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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 9, Issue 8 (November 1, 1934)

Variety In Brief

page 46

Variety In Brief

A porter was announcing the name of a station as the train pulled up, and a little boy asked, “What does that man say, Dad? “ Dad: “He's calling out Tuakau.” Small boy: “Why is he calling out to a cow?”

Overseas visitor, reading the destination sign on the front of an Auckland tramcar: “That's a queer name, Wonhunger!” (Onehunga).

New Zealanders themselves are not above reproach in the pronunciation of such names as Putaruru, in which the “a” receives emphasis instead of the middle “u”. “Tamranui” is shorter but surely less euphonious than Taumarunui. Sweet-sounding Ngaruawahia is somewhat long in these breathless days; the old name of Newcastle is preferable, however, to “Narrawoya,” whilst “Narroweye”, is beyond the pale!

A party of tourists just arrived from Home was travelling on the Main Trunk line. They were a jolly crowd and soon made friends with their fellow passengers. The conversation turned on place-names. “What do you make of that?” asked a Wellington girl, indicating a word she had. written on a slip of paper. After a careful scrutiny, one of the visitors replied, “Garewarho,” another ventured, “Engarewarho.” There was much merriment when all joined in the attempt to master the tongue-twister, Ngauruhoe.—“Pohutu.”

* * *

When we were children I often heard my mother remind my father, with a warning frown, in the course of conversation, that “little pigs had big ears.” I used to wonder what it had to do with the subject under discussion, but later learnt that we children were the “little pigs” referred to. We now have many of the little animals in our own home, and have to be very careful at times.

A new neighbour had settled amongst us, and it happened Dad's people had known the lady's people years before, so naturally he was supposed to answer all questions concerning them.

“Mrs. S— had a sister, hadn't she?” a visitor asked one day.

“Yes,” answered Dad, guardedly, “but she is under a cloud, I believe.”

It happened that another visitor asked almost the same question a few days later.

“Didn't Mrs. S— have a sister?”

Dad did not answer immediately, so little David supplied the required information.

“Yes, she has, but she's in a fog somewhere!” he answered. —S.E.D.

* * *

There is a beauty spot—one of so many—passed through by road before the railway bridge, out of Marton, is reached. The road passes under an avenue of somnolent pines that whisper secrets to the wayfarer. Then the road turns to the right and a bosky dell, emblazoned with myriads of flowers—pink, white, gold—awaits to give welcome. To the left is a velvety green hillside, dotted with tiny star-blossoms; carpeted in golden-eyed daisies; cloaked in fern and bracken; crowned with magnificent trees, beneath which sunbeam elves and shade fairies engage in hide-and-seek, or join in divine medley dance! It is all so beautiful! Go see it for yourself … talk it … write it … broadcast it … something to be proud of, to tell the world!—H.C.

* * *

The correct pronunciation of Maori names is often a difficult task for well educated New Zealanders, so that one can sympathetically appreciate the attempts of overseas visitors to read the names of railway stations as the trains flash by them. It occurred on an express journey from Wellington to Auckland. Recent arrivals from England were making vain attempts to pronounce some of the names that identify King Country stations. The lady of the party was persistent in her efforts, and no doubt she felt rewarded when Oio was reached. “That's much better,” as she proudly read, “Nought one nought.” No one had the heart to correct her.—J.C.R.

* * *

Blessings on the week-end train! If I were a poet I would sing its praises in honey-dropping words. On every other day of the week it may be an old dragon roaring through the country, but now behold the change! Our dragon is transformed into a kindly beneficent giant who will carry us willingly wheresoever we wish to go, not scorning the tiniest little place, rather, indeed, encouraging us to step off there and not showing too great a hurry to pass on, as if to say: “You know, all the rest of the week I've got to tear through here—got to reach the big places on time—you understand; but every day I go roaring past I say to myself, ‘Come at the week-end, I'll take my time and stop at all the little stations, with their green paddocks in the distance or their sunny beaches and the kiddies playing about.’” And so he does, going along by the sunny, shimmering bays, and stopping everywhere to let happy people escape for one whole day from the noise of the city. At the end of the day he takes us back again, and a fine thing it is to sit in the corner behind the door and watch and listen. “Thank you for the lovely day” we hear, and then the warm reply, “Come again soon.” We slide out of the station, and in come our passengers, their arms laden with daffodils or violets, jonquils, willow, japonica, poppies, or anemonies, and as if that were not riches enough the air is filled with the scent of daphne or boronia. The eyes of the passengers are shining and happy, still seeing pictures of the green, lovely countryside. The children chatter of boats and lambs and horses. The rack above our heads is a kaleidoscope of colour, and some times Dad pushes a mysterious sugar bag under the seat and we know that family has been visiting the “old folks” on the farm and have not come empty away. Yes, blessings on the old monster who, for one day in seven, allows us to inherit the earth.—E.K.

* * *

Praise For Rotorua.

Some interesting references to New Zealand are contained in Lord Snowden's recently published Autobiography —especially his tribute to Rotorua as a health resort. At the time of his arrival in New Zealand, Lord Snowden was still suffering from the effects of ptomaine poisoning, contracted in the United States. He went to Rotorua to recuperate, and stated that three days in this place made him a new man.

page 47