When you've met the tame
Generals and Colonels at your club, and they've boasted to you about
their potatoes, I know you've countered them with the story of how
you've turned the whole of your lawn into a bed of sunflowers calculated
to drive the most obstinate hen into laying two eggs a day, rain or
shine."
"I admit," I said, "that I may have mentioned the matter casually, but I
never thought the things were going to be like this. When I first knew
them and talked about them they were tender little shoots of green just
modestly showing above the ground, and now they're a forest primeval.
The murmuring pines and the hemlock aren't in it with this impenetrable
jungle liberally blotched with yellow, this so-called sunflower patch."
"What would you call it," she said, "if you didn't call it sunflower?"
"I should call it a beast of prey," I said. "A sunflower seems to me to
be more like a tiger than anything else."
"It was a steam-roller about a minute ago."
"Yes," I said, "it was--a tigerish steam-roller."
"How interesting," she said. "I have not met one quite like that."
"That," I said, "is because your eye isn't properly poetical. It's
blocked with chicken-food and other utilitarian objects.
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