EASTERN PORTS OF CALL.
Our next port of call was Macassar in the Celebes Islands. It was raining, but it rains nearly 
every day in this part of the world. The Dutch section
of the city is lovely, with wide streets and well-built bungalows set in beautiful gardens full of 
tropical flowers and trees; but the more interesting
part of the town to me was the Native quarter. The Natives look like Chinese, but they have also a 
mixture of Melanesian blood. We were pestered
all the time by rickshaw boys, who couldn't believe that we wanted to walk. They have bicycle 
rickshaws rather like an errand boy's bicycle with
a very large carrier-basket in front in which the passenger sits, while the boy pedals along behind.
These boys wear all kinds of costumes, but most of  them have a long garment called a sarong 
wrapped round their hips and legs, this being
usually of a very gay colour, most often bright pink, which looked really beautiful against the 
green of the trees. Trees were everywhere, the
Native streets being merely tracks cut through the trees, with little huts made chiefly of plaited palms, nestling 
at the foot. The tradesmen go round to the houses
carrying their goods in two big baskets slung on the ends of a pole across their shoulders. In these 
baskets we saw fruit of many strange varieties,
vegetables, rice, fish, cakes, and everything that a housewife would need.
At the Native market we saw many Natives having lunch, squatting on the ground in front of a stall 
full of little dishes of food. I don't know what
they all were, but rice, pineapple, and coconut seemed to be the chief items. When the customers had 
finished, the restaurant-keeper picked up
his stall, packed his dishes and food into one basket and his portable cooking stove into another, 
and walked off with his establishment on his
shoulders, until he saw somebody else looking hungry.
 There are very few motor-cars, and these belong
to the Dutch people. The Natives use heavy carts
for their goods, drawn by lumbering water buffaloes
with enormous spreading horns., It is, however, chiefly man-power that is used in Macassar. Our ship was carrying a great cargo 
of wheat from
Australia, and dropping some at each port of call.
This was packed in fifty-pound sacks, which were
unloaded by men. They ran up one gangway,
shouldered their bag or bags-some carried four at once - and ran down another gangway and into a
shed,  where they received a token for each  bag. At the end of the day they were paid according to the number of token they 
could show. The long files
running up and down the planks reminded me of
ants carrying food away to their nests.
When we returned to our ship, we found it
surrounded with Native craft called proas, small
boats with large square sails made of plaited palm leaves, and also the outrigger canoes. These look like huge spiders on the 
water, the outrigging forming the legs. One
got into our wash and it was tossed so violently that
it seemed certain to upset, but it didn't, so they must be a very safe kind of boat.
The chief export of Macassar, by the way, is copra, used very largely for hair oil. You know of the old-fashioned chair-covers 
called anti-macassars; and now do you see why they have so strange a name ?
From Macassar we went to Bali, a tiny island lying to the south of Java. This.is also part of the Netherlands East
Indies. We left the ship at one port, rejoining it at another; and we were lucky to arrive on New Year's Day - their
reckoning, not ours - and as it was a feast day and holiday one saw everything at its best. The people are chiefly
Hindu in religion - that is, they worship gods like Bhrama, Vishni, and Shevi - and the island is full of great temples. On
feast days the women carry offerings to the temple-huge piles of fruit and gaily coloured cakes of rice flour, beautifully
arranged in the form of a cone, sometimes four or five feet high, and, topped with a bright array of flowers. They carry these 
erections on their heads, and to see the
women walking single file along the roads to the temple, each with her beautiful offering and dressed in her gaily
coloured sarong, is, I think, the loveliest thing I have seen in all my travels. At the temple the offering is
presented to the priest amidst a loud and monotonous banging of gongs.  The priest sprinkles it with holy water, and
then returns it to its owner, who takes it home again for the family to enjoy. I thought that was a very good idea!
The women are beautiful, but as they seem to do all the hard work they very quickly grow old-looking. The men sit about outside 
their  homes, fondling their fighting cocks. Cock-fighting is forbidden except on feast days. The birds are specially trained to 
fight,
and they have a long steel spur, sharp as a knife, strapped to one foot. 

BALI WOMEN CARRYING TEMPLE OFFERINGS.

The fighting is a very disgusting and horrible sight, and we saw the whole village gathered round the cock pit, shouting, betting, 
and chewing betel nut. Betel nut is the fruit of a palm tree, which is sold in little slices wrapped
in a leaf. The Natives chew it incessantly, and it turns their teeth black, and their lips and gums a bright scarlet, while the saliva, 
which they have an unfortunate habit of 
spitting, is also bright
red.
We noticed that a number of people rode bicycles, and when I inquired I found that in Bali it is 
possible to buy a
bicycle made in Japan for eight guilders, a guilder being about two and four-pence. This includes a 
heavy duty which
is imposed on Japanese goods. The cheapest Dutch bicycle, which comes in duty free, costs about 
ninety guilders,
and the cheapest British one about a hundred and forty guilders. The Japanese goods do not last long, 
but until they
fall to pieces the Natives are quite happy on them.
Because it was feast day, everyone was out either at the cock-fighting or in the temple watching the 
dancing. The
dances are very strange; the dancers hardly move from one spot, but their whole bodies are swaying 
even to the
finger tips, while their eyes and faces are changing in expression all the time. The dances are 
really stories, rather
difficult to follow unless one is familiar with them. They are accompanied by a strange orchestra 
called a "gamelong." It consists of about a dozen men, sitting before what looks like a long tray, filled 
with inverted pudding
basins. These are really gongs and they are played upon with a stick, producing a sound not unmusical but monotonous.
In the street we met a procession of people beating gongs and performing what is called the "lion 
dance." A huge
image, more like a dragon than a lion, is moved by two men inside it, one in its head, and one in its 
tail, while the
long body sags and sways between them. These then cut all sorts of capers to the accompaniment of 
the music, and they are aided by small boys who wear grotesque masks and dance round all the time. It has a meaning  to them, 
but I was unable to find out what it was. 
The Balinese carry their pigs to market in round baskets, rather like small bolsters, through which piggy's ears, legs, tail and, 
nose protrude, while he keeps up a constant squeal.

A BALI ORCHESTRA.

Water buffaloes do the ploughing,
and the fields and hillsides are wonderfully terraced for rice-growing. Every field is a
pool of water, kept full by drainage from the field above, and in its turn draining to the field 
beneath, so that the rice is
growing in several inches of water. Coffee is grown in Bali, too, and, of course, coconuts.
Not long after leaving Bali we reached Singapore,
"The cross-roads of the Pacific," " The Gateway to the East," &c., as the geography says. It really 
has a very
important position, and the approach to the harbour is heavily fortified, though the cliffs all look 
innocent enough, and one would never suspect that they were bristling with guns. There is also a huge naval dockyard 
there, which I
visited.
Singapore is a lovely city where East and West live side by side. Our hotel faced in front on to a 
beautiful cathedral
square, which might have come straight out of England, while its side windows overlooked a street 
which might have
come straight out of Shanghai. My room overlooked it, and I knew! The noise was incessant. Gongs 
boomed,
rickshaw men shouted, wandering pedlars called attention to their goods with loud wooden rattles, 
and a
gramophone store played Chinese records constantly from 7 a.m. till midnight. All the glamour of the East ! Apart
from the noise it was very interesting, and I never tired of sitting on my balcony and watching the 
scene beneath.
 Here comes a Chinese woman, clip-clopping along
on tiny feet about three  long. The Chinese no longer bind feet, but one still sees
occasionally a woman deformed like this. Next comes a rickshaw boy, as thin as a lath, his brown 
body glistening
with sweat as he pulls his vehicle behind him, plying for the miserable sum of threepence per mile.  
In the corner of a shop door opposite sits an old man, a living skeleton. His dull eyes and thin body tell the tale of 
the opium smoker.
Amongst the Chinese mingle the Hindus with their turbans, and long shirts worn outside their 
trousers and rather
spoiling the effect of their grave and dignified bearing.Opposite the hotel is a snake charmer, and 
the wild and rather
haunting music of his pipes adds to the clamour while, as you watch, the lid of his basket opens and up rises slowly the wicked-
looking head of a cobra.

HINDUS IN SINGAPORE, WEARING THEIR SHIRTS OUTSIDE THEIR TROUSERS.

The European section of the town has many fine buildings and shops, but it is in the Chinese quarter that one finds the most 
interesting places – quaint temples, fascinating little curio shops and queer-looking eating houses.
-Extract of an account written by Miss M. BOWER, an exchange teacher, for the pupils of the Waihopai School, Invercargill. 
(With kind permission.)
 
SAFETY FIRST  
IN CYCLING, NEVER SWERVE OR RIDE  MORE THAN TWO ABREAST. 

SAFETY FIRST.
NEVER MEDDLE WITH ELECTRIC FITTINGS.

MURU.
There was in old times a great institution which reigned with iron rod in Maoriland - the muru. 
Pakehas that knew no better, called the muru simply robbery, because the word muru commonly
means to plunder. I speak, however, of the regular legalized system of plundering as penalty for 
offences, which in a rough way resembled our laws by which a man is obliged to pay damages.
 The offences for which people were plundered
were sometimes of a nature which, to a mere pakeha,
would seem curious. A chief's child fell in the fire
and was almost burnt to death. The father was
immediately plundered to an extent that left him
without means of subsistence: fishing-nets, canoes,
pigs, provisions - all went. If his canoe upset and some of his family were drowned, he was immediately robbed, and, if he was 
not good in the science of self-defence, well pummelled with a club into the
bargain, the club part of the ceremony being always fairly administered, one against one. He might be 
clearing some land for potatoes, burning off the fern and the fire spreads farther than he
intended and gets into a burial ground. No matter whether any one has been buried in it or not for 
the last hundred years, the man is tremendously robbed; in fact, for ten thousand different
causes a man might be legally robbed.
 These punishments by robbery were never
resisted; indeed, in many cases it would have been
felt a slight, and even an insult, not to be robbed.
The sacking of a man's establishment was often taken
as a high compliment, especially if his head was
broken into the bargain, and to resist the execution
not only would have been looked upon as mean and
disgraceful, but it would have debarred the contemptible individual from the privilege of robbing his neighbours when their turn 
came.
 Let us by way of illustration take the case of the
burnt child. Soon after the accident it will be
heard of in the neighbouring villages, and the
mother's family probably live in one of them.
According to the law of muru, they have the first
and greatest right to clean out the afflicted father, a
child being considered to belong to its mother's
family more than to that of its father.  The child
was, moreover, a promising lump of a boy, the
making of a  future warrior, and consequently very
valuable to the tribe in general, and to the mother's family in particular.
 "A pretty thing to let  him
get spoiled!" Then he is a boy of good family, a
rangatira by birth, and it would never do to  let
the thing pass without making a noise about it.
That would be an insult to the families of both
father and mother.
Decidedly, besides being robbed, the chief must be assaulted with a spear. True, he is a famous spearman, and for his own credit 
must hurt some one or another if attacked. This, however, is of no 
consequence; a flesh wound more or less deep is to be counted on; and then think of the
plunder! It is against the law of muru that any one should be killed, and first blood ends the duel. 
Then the natural affection of the child's relatives is deep. They are all in a great state of
excitement, and busy trying to remember how many canoes and pigs and other valuable articles the 
father possesses, for this must be a clean sweep.
A strong party is now mustered, headed probably by the brother of the child's mother. The victim 
smiles; he feels highly complimented; he is thought worthy of a large force being sent to rob him !
Now he prepares a huge feast for the friendly robbers, his relatives. He may as well be  liberal, for his provisions are sure to go 
whether or no. Pigs are killed and baked whole; potatoes are piled in great heaps; all is made ready; he looks out his best spear 
and keeps it always ready in his 
hand.
At last the party appears on a hill, half a mile off; then all the fighting men of the section of 
the tribe of which the chief is an important member collect at his back, armed with spears, and
clubs to show that they could resist if they would - a thing, however, not to be. thought of 
under the circumstances. The mother begins to cry in proper form, and the  tribe shouts the 
call of
welcome to  the approaching robbers.
After war dances performed by both sides, the man's brother-in-law, advances, spear in hand, with 
the most alarming gestures. "Stand up! Stand up! I will kill you this day!" is his cry. The defendant is not slow to answer the 
challenge. A most exciting
and apparently desperately dangerous fencing bout with spears commences. The attack and defence are 
in the highest degree scientific; the spear-shafts keep up a continuous rattle; the thrust and parry and stroke with the spear-shaft 
follow one another with 
almost incredible rapidity. At last, the brother-in-law is slightly touched; blood also drops from
our  chief's side. The fight instantly ceases. As they lean on their spears, a little badinage 
probably takes place between the combatants, and then the brother-in-law, shouts, "Murua, murua, murua!"

FENCING WITH SPEARS.

The plundering party at once begins a regular sack, while the two principals sit down quietly for a friendly chat, in which the 
child's name is never mentioned, nor the inquiry as to whether he is dead or alive made!
 The case described would be one of more than ordinary  importance; slighter "accidents and offences" 
would be atoned for by a milder form of operation. The general effect was to keep personal property circulating from hand to 
hand pretty 
briskly, if not to convert it into public property, for no man could say who would be the owner of
his canoe or blanket in a month's time.
 Indeed,  in that space of time, I once saw a nice
coat, which a native had got from the captain of
a trading schooner, pass through the hands and over the backs of six different owners, and return considerably the worse for wear 
to the original
purchaser. All these transfers had been made by
legal process of muru.
I have been often myself paid the compliment of being robbed for little accidents occurring in my 
family, and several times also, from a feeling of politeness, I have robbed my Maori friends,
although I can't say I was a great gainer by these transactions. I think the greatest haul I ever 
made was half a bag of shot, which I thought a famous joke, seeing that I had sold it the day before
to the owner for full value.
A month after this I was disturbed early in the morning by a voice calling, " Get up, get up! I will 
kill you this day! You have roasted my grandfather. Get up! Stand up! " I, of course, guessed that I
had committed some heinous though involuntary offence, and the" Stand up! " hinted the immediate 
probable consequences. So out I turned, spear in hand, and who should I see, armed with a
bayonet at the end of a long pole, but my friend the sometime owner of the bag of shot!
 He came at me with pretended fury, made some smart bangs and thrusts, which I parried, and then
explained to me that I had cooked his grandfather. He intimated that, if  I did not do something handsome in the way of damages 
, deeply as he might 
regret it, his own credit and the law of muru compelled him either to sack my house or die in the 
attempt. I was glad enough to prevent either event by paying him two whole bags of shot, two
blankets, divers fish hooks  and certain figs of tobacco.

MORTAL REMAINS HUNG ON A TREE BEFORE BEING TAKEN TO THE CAVE OF THE DEAD.

I found that I had really and truly committed a most horrid crime. I had on a journey made my fire at the foot of a tree, in the top 
of which the bones of my friend's grandfather had been 
deposited, but from which they had been removed ten years before. The tree caught fire and it was 
burnt.
I, therefore, by a convenient sort of figure of speech had roasted his grandfather, and had to pay 
the penalty accordingly.
----- Slightly adapted from "Old New Zealand," by F. E. MANING, "A pakeha Maori."

BRAVE WORK.
When nations are at war men are constantly being called upon to do hazardous deeds of many and various 
kinds, and the brave manner in which again and again the
call is answered fills us all with the greatest respect and admiration. This story is one of the many 
of selfless heroism already provided by the present war, chosen
because of its somewhat unusual nature.
 Last November, two days after the Germans adopted the method of dropping magnetic mines from the air, 
two fell in the Thames estuary, one of them being seen by some
artillery men. A naval party at once began a long search by the fitful light of the moon, and in the 
bitingly cold wind blowing over the exposed mud-flats. At last they
found the mine - a black, pear-shaped object, with a small parachute attached, embedded in the mud. It
contained seven hundred pounds of high explosive!
Later a party of experts arrived from a torpedo school, and using the utmost care they made the mine secure; their task was most 
perilous because they knew nothing of the mechanism that exploded 
the mine.
The plan then was for one officer to go
out to the mine, while the others stayed at a safe distance; and it was Lieut.-Commander Ouvray who 
volunteered for
this hazardous task. Before going, he told his men exactly what part of the mine he was going to 
get. The grim idea was
that, if he happened to operate a detonator and blow himself up, the others would know the part of a 
magnetic mine to
avoid in future. In all the work in connection with handling the mine, tools made of paper wrappings 
were used.
Lieut.-Commander Ouvray came back safely with the part of the mine he had set off to obtain It 
was cautiously
examined and found to be a detonator. That having been removed the mine was thought to be harmless, 
and the
whole party gathered round it, applying screwdrivers and wrenches with a will. Then to their 
horrified surprise they
found another detonator inside. This second danger was now successfully dealt with, and  the mine, being finally
taken to pieces, was sent away for thorough examination.
These magnetic mines are entirely constructed of non-magnetic aluminium, and are fitted with an 
impact detonator on
the outside (the first one found) which enables the mine, if necessary, to be used as a bomb and 
dropped on a ship.
The second detonator is inside, where springs hold a magnetic needle horizontal. When a magnetic 
body, such as a
metal ship, passes above, the end of the magnet is drawn up and it makes contact with the detonator. The mine is
thus set off with its seven hundred pounds of explosive. 
Many magnetic mines are dropped from sea- planes, and attached to parachutes they fall gently into
the sea. They then lie on the bottom of the ocean in wait for ships passing overhead. As they are probably not 
effective if lying
deeper than fifty fathoms, they are sown chiefly in the shallows of the North Sea.
Since the finding of the first magnetic mine in England, many more have been recovered intact, and the positions of others have 
been charted. One is known to be 
sitting in a
certain oyster bed,
awaiting recovery at the spring high tide and, it is said, the oysters are not at all disturbed!
For their brave work in rendering that first  magnetic mine harmless at the risk of their lives,  
Lieut.-Commander
Ouvray and Petty Officer Baldwin were decorated by the King. It is sad to have to add that Petty Officer 
Baldwin has since
lost his life in the performance of another similarly heroic deed.

SAFETY  FIRST.
CHOOSE A SAFE ROUTE TO SCHOOL, AND USE IT ALWAYS.

AUTUMN.
Thin grasses, perfectly white, bleached by sun and  dew, stood in a bunch; their seeds had 
fallen, the last dregs of sap had dried within them; there was nothing left but the bare stalks. A
creeper of bramble fenced round one side of the white grass bunch, and brown leaves were visible on 
the surface of the ground through the interstices of the spray. So thick were the haws on a
bush of thorn opposite that they tinted the hedge a red colour among the yellow hawthorn leaves. 
To this red hue the blackberries that were not ripe, the thick dry red sorrel stalks, a bright
canker on a brier almost as bright as a rose, added their colours. Already the foliage of the bushes 
had been thinned, and it was possible to see through the upper parts of the boughs. The
sunlight, therefore, not only touched their outer surfaces, but passed through and lit up the branches within, and the wild fruit 
upon them.
 Though the sky was clear and blue between the
clouds, that is, without mist or haze, the sunbeams
were coloured the faintest yellow, as they always  
are on a ripe autumn day. This yellow shone back
from grass and leaves, from bough and tree-trunk,
and seemed to stain the ground. It is very pleasant
to the eyes, a soft, delicate light, that gives another
beauty to the atmosphere. Some roan cows were
wandering down the lane, feeding on the herbage
at the side; their colour, too, was lit up by the
peculiar light, which gave a singular softness to the
large shadows of the trees upon the sward.
In a meadow by the wood the oaks cast broad shadows on the short velvety sward, not so sharp and 
definite as those of summer but tender, and, as it were, drawn with a loving hand. They were
large shadows, though it was midday - a sign if that the sun was no longer at his greatest height, but
declining. In midsummer they would scarcely have extended beyond the rim of the boughs; the rays 
would have dropped vertically; now they slanted. Pleasant as it was, there was regret in the thought that the summer was going 
fast. Another sign – the grass by the gateway, an acre of it, was brightly
yellow with hawkweeds, and under these were the last 
faded brown heads of meadow clover; the brown, the bright yellow disks, the green grass, the tinted 
sunlight falling upon it, caused a wavering
colour that fleeted before the glance.
All things brown, and yellow, and red, are
brought out by the autumn sun; the brown furrows freshly turned where stubble was yesterday, the brown 
bark of trees, the brown fallen leaves, the brown stalks of plants; the red haws, the red unripe
blackberries, red briony berries, reddish-yellow fungi, yellow hawkweed, yellow ragwort,
yellow hazel-leaves, elms, spots in lime and beech; not a spot in yellow, red, or brown the yellow 
sunlight does not find out. And these make
autumn, with the caw of rooks, the peculiar autumn caw 
of laziness and full feeding, the sky blue as March between the great masses of dry cloud
floating over the mist in the distant valleys, the tinkle of traces as the plough turns, and the silence 
of the woodland birds. The oaks were not yet
yellow, their leaves were half green, half brown;
Time had begun to invade them, but had not yet indented his full mark.
One thing I missed - the corn. So quickly was the 
harvest gathered that those who delight in the colour of the wheat had no time to enjoy it. If any 
painter had been looking forward to August to
enable him to paint the corn, he must have been
disappointed. There was no time; the sun came, saw and conquered, and the sheaves were swept from the field. Before yet the 
reapers had entered one field of ripe wheat, I did indeed for a 
brief evening obtain a glimpse of the richness
and still beauty of an English harvest.
The sun was down, and in the west a pearly grey light spread widely, with a little scarlet drawn   
along its lower border. Heavy shadows hung in the foliage of the elms; the clover had closed, and
the quiet moths had taken the place of the humming bees. Southwards, the full moon, a red-yellow 
disk, shone over the wheat, which appeared the finest 
pale amber. A quiver of colour-an undulation - seemed to stay in the air, left from the heated day;  
the sunset hues and those of the red-tinted moon fell as it were into the remnant of day, and filled
the wheat; they were poured into it, so that it  grew in their colours. Still heavier the 
shadows deepened in the skies; all was silence, save for the sound of the reapers on the other side 
of the hedge, slash-rustle, slash-rustle, and the drowsy night came down as softly as an eyelid.
-From " The Open Air," by RICHARD JEFFERIES 


THE RIGHT HON. MICHAEL JOSEPH SAVAGE, P.C.
The April number of the School Journal was published just before the death of our late Prime 
Minister, but it is not too
late for us as children to pay our tribute to Mr. Savage, the memory of whose good and noble life will never fade from our minds.

THE LATE MR. SAVAGE.

Even when we have grown to be men
and women and, later on still, have travelled far down the years to old age,  we shall probably 
have cause to bless
the name of the man who devoted himself to the cause of making the conditions of life for all free 
from care, want,
and suffering.
Michael Joseph Savage spent his boyhood on a small farm in Australia, and at the age of thirteen went 
to work in a
store. He therefore did not enjoy the benefits of the extended education provided for most of us. 
That, however, is not
to say that he grew up an uneducated man. With his keen, alert mind he continued to gain knowledge 
and wisdom,
the subjects of study that particularly interested him being history and economics. Besides learning from books he learned from 
the school of life, which for him was by no means an easy one.
 When  he reached the age of twenty, Australia
was going through very hard times, and the young
man found himself, swag on back, trudging the
roads in search of work. He was young, strong,
and energetic, and work he found, hard manual
useful labour, such as young able-bodied Australians and New-Zealanders delight to perform, thereby
becoming self-reliant, enterprising, and independent.
Then, while he toiled with his hands, his brain also
was hard at work. Seeing the bad economic condition Australia had fallen into,  resulting in
hardship and suffering on all sides, he gave his
thoughts and attention to the problem of improving
matters  especially for the poorer people.  It was
through  the Labour  Movement that he  hoped this
good work could be achieved, and of it he became an ardent follower, and later, leader.
Although  so greatly interested  in serious  and
difficult problems, the young  Mr. Savage was not
a "sober-sides." He was fond of sport, played
 cricket and, besides being a good shot
and skilful fisherman, was an expert heavy-weight
lifter. He also liked dancing very much, and is
still remembered for his performances of the Sailor's
Hornpipe and Irish Jig. Indeed, the friends with whom he lived tell of his often entertaining them,
right up to his last years, with a few steps of a jig or dance,  His quiet humour too, and fund of 
anecdotes and stories
always made him a most engaging
 companion.

MR. SAVAGE WITH A BOOK.

To those who knew him intimately, both in his early life and later, Mr. Savage was, however, much, 
more than an
agreeable acquaintance: he was the
 staunchest,  kindest, and sincerest of friends. Utterly unselfish, he shared what money he had with
any one that came to him in need, and what  he did
not give away to charity he donated to the Labour 
Movement. With his gentle kindliness and entire
lack of animosity he had a great gift for making
and keeping friends, even those who strongly opposed
him in the political arena being proud to call him their friend in private life.
When Mr. Savage came to New Zealand in the year 1906 he worked hard for his living. It is said of him 
that there was
not a lazy bone in his body, and moreover that he was always ready to help those not able to do as 
much as himself
because of inferior physical strength. The only man he would not help was the loafer, whom he always 
despised. In
New Zealand, Mr. Savage continued to take an increasing interest in the Labour 
Movement, and in the year 1919 he was sent
to Parliament by the electors of Auckland West, whom he continued to represent until the time of his death.
 Thus for the last twenty-one years of his life, he
 was free to give the whole of his time to fighting
 for  the cause  he  had adopted,  and with selfless
devotion he gave all he possessed in mind and body in the service of his fellow-men. It  was
not, 
however, until the year 1935, when the Labour Party came into power
and Mr. Savage was elected Prime Minister of New Zealand that he really had
the opportunity   of putting into effect the ideas  he had long
 cherished for the betterment of the lives of the people. He had risen to the highest
place in the land; but his own career was
of little interest  to him; it pleased him to become Prime  
Minister first and   foremost because in that position
he would be able to carry out the reforms that
would benefit others, especially the poor, the sick,
the aged, and the young and helpless.
Many of these reforms are included in the Social Security laws, which make adequate provision for all who for
some such reason as ill health or old age, are unable to earn a livelihood.  Free medical and 
hospital treatment in
time of sickness is also provided for. Mr. Savage lived to see at least part
of this new legislation in operation, and nothing gave him greater joy than to read in the happy 
faces of  hundreds of
New  Zealand men and women a freedom from care and anxiety that they had never known before.
New-Zealanders were not slow to show the gratitude and affection they felt for the Prime Minister who had done so much for 
them.  When he went on political tours through the country,
men, women,  and children flocked in hundreds and thousands to greet and cheer him. Such popularity 
in a Minister
of the Crown has never been surpassed,
and the gentle, retiring, unassuming man
that enjoyed it had it  as his only reward for a life of selfless service. He was very fond of 
children, and
a greeting from them always gave  him  especial pleasure and heartened him in his tireless  
efforts to shape for
them a better life and a better world
in the years to come.   
There was still greater evidence of the love the
people bore the late Mr. Savage when his death
took place on the 27th March last. At the church
service held in Wellington, during the two days
the body lay in state in Parliament Buildings, as
the wonderful funeral - procession wound its way
through the city streets, all that day and the
next when the train bearing the casket to Auckland
stopped at stations on the way, and finally when the  sad burden was carried over a course of  eight 
miles from the
Auckland Railway-station to its  resting
place on Point Bastion, thousands upon thousands 
of mourning and grief-stricken men, women and children, both Maori and pakeha, came to do homage 
and pay
their last respects to the Prime Minister, the friend of the people, who had lived and died in their service - the Prime Minister of 
whom the poetess, Eileen Duggan says
You would have torn your heart up for the poor As pelicans which rend themselves for ruth.
Take, then, the reverence of age and youth,
A reverence, a grief, that shall endure. 
Go forth, O Christian soul, ah greatly go, Who, unallured by pomp and worldly stir,
Carried the kit of Christ the Carpenter.

THE FUNERAL PROCESSION LEAVING PARLIAMENT 

A TRIBUTE TO THE LATE MR. SAVAGE. 
By the Hon. Peter Fraser, our new Prime Minister.
On Sunday at Point Bastion we bade farewell to the mortal remains of our leader, comrade, and 
friend, Michael
Joseph Savage.
 Two hundred thousand, or more, earnest reverent
people gathered along the route from Auckland
Railway-station and thronged at the graveside to
show their high esteem and love for New Zealand's
most beloved statesman and their appreciation of
his great work for their country and its people.
Great work it truly was; great has been its beneficial effect; and greatly has it be
been prized and admired.
Its greatness reflects the greatness  of the man .
Mr Savage was great in character, great in
honesty, great in outlook, great in achievement,
great in sympathy, great in loyalty, great in defeat,
great in victory, and greatest of all in selflessness.
He was a man who did great things for the people.
He is mourned by the whole nation and throughout  the whole British Commonwealth of Nations; 
and, indeed,
wherever social progress is valued and democracy treasured.
His name will live in the history of New Zealand and of humanity in general.
It is printed indelibly on the scroll of fame.
He worked to uplift those who had fallen by the wayside; to help and comfort the widow and
orphan; to assist the mothers; to succour the sick, the suffering, the afflicted, the distressed; to 
give security to the
aged; and to make life worth living for all.
To him was given success in his lifetime. He saw his efforts to benefit the people bear fruit a 
thousandfold. He saw
the people enjoying the benefits of the humanitarian programme he had helped to frame and to carry to 
fruition.
His works will endure because they are based on the rock of social justice. His deeds are 
imperishable because they
were inspired by eternal truth.
His name will live in the hearts of the people of New Zealand. Tens of thousand of to-day and 
to-morrow will cherish
his memory.
His life is an example and an inspiration.
It was an epic of sincerity and unselfishness.
No more selfless man ever lived. There was not a grain of selfishness in his nature. He lived for 
others and for the
good he could do for all.
Even in the last days of his illness his thoughts were not for himself, but for the people he loved 
and who loved him.
His concern was not for the outcome of his illness, but for the Dominion and the Government he led so 
ably and
devotedly.
 He had no fear of death, but he hoped to live long enough to carry still further the work he had so 
well begun.
It was not to be.
In the full course of his statesmanship he was struck down.
Clear-headed and considerate up to the last few days, when he mercifully lost consciousness his 
interest in public
matters was as strong and keen as ever. And, transcending his suffering, was his will to serve humanity.
The people he loved, and to whose service he dedicated his life, loved him in turn. They have 
honoured him in death
as no man was ever honoured in this land of ours.
Few in history have been honoured by the people in any land as Michael Joseph Savage was honoured.
No one who witnessed the funeral procession in Wellington marching through streets crowded with 
solemn, sorrowing people in their tens of thousands can ever forget the scene.
Those who saw the demonstrative grief of the large crowds at small stations, and the huge gatherings on the important stations, 
on the way to Auckland  will ever remember 
the devotion, the
sincerity, the sorrow, and the sadness of the thousands upon thousands who gathered from far and 
near to show
their grief and friendship for him who had passed from them, but whose memory and works remained a 
treasured
possession with them.
Those who progressed along the eight-mile funeral route in  Auckland, who witnessed the people 
standing all along
the whole distance, who looked over the assembly at the burial -place can ever forget the sight. It 
was overwhelming
in its massed and unmeasured intensity of sorrow.
There will be no forgetting.
The life of Michael Joseph Savage lives in his legacy of achievement for the mass of  the people of our land. His
works are already part of our national heritage. They are interwoven into our country's history. They 
will not die.
 The memory of our dear friend and great  leader,
Michael Joseph Savage, will live on in the hearts
of the people of New Zealand and his fame as a
great statesman and benefactor of mankind will endure.
His  lasting monument is the love of his fellow-men.

A HOME UNDER THE ICE.
[In the year 1935 a party of young University students went exploring in Arctic regions. Our story describes their living quarters 
in one of the two stations they set up on the ice-cap.]
By the middle of December the excavations were completed except for the shaft. The tent was buried 
far under the surface, and the appearance above gave little idea of the complexity below. Only the wireless masts 
and the
meteorological instruments betrayed the existence of the station. Rather as in Peter Pan, however, a 
careful observer
might have found the tiny ventilator, just appearing above the surface, from which in cold weather there puffed a never-ending 
cloud of steam.
A packing-case formed the front door. Its lid
was hinged to form a trap-door, through which one
climbed, scrambling down  the shaft to the main
tunnel below. In the centre of the door there was
a small circular panel, which could be removed from
underneath. It was large enough to allow a hand
to pass through, so that any drift-snow above could
be cut away. Without it, the weight of snow after a blizzard would often have been immovable. Battering against the door would 
have been in vain,
the occupants being well and truly imprisoned. The small opening alone secured their safety. Because of fresh falls of snow, as 
well as the drifting the
surface was continually rising,  so that in a week or two, the whole packing-case might be submerged.
All that then had to be done was to raise the box, its sides being supported by iron bars which were 
hammered into
the snow.
From below  the entrance shaft a thirty-foot-long
tunnel led to a point beneath the wooden floor of the
 tent. Passages and tent were, of course, totally dark, and a primus lamp burned continuously. It
was not necessary to use the stove all the time, as the heat from the lamp was enough to keep the interior of the
tent comfortable. It was so warm, in fact, that not once in ten months did the temperature fall below freezing-point,
even at night, when neither lamp nor stove was burning. It was a strange contrast to  the biting cold of a blizzard outside, with 
sometimes a difference of 120' F. 
between the two temperatures. Such is the
insulating property of snow that the greatest problem, in fact, was how to keep the tent cool. As time went on, so did the weight 
of   snow
on the roof increase, until to avoid collapse it had to be propped up by a pillar of paraffin drums. The wooden floor, too, began
to lose its sobriety, taking on a cant which increased in gradient, until some mountaineering skill was required to
pass from bookcase to larder.
On either side of the trap-door into the tent there was a camp-bed, and the walls  of the tent were lined with
cupboards made out of old packing-cases. The pantry stood within reach of both beds, so that the stove could be lit
and meals cooked with a minimum of effort. For cooking purposes the only water supply was ice, which was either
taken from the debris out of the tunnels, or  simply chipped from the sides of the passage below. Using the walls of
one's house for drinking water was a bizarre experience. The ceiling was hung with clothes of every description:
Windproofs, silk pyjamas, ski-ing stockings, a sheepskin coat, green-and-red checked shirts and even a pair of
scarlet beach-trousers. They gave an impression of gaiety which was charmingly Bohemian. Most of the remaining
space was occupied by the wireless sets and the bicycle which was pedalled to charge the wireless batteries.
On Sunday evenings the floor would be cleared and a home-made table set up in the middle. The camp chairs were
drawn up, and the party would celebrate their one formal meal of the week.  During the rest of the time they sat on the low beds, 
and eating was a picnic. As time went on, appetites lessened, but there was  always variety. Fresh bread and scones were baked in  
an oven  made from
an old biscuit tin, whose habit of dropping molten
solder on to iced cakes was deplorable. There was a York ham and finest bacon, tins of every kind of fruit and vegetable, and  
even  butterscotch and
chocolate. Jam, honey and syrup were in abundance;
 porridge, rice and sago were less interesting, but still more plentiful. Finally there was " George," once a reindeer which, when 
scorned by dogs and sledgers, had been presented to Robert. One can describe its taste only by comparing it with that of 
an old and mildewed goat. 
 The tunnel system below was a rabbit warren. It included a safety cavern for use in
the event of an accident to the tent, a paraffin house, 
and a larder which possessed all the advantages of the most modern frigidaire. A second passage, fifty feet long, led from the 
main tunnel to an emergency exit, and to the shaft. In the total excavations over forty tons of ice were removed. 
The most remarkable feature of the tunnels was the utter silence. In the tent sound was muffled, but there was always the hiss of 
the lamp or the roar of the stove, except at night when the drip of melting water on the roof continued with monotonous 
regularity. In the caverns there was a complete absence of  sound; even the ticking of a noiseless 
clock  was noticeable, a wrist watch beat like a hammer, and drops of water, melted from the roof by the heat of the candle, 
would fall with a crash. It was a world of silence and perpetual blackness, for even in summer no light could penetrate through 
such a depth of  ice. Life was an affair of lamps and torches; daylight was merely a memory of the past. There were always small 
repairs or improvements
to be made. To-day, it was the trap-door that had
to be raised as a result of the last blizzard. Yesterday it was the wireless aerial, which 
broken by being chafed  by  the wind against the
mast. To-morrow the ventilator might have to be lengthened.
Originally it had been a tiny cowl on top of the roof, but this became 
snowed over. One afternoon, Robert and David
grew more and more drowsy until at last they fell asleep. Robert awoke 
with a start to find the lamp extinguished. The
stove was spluttering with a halting blue-green flame. He struck a match 
without effect; he tried another but still it
would not light. David was snoring in his bed; Robert suddenly realized 
the danger. Turning out the stove, he quickly
groped his way through the trap-door and along the tunnel to the shaft. 
He scrambled outside; then, scraping at the
snow, he found the ventilator completely buried. Had he not awakened, 
David and he would certainly have been
asphyxiated.
Henceforward careful attention was paid to the supply of fresh air. A new 
ventilator was constructed by soldering
together Quaker Oat and Bemax tins, the bottoms of which were knocked out 
with a hammer. Whenever extra length
was required, all that was necessary was to add another tin to the top.
Despite such difficulties, life in a house on an ice-cap has its 
advantages. If the jelly for dinner has been forgotten it
can be made after the soup, put outside and brought in again in five 
minutes' time. Potatoes and meat - except for "George"
who was a law unto himself - could he kept indefinitely in a natural 
refrigerator. The tent was as warm and comfortable
as a central-heated English house. True, there was no bath, but one did 
not wash, anyhow; neither was there a
laundry, but it was warmer to continue wearing the same clothes. In fact, 
there was very little lacking.
-Abridged extract from, "Under the Pole Star." by A. R. Gum. (Methuen.)

AN INCIDENT ON A CHINESE JOURNEY.
Carriers were harder to hire than usual. .On the day before, a party of three merchants had been 
stripped, robbed,
and beaten by bandits on the path which we were to follow, and the coolies put a higher commercial 
value on their
qualms than my man, Li, thought reasonable. At last, however, we came to terms with them, and paid 
them half their
wages in advance to leave with their wives, to soften the blow of a possible bereavement. Two young 
Chinese
students bound for Canton joined our party, on the theory that there is safety in numbers, and we set 
out from the
village at a good round pace.
The path we travelled was an ancient one, being flagged and for a part of its length lined with an 
avenue of firs. All
through the afternoon we walked, following the path over the curious and savage hills, and down 
into gullies, from
whose solid walls of rock the heat of the sun leapt out at us. The country was extraordinarily 
beautiful. All the hills in
China - at least all the hills that I have seen - have an oddly artificial look. They rise suddenly and 
take quaint shapes;
they never sprawl.  They are exactly as they are portrayed in Chinese art; they seem to have been 
enlarged from a
delicate and fanciful miniature, with  complete success. It is a mannered landscape; and it has great charm.
 Occasionally we halted to drink tea and rest the
carriers. With their tottering yet indefatigable gait,
they set a rapid pace. Our two Chinese fellow-travellers, so slight, so reedy in appearance, padded
happily along, fanning themselves with their straw
hats, and seeming not to feel at  all the effects of a
march of which, from one glance at their physique,
you would have judged them  wholly incapable.
When the path went up or down a hill, the flags became steps; of this form of highway the only 
criticism possible is
that you must watch your feet too much, thereby missing things that are beautiful or strange in the 
countryside around
you.
There were no bandits; only one incident enlivened our journey. We reached a point where the path 
crossed the last,
half-constructed lap of the motor road down which we had been whirled that morning. Here, it 
ran in a cutting made
in the flank of a steep hill. Coolies were working in the cutting, and there were more coolies far up 
the hillside above it.
The bed of the cutting was full of huge boulders, which were to form the foundations of the road.
Over these boulders we picked our way with some difficulty, jumping from one to the other like the 
most maladroit of
goats. In the middle of them, I stopped, poised on a pinnacle to take a photograph. The others went 
on ahead.
Suddenly I heard shouts, followed by the dull sound of an explosion from the hillside above me. 
Looking up, I found
that I was now alone in the cutting. The smoke of a blasting charge floated out against the blue sky, 
and a large, a
really enormous rock was bounding savagely down the hill.
I had no doubts as to where it was going to land. It was going to land on me. This opinion was shared 
by the men
who had released it, a wildly gesticulating fresco of manikins two hundred yards above me. I made a 
prodigious leap
from my rock to the next. The galloping boulder, which now looked to me about the size of the Isle 
of Wight, scored
one of its increasingly rare contacts with the hillside, kicked up a cloud of dust and slightly 
changed its direction. It
was still coming straight for me.
 The prospect of a game, however short, of catch-as-catch-can between me and a large segment of South China clearly appealed 
to the spectators, but left me cold. I decided that, if one had to be
squashed, it was better to make, figuratively speaking, no bones about it. I descended, with all possible dignity, into a 
cranny between two boulders, and shut my eyes.
With a sound to which the Fall of the House of Usher was as the dropping of a pin, the mass of rock landed among the 
boulders ten feet away - and lay, miraculously, dead. It hardly splintered at
all, and none of its splinters came my way. We continued our journey.
- Adapted extract from "One's Company," by PETER FLEMING. (Jonathon Cape.) 

SAFETY FIRST.
NEVER ALIGHT FROM CAR, BUS, TRAM, OR TRAIN TILL IT HAS STOPPED.

THE KIWI.
The kiwi is unique. It is found in New Zealand alone, and proud we are of possessing a bird with such interesting and 
remarkable features. One of the oldest inhabitants of these
islands, the kiwi's origin remains a mystery, but here it is - a bird with the head of the 
long-billed waders, legs and feet like the Gallinae family (which include the
domestic fowl and other scratchers), and wings, or remains of wings, like such birds as the ostrich, 
cassowary, and emu. Having nostrils at the tip of the bill
instead of at the base, no real feathers, and no visible tail or wings, the kiwi is the most 
unbirdlike of birds, but bird it is, and with unusual gifts to compensate it
for the birdlike attributes it lacks.
The kiwi's picture, extensively used as it is in coats-of-arms, brands, and badges emblematic of New 
Zealand, is familiar to us all, but the bird itself we seldom
see. Although in the old days it was common, it is now found only in remote forest districts, chiefly 
in the South Island. There are four species of kiwi, one of a
reddish-brown colour in the North Island, and three others - the grey, the great spotted, and the large brown - belonging to the 
South Island.
In addition to its rarity, the kiwi's nocturnal habits make it a stranger to us. It spends the 
daytime in the depths of the forest, hiding in holes under the roots of
trees, in hollow logs, or in lodges consisting of a series of passages tunnelled into a bank. At night the bird emerges, and, uttering 
the shrill cry that has given it
its name, goes off in search of food. Its hunting ground is the floor of the forest, which it works 
with its strong clawed feet and long, flexible bill. It moves through
the darkness as silently as a rat, aided no doubt in finding
its way by the long hair-like feathers springing up from the base of the bill.
Having scratched the debris of leaves and moss
 aside, a kiwi in search of a worm listens intently
 for the ticking sound of the worm creeping under
 the ground, and taps with its sensitive bill to discover
the burrow. The keen nostrils, usefully placed at,
 the tip of the bird's beak, also come into play in smelling out the prey.

THE KIWI.

The burrow found, the kiwi enlarges the opening, inserts its bill and takes
a good hold of the worm. If the worm, clinging to the earth
with its tail, does not come easily, the
kiwi does not tear it apart. It waits till the worm growing tired relaxes its hold, 
then with a
steady pull the victim is drawn from its burrow and is swallowed whole. Besides worms, kiwis feed on grubs, snails, and insects, 
and on berries on the ground or on low bushes.
In the old days the Maoris delighted in hunting the then plentiful kiwi, parties going forth on the 
darkest nights with torches and dogs. The torches dazzled the kiwis' eyes,
and the dogs had small pieces of clicking wood round their necks meant to sound to the kiwis like the 
ticking of a worm. The hunters also imitated the kiwis' cry, and in
one way or another the birds were lured into the trap. Although unable to fly, they could run fast on 
their sturdy legs, and fight with their sharp and powerful claws, causing
deep flesh wounds. Surrounded by a band of dogs and hunters with flaring torches, the birds were, 
however, helpless, and they were soon killed, their flesh going into the
pot and their beautiful skins being used for making Maori mats.
Instead of real feathers, the kiwi wears a coat of something which looks like hair or fur. This 
strange plumage, although sometimes harsh at the tips, is lustrously soft and
silky underneath. It is composed of the barbs of feathers, springing separately from the skin 
instead of being united on a quill, as is the case in ordinary feathers. The
bird's rudimentary wings consist of two small crooked bony appendages each ending in a curved horny 
claw. It is a quaint sight to see the kiwi resting with its head
tucked under one of these apologies for a wing.
Still another feature of the kiwi is that it lays a larger egg for its size than any other bird. 
Although the kiwi is only a little bigger than a domestic fowl, its egg is four,
sometimes five, inches long and is a pound in weight. One or two of these enormous eggs are placed in a 
hole in a bank or in a hollow under the spreading roots of a tree, and it is the male bird that sits, or rather lies, on them until they 
are hatched.
A baby kiwi emerges from the egg already provided with a dark soft coat, and one would think it had 
come out of an even larger shell. It looks like a little hedgehog, except
for the claws, pale lead in colour, and the long ivory bill with which the fledgeling can make a 
crisp, clicking noise enough to frighten off an enemy. From the start, this
sturdy chick can run about and fend for itself which is as well, for the parents seem to leave it at once to its own resources.

KIWI CHICK.

The kiwi makes the worst possible pet. In captivity it is usually unresponsive, dour, bad-tempered, 
and even vicious. It remains untameable to the last, and if put out at all
it will strike at its owner, be he ever so kind, with foot and claw, angrily clicking its mandibles 
the while. It requires to be supplied with large quantities of worms or similar
food, which it gobbles up greedily. The bird is evidently best left to live its natural lonely night 
life in the forest. There it must as far as possible be protected from all harm,
for, unfriendly though it may be, it is a strange and wonderful bird, a unique possession of which 
New Zealand may well be proud.

CLEMATIS.
Clematis so lovely in decline
Whose star flowers when they cease to shine
Fade into feathery wreaths, silk-bright And silvery curled.
In the early spring the clematis, our lovely wild-flower, suddenly reveals its unsuspected presence 
in trailing masses of snowy star-like blossoms.
The dark forest is lit up by drifts of gleaming whiteness which stream down from the tree-tops, or 
swing from trunk to trunk in light festoons. From
afar our admiring eyes are attracted by the soft, drooping shower-bouquets, dazzling in their glossy 
whiteness, and fairy-like in their delicate,
twining grace.
 How does the clematis reach those elflike perches high on the tree-tops from which it spills its 
wealth of floral beauty? In the answer is much that
is remarkable and interesting about the growth of the plant. The clematis is a climber, not like the rata, which climbs by means of 
its roots, nor
the bush-lawyer which scrambles up with the aid of thorns. The clematis is a tendril climber, tendrils  being modified leaf-stalks,  
which coil
themselves spirally  round the branches of the  trees, thus drawing, the plant  up and up into the sunshine.
The leaf-stalks are amazingly sensitive. A few gentle rubs with a straw on one side of a leaf-stalk 
will make it bend in the direction of the straw, and, if the rubbing
is continued, the bending will also go on until the leaf-stalk has made a loop right round the straw. 
In the same way, when the wind causes the young stalks to
brush against the twig of a tree, they soon bend round the twig, thus catching hold of the support. 
Once they have taken hold, the stalks grow thick, strong and
firm, and
they are not easily displaced.
The stem of the plant also twines and, as it is sometimes a hundred feet long, it has to be very 
strong and very flexible - different from the stem of a tree, which
is strong and rigid. The stem of a tree is a living pole; the stem of a climber, or liana, is a 
living cable, its strong tissue being split up into strands like the strands
of a rope.
Having climbed to the top of a suitable tree, the clematis sets about spreading its network of leaves 
over the crown of the much put-upon tree. Each leaf-stalk bears three leaflets about two inches long, and the stalks arrange 
themselves so that every 
leaf lies face up and at right angles to the rays of the sun. The
clematis has not had that arduous climb to the top of the tree for nothing. Its thick, glossy, 
dark-green leaves are so placed as to catch the largest possible
amount of sunlight, sunlight which gives the plant life and vigour and helps in the production of its 
flowers and seeds. Being thus exposed to the full force of the
sun, the leaves would become parched and shrivelled had they not been made thick and leathery.
First the ingenious stem and tendrils, then the wily leaves, and now the beautiful flowers! And even 
they, as we shall see, have a sly purpose behind their show of
white loveliness. The common and most beautiful clematis, like all the other varieties, has flowers of two kinds growing on 
separate plants. One is as large as the palm of one's hand, its long,
pointed, gleaming, white sepals (not petals) being from five to nine in number. In the centre there 
is a large bunch of stamens numbering from eighty to a hundred,
and the tiny pink anthers, or heads of the stamens, are full of pollen grains. The other flower of 
this clematis is smaller but more starry and faintly green in hue.
This flower has few or no stamens, but it has in the centre a feathery pistil, and it bears the seed-box.
Now, the clematis relies on insects to carry the pollen from the pollen-bearing flowers to the seed-bearing flowers, for it is only 
with the help of the pollen that good
seed can be made. The plant's method of attracting the insects is to spread and trail its great 
masses of large white flowers, which surely the most short-sighted
insect could not fail to see. There is no perfume or honey, but plenty of pollen. The bees and flies 
feed upon it, and carry it away adhering to their hairy bodies.
They then unknowingly drop some of the pollen on to the seed-boxes, and thus the clematis achieves 
its purpose.
Besides the common clematis, which has the largest and prettiest flowers, there are eight other 
varieties of native clematis in New Zealand. Their flowers are small
and may be yellow, yellowish-green, or purplish in colour, while some have a sweet perfume. No 
clematis flower has petals, the sepals doing the work of the
petals, which they resemble in appearance.
The seed-bearing flower, which is less attractive than the pollen-bearing one, has the advantage when 
seed-time comes. Each flower then becomes a head of
seeds, and every little seed has attached to it a long, curled, silver plume to carry it away on the wind. The head of seeds thus 
becomes a shining 
tassel, and what was a spray of flowers is now a feathery cluster
of gleaming, silken down – " feathery wreaths, silk-bright, and silvery curled."

THE CUCKOO IN THE ROBIN'S NEST.
 [Our story is about birds in England but it could apply equally well to birds in New Zealand,  when the shining cuckoo lays its 
egg in, for instance,  the grey warbler's nest.]
The foundations of the robin's nest were laid under a brier bush, curtained discreetly from the common 
gaze by grass stems. The hen bird built it all by herself, weaving bents and horse-hair
together into a cunning cradle for the downless breasts that must soon lie there. Then she laid five 
eggs, freckled red to match the tawny breast that covered them. She felt a proud thrill of
motherly possession as she hustled her treasures under her hot feathers, and her mate invited the 
admiration of the wood for her achievement. Perhaps he claimed it too loudly.
She was so much occupied with her new possessions that, when she had reluctantly left the nest next 
morning to seek breakfast, she returned at once on hearing the scolding of a neighbouring
blackbird confirmed by the anxious clamour of throstle and finch. Was it a magpie, perhaps, or a 
stoat ? There was no one in the clearing and the eggs were safe; but where she had left five there
were now six, and the sixth egg was the finest of all, modestly mottled with brown and grey.
She pondered over it awhile as she rearranged the grass blades round the nest, which had been 
disturbed as if by some heavy wing. So the gods deal their gifts unseen and by stealth, and, after
all, if there was room for five in the nest, there was room for six. If chance had sent her a hundred 
eggs she would have tried to brood over them all faithfully. Thus she accepted the stranger egg,
and warmed it with the rest. True, before she
began to sit in earnest the eggs took a little more adjusting when she hustled them under her 
feathers, but what matter? It was a very fine egg. During
the days that followed she dedicated a sixth part of her best care to it, and, when hatching time 
drew near, she rejoiced over it as whole-heartedly as over the other five.
The dawn was still grey and cold when the gift that the gods had brought broke the casket which 
enshrined it, and struggled into life. The robin rose to see the miracle, and her heart went
out to the stranger in his puny nakedness. She covered him tenderly, fostering him under her
feathers, and scarcely left the nest all day lest the cold air should nip him.
The next day, however, although the rest of the clutch delayed hatching, he grew lustier, and, 
squirming and writhing under her breast, jostled the other eggs together. During the afternoon she 
left
him alone for a little while, and when she returned she surprised a field-mouse, who was
sitting beside her nursery licking his whiskers. Her foster-son in the nest had heaved up his broad 
hollow back, upon which, with his callow wings, he steadied an egg. Before she had realized his
intention, he had raised it to the nest brim with a determination which belied his nakedness and the 
puniness of his naked limbs. With a final effort he jerked it over the edge, and it rolled down
to join the rest of the clutch, which were already lying outside on the wet grass. Then he toppled 
back into the nest and sprawled in it luxuriously all by himself, exhausted but triumphant, and,
opening his bill, he innocently begged for food.
His foster-mother hesitated, pondering this outrage; but although the gods by means unknown had laid 
this gift in her nest, it was the warmth
 of her own breast that had called that gift to
life. Besides, those eggs were by now wet, with
dew and chilled, while the youngster in the nest
was warm, and lively; and the wise law of the
woods straightway transferred her love and care
from those that needed them no longer to him who
did. She therefore dropped her billful of food
down the foster-chick's golden gullet, and did not
give her outcast eggs another glance, even when
the field-mouse presently came and openly carried
them away.
The first dog-rose bud found the foster-chick strong and loud-voiced with an insatiable appetite.
His gross, spotted body filled the nest and crushed it down, for he had the care and attention which he should have shared 
with six, and like six he grew, claiming from the cock-robin
that paternal care which should by rights have been lavished on the other five. But his foster-parents grudged no pains. His 
bold, spotted vest, his vigour, and his voracity were their pride and bore witness to their untiring tendance.
The crowning event was when, on clumsy wings, he left the nest. Forthwith arose a babel. Finches and thrushes came about him 
in a mob , rating
and scolding, while he opened his great mouth foolishly, and wondered  why they cursed him. Then, to them flew the 
cock-robin, and hustled them to left and right about their
business. What? This
was the gift of the gods to his nest, and they mobbed it as though it were merely an owl or even a common cuckoo! So peace 
was grudgingly
restored.
But now the robins must work harder than
ever to fill that enormous gullet, which gaped so high above their heads, that they must stand upon the fledgeling's bulky 
shoulders to reach it. His
very size and noisiness made him a troublesome charge. He would beg the field-mouse or a wandering magpie for food as readily 
as he sought his foster-parents.
This ignorance brought about a tragedy, for on returning to the clearing one day the mother robin found the great speckled 
baby staring stupidly at a stoat, who was chasing his own
tail. Such
innocent gambolling, such merry sport! But, as he frolicked, Mr. Stoat was gradually creeping within springing distance. 
Before the mother bird
could come up, down dashed her mate and flicked the marauder with his wing; but the stoat, twisting
round in mid-air, struck him as he swooped past. There was a pitiful flutter, a scuffle in the grass,
and then the stoat, bearing his quarry with him, glided away among the bushes. The hen bird cried with wrath and fear until 
the sun was high, but,
the fledgeling only spread his ungainly wings and begged for more food.
 There is never  much time to grieve in the
 woods, and now the foster-mother was alone and must 
slave doubly hard to satisfy the wants of her fledgeling. He was a chick to be proud of; he filled all her thoughts and 
claimed all her care and labour. Already he could fly awkwardly about the clearing, but he had as little idea of taking care of 
himself as ever. Nevertheless, although his foster-mother was too busy to mark it, those latter days marked a change in him. He 
took longer flights, chose higher perches. His capacities grew just as the little blood-quills on his wings became perfect feathers; 
but she never looked on him as more than the great helpless squab whom she had fostered, and for whom 
she had toiled so ungrudgingly, for
whom indeed she would have been satisfied to toil for the rest of her days. 
But this was not to be.
One dawn, she sought and found him not on his accustomed perch; and bramble 
brake and hawthorn bush were
likewise empty. Fearing the dangers of the night she called him 
distractedly. The answer fell as though from the sky.
He sat upon the topmost branch of a larch tree, looking out over the miles 
of wood and field stretching to the south.
His wings were full fledged now. Surely this chick of hers was no common 
bird, and worthy of her pride in him! His
well-being had been purchased by six lives, and only the best and rarest 
should be bought at such a price.
Nevertheless she feared for his helplessness, and for an hour or more she 
called to him incessantly to come and be
fed as he was wont. But the larch tree top is so much higher than the 
bramble brake; she cried in vain until sun-up.
Then he took wing, and flew southwards towards the open country that lies 
hidden beyond the woods.
-Slightly adapted from "The Wood People and Others," by MAUD HAVILAND. 
(Arnold.)

LIFE IN BRITISH GUIANA.
When you reach British Guiana you land at Georgetown. The sea is thick with yellow river mud, and far 
out you can smell the sickly, faint,
but pungent smell of sugar coming from the
 thousands and thousands of sacks of Demarara
crystals 
 stored in corrugated iron sheds on the wharves. The air of Georgetown is heavy because the town is 
built on land reclaimed from the sea, and is six feet below sea-level. The
Dutch built it when they owned the colony.
In those days there was a great deal of yellow fever. Clouds of mosquitoes used to breed in the 
dykes, which are all filled in now, and there is not now much fever of any sort.
It is a healthy place, partly because a fresh breeze springs up every day
at dawn and blows till sundown. All the same, however, it seems odd to live on a strip of reclaimed 
land when there are thousands of miles of healthy, fertile country behind
you.
I often used to think of this in my camp right
away up in the forest, where my husband and I
were prospecting for gold. It is fresh and lovely
there, especially in the evening, when the trees are
full of song birds. We used to sit round the table
one of our Indians had made us out of a huge tree
trunk, with the gold-scales on the table and the day's
find of gold, not yet dry, glowing and sparkling in
an old tobacco tin. We were three weeks' journey
up the Barima River in a part of the forest called
Five Stars from the five Indian clearings along the
river banks. The Indians are gentle, charming
creatures, who will do anything for you, when they
are not feeling lazy, except look for gold.  Gold bores them and they will take no interest in it.
We chose our camping place on a flat high piece of forest near a creek. Indians cleared the ground 
for us. Seeing a large tree fall is one of the most exciting things that
happens in the forest. The Indian begins to axe. He makes an incision as clean as if the tree were of 
soap and not of the hardest wood in the world. After a while the leaves
quiver at each stroke ; then a few nuts or bits of dead branch fall. When the incision is deep into the heart of the tree, the Indian 
goes round to the other side and begins
bellying it. Soon the tree bends slightly. It is bound to the surrounding trees
with bush ropes or creepers, some fine, some as thick as a man's arm ; and all these trees bend too.
The key tree dips lower, and there are reports like revolver shots as the iron-hard trunk begins to 
crack. Lower and lower it bends until at last with cracks, and reports, and the
swishing of leaves, and bird screeches, and the scuttling and outpouring of spiders and ants and all the tree's 
inhabitants, it slowly bends over and falls, dragging a dozen other trees with it. A
huge hole is made in the thick roof of the forest and the sun pours in, at once curling up the edges 
of the leaves that lie like a thick damp carpet over the whole floor of the
forest. Millions of insects that have never known the sun creep terrified and blinded towards the damp shade.

OUR HOME.

As the energy of the trees all goes into stretching upwards towards the sun, their roots are shallow. 
Indians cleared the trees all away to prevent their falling and crushing us
during the night, but I insisted on a few of the least top-heavy being left so that our camp would 
not be a blazing bald patch. The Indians made us huts of sapling trunks with
thick palm thatches. There was a hut for each of us to sleep in and a large one, for a living room ; I cooked in one end of it, and 
the dining 
table was built at the other. My parrot and two baby macaws - ugly little creatures -
shared our hut with us.
 I used the tents for food stores. We did not
depend for food on the flour, rice, sugar, dried
peas, and so on we had brought with us. We had an Indian hunter who daily brought us game. Bush
turkeys were delicious and the delicate fat bird
called marm was better than any English game bird.
There were also venison and smaller game and
bush pig, often in embarrassing quantities. Indians
front the Five Star clearings brought us fruit - bananas, pineapples, grapefruit, pawpaws, and root vegetables - and they gave me 
half a dozen of the
most unpromising-looking hens. They laid well,
however, and it was exciting to have fresh eggs.
The hens kept the camp clear of ants; they would eat nothing else.
I made a garden and grew Indian vegetables - yams, sweet potatoes, and even some onions. I baked bread in 
paraffin tins, in which rice had been packed, leavening the bread with
dough fermented with sugar, and it was very good. I have never lived better than I did in our lovely forest clearing, and I have 
never been happier than I was there.
People in Georgetown had warned me in portentous tones of the dangers of the forest. Many 
said that I should die of fever. I lived there for eighteen months without having a day's illness. 
People do die out there, but it is chiefly because they think one must rough it when
in the wilds. I had a hot bath in a tub every day at sundown. One gets damp during the day, and 
sitting about damp in a low temperature after sunset naturally causes
sickness.
Often people warned me that I should be eaten by alligators. We saw alligators on the way up, sleepily   sunning, themselves on 
the rocks, but they served only as objects of interest as we lay on 
top of our stores gazing at the wall of the forest as we moved slowly up-river. The alligators were no more dangerous to us than 
the electric blue and gold macaws that 
sometimes rose from low branches, the humming birds, the great blue morpho
butterflies, the families of little monkeys that chattered and made faces at us, trying to frighten 
us away, or the occasional snakes sunning themselves on dead tree trunks.
I was once at close quarters with an alligator. I was standing knee deep in a muddy pool washing gold gravel, when the water all 
round me began churning and bubbling
furiously. I jumped out. An alligator raised his head and opened his toothy mouth and looked at me with his horrid little eyes. I 
drew my revolver and shot him, but I was
sorry afterwards. If I had waited a minute he would have gone off quite peacefully.
I was told hair-raising stories of snakes, and one woman, who had lived in Georgetown for twenty 
years, and had never been to the interior, kept assuring me that the silence
of the forest was so terrible that it would frighten me to death. As a matter of fact, what struck me 
most about the forest, was the noise. At midday it was quiet enough, but
from sunrise until eight o'clock on a fine morning the noise the bees made was deafening ; it was 
like being in a factory town with all the sirens and whistles going and the
machinery as well. But earlier than that, just before dawn, the howler monkeys sounded like a horde 
of enraged  lions. They are
  small animals
 with red beards and huge voice boxes, which make
 them look as if they have goitre. After sundown the
frogs struck up. There were millions of croakers,
 and there were numbers that barked like big dogs,
others tinkled like china, and many of them whistled. I  was once nearly bitten by a snake. I put my hand into a small Indian 
basket where I kept my
medicine bottles, and the whole bottom of the basket
writhed. I drew my hand away just in time to
escape the bite of a deadly  poisonous snake - a
labaria. Weeks would go by without a snake being
seen, and then one would appear almost every day.
The most frightening one I saw was in a dark
swamp. I could see in a gap in the undergrowth a
couple of feet of thick black body mottled with white.
It was moving like a cable drawn by an invisible hand. It must have been twenty feet long. It was an anaconda, a constricting 
snake. It is hungry only once a month, but that might have been its hungry day, so I stood dead still and tried to look like a
tree, until it had had time to move a long way off.  
The most powerful things in the forest are the ants. They build houses beside which skyscrapers
and even the pyramids are comparatively puny constructions. Over night they carry away a sack of rice or devour the flesh of a 
dying or dead animal, leaving the bones clean and white. The most dangerous creatures are a certain kind of wild boar.
Snakes, jaguars, and other creatures run away, but the boars surround you, attacking and goring you to death, and if you climb a 
tree they uproot it and you do not escape. The most repulsive creature is the baboon spider with a black hairy body as big as
a plum, bulging eyes, and bright-pink naked feet. All forest creatures, however, prefer to get away from you, and none of them 
are more dangerous than, and nearly so frightening as, the great red monsters that swoop down towards you in the streets
of London. I would rather meet a snake any day than a bus.
--- GWEN RICHARDSON, in " The Listener." (Adapted.)

SINGING FOR MY SUPPER.
[Nicolai Poliakoff, a great circus clown, tells us of his first performance as an artiste. It was the year 1905. Nicolai was five years 
old, and was living in a small Russian town with his mother and his seven brothers and sisters, the father of the family having 
gone to fight against the Japanese.]
One day, a week after my father had left us, we were all sitting round the table at home. There was 
very little food in the house, and
we were too hungry to play. The room was cold because the fire was nearly out, and there was nothing 
more to put on it. I
wondered how I could find something for us to eat. I got up and went out into the street. When I had 
trudged through the snow for some minutes I came to a café. I pressed my face against the window. I could see the cakes and 
bread there, and my mouth watered. I was so hungry that I decided to go onto the shop and ask for a job; but it took me a long 
time to pluck up enough courage to go in.
At last I could stand in the snow no longer, and I went in. The shop was kept by an old Turk, and. 
the sight of him nearly sent me
out into the street again. He was a short man with an enormous paunch and tremendously long 
moustaches. His clothes were
greasy and he looked as if he hadn't washed for a long time. But he spoke to me quite kindly: "Well, little one, what do you 
want? "
At first I couldn't answer; there seemed to be a lump in my throat; but I swallowed it; and the
smell of bread gave me courage.
" Please, sir," I said, " I want a job. My father
has gone to the war, and there is no one to look after us, and we haven't any food."
He looked at me and laughed. " How old are you? " he said.
"Please, sir, I was five last October."
"But you're so small, what can you do?
"I can sweep the floor," I said. " I can open and shut the door for your customers. And I can sing, too. "
" What can you sing?
I stood up very straight, stuck out my chest and started to sing Tusa Tusa. This is a very old 
Russian song which my mother had
taught me. I was still singing lustily when the door opened and four officers came in. They looked at 
me and laughed.
" Ha! What's this - a young nightingale? " said one.
" Let's take him to the club with us and give our comrades a surprise," said another.
 They asked me if I would go with them, and I  said I would. They made their purchases, and we went outside where a sleigh 
with three horses was waiting. One of the officers picked me up and 
threw me to another in the sleigh. He tucked me 
up in a big black bearskin, and with a jingle of
bells we were off to the club.
When we arrived at the club, one of the officers told me that he wanted me to stand in the middle of 
the floor and sing
my Tusa Tusa. I felt very frightened when we went inside. I was still very hungry and 
very dirty, and I wanted to cry; but 
I remembered that I had a father at the war. Suddenly one of the officers stepped into the middle of the 
floor and held up
his hand. The orchestra stopped playing and all the people stopped talking.
"Ladies and gentlemen, " he began, " I have great surprise for you. Here is the greatest singer in 
all the Russias." He
beckoned to me to step
forward.
There was an expectant hush, and then what a roar there was when the people saw me! But I can remember
vividly to this day how the feeling of fear left me, young child as I was, when I was faced with an audience, and
what a feeling of confidence suddenly possessed me. When the laughter died down I began my song.
When I had finished they applauded and shouted for more. I didn't know any more songs, so I began to 
dance and
tumble like the clowns I had seen in the theatre where my father had worked. This pleased them more 
than my
singing, and I did some more. Suddenly I thought of my brothers and sisters and my mother at home, 
and it seemed
a very long way away. I felt I must go home. I ran to one of the officers that had brought me and 
asked him if he would
take me home.
" Certainly, little one, if you want to go home, I shall take you. "
" I must go home, sir, my mother will be frightened because I have been away so long."
The officers made a collection and gave me thirty-two copecks. They told the sleigh driver to take me 
back to the
Turkish cafe. When we got there the driver asked me if I was very hungry. I said no, but he bought me 
a basket of
pastries, and told me to take them to my brothers and sisters.
Clutching my money in one hand and the basket of cakes in the other, I ran home through the snow and 
darkness as
quickly as I could. How proud I was and how happy! When I reached the house I kicked on the door and 
shouted, "Mother, please let me in. It's Nicolai. Hurry, please! " Alexander opened the door. My mother said, "Oh, Nicolai,
where have you been? We've looked all over the town for you."
I was half crying with pride and happiness and couldn't speak, so I just gave her the cakes and the 
money. I looked
up into her face, but there was no look of joy and no embrace for Nicolai. My mother looked 
frightened and said,
"Nicolai, where did you get all this from? "
" I earned it," I said. "I've been working, and
I've got all this for you."
" Oh, Nicolai, you have stolen. You must take
it back. "
I started to cry and tried to explain. " Please,
Mother, I have been working. I've been singing and dancing, and people gave me the money and cakes." 
But my
mother would not believe me. She picked
up the cakes and money and took me by the hand. " Come along and show me where you got this," she 
said. We
trudged through the snow back to the cafe. I was tired and hungry and as bitterly
unhappy as only a misunderstood child can be. I wept all the way. When we reached the cafe my mother 
nervously asked the old
Turk if that was
where I had got the cakes.
"Yes," he said, "and the money was given him by the officers at the club for singing and dancing."
Then my mother kissed me warmly and I felt proud and happy again. "Let us go home," she said. " We shall have the 
pastries for
supper." We hurried home, stopping on the way to spend some of the money on fuel for the stove. I shall never 
forget my brothers' and
sisters' faces when  they saw the food. And I shall never forget the happiness  of that evening, sitting 
round the table, the stove bright
and warm, eating those cakes.
After my father had been away a few months, we heard that an army order had been issued demobilizing all soldiers with more
than five children. After that my mother and all we children were all the time in a great state of 
excitement and expectation. 
One evening we were all gathered round the  stove. There was a knock at the door. Mother got up to 
open it, and there stood
my father.
How glad we all were and how we laughed and cried! Father went out to buy some food, and when, he came 
back we had the
biggest meal we had had for months. We all laughed and talked at once, eating at the same time, too. 
In spite of this
happiness, however, I was a little disappointed. I had expected my father to come back riding a horse 
and wearing rows and
rows of medals - a hero; and he was just like many another soldier I had seen. I felt some childish 
resentment at this; and I
remembered how strict my father was. I knew that no longer should I be able to go daily to the 
officers' club and sing and
dance, as I had been doing since he left.
One day he said, " Nicolai, people have told me that you have been singing and dancing at the 
officers' club. Is this true?
" Yes, Father," I said.
At this my father was very angry and said that he would not have his children doing such things. He 
made me promise that I
would not go there again. I didn't keep this promise. We were still hungry. Father's job at the 
theatre was gone, and the
money he had earned in the army was soon spent. So I used to go secretly to the club. Only my mother 
knew. I would give
her the money I had earned, and she would promise not to tell my father.
One day a friend of the family came in to see us. He said to my father, "Peter, one day your little 
Nicolai is going to be a
great artiste. At the Turk's cafe last night - there was little Nicolai singing and dancing. Yes, a 
great artiste! "
I looked at my father. His face was like a thunder-cloud. I crept into another room. When the friend 
had gone my father
called me to him. " Nicolai, you have broken your promise. You must be punished." He beat me. It was 
the first beating I had
had, and I felt it for many days.
But I had made up my mind that I would be an artiste, and a beating could not stop me. Nearly every 
day I managed to
creep away to the cafes and clubs and do my singing and dancing. Again my father found me out. This 
time he did not beat
me. He decided to send me to school.
From the very first I really liked school, and every morning I was ready and eager for school to 
begin. But I didn't forget that
I was going to be a great artiste, and I spent all my spare time practising new songs and dances.
-Adapted Extract from "Coco the Clown," by NICOLAI POLIAKOFF. (Dent.)

THE VERITABLE DESERT.
[The following extract is from a great book called "Seven Pillars of Wisdom," in which its famous 
author, the late T. E.
Lawrence describes his experiences during the period 1916-18 when he was taking an active and 
leading part in the
Arab Revolt.]
We marched on over monotonous, glittering sand; and over worse stretches of polished mud nearly
white and smooth as laid paper, and
often whole miles square.

T. E. LAWRENCE.

They blazed back the sun into our faces with glassy vigour, so that we rode with its 
light raining direct arrows upon our heads and its reflection glancing up from the ground through our inadequate eyelids. 
It was not a steady pressure, but a pain ebbing and flowing; at one time piling itself up till we nearly swooned; and then falling
away coolly, in a moment of false shadow, like a black web crossing the retina. This gave us a moment's breathing space to store 
new capacity for suffering, like the struggles to the surface of a 
drowning man.
We grew short-answered with one another; but relief came towards six o'clock, when we halted for 
supper and baked
ourselves fresh bread. After dark we crawled for three hours, reaching the top of a sand ridge. There 
we slept
thankfully after a bad day of burning wind, dust blizzards, and drifting sand which stung our 
inflamed faces, and at
times in the greater gusts wrapped the sight of our road
from us and drove our complaining camels up and down. Auda (chief of the Howeitat tribe) was anxious, however,
about the morrow, for another hot head-wind would delay us a third day in the desert, and we had no 
water left; so he
called us
early in the night, and before day broke we marched down into the plain of Biseita. Its fine surface 
litter
of sun-browned flints was restfully dark after sunrise for our streaming eyes, but hot and hard going 
for our camels,
some of which were already limping
with sore feet. We therefore rode carefully, picking the softest way, Auda and myself in front.
As we went, small puffs of dust scurried into the eye of the wind. Auda said they were ostriches. A man ran up with two great 
ivory eggs. We settled to breakfast on this bounty of the Biseita and looked for fuel, but in twenty minutes found only a wisp of 
grass. The barren desert was defeating us. The baggage train passed, and my eye fell on the loads of blasting gelatine. We 
broached a packet, shredding the gelatine carefully in a fire beneath the egg propped on stones, till
the cookery was pronounced complete. Auda drew his silver-hilted dagger and chipped the top of the 
first egg. A
smell like a pestilence went across our party. We fled to a clean spot, rolling the second egg hot before us with gentle kicks. It 
was fresh enough and hard as a stone. We dug out its contents 
with the
dagger on to the flint flakes which were our platters and ate it piecemeal. The general verdict 
was - tough and strong, but good in the Biseita.
Later in the day I went to the tail of the caravan where my men were walking. They feared that some 
of their animals
would be dead before evening if the wind blew stronger, but were leading them by hand in hope of 
getting them in. I
admired the contrast between Mohammed, the lusty heavy-footed peasant, and the lithe soldiers of the 
escort dancing
along, bare-footed, delicate as greyhounds. Gasim was not there: they thought he was among the 
Howeitat tribe, for
his surliness offended the laughing soldiery and kept him commonly with the Bedouin, who were more of 
his kidney.
There was no one behind, so I rode forward, wishing to see how his camel was; and at last I found it, riderless, being led by one 
of the Howeitat. His saddle-bags were on it, and his rifle and his food, but he himself nowhere; gradually it dawned on us that the 
miserable man was lost. This was a dreadful business, for in the haze and mirage
the caravan could not be seen two miles, and on the iron ground it made no tracks: afoot he would never overtake us.
Everyone had marched on, thinking him elsewhere in our loose line; but much time had passed since 
midday, so he
must be miles back. His loaded camel was proof that he had not been forgotten asleep at our night 
halt. The soldiers
ventured that perhaps he had dozed in the saddle and fallen, stunning or killing himself, or perhaps 
some one of the
party had borne him a grudge. Any way, they did not know. He was an ill-natured stranger, no charge on any of them, and they 
did not greatly care.
I looked weakly at my trudging men, and wondered for a moment if I could change with one, sending him 
back on
my camel to the rescue. My shirking the duty could be understood because I was a foreigner; but that 
was precisely
the plea I did not dare set up, while I yet presumed to help the Arabs in their own revolt.
So, without saying anything, I turned my unwilling camel round and forced her, grunting and moaning 
for her camel
friends, back past the long line of men and past the baggage into the emptiness behind. My temper was 
very
unheroic, for I was furious with my other servants, with my own play-acting as a Bedouin, and most of 
all with Gasim,
a gap-toothed, grumbling fellow skrimshank in all our marches, bad-tempered, suspicious, brutal, a 
man whose
engagement I regretted, and of whom I had promised to rid myself as soon as we reached a 
discharging-place. It
seemed absurd that I should peril my weight in the Arab adventure for a single worthless man.
My camel seemed to feel it also by her deep grumbling; but that was a constant recourse of 
ill-treated camels. She
turned her head back on her long neck lowing to the rest, and walking very slowly and bouncingly. It 
needed careful
guidance to hold her on the road, and a tap from my stick at every pace to keep her moving. After a 
mile or two,
however, she felt better and began to go forward less constrainedly, but still slowly. I had been 
noting our direction all
these days with my oil compass, and hoped by its aid to return nearly to our starting-place, 
seventeen miles away.
I had ridden about an hour and a half, easily, for the following breeze had let me wipe the crust 
from my red eyes and
look forward almost without pain, when I saw a figure, or large bush, or at least
something black ahead of me. The shifting mirage disguised height or distance; but this thing seemed 
moving, a little
east of our course. On chance I turned my camel's head that way, and in a few minutes saw that it was 
Gasim.
When I called he stood confusedly; I rode up and saw that he was nearly blinded and silly, and 
standing there with
his arms held out to me and his black mouth gaping open. The soldiers had put our last water in my 
skin, and this
Gasim spilled madly over his face and breast, in haste to drink. He stopped babbling and began to 
wail out his
sorrows. I sat him, pillion, on the camel's rump, then stirred her up and mounted.
At our turn the beast seemed relieved and moved forward freely. I set an exact compass course, so 
exact that often
I found our old tracks as little spurts of paler sand scattered over the dark-brown flint. In spite 
of our double weight the
camel began to stride out, and at times, she even put her head down and for a few paces developed 
that fast and
most comfortable shuffle to which the best animals while young were broken by skilled riders. This 
proof of reserve
spirit in her rejoiced me, as did the little time lost in search.
Gasim was moaning impressively about the pain and terror of his thirst. I told him to stop, but he 
went on and on and
began to sit loosely, until at each step of the camel he bumped down on her hinder quarters with a 
crash which, like
his crying, spurred her to greater pace. There was danger in this, for we might easily founder her. 
Again I told him to
stop, and, when he only screamed louder, I hit him and declared that for another sound I would throw 
him off. The
threat, to which my general rage gave colour, worked. After it he clung on grimly without a sound.
Not four miles had passed when again I saw
a black bubble lunging and swaying in the mirage
ahead. It split into three, and swelled. I wondered if they were enemy. A minute later the haze 
unrolled with the
suddenness of illusion; and it was Auda with two men come back to look for me. I yelled jests and 
scoffs at them for
abandoning a
friend in the desert. Auda pulled his beard and grumbled that had he been present I should never have 
gone back.
Gasim was transferred with insults
to a better rider's saddle-pad, and we ambled forward together.
Over this little affair hours had passed, and the rest of the day seemed not so long, though the
heat became worse and the sand-blast stiffened in our faces till the air could be seen and heard 
whistling past our
camels like smoke. The ground
was flat and featureless till five o'clock, when we saw low mounds ahead, and a little later found
ourselves in comparative peace, amid sand-hills coated slenderly with tamarisk. These were the
 Kaseim of Sirhan. The bushes and trees broke the  wind, it was sunset, and the evening mellowed and reddened on us from the 
west  So I wrote in my diary that Sirhan was beautiful.
-From "Selections from 'Seven Pillars of Wisdom'," edited by JOHN CULLEN. (Methuen; 2s.)

PHASES OF THE MOON.
Who is there that has not watched, with admiration , the beautiful series of changes through which 
the moon passes
every month? We first see her as an exquisite crescent of pale light in the western sky after sunset. 
If the night is
fine, the rest of the moon is visible inside the crescent, being faintly illumined by light reflected 
from our own earth.
Night after night she moves farther and farther to the east, until she becomes full, and rises about 
the same time as the sun sets. From the time of the full the disc of light begins to diminish until
the last quarter is reached. Then it is that the moon is seen high in the heavens in the morning. As 
the days pass by the crescent shape is again assumed. The crescent wanes thinner and
thinner as the satellite draws closer to the sun. Finally she becomes lost in the overpowering light 
of the sun, again to emerge as the new moon, and again to go through the same cycle of changes.
The brilliance of the moon arises solely from the light of the sun, which falls on the not self-luminous substance of the moon. Out 
of the vast flood of light which the sun pours so lavishly into space the dark body of the moon intercepts a little, and of that little 
it reflects a small fraction to illuminate the earth. The moon sheds so much light, and seems so bright, that it is often difficult at 
night to remember that the moon has no light except what falls on it from the sun. A very simple 
observation will suffice to show that the moon's light is only sunlight. Look some morning at the 
moon in
daylight, and compare the moon with the clouds. The brightness of the moon and of the clouds are 
directly comparable, and it can be readily understood how the sun, which illuminated the clouds,
has also illuminated the moon. An attempt has been made to compare the brightness of the sun with 
that of the full moon. If 600,000 full moons were shining at once, their collective brilliancy
would equal that of the sun.
The beautiful crescent moon has furnished a theme for many a poet. Indeed, if we may venture to say 
so, it would seem that some poets have forgotten that the moon is not to be seen every night.
A poetical description of evening is almost certain
to be associated with the moon in some phase or other. We may cite one notable instance in which a 
poet, describing an historical event, has enshrined in exquisite verse a statement which
cannot be correct. Every child who speaks our language has been taught that the burial of Sir John Moore took place " By the 
struggling moonbeams' misty light."
There is an appearance of detail in this statement which wears the garb of truth. We are not inclined 
to doubt that the night was misty, or as to whether the moonbeams had to struggle into
visibility; the question at issue goes much deeper. We do not know who was the first to raise the 
point as to whether any moon shone on that memorable event or not; but the question having
been raised, the Nautical Almanac at once supplies the answer. From it we learn in language, whose 
truthfulness forms its only claim to poetry, that the moon was new at one o'clock in the
morning of the day of the battle of Corunna (16th January, 1809). The ballad evidently implies that the funeral took place on the 
night following the battle. We are therefore assured that the moon
can hardly have been a day old when the hero was consigned to his grave. But the moon in such a case 
is practically invisible, and yields no appreciable moonbeams at all, misty or otherwise.
Indeed, if the funeral took place at the " dead of night " as the poet asserts, then the moon must 
have been far below the horizon at the time.
-Slightly adapted from " The Story of the  Heavens," by SIR ROBERT BALL. (Cassell.)

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA.
[Corunna is the port in the north-west corner of Spain, where Sir John Moore's B.E.F. in January, 1809, reached the end of its 
terrible retreat in the depth of midwinter over the snow-bound mountain roads and passes of Galicia, turned and fought and then 
embarked in the transports for home, leaving their heroic commander behind them, 
slain by a cannon ball in the very moment of victory. Moore never had with him much more than 30,000 men. Yet though he 
knew Napoleon, then at his peak, was in Spain with armies amounting to 300,000 men, he made a sharp thrust at his
communications which compelled the Emperor to scrap his plans, and set all his commanders in motion to crush the 
presumptuous invader. A retreat of more than 200 miles by forced marches night and day had left Moore's pursuers under Soult 
as exhausted as his own men. When at length Corunna was reached the expected ships were not seen in the bay, and certain of 
Moore's principal officers approached him with the suggestion that he
 should seek to make favourable terms with Soult. Moore indignantly refused, saying that he would do nothing dishonourable to 
the army or to the country, and at once cast about to make the best preparations possible for the impending battle. Happily the 
storm-bound vessels arrived from Vigo some hours before the enemy began 
to make his presence felt; the sick and wounded were got on board, and the battle was opened the next day. 
Moore's army of some 15,000 - he had lost 5,000 in the retreat and had sent 3,500 to take the Orence road to Vigo - had had four 
days' respite in which to rest and rearm from the magazine at Corunna; and in the sharp battle that ensued Soult was
sufficiently badly mauled not to be able to interfere seriously with the embarkation. British losses were estimated at 800, the 
French at 3,000 . . . What struck most powerfully the imagination of the British people about this Battle of
Corunna was the romantic and heroic death of Sir John Moore in the moment of victory. Victory it was, and it proved far more 
serious in its consequences than anyone of the time could conceive to the prestige of Napoleon in Spain and in Europe.]

PRINCESS ELIZABETH'S BROADCAST.
[On the 13th October Princess Elizabeth took part in the B.B.C.'s Children's Hour. She spoke to the children of the Empire at 
home and overseas. This is her
broadcast.]

PRINCESS ELIZABETH AND PRINCESS MARGARET ROSE.

Princess Elizabeth: In wishing you all good evening, I feel that I am speaking to friends and companions who have shared with 
my sister and myself many a happy Children's Hour. Thousands of you in this country have had 
to leave your homes
and be separated from your fathers and mothers. My sister, Margaret Rose, and I feel so much for you, as we know from. 
experience what it means to be
away from those we love most of all. To you
living in new surroundings we send a message of true sympathy, and at the same time we would like to 
thank the
kind people who have welcomed you to their homes in the country. All of us children who are still at 
home think
continually of our friends and relations who have gone overseas, who have travelled thousands of 
miles to find a
wartime home and a kindly welcome in Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, and the United 
States of America. My sister and I feel we know quite a lot about these countries.
Our father and mother have so often talked to us of their visits to different parts of the world, so it is 
not difficult for us to
picture the sort of life you are all leading, to think of all the new sights
 you must be seeing, and the adventures you must be having; but I am sure that you, too, are often 
thinking of the Old Country. I know you won't forget us. It is just because we are not forgetting you that I want, on 
behalf of all the
children at home, to send you my love and best wishes - to you and to your kind hosts as well.
Before I finish I can truthfully say to you all that we children at home are full of cheerfulness and 
courage. We are
trying to do all we can to help our gallant sailors, soldiers, and airmen, and we are trying, too, to 
bear our own share
of the danger and sadness of war. We know, every one of us, that in the end all will be well, for God 
will care for us
and give us victory and peace; and, when peace comes, remember it will be for us, the children of to-day, to make the world of 
to-morrow a better and happier place. My sister is by my side and we are both going to say good-night to you. Come on,
Margaret.
Princess Margaret:. Good-night, children.
Princess Elizabeth: Good-night, and good luck to you all!


