BROKEN SHIPS

Otago Witness, Issue 3772, 29 June 1926, Page 76

BROKEN SHIPS

By

Carlson E. Holmes.

(Foa the Witness.)

There is only one sight worse than a man who has drawn a losing hand in the great game of Hfe. That is to see a noble old ship doing menial work; carrying on in spite of age. All our harbours shelter at least two or three examples of man’s ingratitude to those things that have served him best—ships that helped to make our country reduced to the ignominy of coal hulks. To-day I saw a hulk being towed alongside a steamer—towed by a perky little tug that sneered its derision for its charge with a shrill, piercing whistle. But CO years ago —long before the diminutive tug was even an idea—that stout old ship sailed into this harbour with men and women whose quiet determination was responsible for what New Zealand is to-day. The old ship looked a wonderful sight GO years ago. On her poop deck stood her officers regarding with admiration—and a little pity—the brave young colonists who had left home, everything, behind them. And the passengers wondered at the quiet efficiency of those officers who had guided their ship over thousands of miles of heaving, lonely seap—had maintained discipline and cheerfulness through months of bitter loneliness. But all this was GO years ago—and men forget so soon. Recently my wanderings took ue to Picton. As we drew r.rtfc* town an old hulk was sighted—beached—near a freezing works. One of the ship’s officers said to me: “ That’s the Edwin Fox. She made several trips between New Zealand and the Old Country. Pity to see her lying there, isn’t it? ” I agreed with liim. When he left me I tried to imagine what the Edwin Fox would look like under full sail. But my thoughts were rudely disturbed by the voice of a raucous, shingled flapper who had been diligently vamping the wireless operator for over an hour. “Gee, grandma musta had a heart to come out in an ole tub like that! ” Yes, grandma—did —have—a—heart! * * * All of our harbours shelter at least two or three examples of man’s ingratitude to those things that have served him best. And at night their masts swing slowly from side to side —bare and black against the stars. But their dumb appeal passes unheeded. They are only—broken ships.