News from Norfolk Island

Devon in The South Seas

(From Our Own Correspondent.)

An island of only 8,000 acres, peopled by nearly 900 inhabitants, mostly engaged in growing bananas, passion fruit, beans, early potatoes and so on, looks ominously small and already overcrowded, to the eye of a potential settler. But while, by ordinary “airline” survey, Nor folk Island only registers a little over eight thousand acres, in reality, if the rich valleys and sweeping hill sides are followed with the surveyor’s tape, it will be found that the area is very much larger and that there are very considerable areas still awaiting cultivation.

Our homesteads are widely scattered and, shutting one’s eyes to such tropi cal features as banana palms and the gaudy parrots that swoop and scream above them, the general landscape is not unlike the countryside of Devon or Cornwall, as it dips inland from the rugged coast. Our wandering roads are red as Devon roads; behind picket fences, and hidden in a tangle of vege tation, are little slab and shingle cot tages that might have been trans ported along with the old-time convicts from Home. Our sing-song, drawling speech comes, too, from the southern countries, and it is our pride to be British to the backbone.

Four Deaths.

September should be our gladdest month of all the year. Our faint imi tation of winter is over, the banana palms are springing green, the pas sion vines are heavy upon their trel lises with thousands of starry blossoms promising tons of fruit by Christmas time; our gardens are a riot of bril liant scented flowers and the birds are calling and whistling from dawn till after dark.

But this particular September is rather a sad one for many of us.

Within the last fortnight we have had

four deaths —three islanders and one mainlander, who leaves a widow and five children; in such a closely knit community it means that every one of us sorrows with some one or other of the bereaved relatives.

One of the islanders, too, was of the remaining seven Pitcairners; there are now left only three aged women and three ancient men. Wonderful old people—relics of a day that is for ever departed; healthy, hearty, handsome old souls, bright with intelligence and brimming with reminiscences for those who have ears to hear and minds to appreciate. It is a privilege for any visitor to meet them and listen to their tales of old days and old ways— clothed in fanciful phrases and rich in history. The island will be per manently poorer when the last of them is gone.

Enterprise And Progress.

But, as it is everywhere else, with death among us life still goes on.

Settlers are coming in, properties are changing hands, new houses are build ing; gazing out over the sea or over looking the precious valley that holds some family fortune. The song of the sawmill is loud in the land and that of one sawmill in particular—run by the son of an English admiral, and run excellently, as to the sawmill born. A soldier once, a wanderer always, a most competent and reliable sawmiller now, and still a young keen man; boss of a timber crew second to none, on whose word and on whose timber one may confidently rely.

There are rumours of a new hall, designed for dancing and for pictures, to be situated at Middle Gate Cross roads, where once there stood a sort of penitential toll gate, separating and classifying convicts in different parts of the island; all of them within grey, melancholy stone buildings erected on old world patterns and sadly at vari ance with the bright beauty of God around them.

It sounds as though we were growing suburban, and that this structure might be a blot upon our natural and unsophisticated charm; but it is to be hoped that the architect will have a real sense of art and will keep it as simple as the landscape, and only so much larger as is strictly necessary, than the neighbouring, picturesque homesteads.

The Plucky “Water Beetle.”

The plucky little water beetle that, as recorded in last month’s notes, came wagging all the way from Auck land in an attempt to maintain the link between New Zealanders here and their native land, had a frightful trip back. With 1,300 cases of assorted produce on board, she left the calm anchorage of the Cascades Landing on the northern side of the island, and paddled round to be received instantly with a terrific slap in the face from the south-west gale that was raging.

She reeled and plunged but staggered on, and disappeared from our sight in a cloud of spray and racing waves.

Four days later we heard over the wireless that she had made port with her cargo intact and in good condition but minus her fresh water tank, a life boat and any amount of detachable odds and ends. The gale had fought with her all the way over, and she had made the trip something like a submarine, just breaking water.

But was young Captain George dis mayed? On the contrary. He volun teered, by cable, if there was another immediate cargo offering, to patch her up and run back at once. But the Marsina, a Burns, Philp leviathan, bound from the Solomons to Sydney, had just called in and scraped us bare, so we had to answer regretfully in the negative. On October 20, however, the Hikurangi—which is the owner’s name for the Water Beetle—will be here again. No sportsman will grudge her a cargo.

Busy Dame Rumour.

The intoxicating liquors with which we are strictly rationed are kept in a bulk store down in Kingston and in a private flat above resides our police force, with his wife and children.

About a fortnight ago it was discovered on checking the stock (or so it was re ported) that a quantity of whisky was missing. Failing a local paper, every thing that happens and a great deal that doesn’t, is conveyed by word of mcuth. Consequently your correspond ent has been variously informed that: 1. Two cases of whisky disappeared on Saturday evening when Constable Marsh was absent. The lock was pick ed and a Chevrolet car—of which make we have quite a number on the island —was involved. 2. Four cases of whisky were stolen and, not only that, but the post office, which stands in the same converted prison yard, was also entered but no thing taken. 3. The liquor store was never entered at all. The whisky was taken bottle by bottle over a considerable period of time and the culprit is not likely to be apprehended. 4. A flock of search warrants have been issued and Constable Marsh is

now engaged upon a close investiga tion of suspect houses. 5. Nothing has been stolen now or at any time from the store. All is in order and, if anything, there is a sur plus over the inventory of stock.

So there you are—take your choice!

We live in a constant liveliness of rumour, similar to the above, and the experienced resident believes nothing whatever, while entertaining himseif by listening to everything.