THE LONG, LONG ROAD.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LIII, Issue 16205, 15 April 1916, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE LONG, LONG ROAD.

WITH VICTORY AT THE END.

BY TOHTOGA.

There was prophetic sight in the popularity of " Tipperary," for it is still a long, long way to the goal of which the soldier-boys have sung since they set their faces to it at Mons and marched to t down Queen Street, Auckland, as from every town and city in the British world. It is 20 months since tho "contemptible little army" crossed the Channel, nearly a year since the "Anzacs" made at Gallipoli tho landing that will never be forgotten, and still our soldiers tread tho long, long road, of which the end is only visible to the eyes of faith. As the road unrolls itself before their eyes and ours, breeding tells more and morn. For it is the thoroughbred horse which goes without whip or spur till it drops, the thoroughbred people which, of its own instinct, remains steadfast to tho end.

Thtre is "sport" and "sport," of course To some the 50 yards sprint for limners, tho six-furlong race for horses, the leagth of the baths for swimmers, and so all round the great games I There is something in such sprinting, of course, as there is in catching trout as fast as you can cast, or in shooting duck that are as thick as fowl in a poultry yard. But the real sport, the true test of muscle and temper and skill, is more than this. Long-distance running, long-distance riding, longdistance swimming, the hunting of shy game and tho catching of clever fish, is the "sport" that sifts and tries. Endurance is the king of qualities, the supremo virtue, the master craft. It is the hard-won match, in which mimic victory sways from side to side through strenuous hours, that thrills cricketer and footballer, golfer and bowler; for in this match victory goes not to the strongest or to the swiftest or to the craftiest, but to the team that plays the game unflinchingly to the end. v

The Horse One Loves. _ Wlh> that loves a horse and knows what it is to see the sun rise and owing high and set low while tireless hoofs throw the long miles behind them, to see distant hills beckon and pass, to feci the stiffening stride recover and grow glad as tho home-pasture nears, would change the true riding-horse for any "sprinter" ever foaled ? How does the' mettled sire of the great hunters come in the great steeplechases, with twenty-odd furlongs behind him and the stiffest hurdle in front? You see him given the rein that has held aim hard in the ruck, and his great haunches drive him forward— weighted,— though tho others were standing still. You hear the drumming as he quickens for the jump, but you never secwithout a camera recovery of his feet as he grounds. Whips out for the'others, spurs in and riders easing, but the great steeplechaser stretches himself in the pride of his strength at the last hurdle and in tho last lap. That is the quality of all qualities, the greatestendurance. This war is not a sprinters' war, but a war that must go to* the nations that can endure.

We know our soldier-boys can endure, for they have shown it—shown that they do not fear any danger and do not weaken at any test. There are graves on GaLipoli, but no imwounded prisoners, and of wounded prisoners few indeed. Into the jaws of death they went and in the-..-..jaws . of. death- they \ stayed for ' eight • months and out of , tho jaws of death they came together—every man .that was left of them. They are thoroughbred. However long the war they will endure to the end, and what is time of our own soldier-boys is true of all their British brethren. It is we ourselves who must learn to endure, to work and to wait while they fight, to stifle our grief while they suffer and die. Which, perhaps,' is tho harder— it is harder in a storm to be doing notliing' while the seamen work tho ship and keep the fires going. Perhaps this storm metaphor is inaccurate. May it not be said that we who cannot fight, much as we would wish to do our duty in that fashion, can still keep the fires going so that the seamen on .deck may have a chance. At least Wo may cheer them and not dishearten, I and show that we also are thoroughbred and ready to do what we can as long as this fiery trial lasts. We have all ■ agreed that our nation must fight " to the last shilling and to the last man," and we are not yet nationally bankrupt or nationally impotent. To tho majority of those who wear no uniform the thunderclouds of war arc so far off that we only hear their rumbling below the horizon. Our skies are clear. Sorrow lias fallen on many homes, but of the bitter dregs in the drained cup of human misery we know nothing whatever. Nevertheless, the mysterious strain of war affects our nerves and disturbs our imagination. We show by patient endurance of this strain and steady control of our imaginations that wo also can tread tho long, long road to the end. It is instructive for us to look baok three generations, when the great-grandfathers of the Anzacs were returning home from the Napoleonic t\'ars. Those wars lasted for over twenty years, with little intermission. They cost the United Kingdom over a thousand million pounds sterling, which is equal to several thousands of millions to-day. As a matter of fact, it is almost impossible for us to estimate what a thousand millions were worth a century ago. For wealth is a matter of margin. Men in those days lived frugally and sparingly. Even the comfortably-off had none of the luxuries and few of the comforts almost universal today. If the present generation went back to the thrif tiness that prevailed a century ago war debts might be paid off almost as rapidly as they were contracted. And wo could be thrifty again, if we had to be. If we could win the war by actually spending our last shilling upon it, would we not be willing to do so? We shall be willing, in case of need, if we arc thoroughbred.

In Nelson's Days. Tho British of a century ago had feared Napoleonic invasion for many a, year. The memory of that fear survives in the adora tion ot Nelson's memory, in the veritable affection for Nelson which exists in every British heart. Nelson was the national hero, a hero so great that even his ghost guarded Britain, walking on the quarter-deck of every ship, and whispering the great messago into the ears of every sailor. Indeed, that message of Nelson's lives to-day, fills our thoughts and holds our purpose. Duty! Duty! Duty! It :s always "duty." Just what the word means nobody could ever explain but we all know, as we all know what Nelson meant when he told his captains that they would not go far wrong if each laid his ship against an enemy. For thus the Nelson men, i. century or so ago, sailed down the long, long sea road that led to victory. Fronen on wintry nights, broiled on summer days, beating off lee coasts in storm and lark, they did as their great grandsons arc doing to-day. Year in, year out, they did their duty, and thus "we aio what we are and able to fight again. Endurance! When a naticn bleeds from ten thousand wounds, when sorrow is its portion, when women's hearts ache within them and men ask bow long—then it is that blood tells and breeding comes out. It was from such times as these that our nation was cradled in the hard North and nursed by the salt sea, so tliat it might stand to the ship while planks hold together, and so that it might inspire weaker peoples to high and noble things. For this long, long road of ours h but a little section of the longer road trodden by Humanity, the road which the enduring liavo ever pioneered, and on which our coming victory is but a resting-place