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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 6, Issue 3 (August 1, 1931)

Our Women's Section

page 59

Our Women's Section

On The Train.
“Broom behind the windy town,
Pollen o’ the pine—
Bell-bird in the leafy deep,
Where the ratas twine.”

I Wonder if it is human nature to look with a certain amount of scorn upon what belongs to us; to know very little about the things we hold most dear; to long always for that which we have not; and to hold of small account what we regard as the commonplace, the ordinary, and the inevitable. Is it necessary for the stranger within our gates to open our eyes and to make us suddenly aware of our possessions, so that we feel a warm glow of ownership, a thrill of love, an intense appreciation?

The other day, for the first time, I despised my countrymen—my fellow New Zealanders. This is an appalling confession, but an honest one, forced upon me from without—upon me, accustomed to regard all things New Zealand with a tolerant, benevolent affection and a somewhat complacent pride.

It was late one afternoon. The train was slipping across the plains in Hawke's Bay; across mile upon mile of soft, undulating velvet; shadowy, sweet scented; a rich, glorious land of colours, of infinite possibilities. I leaned back lazily in my seat, idly listening to the conversation of two men behind me. At first not at all interested, because the dark, snow-tipped Ruahine's against an evening sky claimed all my consciousness, and the motion of the train had soothed me into a state of semi-coma, a delightful feeling of drowsy contemplation and idle receptivity.

“What a marvellous country!” came a characteristically expressionless English voice. “By jove, just look at that!”

Here I metaphorically drew myself up, much as a fond parent who overhears admiration of her young hopeful from a stranger.

“Land's not bad!” came the laconic reply from my countryman, in the rear. “But that's about all. No money in it these times.”

Outside, a soft darkness was falling upon the scene; gates gleamed whitely, cattle stood silhouetted against the skyline, a night wind shuddered through the page 60 page 61 acres of grass, while we rushed on through it all, and two men were discussing this breath-taking wonder—the stranger seeing its beauties, the dweller there converting them into £ s. d.—and a woman listened to them in mute fury.

We slid into a tiny station, an oasis of reality in a vast world of fantastic shadows; then on through a typical little New Zealand settlement, nestling in a hollow, giving the appearance of having been flung together at a moment's notice to meet a demand for food and shelter. No planning, no order, no “neatness,” but tin roofs, wide verandahs, a few shops, yet possessing a very tangible charm—something unexpected and half-humorous.

The Englishman was intensely interested; enthusiastic over the liquid Maori name, the wide main street, the little centre of activity in the heart of the aching vastness of those shadowy plains.

But his New Zealand fellow traveller was doing his utmost to extinguish any spark of admiration in the stranger.

“Curious,” I thought. “How he seems to loathe it all. Nothing to do there, nothing to see.”

It was then that I hated him intensely. How dare he speak thus of this land of his—of ours! While a stranger from a country of hedges, neat fields, tenements, smoke, fog, could realise the indescribable wonder of it—the youth, the fertility, the sheer exultant strength of it.

Gradually my anger died away, and when we rushed into Wellington, to the dear familiar city crouched there on the hills, I contented myself with turning to the appreciative stranger and demonstrating, very assertively and somewhat defiantly, the perfection of our harbour, white under the moon, fit resting place for the Empire's ships. Surely my countryman would support me in this. But no; he turned his back upon the magic of it, and remarked to the carriage in general:

“Well, back to the filthy wind and the Slump!”

If Winter Comes—

—can Spring be far behind? And this year she is early—giving all sorts of hints that her arrival is to be spectacular and dashing. Suddenly we feel a revived interest in our clothes—a desire to emerge from furs, leathers and wools and to don something lighter, softer—suggestive of daffodils and clear skies. And this capricious lady, like all her sex, has a habit of seizing us unawares—springing upon us when we are quite unprepared for her visit. A gorgeous, almost hot day—you are going out to lunch in town and you simply haven't a thing to wear. Your winter clothes suddenly seem repulsive and extremely ancient. It is not at all too early to begin your “schemes,” to think out colour arrangements etc., for no woman, however favoured by nature can look attractive unless she gives some serious attention to her clothes so that they will be a little out-of-the-ordinary and slightly unusual—part of herself.

page 62

The Return.
This wind will blow in centuries to be
Across a sweep of undulating grey;
And every bloom that decks our cherry-tree
To seek a new nativity,
Drifts down upon its way.
The lilting whisper from this timeless sea
Will throb and swell in ages yet unborn;
And every bird that slants along the lea
To seek its own eternity,
Swoops out toward the dawn.
When you return in aeons yet to be
Released from chains of death and birth,
You'll find a sweet tranquility
And beauty on this earth.—S.M.

A Plain Cake for the Children.

Here is a cake the kiddies will love for their lunches.

Sultana Cake.—Six ounces butter, 8 ounces sugar, 2 cups flour, 3/4 cup milk, whites 3 eggs, 3 teaspoonsful baking powder.

Method: Cream, butter and sugar, add whites beaten stiff; put one-half in cake tin and mix sultanas with the other; bake half-hour.

Filling: Make cornflour with half-cup milk and 1 dessertspoon cornflour; leave till cold and mix in 2 tablespoonsful sugar and loz. butter; beat well, and if desired add 1 tablespoon cocoanut.

Neglected Hands.

Few people realise that it is not work, but neglect which roughens and ruins the hands. Before and after housework a little Sydal, the wonderful hand emollient, should be rubbed into the hands. It cleanses and heals the skin and makes it soft and velvety. Sydal is sold everywhere.

A Good Standby.

Many housewives are apt to look on Ovaltine as a beverage pure and simple, forgetting that it can be used in other ways.

For instance, a very good fudge recipe is: Take 2lb. brown sugar, 4oz. butter, 1/4 pint water, 4 level tablespoons Ovaltine. Boil sugar and water together for five minutes, stirring occasionally. Add the butter, and boil for two or three minutes until it starts to thicken. Then add the Ovaltine (stirring lightly) just before pouring into a buttered dish. As it cools cut into squares with a knife.

The squares should then be wrapped in waxed paper and stored in a tin with a good lid and kept in a cool place. It makes a delightful gift for an invalid at the “getting-rapidly-better” stage.