Untitled

Observer, 9 December 1912, Page 26

Perhaps you haven't decided where to go at Christmas. But you probably want to snuggle close to nature and bask in the sunshine of her sweetest smile. You'd better go to Kawau Island then ! George Mann, the warm-hearted proprietor of Sir George Grey's historic mansion and of the magnificent grounds around it, has a special aptitude as host, and he has hustled to some effect to make Mansion House worthy of your patronage.

The assertion that the scenery of Kawau is unique can be justified by a visit. The gorgeous grounds contain not only a wealth of native and known European flora, but arboricultural and horticultural specimens not to be seen anywhere else in Australasia and of entrancing interest to botanists as well as to mere holiday revellers in nature's masterpieces. Mr Mann has lately added to the attractions of his beautiful property and private hotel two croquet lawns. All the social games are available—there is splendid fishing, shooting (wallabies and opossums) to be had, and the perfection of boating. The launch service to the city has been extended, and it is now possible to spend a weekend at the Mansion House, Kawau, and to be in town for business on Mondays.

" Show me the man/ , said the earnest gentleman to a little knot of business men standing in Queenstreet, " who can make two blades of grass grow where one grew before, and I will show you the man who is the saviour of his country." "You hang on a minute," replied one of the crowd, " and I'll get him." He was away for five minutes and returned bringing with him the genial William Taylor, the man who has sown New Zealand thi-k with Westfield Fertilisers ! "All flesh is grass !" proceeded the oracle. " You're right \" reirftrted the Farmer, "you ought to see them hillocks of mine since Taylor told me the story of Weatfield." •

Once iipon a time, away out in the King Country—if you don't know where that is ask your teacher—there lived a bad man named Murphy. And this bad man bought up all the whisky in camp. The hurtling Winter rain fell and messed up all the roads and every time the good bushmen wanted a drink they had to buy it off Murphy. He charged Trust prices for it. The poor bushmen suffered and suffered. Finally they decided that they needed the whisky more than they did Murnhy. So he died. And the man who succeeded to the business delivered the goods at half rates and on easy credit.

Moral.—Don't stand between a good man and his thirst.