THE LIMITED

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXIX, Issue 21254, 6 August 1932, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE LIMITED

by kotahe

AND A COLD MORNING

Six o'clock on a perfect frosty morning. The place, a flourishing town in the heart jf the King Country. And a train to catch it the station a mile away. In the motor [ think how seldom nowadays I see the sun begin his state. As we glide along through the clear, cold air, the last stars [ading in the morning sky and the moon paling her ineffectual fires, I find the years rolling back. Through the purring jf the engine comes the beat of hoofs from many a long-past morning. Again the gig wheels scrunch through the ice in the ruts of a rough and narrow mud road. The iron surface rings beneath the horso's steady tread. We sway and bump ?ver the bad stretch with its manuka corduroying, but we tako it in our stride. A few hours hence the sun will have disintegrated once more the solid surface the night's frost has provided. We move on in a cloud of vapour from the straining iiorse. But things are happening in the east that cut short my memories. The sky far and deep in the first glow of morning loses its steely tone toward tho horizon. On the earth's rim to the east there is tho faintest touch of rose; abovo that a band of delicate primrose. Clamped hard down upon it is a mass of the deepest violet I have ever seen in tho sky. I think that Nature has been providing this glory day after day and year after year and never till to-day were tho time and the place and I together. The sage's words reproach me: "I do not wonder at what men suffer, I wonder at what they lose." Rupert Brooke's exquisite picture of death, the giver of peace, coines back to me as the coming day touches the ice in the wayside ditches with a sombre but somehow hopeful peacefulncss of light: There aro waters blown by changing winds to laughter And lit by tho rich skies all day. And after , Frost with a gesture stays the waves that dance . And wandering loveliness. Ho leaves a Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance, A width, a shining peace, under the night. At the Station But here is tho station. The light, is growing, but the dim light of a world still half in the shadow is not enough for the accurate despatch of railway business. The station staff bustle about on their lawful occasions. There are signals to be fixed, luggage to be ready for speedy transfer, there is a stray passenger or two to be provided with a ticket, including one that is feverishly anxious lest the train should forget to stop. These are not matters to be attended to in the half-light of dawn. The electric lights glare vividly and relentlessly down on the station platform. Outside the lagoon of light the shadows seem to bo gathering more deeply, but on the spurs and tho hills jocund day stands tiptoe. Under the spell of the morning my imagination is stirred out of its wonted sluggishness and I fancy I hear the spirits of the dawn mocking the garish glitter of the station lights. your little hour,'' they seem to say. " You are well enough in your pettifogging way, but give us another half-hour, and the world is ours." ' _ There is so far no sign of the train. It will bo on time, tho stationmaster assures us. We stamp up and down the platform. Soaiehowuow we are waiting-with nothing to do but wait, tho cold becomes more intense and penetrating. When you can see the signs of tho heavy frost the impression of bitter cold is through two senses instead of being concentrated on one. Wo try to work up a conversation, but there seems nothing to talk about. We are interested only in the coming of the train, and till it appears thero is nothing to be sjiid and nothing to be done. The Train Then faint and far across the hills comes a long-drawn note. Only tho whistle so far, swallowed up again in the silence of tho hills. For some reason—it must be a magic morning this—l think of Roland's horn and his Christian comrades far of! through tho defiles of the Pyrenees hearing his call for help which was also his challenge to tho oncoming hosts of the infidel. There floats into_ my mind, ( too, Richard Aldington's magic phrase—" the coach-horn of romance." The' whistle of a train in the night stirred him to his depths. Thero is always that sense of mystery and romance about the train in tho lonely places. I never hear the whistle in the night but I find myself again a little fellow on a far-back farm spending school holidays. The train had brought us to this place of infinite delights, and the train would carry us when not unwillingly we turned again home. And iri tho meantime the distant whistle of the train as it dashed into a tunnel at the head of a long rise was a satisfactory reminder to youthful anxiety that our line of communication was still open That one train sounding its challengo through the gathering night was the sure link between our two worlds. We could enjoy our holiday to the full because the train made the distant home, which was the background of everything, somehow very sure und safe. But now through the still morning ail a low, persistent murmur detached itsell from the universal silence. It grew ir volume or faded as the folding of the hills carried the sound in our direction 01 diverted it into remoter valleys. There was the roar of a bridge or a culvert. Once came a sudden cessation of sounc not long enough for a stop, as if we found ourselves in one of those curious zones oi silence that honeycombed tho air behind the linos in the Great War. Then the continuous roar abruptly became a swifl succession of rhythmical beats. A plume of smoke streamed vigorously against the hill slopes, and round a curve not half-a mile away flamed the cyclopean eye o the Limited Express. On Board Tho station lights had blinded one tc the definite coming of tho dawn. Th< quarter-of-an-hour while I had beer ruminating 011 tho coach-horn of romance had seen tho half-light of dawn merge into tho full light of common day. Bui when I boarded the train 1 was suminarilj thrust hack into night's dominion. The blinds were elown, tho lights were out and the chairs were festooned with humar shapes in every attitude of unquiet slumj her. A sleeper would stir and mumble ond seek vainly a more comfortable posi- | tion for cramped and contorted limbs. I If vou want to feel bow unnecessary £ member of the human race you are, how intrusive a blot on the landscape, let me recommend you to board an express some whero about sunrise. You have come froit a waking world whero life has begun another day. You enter cheerfully anc briskly with that peculiar sense of rectitudo that always seems to accompany early rising. Your jaunty step slows down. You feol that you have to apologise foi your very existence, let alone your presenco at such an untimely hour. Iluggaid eyes regard you with contempt or disgust or an even more desolating inelifferenco. You become a phenomenon at once insignificant and unpleasant. A sleepy voice murmurs something about people thai barge in in tho middle of the confounded night. But in half-an-hour the whole carriage is awake. You are a self-respecting mar among men again. Tho blinds are upCheerful voices greet tho frost-white world. And through tho fields now- bathed in the full glory of the morning the greal train rushes its eager freight toward Frankton and breakfast.