Referring again to the fact that the town is merely the country with its hat on, we are reminded that the phrase “Rus in Urb” is no Bolshevik boast or vegetarian viand on a meatless menu; translated freely, and with abandon, it means “Rush in ‘Erb!” and is a standing invitation to Herbert of Herbertville, or even Bertie of Bowserville to foregather at his country seat among the wurzels, to feel his pulses pounding with primitive passion, his senses reeling with exotic ecstasy in the amorous atmosphere of the “wide and free,” where the frogs render their saxophonalian symphonies, where the cows cool their kneecaps in aqueous acquiescence, where haystacks stand patiently in the paddocks, and where the song of the separator, the incense of burning wood on the altar of arboreal affection, and the sound of little cowslips slipping, all lull him to a mental state bordering on paralysis of the inane.