Pumpkins and Passion.

There are lesser men who give expression to the pride of place and possession in gargantuan growths above and below the soil. A colossal carrot or a preternatural pumpkin may mean to them what the “fleur de lys” means to Joan of Arc or a well-aimed lump of English soil meant to Queen Boa-dicea—patriotism! Just Patriotism! Something upon which to fasten the pangs of faith, something to exemplify personal pride, something of which to say, “Alone I grew it,” or “My child,” “My country,” “My pumpkin”!

A husky, healthy human sentiment—unless it grows aggressive and seeks to manifest itself in feats of arms. To cultivate a pumpkin that is kin to a pump in size and aquosity is a harmless development of ego, but to burst the said pumpkin over your neighbour's dome because he can't see in it the white flame of a splendid ideal is tantamount to an attack of the woofits.