ore careless, "Ah yes, sir,... this 'ere
Budget... the Radicals are doing a lot of 'arm."

I listened intently, and he went on. He said with a sort of careful
precision, "Settin' class against class; that's what I call it. Why,
what's made our Empire except the readiness of all classes to work
'eartily 'and-in-'and."

He walked a little up and down the lane and stamped with the cold.
Then he said, "What I say is, what else kept us from the 'errors of the
French Revolution?"

My memory is good, and I waited in tense eagerness for the phrase that
came next. "They may laugh at Dukes; I'd like to see them 'alf as kind
and Christian and patient as lots of the landlords are. Let me tell you,
sir," he said, facing round at me with the final air of one launching a
paradox. "The English people 'ave some common sense, and they'd rather
be in the 'ands of gentlemen than in the claws of a lot of Socialist
thieves."

I had an indescribable sense that I ought to applaud, as if I were a
public meeting. The insane separation in the man's soul between his
experience and his ready-made theory was but a type of what covers a
quarter of England. As he turned away, I saw the Daily Wire sticking
out of his shabby pocket. He bade me farewell in quite a blaze of
catchwords, and went stumping up the road. I saw his figure grow smaller
and smaller in the great green landscape; even as the Free Man has grown
smaller and smaller in the English countryside.

The Appetite of Earth

I was walking the other day in a kitchen garden, which I find has
somehow got attached to my premises, and I was wondering why I liked it.
After a prolonged spiritual self-analysis I came to the conclusion that
I like a kitchen garden because it contains things to eat. I do not mean
that a kitchen garden is ugly; a kitchen garden is often very beautiful.
The mixture of green and purple on some monstrous cabbage is much
subtler and grander than the mere freakish and theatrical splashing
of yellow and violet on a pansy. Few of the flowers merely meant for
ornament are so ethereal as a potato. A kitchen garden is as beautiful
as an orchard; but why is it that the word "orchard" sounds as beautiful
as the word "flower-garden," and yet also sounds more satisfactory? I
suggest again my extraordinarily dark and delicate discovery: that it
contains things to eat.

The cabbage is a solid; it can be approached from all sides at once; it
can be realized by all senses