The Journal of a Disappointed Man

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.