Millions Of Beans!

Norfolk Island News.

From Our Own Correspondent.

N. I., Feb. 9.

IF an aviator, swooping low over the island, were to brush off the roofs of all our houses and packing sheds and peer within, he would discover two thirds of the population—men, women and children —bending earnestly over tables, telling over endless heaps of gold. Island Gold—Beans —Canadian Wonder Beans! —our golden harvest of the year.

In living rooms, kitchens, leantos and verandahs, stand bulging sacks of beans, either awaiting sorting and grading—a painful, weary process conducted solely by hand —or containing rich bushels done and set aside for transport to Kingston, where, in stout, stone con vict cells, under expert supervision, they will be fumigated before being shipped away to Sydney.

We have fewer pests than elsewhere, and such evils as beset us are in much smaller proportion, but —with the excep tion of a very few sacks that slipped away by last steamer before it was known that fumigation was necessary

or desirable —not a bean leaves the island without submitting to the pro cess. And for almost the first time in our little history—correct me if I am wrong—it is the Administration itself that is taking these precautions and officially guarding individual interests; a big and much appreciated advance in wise and sympathetic government. For several years past we have been ruled from lofty, impersonal heights, and, when our daily bread was in jeopardy, have been virtually recommended to eat cake.

This year’s beans, though perfect in shape, quality and colour, are a little smaller than usual, owing to rain having been withheld when the seed in the pods should have been swelling.

But the sum total of the crop repre sents thousands of pounds, and we are truly thankful to contemplate the amount of hard cash that will arrive by mail and gradually seep throughout the island.

All the same, we shall heave a sigh of heartfelt relief when the last fat bag steps aboard. It is a backbreaking, tedious, maddening business, sorting billions of beans by hand against time —sitting down at dawn and rising stiffly after dark —and a sorter who has spent anything beyond three consecutive days at it may be readily identified by a wild look in the eye and a permanent

stoop in the back. And his conversation —and her conversation —is peevish and impolite.

Timber Conservation.

By last steamer from Sydney, Mr.

Lane-Poole — Commonwealth forestry expert, or however he should correctly be classified —arrived to give our timber re sources the once-over, in company with our Administrator, Captain Pinney, who is, himself, an authority on woods and forests.

The island is surprisingly wooded for the length of time it has been occupied, with the timber being cut down ruth lessly for every possible purpose; but it has been scandalously exploited and neglected, and it is well for us that we have now an administrator who is par ticularly interested in its development and conservation. Were this problem indefinitely shelved, Norfolk Island would become uninhabitable, for not only are trees, scrub and undergrowth necessary to keep the soil from washing away in heavy winter rains down our steep valleys and so into the sea, but shelter against the sweeping winds for our plantations and gardens is vitally essential.

Personal.

Our Anglican clergyman, Mr. Robin son, together with Mrs. Robinson, leaves us by this outgoing steamer, bound for England, where, with luck and a little influence, he will find a parish somewhere in Devon. His place is taken by Mr. E. Lawton, who comes to us—via New Zealand—from some where far north in the boundless out back of Australia. His wife and little boy are with him, and will undoubtedly appreciate our wonderful climate and easy living conditions after what they have endured in the Never-Never and Wellington slums. Little parties to welcome the coming and to speed the departing guests have taken place all over the island, and Mr. and Mrs.

Robinson carry away with them a won derful album of beautifully taken pic tures of scenes that have grown familiar to them during more than three years residence here.

A New Industry.

A new settler is among us with a new enterprise—goats. With a small herd of snowy white goats and some poultry, it is hopefully anticipated that the owner will make a fortune within a specified time.

But, as a community, we don’t know anything about goats; and we wouldn’t drink their milk, and we shouldn’t like their cheese, and under no circum stances would we eat goat and call it mutton, as one does in the real tropics.

And as for poultry—well, we all keep fowls and need no reinforcements from the continent.

But we wish the new citizen luck; and isn’t it a commentary upon the size of Norfolk that, from end to end of it, we are aware of the arrival of a single new resident, and our eyes are fixed upon the new industry! Perhaps she is keeping them for their Angora wool!