If from adown the hopeful chops The fat upon the cinder drops, To stinking smoke it turns the flame, Poisoning the flesh from whence it came

Yes, this massive, spectacled Cockney dreamer is doing marvellous things these days — he is fantasticising the familiar, making us see our old town radiant in a new and odd light. Orthodoxy abounds in some graver Chestertonisms.

I have a relish for moderate praise, because it bids fair to be judicious.

I must fable my own birth: Though you both were Very much in love under Boston's stars, Among the maples' red-handedness, Caught at the bottom of an October sky