wide world. So may Dick Whittington have meditated as he trudged the
London road, but Amyntas had no talismanic cat and no church bells rang
him inspiring messages. Besides, Dick Whittington had in him from his
birth the makings of a Lord Mayor--he had the golden mediocrity which is
the surest harbinger of success. But to Amyntas the world seemed cold
and grey, notwithstanding the sunshine of the morning; and the bare
branches of the oak trees were gnarled and twisted like the fingers of
evil fate. At last he came to the top of a little hill whence one had
the last view of the village. He looked at the red-roofed church
nestling among the trees, and in front of the inn he could still see the
sign of the 'Turk's Head.' A sob burst from him; he felt he could not
leave it all; it would not be so bad if he could see it once more. He
might go back at night and wander through the streets; he could stand
outside his own home door and look up at his father's light, perhaps
seeing his father's shadow bent over his books. He cared nothing that
his name was Amyntas; he would go to the neighbouring farmers and offer
his services as labourer--the village barber wanted an apprentice. Ah!
he would ten times sooner be a village Hampden or a songless Milton than
any hero! He hid his face in the grass and cried as if his heart were
breaking.

Presently he cried himself to sleep, and when he awoke the sun was high
in the heavens and he had the very healthiest of appetites. He repaired
to a neighbouring inn and ordered bread and cheese and a pot of beer.
Oh, mighty is the power of beer! Why am I not a poet, that I may stand
with my hair dishevelled, one hand in my manly bosom and the other
outstretched with splendid gesture, to proclaim the excellent beauty of
beer? Avaunt! ye sallow teetotalers, ye manufacturers of lemonade, ye
cocoa-drinkers! You only see the sodden wretch who hangs about the
public-house door in filthy slums, blinking his eyes in the glaze of
electric light, shivering in his scanty rags--and you do not know the
squalor and the terrible despair of hunger which he strives to
forget.... But above all, you do not know the glorious ale of the
country, the golden brown ale, with its scent of green hops, its broad
scents of the country; its foam is whiter than snow and lighter than the
almond blossoms; and it is cold, cold.... Amyntas drank his beer, and he
sighed with great content; the sun shone hopefully upon him now, and t