunedin and Oamaru. He retired 25 years ago from the position of Goods Foreman at Oamaru, where he is still living. His son, Mr. H. Cleverley, after 38 years’ service recently retired at Greymouth, where he was Inspector of Permanent Way. The family tradition of service is being carried on by Mr. F. C. Cleverley, son of Mr. H. Cleverley. He is Stationmaster at Kohatu, Nelson, and has 17 years’ service to his credit.