NEW ZEALAND THROUGH AMERICAN SPECTACLES.

Manawatu Herald, Volume XXXVI, Issue 1276, 25 July 1914, Page 4

NEW ZEALAND THROUGH AMERICAN SPECTACLES.

Paul Gooding, a Bostonian, has published some impressions of a trip to New Zealand, and this book should certainly assist the New Zealand Tourist Department in the United States, for he has exercised good judgment in his descriptive matter, and brightens his description with many breezy stories: —

“Speed in construction is another popular joke subject with New Zealanders. A hundred miles of railway takes many years to build. “When will the North Auckland line be completed ? ” I asked an Auckland manufacturer.

“‘God knows,’ he answered, with a sigh.

“ ‘ When do you expect railway communication with Gisborne?’ I inquired of the Opotiki hotelkeeper. “ ‘ Not in our day.’ he grimly replied.

“ Once a Government Minister assured a deputation that the Opotiki-Gisborne line was ‘ pushing ahead rapidly ; ’ whereupon a member of the delegation inquired : “‘Do you think the railway will leach our district during the life of our leases? '

“ ‘ What is the term of your lease?’ asked the Minister. “ ‘ Niue hundred and ninetynine years,’ responded the delegate,” The author gives us a description of his first ride on a “ tram ” in Auckland, an experience that offered some contrasts to corresponding experiences on the American street cars:

“ No, I did not want a cab : I wanted to ride in a * tram.’ The factory whistles were blowing five o’clock when, soon after landing, I saw a sign reading : ‘ No standing in this car.’ Recollecting street cars of the United States with passengers crowding platforms, fenders, and roofs, I thought, ‘ That’s the car for me.’ Following the example of a score of workmen, I slid hastily into a seat. It was bare and hard, but that sign was so comforting that I read it again, and wished lor a similar order on American car lines. Then I chanced to look at the aisle. It was little more than a foot wide ! All the seats were narrow, too, and shoulders and legs necessarily encroached on the aisle, to the discomfort of the conductor.

“ Along this passage the conductor squirmed with a leather pouch, or bag, slung in front of him. In his band he carried a boxlike affair holding a row of tickets in blocks in vauous colours. To aid him in removing the tickets he carried on his breast a small sponge with which he frequently moistened his thumb and forefinger. When I handed him a coin, his band dropped into the bag. Immediately there was a great rattling. The conductor was drawing on his stock of coppers, each as big as a half dollar, but worth only two cents. As most of his fares were pennies, quarts of coin seemed not unknown to him.

“ Just past a coiner our car was stopped. Something had happened.

“‘What is the trouble?’ I asked a man.

“‘They put a bloke off,’ said he. ‘There were too many in the car.’

“ ‘ Too many in the car! Ob, America! ”

Mr Gooding was presentgat the soaping of Wairoa, the officiating priestess being Kathleen, who was

clothed in a flax mat completely covered with kawa, kiwi, and pigeon feathers. “The caretaker approached her with a big white bag in hand. It was half full of yellow soap cut into small cubes. “ ‘Are you ready, Kathleen?’he asked. “ ‘Yes,’ she promptly answered. “Taking out two or three handfuls of soap, the caretaker threw them into Wairoa’s deep throat, and then handed the bag to Kathleen. Grasping the string handle at the bottom of the bag, she opened the mouth, and out poured a saponaceous stream. “ ‘How long must we wait to see Wairoa play ?’ I inquired of Georgiana.

“‘Ten minutes, usually,’ she replied. “The minutes passed, but there was only a slight increase in the volume of steam at Wairoa’s mouth, and there were no subterranean signs of an imminent eruption. Fifteen, twenty minutes passed with very little change. “When thirty minutes had gone there was a rumble, then a splash of water. The people near the geyser backed away. Two or three more splashes followed, and each was higher than its predecessor. Then came a hoarse roar, a rush of steam, and up past a low sulphur-dyed sinter wall flashed a column of water carrying up clouds of steam. Soap, just common washing soap, had conquered Wairoa and forced it from its lair. Up it continued to go—fifty, sixty, eighty, one hundred and twenty feet. “ ‘Wairoa would have gone higher if it hadn’t been for the wind,’ the caretaker told me. ‘lt has been known to go one hundred and eighty feet.’ “While Wairoa played it played magnificently. In its shaft it rumbled, it flung its hot breath upon the venturesome, and for more than one hundred, feet around it shook the ground until the earth trembled. For ten minutes it rose and fell. Then down it went, like a thermometer on a frosty night, until it was a mere splasher.”

Another volcano is White .Island, and it is still so active that on clear days its steam can be seen fifty miles away. White Mountain contains an acidified crater ake fifteen acres in extent. At imes it rises and falls from two to hree feet, but there is no connection between it and the tides. Its waters have a temperature of 110 degrees, and they contain hydrochloric acid, pentathionic acid, and boron, and these have a peculiarly corroding effect upon whatever they touch : “ White Island shows its hostility to its visitors in peculiar ways. It does more than awe them —it plays tricks on them. When the wise embark for the volcano, they wear old clothes and shoes.” The author discovered that American literature has become popular in New Zealand, and that Wellington has an Art Gallery, “ although the city herself seems hardly to be aware of that fact and apparently many of its residents had never heard of it when I inquired for it. “‘lt is a little beyond the Library,” my first informant assured me.

“ I went a little beyond that distance, but I saw nothing resembling an Art Gallery. “ ‘ Can you tell me where the Art Gallery is ? ’ I asked another man.

“ ‘ No, I’ll be blowed if I can,’ he replied.

“ I repeated the question to a third man.

“‘Blest if I can,’ said he. ‘I didn’t know we had an Art Gallery.’

“Then I went into the Public Library and appealed to a young woman assistant.

“ ‘ It is hard to direct you,’ she laughingly answered- . 4 lt is so small; it is a littlfc brick building with some trees around it.’

“ Finally I found this secluded building, after inquiring the way again of a group of four men, only one of whom was able to direct me. The Gallery building was of modest proportions, as I had been told, and the collection was small. But the name was entirely satisfactory. Over the Gallery’s portals were these words: ‘ New Zealand’s Academy of Fine Arts.’ ”