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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
75
She
picked
an
apple
off
it
shouting
to
poor
Tom
still
aloft,--
"Tom
what's
the
name
of
this
one?"
"You
should
come
a
bit
earlier,
zir,"
replied
T.
"'Tis
late
a
bit
now
doan't
'ee
zee?"
"No--what's
its
name
I
want,"
shouted
his
spouse.
"Yes,
yes,
give
the
lady
one
to
take
home--there's
plenty
for
all,"
he
said.
"What
is
the
NAME?
THE
NAME
OF
THIS
YER
APPULL,"
screamed
Mrs.
B.,
and
old
Tom
moving
his
bones
slowly
down
from
the
tree
answered
quite
unmoved,--
"Aw
the
name?
Why,
'tis
a
common
kind
of
appull--there's
a
nice
tree
of
'em
up
there."
"Oh!
never
mind,
'tis
a
Gladstone,"
said
Mrs.
B.,
turning
to
us.
"A
very
fine
Appull,"
droned
the
old
boy.
September
28.
Back
in
town
again.
Wandered
about
in
a
somnambulistic
way
all
the
afternoon
till
I
found
myself
taking
tea
in
Kew
Gardens.
I
enjoyed
the
wind
in
my
face
and
hair.
Otherwise
there
is
nothing
to
be
said--a
colourless
day.
October
10.
Came
across
the
following
arresting
sentence:
"Pale,
anæmic,
cadaverous,
bad
teeth
and
disordered
digestion
and
a
morbid
egotism."
Yes,
but
my
teeth
are
not
bad.
October
20.
On
the
N.
Downs
Under
the
oak
where
I
sat
the
ground
was
covered
with
dead
leaves.
I
kicked
them,
and
I
beat
them
with
my
stick,
because
I
was
angry
that
they
were
dead.
In
the
coppice,
leaves
were
quietly
and
majestically
floating
earthwards
in
the
pomp
of
death.
It
was
very
thrilling
to
observe
them.
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