Is not the thought infinitely tender that behind the lines of traffic and the waiting ranks of rolling stock, above the restless travelling public and on top of that great fixed community of industry which centres in the Wellington Railway Station, there are babies playing with their toes. This is not something separate from the whole system, but a delicate part of it, like that intimate pulse in one's own wrist which is forgotten until one needs again to feel its small steady assurance.

The executive heart of our major transport system beats with the pace of modern efficiency, swiftly, steadily, and its ordered confidence is reflected in the happiness of children up there, near the sky, in their little heaven of nursery land—kiddies pushing bright trains about the floor, and babies hushed in sleep. Are their deep lashed dreams about Jumbo and Hippo and all the touching fantasies we tell them?

Somehow their presence is unexpected, a whimsical afterthought, kin to the poet's hint of God's laughter when he made small comical ducks and turned them upon a serious world. Indeed, the nursery was an afterthought. For the building was first planned with only the usual rest rooms and lounges, a mothers' feeding room, and the accepted and customary attentions to women travellers, all well done, it is true, in russet and cream panelled walls and deep arm chairs, luxurious and correct.

But it seems that someone looking up suddenly from the plans heard a child's voice, and then crowned this building with youngsters' happiness.

And just as the voice of a child sets the last fine note to family life, it here illumines and lifts up the cadences of industry, until one is aware gradually, if one is a stranger, of a sort of family essence in the large fraternity of railway men and women.