Sons of a Noun.

Town and country, country and town,
Equally excellent sons of a noun;
Gog and Magog and Jekyll and Hyde,
One of them surely will make you his bride.
Kick as you will and rebuff their advances,
Choose one you must, for you've only two chances;
Both may lay siege to your pristine affection,
One is assured of your predilection.
Town and country—country and town,
Both irresistible sons of a noun.

Having skimmed lightly over the earth generally, let us return to New Zealand. What, proud reader, is it that has put the zeal into Zealand? You answer—and rightly so—“Pride of Place.” Certainly there exist pessimiscreants who would have us believe that New Zealand is Now Zooland, a jazz jungle inhabited by prowling bankrupts and howling saxophonists, but they suffer from solidity of the skull. While agreeing that this little lump of Antarctic erosion is not always a thing of beauty and a joy for weather we will defend it with our last postage stamp. Anyway, what of our oysters? Whatever else might fail us we always have our oysters to fall back on. If you have ever stepped on an undraped oyster, dear reader, you will know what I mean.