TALKS ON THE TRAIN.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 19697, 26 January 1926, Page 7

TALKS ON THE TRAIN.

By A. W. Tindall. Sad was the fate of Jiggletail when they re-entered the train after lunch at Oamaru. He wanted a game of cards; the others didn’t. ‘‘Can’t we make a four at 500? “Don’t feel like playing just now, said Sparrowfield, placidly. Smugson and the Old Timer shook their heads, which were close together. ’lhoy were conversing amicably but inaudibly. Despairingly, Jiggertail looked round. Not another soul in the compartment. “Funny there’s so few on this train, ’ he said to Sparrowfield. “Few who have once experienced the delights of Otago’s - great Exhibition can resist the inclination to stay a little longer than they originally intended,” replied the latter sententiously. ‘‘Well, I’m oil to see a cobber m the second class. That old bloke’s got Smug on a string. He’ll break out in a fresh place directly, you’ll see. Ta’ ta Ho removed his rather irritating personality from the ken of the elder man, who sighed with relief. Then he filled his pipe and smoked contemplatively, lulled by the regular rumble of the train and the murmured colloquy of his companions. Suddenly the Old Timer sat up and stuttered out the following words, m a state of high excitement: “Moraine beb-blowed. “But Professor Park says it’s a moraine, land he’s the best authority in Otago, isn't he?” said Smugson. “Whatever s the matter?” asked Sparrowfield. . . ~ “Well, I told our friend here that the geologists say the Blue Spur deposit is a reoiraine, and he thinks it’s a heap of gravel left by a big river,” replied Smugson. _ , , . f ~ “Oh! I’ve read Professor Parks views, shouted the Old-timer. “They’re in Ins book, ‘The Geology of New Zealand. 1 can give you page and chapter, see. He rummaged in his breast pocket and fished out a well-worn notebook of huge dimensions, from which he read the notes. “Here on page 187 he calls it part of the Taieri moraine, and on page Dll he says it is one of nine isolated patches of the Clutha moraine. Then on page 192 he says the nine deposits are exactly similar—similar in character, ‘consisting mainly of water-worn material set in a matrix, of silt, sand, and shattered rockrubble.’ And on the same page 192 he describes what he calls the Blue Spur Glacial Drift as a typical example of the older moraines. The material, he says, ‘consists o* a more or less stratified mass of breccia-conglomerate and cemented gravel drift.’ Now, I ask you, gentlemen, what is a moraine?” “A heap of stones and gravel left by a glacier after it has been melted,’ answered Sparrowfield. , . “Very well, then, how can it get stratified? ' Chuck a cartload of gravel down in your garden, and leave it for years, and then look if you can find any strata or layers in it. Why, man, you can see the layers of sand and gravel in the big mass of cement at the Blue Spur they're breaking down with two jots at the very time we are talking. Water must have been working on the stuff at some time, I say, to lay it down in those regular seams. Besides some parts of it have more gold m them than other parts, and the old miners found more gold in the lower than in the upper parts. Then on page 194 Professor Park says: ‘This great brecc ia-c on gl ome rate is obviously of fluvio-clacial origin, and the presence of the included trunks of trees (now streaks of lignjte) would indicate that it was formed during the first epoch of glaciation, when the country that was not vet covered with the advancing ice was still clothed with forest vegetation. I s pose he mans a river ran through the country in the first place carrying a lot of gravel. Then the ice ago came, and the river froze into a glacierr which, later on, melted and left - its moraine on top of the heaps of river gravel. ThaPs all I can make put of Professor Park’s term fluvio-glacial. Flavius means a river in Latin, doesn t it. asked the Old-timer, who by this time was almost breathless. , . , “Yes,’’ said Sparrowfield, but is the Blue Spur the head of the old river, or glacier or whatever it was? , “Nobody seems to know,” replied the Old-timer. “Some think more of the deposit might be found on a line running north-west over the Lammerlaw, others think there are traces more west towards the Blue Mountains. Anyhow, I believe there is a big field for prospecting left yet on the Lammerlaw, and neighbouring ranges. Now r , a business man like you, ho said to Smugson, “ought to start a prospecting company for Tuapeka. Wish I was a young fellow again. I’d take it on. I’m sure there’s a lot of gold loft in the gullies and hills of Tuapeka yet. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. I know of two or three good men who, whenever they scrape a pound or two together, go on a gold-hunt. I’d be glad to see them strike something rich. Mind you. there’s other minerals besides gold in the Lammerlaw —antimony, scheolite, cinnabar, and Lord knows what else.” “ITm,” said Smugson. “More money in rabbits now-a-days than in ogld-mining about Lawrence.’’ Sparrowfield nodded and then replied impulsively : “Well, gold or no gold, the hills round there hold some fine places for camping out. Pretty bush, clear streams, sheltered nooks, plenty of wood, shooting, fishing, prospecting for old. Nelxgt time I’m going to take my three boys and a big tent, and have a good time in the wilds of the Lammerlaw. Do you know, one day I went for a long walk, and I came across a poetic rabbiter. He’s a returned soldier and makes rhymes while he’s setting his traps. He gave me one of his poems. Ho has written several. Ho calls them ‘Ballads of a Bunny-catcher.’ I don’t think it’ll hurt you if I read it.” “All right, fire away, said Smugson. The Old-timer podded assent. Sparrowfield read the following; I’ve been to Egypt and Dardanelles, To Jerusalem and Flanders; I’ve heard the sound of London bells, And served a few commanders; But, where’er I’ve _ been on land or sea, My mind the vision fills, Of windy downs and ranges free, Tuapeka’s tawny hills. Fretful flutter of motor bikes And rumble of motor cars May suit some titivated tykes. Who’re afraid of nasty jars; ) But give me a well-traind rabbitcr’s moke Wih easy ambling paces, And I’d rather jog gently along and smoko Than slither away to the races. There’s rabbits a-soampering up the slopes, The trout leap in the creeks, A stony-broke who knows the rope Oan live on grass for weeks. So, when I find my credit low. And can’t pay half my bills,* I swing the bluey and off I go To Tuapeka’s hills. “That chap’s too fond of an easy life to work for a boss, I oan see,” said Smugson. “Well, you’re the same aren’t you? You’d rather boss than work under a boss, wouldn’t you?” remarked the Old-timer. Then the train stopped at Timaru, dnd they got out to stretch their legs.