OF US, A HARP AND A SPANISH JUG 11 



Let me ignore the presence of the machine-made 

 horror. Let me feast my eyes rather on the brave, 

 new, golden roof with which, Lavender, thou hast 

 positively bought thy pardon. Bravo ! A good 

 roof ; a haystack house. Excellent John ! Thou 

 knowest the merits of the material, cool in hot 

 weather, warm in cold. For its beauty thou 

 givest not a curse. No matter. Pass the wall. 

 The sweet stuff is thick on thy house, and I am 

 obliged to thee arid to all good fellows who keep up 

 the thatching trade. 



And there is our own roof. What a roof it is ! 

 Old thatch mended. You cannot find a brown or 

 a yellow that is not in it. And the tilt of it ! 

 And its amplitude ! It sits on the house like a 

 cosy on a teapot. Let the sun burn or the wind 

 blow frozen, neither shall find his way through 

 that. It is the only stuff to shelter agriculturists. 

 For to each his appropriate roofing. Slate for the 

 trader, hard, cold, mathematical. And tiles, which 

 are only glorified slates, they are well for the retired 

 soldiers at Eastbourne, who are a cut above busi- 

 ness. But for the tiller of the soil, from the soil 

 let his roof be won. For this agriculture is the 

 completest of arts, and can give a man every 

 necessary thing, food, bedding, beer, wool for 

 his back, sport for his leisure, and the house from 

 chimney to cellar. 



