THE LAND OF PROMISE.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2603, 10 September 1909, Page 5

THE LAND OF PROMISE.

FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF GISBORNE

(By Hauppy.)

"Gisborne is a fine go-ahead little ; place," said Bob. "It b the centre of a rich squatting district, the climate is lovely, and the girls—.” But then Bob is an enthusiast, and has besides to endure the atmosphere of dour Dunedin for the best part oi the year. None the less I had half-visions of sunny days and Indian twilights, and such other things as help to bring the laugh on our side in the jest we call existence. And when I got out my "Times'’ atlas and looked Gisborne up on the map even the name oi Poverty Bay failed to daunt- me. In fact it sometimes seemed to give me a vague impression that 1 knew the place. So it was in a spirit of placid anticipation that 1 turned my face to the North. Having a day to spare in Wellington and that day being Sunday. 1 resolved to occupy myself in gleaning further information, and to that end I looked up Blake Shillingsworth, who has a fatherly manner that lends weight to his opinions. Blake is a sculptor who lias undertaken the execution of the panels and certain other work connected with a big public monument. _ I found him in a clay-spattered studio, which lie shares with three ducklings, two puppies, and a goldfinch. He was modelling advertisement figures for a patent digestive pill. He was too busy for undiluted conversation so I fished some clay out of a packing case and started shaping an impossible elephant, that developed a fresh trait every time the hand of the potter shook, so to speak. At last Blake turned round in. answer to a question. ‘'You'll like Gisborne all right,” he said, - ‘if you avoid one tiling.” This was one of the last quarters to expect a temperance lecture from, and I smiled as l gave vent to a perfunctory, “What’s that?” “Trying to model,” was the reply, as he glanced at the would-be elephant. And with this advice I was content. Unlike Ulysses and Lieutenant Shackleton I favor uneventful journeys and Tuesday evening found mo safe aboard the s.s. Tarawera within a night’s voyage of my destination. I had been but twenty-four hours in Napier and bad only one fond farewell to mako on the quayside, so there was nothing to disturb my peace of mind. Even a telegram from the Editor that I found on the notice board threatening that ho would require an article containing my impressions on arrival failed to counteract the effects of a good digestion and a callously corrugated conscience, and I slumbered with a sweetness that seldom characterises my waking moments. And as the throb of the engines dwindled to the roar of waves on a distant palm-dotted beach, and the slapping of the seas became as the voicesi of unseen guardians, I dreamed of broad quays and strings of hurrying porters, who carried the produce of a promised land to where large steamers lay on the waters of a roomy harbor. Behind was a city of white stucco and plastered buildings that gleamed in a generous sunlight. Surely this was Gisborne. I remembered' I had to write an article on it, and with the promptitude that always characterises me (in ray dreams) I stretched out my hand for my trusty notebook. My elbow hit the partition and I said "Dash!” or words to that effect. It was five o’clock in the morning, and wo were at anchor though the port-hole was still a black circle opposite me. I watched it grow paler, and while the day was making up its mind about things I went to have a bath. The batli on the Tarawera is shaped unlike any other bath of my knowledge, and is deep enough to swim m without being long enough to lie down in. But its hot water apparatus is the most surprising part. On Wednesdaymorning it would have put Rotorua to the blush, and when I had found the tap again in a cloud of spurting steam and shut it off, I decided that a cold shower would be safer.

I related my experience to my cabinmate, whose accents smacked of Caledonia. “I reckon its as well not to bath then,” he said with true Scottish, caution. But it struck me later that that was no valid reason for his omitting to wash his hands and face in tho cabin.

Green hills on the starboard and more hills far away to port, were to he seen from the deck, while in the innermost corner of the bay Gisborne’s roofs showed in a patch of gray, and a mile or so of mud-stained 6eaJ told of an ebbing river. But of the Harbor of my dream I saw nothing. Tho sun was peeping through 1 tho clouds, and tho day had half-promised to be fine, when low rainclouds came sweeping over from tho southern hills. It’s weary work waiting for a tender to disembark by, but the tender came at last. And none too soon, for the oily sea of ten minutes before was specked with white, and a nasty gale threatened. A few hundred yards steeplechasing over tho swell brought us into the brown water, which the turning tide was now forcing inshore. Then we came to the piers, or should they be called breakwaters ? Tho boat steered uncomfortably close to tho starboard jetty. A companion explained that it was necessary to risk scraping the wall in order to avoid running aground. “We seem to be between the Devil and the deep sea.,” I remarked. “On the contrary,” said my friend, who is Irish, “you are between the mud bank and the breakwater. If Gisborne were Venice the river entrance would make a passable street. But Gisborne isn’t Venice, and as a substitute for a harbor the existing watery thoroughfare is a hit of a failure. However, the place looks picturesque enough once one has passed the tin shanties that give the fields behind the southern jetty such a disreputable appearance. With its little coastal vessels moored alongside the wharves, and the rustic scenery behind the town, Gisborne reminds one of those little English ports that W. W. Jacobs loves to J write of. But the quayside characters are lacking, and once ashore the illusion vanishes. There is nothing little or old fashioned in the way the town has been laid out, and many a big city in older lands, and in. New Zealand too, has- to be content with narrower streets than the broad ways that intersect Gisborne. In this respect man has been as generous as the natural forces that have made the town’s environments so fertile and attractive. Gisborne is pleasant to look upon. Its gardens are fair, and its streets are broad, but—it really ought to have a proper harbor.