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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 8, Issue 8 (December 1, 1933)

The End of Nineteen-thirty-three

The End of Nineteen-thirty-three.

Come children, call the cattle home across the sands of Dee, for soon we'll lock Dull Duty up and throw away the key. We'll titillate the tonsils with a run of rosy rills, and wake the welkin well the while we agitate the gills. We'll make the joists to jubilate and shiver every rafter, for each of us has got a date to lift the lid off laughter. In other words, this is the month of Docember, the maddest, merriest moment of the year. Do-cember is the date for doing, the month for moulting the feathers of falsity and casting off the coat of care. For there is an air of Christmas in the air. The joy hounds are hopping off to the happy hunting grounds, and the wops have gone to their den-ho. The goose is growing fat and the grouse is going phut. The hog is having his hams cured, the lambent lamb is ripe for the roasting, the sac-but is all-but, and the stage is set for the annual play of emotions and commotions. Merriment is on the mark, and Nature is feeling Yuleish and foolish. For this is the beginning of the end of nineteen-thirty-three—the wake of Woozy the Windy, the funeral of Funk. The spirit of Christmas can already be seen in “spots,” and there is a buzz in being. The mental plane is taking off for its annual flight into the upper reaches of the Xmasphere, and the face of Nature is being lifted by Jack the Jaunt Thriller; for this, among other things, is a period for jaunting the jurisdiction and propelling the pedals in all directions. Some will sally off to see, others will put the boot into Terra Firma; gorges will be tramped and trampers will be gorged. Man will bow before the bowser and offer sacrifical silver to the God of Gasoline; the tyre will testify tirelessly to the weal of the wheel. By sea, road and rail the sons of man will pursue the peripatetic pabulum to the ends of the mirth and the carp of care will get it in the gills, hook, line and sinker.