The Gauge of Age.

Not that a century is any gauge of age except that it might justly be accepted as a coming-of-age, justifying a claim to the key of the door, and the door itself.

What's a hundred years when the heart is strong,

And the courage is bold—it's not so long?

What's a century, son, when you're fit and rorty—

Just look what you've done since eighteen-forty?

You're just in your prime. A hundred years

Is not such a slice as it first appears.

In fact, though Time has given you weight, You're better than ever up-to-date.

And, though we can't claim it with much authority,

We think we can say you've reached your majority.

There's many a country twice as old

Has gone no farther when all is told.

You're not so big we have to admit,

But you've always been able to do your bit,

And, if such a vanity you'll allow,

Your moniker's Mister New Zealand from now.

They say you take after John, your dad,

And that's to the good, young feller-me-lad,

And now you're of age and wear long breeches,

You'll grow more like him in mind and features,

Acquiring besides, as youngsters are prone,

Additional character all your own.

Now this is your birthday, sonny boy,

And a slap-up party we'll all enjoy.

With Uncle Carnival, nose a'glow,

And Father Christmas to make it go.

With a fine display of what you've done,

Achievements surprisingly good, old son,

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And all the contraptions and fun of the fair,

To make nineteen-forty a red-letter year.

And here's the toast we drink to this free land,

“Maintain all the zeal that you've put into Zealand.”

The kiwi is a wingless bird, but who said it couldn't fly! This being one Christmas in a hundred, a double-header in Christmasses, we should wish each other a Merry Chrismatennial.