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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 4, Issue 12 (April 1, 1930)



Everyone knows in which square of the calendar Christmas Day is liable to land, but Good Friday is prone to nose-dive into the most unsuspected latitudes and logarithms. Certain scientific Solomons say that Easter is in the nature of a seismic seizure, resulting from the sun contracting a complex in the apex, the moon being bitten by the dog star, and a ziff occurring on the zodiac—or some other stellar disturbance equally astro-comical.

And you, gullible reader, let them get away with it; you, a disgusted citizen, a father-of-five, a distracted parent, a mere pedestrian, one-who-knows, etc., etc., are content to take Easter lying down—in bed—hors de combat through a brace of buns.

What would you say if Saturday started to park itself on Monday, and Sunday took to skidding all over the week with the mobility of a butcher's baby in a bath? What, for instance, would be the state of your rave-lengths if, after sacrificing your grog allowance on a brace of coloured matches and a desiccated hurdy-gurdy for the infant Samuel, you suddenly discovered that Guy Fawke's day had slipped into the middle of Ash Wednesday?

Naturally you would go up in the air like a sky rocket.

Tune-in to the ballad of the bunless boy and the story of a mother's love that would not let her chee-ild be bun-coed by bun-combe.