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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 4, Issue 6 (October 1, 1929)

The Railiologists

The Railiologists.

Thus you begin to live again. Without your saying “get thee behind me, sciataca,” “lump it, lumbago” or “fly flu’” as advised to in the text-books on “psychological lollipops,” you feel your complaints becoming detached like devitalised fungi. Joy glows in your heart, just beneath where you imagine you have put your ticket. This piece of cardboard says Blossom Junction, so why should You worry. There are some three or four thousand enthusiastic railiologists behind you to see that you do get to Blossom Junction.

You loll back in your seat, experiencing that lullsome sensation—which you have never really forgotten—of being pushed in a pram. “Let ‘er go,” you murmur happily as the scenery begins to unwind itself past your window.

Europe, Chirrup, Barcelona, Gorgonzola, Beyrut, Beyrhum, and the Bay of Naples leave you cold. You say with wise old Bawbee Burns: “North, east, south, west—hame's best.”

Softly, you sing with the wheels, which click and clack and chuckle underneath you, like a girls’ college with the giggles.