“A Merry Christmas!”

There comes the postman. Oh, what delight. Children rush to greet him with shricks of merriment, at every bungalow. “Postie's” face is wreathed in smiles of reciprocity—he knows page 27 the warm reception awaiting him—he is a partner in the joy of the “Baba Logue”—the carrier of their treasures—he even knows the names of the “Miss-babas” and the “Chota-sahibs”—to the best known he will even essay “Merry Krismiss.”

The tables are laden with cakes of every variety; the king of these is “Mother's Christmas Cake,” the cake in the making of which all were allowed to assist—so long as they kept whistling. To-night will come the best fun of it all—the “blazing plum pudding” and “snap-dragon”—the dodging of the “mistletoe-forfeit.” Father will surely tell them some lovely stories too—stories of “fairies” and “goblins”—and these will surely come sneaking and prowling among the dark shadows in the corners again, but unable to do any hurt—father and mother will be present.

Last night—Christmas Eve—the children had been permitted to stay up late. The larger “European Stores” had arranged a carnival for them, and thousands of invitations were issued. The grounds were beautifully laid out to represent fairy dells, grottoes, woods, and the like. Countless Chinese lanterns swung through the scene merrily, lending

Luxury In The Wilds Of Tongariro National Park.
(Rly. Publicity Photo.)
The Chateau Tongariro (officially opened on 4th November, 1929), shewing the fine view of the active volcano, Mt. Ngauruhoe (7,515ft.), to be obtained from the portico of the building.

themselves to its enhancement, nodding an invitation to the guests to enjoy themselves. “Santa Clauses,” make-believe ones of course, with rosy cheeks and flowing white beards, appeared mysteriously and suddenly from most unexpected nooks. They were laden with gifts to be lavishly distributed. It was a scene of undiluted merriment filled with the music of children's happy laughter and voices.

There were “lucky-dips” to be tried out, roulette wheels to be spun—all prizes and no blanks. Rose scented fountains sparkled and played everywhere under the brilliant illuminations; military bands, lent for the occasion, added their quota of music to the revelry of the night. From this jubilation the “little ones” had departed for their homes cuddling their presents; happy, contented, heavy with sleep to keep watch against the arrival of their real “Santa Claus” via the “chimney route.”

“Queen, Queen Caroline.”

To Anglo-Indians this tune must ever be sacred, its memories and associations are imperishable. It represents a part of their lives—is a part of themselves.

“A Merry Christmas!”