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 and 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 business. 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.
