THE ABODE OF HOPE FOR CONSUMPTIVES.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLI, Issue 12663, 17 September 1904, Page 5 (Supplement)

THE ABODE OF HOPE FOR CONSUMPTIVES.

1 '■'.■"' [ET L.M.E.] The shadows are gathering down, on. the . plain, but the sunlight is lying across the hills as we drive out of the little township of Cambridge, and turn our faces towards the uplands for the seven miles' drive to the Government Sanatorium for Consumptives. We get a swift glimpse of the Domain as we pass it, with the deep, brown pool in the centre, thickly strewn with rushes, the water darkling now save where ono catches 9, flash of light as the surface is disturbed ; by the splash of wild ducks as they hurry r ' hither and thither, calling hoarsely tc each other. The pool has the appearance of a basin, with thickly wooded sides sloping upwards. Some of the foliage is gloriously 1 tintedtrees in autumn dresses of yellow I «,nd redbrilliant splashes of colour against I - the dark green background. f In Cambridge streets it is always possible I Id escape the monotonous display of articles required for the comfort and discomfort of one's body by looking just above the shop 1 windows at the trees which line the streets. In autumn, after the first touch of cold and frost, their colouring is exquisite. One is ; tempted to wish that such refreshment were possible in Auckland. But we are out of Cambridge now, and speeding away behind a splendid pair of horses, the evident strength of which leaves one free to enjoy the drive with a clear conscience as one notes the distant yellow track winding its wav among the green of the hills, and thinks of the stiff pull it will be for them before they reach Maungakawa. Fields and roads are left behind. We are tip among the hills now. We breathe it in the cleai keenness of the air, feel it in the tush and stillness that surround us as we look back at Cambridge lying distant in the sort evening light. The sky is banked with grey clouds. The setting sun pierces them with golden dusted shafts of light, which seem to touch the earth like long fingers with curious effect, foi the clouds, like soft wool, fold themselves, up to the very edges of the yellow swords as if jealous lest mortal eyes should see the glory which lies beyond. The horses stop and rest now, and for a few minutes everything is in unison with the absolute stillness, and one sits very quiet, and lets the utter peace of it soak into one's very being, until tired brain and body feel a rest different from any experienced before, and , one understands better than one has done < hitherto the meaning of " I will lift up mine j eyes to the hills, from whence cometh My j help." Further on we pass a. cluster of pine trees, the outermost row ringed, stancung there lifeless, straight and tall, grey with the death colour, while just behind a num- . ber of their fellows lie "stretched upon the ground, the trunks blackened and charred by fire. The sight jars on one, and it is with a sense of relief as the road mounts higher that one turns one's eyes to the lovely tangle of wild bush, and listens to the trickle ot a stream in the gully. On the other side of the road, looking like lovely strangers, stand two poplars. Their foliage is purest gold, and the yellow leaves float softly, slowly to the ground. Still we mount after we have passed the great, white gates which define the boundary of the Government property. The steep clay road curves and zigzags round the spurs like a snake, i';';. until at Last we come upon a little wayside camp—a tent, a cheery bit of wood fire, j with a billy banging over it, and two or ' , three dark figures preparing their evening workmen, temporarily employed on the Sanatorium road, who cannot compass the distance in and out of Cambridge night i, f and morning. Another curve and the Sanatorium is before us to the right, and, feeling that with that evening drive we have reached the end of something delightful, we turn to the left, where a child's fearless little figure comes running lightly over the brow ; pf the hill in welcome. Early morning among the hills One gprings up feeling that to lie a-bed is sheer wickedness in this world of lovely - light. Th« feeling of "distance, is exhilarating. ,Bei. low, the plain stretches mistily away, and 1 all around, their outlines softened and undefined as yet, rise ths everlasting hills. From the bush only a few yards distant from ths house comes the sharp, sweet call of a waking bird, echoed by another, and another—the shrill cry of the weka, and the ,■: buboling musical note of the tui. The ordinary humdrum world of struggle and petty - contentions seems far away from here. A I distant peak catches the first kiss of the sun, he caresses one after the other, and eoon slops after ■ slope is bathed in his glovy. .The plain is dotted with Sow, green hills, which seem like , (mounds from the height we are viewing them. The sunlight laughs over them, playing bide and seek with the cold shadows which linger reluctantly where they may. The mist rolls away, the new world is awake, and invites us out to share in its gladsomeBess. We run down the slope into the 'bush ton the spur of the untouched, nntram- ! melled Nature— trees rearing themselves to the sky, here and there a beauti ■ ful cruel rata, numberless pungas,, and all around and underfoot a wealth of vine and fern. In some places the banks are softly carpeted, with exquisite crape fern, while through the foliage the light dances and quivers in patches of yellow sunlight and shadows. A little bird, its fan-like tail spread wide, flutters down, and circles daintily nearer and nearer us. Its curious fear- . lessness reminds one of the Maori explanation that these birds are the spirits of their ancestors, who welcome the presence of a human being in their haunts. Bather a serious reflection on the morals of dead and gone Maoris, seeing that fantails are inveterate thieves amongst fruit. The bush as fascinating, and one would like to explore some .of the narrow tracks worn through it by the deer, but the Sanatorium is awake now, and after breakfast we turn Our steps thither. As we go up the drive we meet two or three groups of patients setting out fox a walk. The impression one gets at a cursory glance is that they are enjoying it, as surely anyone must in that delicious air— that makes one feel that it is worth while to be alive just tc breathe it. They are mostly barefooted, these men, tramping cheerily «uong ; We are told whv the medical supermtenaent recommends this practice amongst the patients, and the wisdom of it is obvious as one notices the dew-laden grass, and yet realises that to keep the patients continually out of doors is the most effective weapon in the sinful hands that are ever waging war against the dread disease that is combated m the Sanatorium. The nurses have also ,• • adopted the system of bare feet, and find it * great improvement both for avoiding damp and for the ease u affords when they are on their feet all day. Since the practice has Been instituted the patients have ceased to sutler from cold feet at night, which used to trouble them very much. Dotted all over the closely shaven green turt of the Sanatorium gardens are the pretty little open-air shelters. One quite envies the • occupants of these charming little abodes, :;; which look most inviting. "The interior of v each is painted pale bine, and they are ;*■ .,'■ daintily neat and clean. One imagines that restless nights, and even pain, must be more easily borne thus, unpent by walls, to lie m the clear mountain air with the heavens and the starlight to soothe one. Each shel- • ter is lit by electric light, and is connected With the main building by a telephone, so that the occupant can obtain assistance immediately if necessary. > As we enter the main building the hall at Once attracts attention. It is very handsome, and of splendid dimensions. One imagines that these walls have witnessed ,; many a merry gathering in bygone days—the ;* , sort of hall where the household would ." gather on winter afternoons for te? and 1 **; chatter round a cheery blaze from the great P "replace in the corner. Now, the same bosp pitable walls shelter those who come askj,, ing for help lest they die. We pass through { the private patients'" dining and sitting rooms , —a very large and comfortably-furnished •\,\ room, where some patients are sitting, reading and writing. The doors and windows ;, are all wide open on to the verandah —a > bread sunny place where the sick folks are , sitting and lying in comfortable chairs and ; lounges, some child patient? playing happily ciose by. The pretty conservatory is the - ? Eext ace we visit, and on the apposite side )■?-{_ . of the norch is the office—a room which many * patient must enter for the first time with a heavy heart, and leave for the last time -ml of hope and thankfulness. i , A one of the patients are allowed to sleep Jadoors, consequently the house itself is §' Midoor&, consequently the house itself is only lor tk large dining and sitting

rooms, kitchen, etc., and upstairs are the private apartments of the staff. Outside, again, we toss by the laundry and drying house, and beyond the stables, and the quarters for the men employed in the Sanatorium. On the other side of a small white gate are the kitchen garden, the poultry yard, and the cowhouses, everything needful to conduct in comfort and orderliness such an establishment as this. Then we pay a visit to' the power-house. It is a pretty little walk this. First past more shelters; one, a great airy place, is a dining hall for some of the male patients. , We leave them all behind, cross a field, then enter the bush and follow a winding track along the edge of the stream. The sound of the water blends musically with the voices of the birds, which are twittering and calling to each other, and with the soft rustb of dead leaves as we tread them. It is curious to suddenly become conscious of another, note dominating those other voices, the throb of an engine, for by the bank of the stream, in a, small clearing, stands the power house which, besides pumping the water up to the Sanatorium, supplies it with electric lightcivilisation in the heart of Nature. We are invited to enter by the engineer, whose Scotch tongue, as he explains his machinery to us, reminds , one of McAndrew, and as one watches with fascinated eyes the tireless rained power of machinery, how it always recalls— | Now a' together, hear them lift their lesson—' theirs an' mine: Law. Order. Duty, an' Restraint, Obedience, Discipline! ' ■ . Mill, forge an' try-pit taught them that when roarin' they arose, i An' whiles I wonder if a soul was gien them wi' the blows

After leaving the power-house we mount the hill at the back of the Sanatorium, from the wind-swept brow of which is a glorious view. On om way we notice a little white tent, planted down amongst the green, away from all sounds of the Sanatorium. It is for the night nurse, wlic has chosen this solitary place in which to take her rest when the world wakes up. On the opposite side a new "colony" of shelters Is being built, which will provide accommodation for about twenty new patients. It is an exhilarating bit of work this climb, with the short springy turf under foot, and the sweet, strong breeze careering round as though it would blow one up willy-nilly. We reach the top rather breathless, and find a welcome seat placed there. On© is constantly coming across these seats, fai and near, in the Sanatorium grounds, where the patients who are strong enough to walk may rest when they get weary. It is a fair world we view from this sunny hill crown— stretching beauty of lull and plain—the irregular blue outline of Pirongia reminding us of our own Bangitoto. Away in the ranges round Te Aroha glistens the white streak of a waterfall, and to the north-west we see the glearvof the Whang&pe Lake, while far, far off through the exquisite clearness of the atmosphere is a distant vision of the snow-capped peaks of Ruapehu and Mount Egmont. One might dream away a day up here, but time presses, and we run down the grassy slopes, alarming the turkeys, who strut indignantly away, regarding us as unlawful trespassers on their own particular As we pass the Sanatorium again a boy comes out on to the lawn, and sounds "a great gong that stands there to summon the patients to a meal. Some of them are coming up the paths in response to the signal; others are lying or sitting on the wide verandah. Here and there a nurse is crossing the grass to attend to those who are too iff to leave their shelters. All around are comfort and peace, and the warm thought comes to one that it is a thing for which to be grateful, for us who are blessed with health as well as these, our brothers and sisters, who suffer, that clear brains and skilful hands in New Zealand have organised and aw carrying on such an establishment as this. Whether I poor or rich, he who learns with a chilling I fear that pulmonary consumption has touched him with its cruel finger, may turn hist face hopefully towards Maungakawa for help. "These put out their hands to us, and healed and made us whole." Hope- in the hills! Later on, as we drive towards Cambridge we turn and look back at them. There the stand, Nature's re- i pository of health, stretching out kindly hands to aid her sick children. Slope upon slope the foothills are piled, their many hues changing and melting into the olive distances, and beyond all the ranges with their "Violet peaks uplifted through the crystal evening air." They hold us in thrall, inese free, beautiful hills, just as ". . ". the sight of saltwater unbounded" does. One often thinks that there is naught to compare with the sea for haunting, indefinable charm, but the hills ! hold it too, and one realises how unerring | was the judgment that classed them together in the words i Who hath desired the sea?— sight of salt _ water unbounded: The heave and the halt and the hurl and tfce crash of the comber wind-hounded? The sleek-barrelled swell before storm, grev, foamless, enormous, and growing, Stark ca»m on the lap- of the line or the __ crazy-eyed hurricane blowing— His sea in no showing the same— sea and the same 'neath each showing— His .sea as she slackens or thrills— So and uc otherwise— and no otherwise hrllrnen desire their hills! '