Sitwellian Superscisms.

Has not the Sitwellian significance of all things light and spoofical entered your perforated prescience, such as sin and syntax, daffodils and dough, passion and pastry, sonnets and sawdust, fat and fate, love and laundry, hope and soap, jelly and joy, rope and romance, odes and odours, and all the other abstractions and contraptions the ultra-modern metremonger merges into his political pasties?

Have you not felt the pulse of Nature beating over the landscape, like a grandfather clock with palpitation of the pendulum?

Have you not tuned into the cries and croonings of the growing crops—the tootling of the toadstool, the maternal murmurings of female fungi, the rasp of the raspberry, the querulous quack of the gooseberry, the turning of the turnip, the airchoke of the artichoke, the shriek of the leek, the mellifluous meowing of the pussy-willow, the springing of the infant onion, and the guttural gurgling of the swede? Have you not hearkened to the panegyrical pipings of the birds and beasts, i.e., the wireless warbling of the wire-worm, the glug of the slug, the burring of the early bellbird (also known as the “false-alarm” clock), the lacteal lilt of the milk-bottle bird, the swan-song of the spring chicken, the high note of the draper-bill, the ring of the ring-worm, the short pants of the carpet-runner, and, perchance, the voluminous vapourings of the lounge-lizard?

If so, and whether or no, dear reader, these adumbratory ambiguities mean one thing only—Spring has Sprung. Perhaps it would be more correct to say that Spring Is sprung, for there is a carelessness about the face of Nature betokening a stimulation of the spring-onion from extraneous sources—a sort of sportointoxication. Her “joi de vie” has a suspicion of “eau de vie.” There is about her conduct and deportment a suspicion of esprit de corpuscle, a quid pro quip, a fill-em-up-againness, connoting a disregard of the behaviour befitting a lady-bird. She has decked herself out in greens and gone on the “skate” with that notorious “back-to-nature” page 50 exponent, Pan. She has completely forgotten for the nonce that “life is realty, life is earnings,” and it's “Save” or “Up The Pole.”

Perhaps a squirt of rhetoric from the ink-syringe of the spring-poet, A. Bysmal-Bunk, will convey to you the methylated spirit of spring.