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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 12, Issue 6 (September 1, 1937.)

the maternal month

the maternal month.

September — Nature's maternal month! The soil is one big bassinette; baby buds are bursting, infant spuds are thirsting, and the horticultural stork is busily bounding from bed to bed. Spring's infantile influence affects the hardest-boiled homo. His mind is in rompers, his tongue lisps the language of the nursery. Strong, silent caliphs of commerce who are usually sound, sane and sombre may be detected gooing at a baby jonquil, crooning over a sprouting spraxia, comforting a shrinking shallot, or fondling the frond of an early onion.

Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself has said,
“It's spring; I feel it in me blood,
I fain would kiss an infant spud,
Or rock a radish on my knee,
Or croon to baby broccoli.”
A man who never this has said
In spirit is already dead.

For the hardest heart is melted by the mellifluous magic of Nature's nursery.