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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 10, Issue 1 (April 1, 1935)

A Salted Soliloquy

A Salted Soliloquy.

It is there; it is here in this tramp from Canada, moored like a giant captive “hippo,” her stern soaring up from her rudder post in a blank black curve, broken only by her name rambling across her wide posterior. A blade of her single propeller juts out of the water like the burst-out busk of a disreputable corset. Her decks sweep unadorned to the castle-like superstructure in her middle. She is untidy; she is one of the salt-soaked “hoi polloi,” but she has a sort of robust vulgarity which seems to say: “I mebbe rough, I mebbe tough but, buddy, I sticks to me pals.” She is a Mae West of the seven seas. God help me, I fall in love with her ample curves and her honest countenance. And the scent she uses! It breathes of pines cloaked in frost, of trappers on snow-shoes, of bears snuffling to their winter beds; it brings visions of lumber camps, of lumber-jacks leaping bucking logs in the swirl of icy rivers.
“A nose that, knows the language of imagination.”

“A nose that, knows the language of imagination.”

page 51 It projects moving pictures on the silver sheet of imagination. A crane hoists a fifty-foot stick of reeking pine off her deck. It swings blindly in mid-air as if seeking to touch some familiar object in this unfamiliar land, to remind it of the ice-bound mountain from which it was wrested.