The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 6, Issue 4 (September 1, 1931.)

The Wring Of Spring

The Wring Of Spring

September Mourn.

September is as full of promise as a mortgage, the marriage vows, a teething rash on a cross-cut saw, a debtor's prison, a begging letter, a legging bettor, or a centipede in a two-legged race at the snakes' and adders' picnic. Every year, at that period of terrestrial consternation, when the Dipper is dippy and the Great Bare wishes he were less so, and the Astronomical Society comes down to earth till the weather breaks, and Orion gets soaked off the coast of Ireland—proving that “the quality of Murphy is not strained,” then we know that it is September, because it would have to be unless it were not, which is improbable. But September, although credited by the credulous with intent to spring and otherwise convert the gifts of Nature to its own use, is really an impostor of the first water—or the early rains. For although posing as a premature mosquito bite on the face of the earth, a sun-beam on its beam ends, or a sun-bath with the plug out, it seldom has the spring goods in stock when the customer calls its bluff. In the first place it should be prosecuted for making a false declaration as to its age, for it is only the seventh son of the union of Time and Tide, and not the ninth wonder of the year; for if “septum” does not mean “seven” then all good children do not, despite popular belief, go to heaven. In reality, September, is only July in an advanced state of premeditation, and has no real claim to act as doorkeeper at the sun baths, custodian of the spring board, or Winter in a straw hat.

Fluetember.

Anyway, a month that can associate with Influenza should be arrested under the Summer-time Act and suppressed by the Greenwich clock-watchers. It should be called Fluetember, Septuenza, or Influember; for Influenza is the most germicidal of the seven hundred and seventy-seven trials which are staged in the cells of the human constitution. Influenza is more like bad news on a wet Monday morning than a disease; it envelops rather than develops, and resembles a sock full of wet glue, an aggravated cow-drench with the blind staggers, a frosted presentiment in kilts, or a dash for the pole without a leg to stand on.

Some diseases are fair fighters, according to the rules of Habeas Corpus and the ethics of indoor winter sports, such as Catching the Cold, Pitching the Pill, and Taking Precautions; but Influenza, as a microbe, is not a square mike nor a germ you can introduce to your friends with any feeling of confidence or pride. Some diseases you are not ashamed to introduce into any company as homely, honest-to-goodness complaints that simply get to work, do their job, and leave the premises at closing time. But Influenza hangs about the place like Uncle Willie who lost his money in the big crash of ‘98 and hasn't done any work since. A disease that is efficient and knows where to stop is not without merit. Take Measles, for instance, but don't take it if you can help it. Measles comes with a rush and a rash in the first round, socks its victim, knocks spots off him, and leaves the ring with no ill-feeling. Mumps also is a swell complaint, but seldom goes too far, although it often makes a necking-party of it.

“Gout is a merry companion for the long winter evenings.”

“Gout is a merry companion for the long winter evenings.”

Of the more sociable complaints, perhaps Gout was the most so; it is, however, now but a memory, like the Maypole and other old-fashioned methods of publicity. But in its day Gout was received only in the highest families, and if my Lord Loll failed to go giddy with Gout at least once a year he put his physician on the mat. Gout was a merry companion for the long winter evenings, and it cost money to cultivate its friendship, which explains why it has gone out of fashion. But Influenza is a sticky business, and is neither the bona fide banana nor the straight Griffin; it arrests the mental processes, puts the bracelets on the bracings, and dampens the fires of inspiration. Sung with sneezes:—

Let us moan a dull cadenza,
To the demon Influenza,
As it drips and drones and dribbles—
What's the use of quoting quibbles—
It's a water-blister busted,
Or a custard rust-encrusted,
Or a groan with whiskers on it,
Or a sad sepulchral sonnet,
Or a wart that's disappointed,
Like a joint that's come unjointed,
Or a mist that's missed its mister,
Or a blister on a blister,
Or a fatalistic flounder,
Drowned in mud that oozed around her,
Or each country's pet Depression,
In a dolorous procession;
Anything in fact that's fuzzy,
Like a mildew old and muzzy,
Or a sodden porous plaster.
Telling tales of dark disaster—
That's the Flu—or something near it,
You can sometimes even hear it,
Like a water-melon soggy,
Sort of bilgeous and boggy,
That's been dropped without renigging
From a sailing vessel's rigging,
With a noise like muffled muffins,
It's a case of all or “nuffins,”
When you dial the drear cadenza,
Sung by Uncle Influenza.

The World's Woollies.

The prosperity of New Zealand is largely dependent on the world's woollies; so let us chant to the good old days when:

From the heart of Aotea
Comes a rumble and a beat,
Like the mutt'ring voice of thunder.
Or the distant tramp of feet.
And a dusty cloud arising
From the heart of Aotea,
Warns the watchers by the seashore
That the wool is drawing near.
Down the tracks and roads it's coming.
And the rail is running full
With a flood of rumbling wagons
That are bringing out the wool.
Twenty-thousand bales of fleeces,
And a hundred thousand more,
From the heart of Aotea
Down the reeking highways pour,
And the wool trains at the railheads
With their panting engines wait
For the stream of rumb'ling wagons
And their fleecy golden freight.
And they sing a prideful paean
As their straining engines pull,
For each axle, wheel and coupling
Knows it's bringing out the wool.
Down the tracks the wool is coming.
From the heart of Aotea.
Overhead the dust is drifting
As the calvalcades draw near,
Hoof and wheel and jingling traces,
And the beating piston rod,
Join their voices in an anthem
To their golden fleecy god.
And the ships strain at their hawsers,
For their holds will soon be full,
And they'll turn their noses northwards
When they're taking out the wool.

Repairing- The Permanent Way

Repairing- The Permanent Way

Not self-interest, but self-sacrifice, is the only law upon which human society can be grounded, with any hope of prosperity and permanence. —Kingsley.