ANCIENT TREASURE

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 35, 4 May 1927, Page 14

ANCIENT TREASURE

To have an unlimited source of wealth to draw upon is an idea as fascinating as it is hopeless. That there are such mines of treasure no one will deny, and in all ages men have risked life and limb in attempt to find such “El Dorados. ?Nations. too, have joined in this exciting race, which has resulted in numerous wars and the discovery of many new lands. About the year 1511 the contemptuous remark of a native chief over the European worship of gold, overheard by Vasco Nunez de Balboa, the Spanish explorer, led to an expedition being sent to Peru, the land of the Incas. As far as c;be ascertained, the Inca Empire expended over practically all the land now occupied by the Republic of Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia and a portion of Chile. It's centre, or capital, was situated in the very heart of the Peruvian-Bolivian Andes. The mountains in this part of the range simply teemed with gold and silver. When the Spaniards, after untold hardship, eventually gained this land, and conquered the natives, they were amazed at the wealth displayed. The boast of the young chief had been no idle one, for everywhere there was gold, gold and more gold. The palaces of the Incas, or ruling race, were actually plated with gold and silver. At Cuzco, the capital, was the Temple of the Sun. The Peruvians were sun-worshippers, and believed that the original Inca and his wife came down from the sun to rule over them. The historian tells us that this temple was “literally a mine of gold.” On one wall was emblazoned a representation of the deity. It was of enormous dimensions and made of gold. Being studded with gems, it seemed to blaze with light, and must indeed have been an amazing and brilliant thing to look upon. The greater part of this visible treasure found its way into the pockets of the Spaniards. But apart from this there was still a great deal undiscovered. Frequently great treasures were buried in the tombs of the Inca nobles, and although many of them were rifled later on there must still be some left.

The Peruvians are also said to have secreted a great mass of their valuables away from the rapacity of their Spanish masters, and in some instances threw them into the rivers and lakes.

THE BLUEBELL WOOD They’re building in the bluebell wood; We’ll never go again To hunt for dragon, or to sit In a wigwam in the rain. The bluebell shoots among the grass Will never come to flowers; We shall not see the blossom fall Like tinted snow in showers. The heavy waggons, bringing bricks, Have 'churned the turf to mire. And branches of the fallen trees Burn in a smoky fire. The hedge is dug up by the roots That used to line the lane; They’re building in the bluebell wood— We’ll never go again. —George Woden. AD MONTES The marsh-fowl’s lonely cry I hear, I see the mill’s dark sails asleep, The placid pool, the slumbrous mere The lane aflood with sheep. But to the hills leaps my desire, I thirst to tread the trackless moor; Her magic stirs the imprisoned fire, A shrine, her purple floor. I burn to feel the breath divine, The inspiration of the height; To catch the murmur of the pine, Voice of the Infinite. Regretful reverie is vain! Mine, halting hours and exile lone; No sun-bathed summits, pensive plain, Life a drear monotone. H. G. TUNNICLIFF. TREES Among our best companions through life may we not count the trees? In summer they shade us with their branches; in winter they whisper like friends. Nearly all of us have some trees tucked away among our early recollections, the row of poplars at the end of the meadow, the chestnut with its candles in spring and its brown nuggets in autumn, the apple tree that won our cupboard love, the plain tree that lit up some corner of the dusty town with its hopeful green. What was it that Tom Hood remembered? “I remember, I remember The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky.” If the trees could remember us how quickly we should come and go in the lives of some of them! They would see us as children playing in their shade, as growing boys and girls, as men and women whose hair grows grey while every year the tree renews its own bright crown of green. Many generations pass by the trees. There are not enough of such memorials. The great cities, sinking every year into their smoke and grime, cry out for more trees, trees in avenues, trees along the streets. The trees would for generations stir people to recall the name of those in whose honour they were planted. Even if the fame of a man’s deeds were dimmed, children would thank him for this good thing that came about because of him. PRESERVING THE BUFFALO Two thousand young buffalo bulls and heifers, natives of Wainwright Buffalo Park, on the main line of the Canadian National Railways, will shortly be established in the great Wood Buffalo Reserve, on the south side of Great Slave Lake, the subjects of one of the most interesting experiments in the preservation of wild life that has yet been attempted. There they are expected to mingle and interbreed with the two great herds of wild Wood Bison, the only wild animals of their kind on the continent, and it may not cause surprise if a few years hence the big game hunter is permitted to take out his licence -which permits him to shoot one or two buffalo in the fall of the year. Canada’s experiment with the buffalo has been watched with interest all over the world, for at Wainwright, Alberta, the Government of the Dominion owns the greatest herd of these animals in the world. There in an enclosure containing more than 105,000 square miles, and sur rounded by a nine-foot steel wire fence, a herd of 71 buffalo was turned wild some 18 years ago. To-day there are more than 8,000 animals in the park and an outlet for the increase had to be found. A crowd is not company, faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a. tinkling cymbal where there is no love.