CASUAL COMMENTS

Press, Volume LXIV, Issue 19268, 24 March 1928, Page 13

CASUAL COMMENTS

VARIOUS LIGHTS. (.SPICIALLT WSITI** T0» THY FKIS9.) [By Leo Faxnisg.] Free as a bird and swift ss Bummer lightning, Fly forth, my 6oul, and find eomo kindred soul, Aa stars that meet in space and doubly brightening Pursue their loving way through spaces olo—uolo^-coal—foal—goal— Pursue their way to some far-distant goal. Extract from !S\ H. Dole's ,'On a Leesbore by the Sea-shore (a Strugglo for Khyuies)."

Astronomers say that some of tho suns, called stars, are so far away that their light, travelling 186,000 miles a second, would take millions of years to reach the earth. Well, it is comforting to know that wo are so distant from such hot company and are not lilvely to collide with the flaring monsters. Whether their rays come in straight lines, or curves, loops or zigzags does not seem to matter much at present, but (according to science) it may have something to do in the long run with the radio industry or even with the cult of the cow or the cabbage. However, this article is not concerned at all with the lights of heavenly bodies, except the beams from the twin stars of Beauty.

One night of this summer, walking along the harbour front, I was suddenly stopped by a light at the rickety gangway of a schooner. It was an old friendly oil-lamp, and this relic of the past—with the creaking of the moorings as the little vessel rose and fell on the slow swell of the tide —brought up a rush of memories. There was another oil-lamp on the foremast, and it was pleasant to think that it had been hauled up to its position by hand, and that the light was not electric. That swinging lamp stirred up somo halfforgotten words of John Masefield — published a quarter of a century ago—about a "riding lantern going up at dusk," and I had to hunt up the passage. Here it is:—

"Some day, perhaps, when the golden ace has returned and all clip-per-ships and liners are rusted nests for the tunnies beyond the reach of lead, the oarsmen of the world's galleys will have a poesy and a drama. They will have an elaborate ritual of beautiful songs. They will sing hymns to the sea when the riding lantern goes up at dusk. They will invest their affection for the elements with the attributes of deity, and they will act little plays about the under-water and the white goddesses that haunt the weeds thereof."

On the fore-hatch of the schooner sat a sailor of the old school, cutting a plug of tobacco, a neat pipeful which he presently lit skilfully. . The glowing bowl was pressed quickly a few times by an expert finger, and then came a steady puffing. In the dim light the veteran's eyes had a look of reverie which seemed to be reaching back through long years qf wandering through the seven seas. Such a sailor might have been in Masefield's gaze for his spokesman in the "Port of Many Ships":—

"It's a sunny pleasant anchorage, is Kingdom Come, Where crews is always layin' aft for double-tots o' rum, 'N 1 there's dancin', 'n' fiddlin' of every kind o' sort; It's a fine place for suilor-mon is that there port. 'N' I wish — I wish as I was there. ' "Drowned old wooden hookers green wi' drippin' wrack, Ships as never fetched t,o port, as never

came back. Swingin' to the bjushin' tide, dippin' to

the swell, 'N' the crews all.singin', sonny, beatin' on the bell. 'N' I wish— I wish as I was there."

Mqsefield could not have evolved that poem on a modern motor-Jiner. * * f That oil-lamp of the schooner linked UP with other oil-lamps of long agor—the lights of old inns by the wayside in many peaceful country places of New Zealand. What gladness the light gave when it suddenly flickered on the turn of a dark, dusty road after weary hours of tramping. . . Clatter of hooves, tethering of horses, big, burly men breasting the bar and asking for Imperial pints, chatting seriously for a time about crops and stock, and. then jesting about anything and everything. . . . It is said that things still happen that way in parts of Westland, Southland, and Northland (the ' carefree peninsula stretching up from Auckland).

Qf course, the oil-Jamp also revived memories of its ancestor, the' "slushlamp." . . . Years slid away, and I was one of two trampers in the middle of the South Inland. Wo had underestimated a stfigo of the journey, and found ourselves foodless at sunset, far from inns. We questioned a passing horseman about the popularity of the "sundowner" in that locality, and his words cast gloom upon us. However, we left the road, and headed ' for a sheep station. We were too shrewd to ask for food. Under cover we scanned the landscape, located the cook's galley and a wood-heap. Silently we found two axes, and began a tattoo on the timber. The cook came out in a scowl, which changed into' a smile when he saw the good work going on. He said nothing, and turned back to his job. In tep minutes he was out again, ran an appraising glance over the growing stack of fire-lengths, and again went back to his galley. After a quarter of an hpur, filled with the merry din °f chopping, he ivas out again—this time %vith a noble platter of hot scones, well buttered, a big jug of tea, and copious blessings for ourselves, our ancestors, and possible descendants. So the freedom of the shearers' quarters was bestowed upon us, and in f 1 o course we were invited to take hands at euchre with a very greasy pack of cards, in the fitful, smelly light of a slush-lamp, which the men had made with meat tins, rancid fat, and coarse wicks. That station is still carrying on, but probably nobody in the electrically-lit "bunkery" has ever seen a slushlump. 0 * * *

Just around a headland fropi that schooner a harbour light known as "Blinky Bill" would be up-to-date upstart, hustling and bustling to give his momentary gleams between dashes of darkness. Further out is the steady fixed light for which trustworthy oil is still retained.

What interesting individuality those harbour and coastal lights have —fixed lights far enough apart to save a mariner from mistaking one for another, and various flashers between them. Some have the hurry-on habit of "Blinky"Bill," and others have dignified entrances and exits. The flashing light of Cape Campbell is very stately. It comes out gracefully from the darkness, stays some moments, and leaves as if loath to go—and is back again soon for another greeting, like a dear friend who returns in his parting.

Well, here is the column nearly done, and no mention has been made of the spring-socket candle lamps of old cabs and coaches, nor of tlje social and political will-o'-therwigps or Jack-o-lantern,