THE seasons, according to the literary and artistic¹ view of things, have been rather out of joint² this year. The autumn was not a time of mellow³ fruitfulness at all, because all the green things upon this earth had exhausted⁴ themselves in the long hot summer, and had no more spirit left to be fruitful with. Then January in England had been of the usual warm mugginess⁵ and mist which poets say are characteristic of autumn, but which in reality characterize winter. Indeed, I doubt if winter was ever a time of hard frosts and sparkling snow, which is the artistic ideal, and I am disposed to believe that that version of it was really brought from Germany by the Prince Consort⁶, and popularized by Charles Dickens. Then after the mists came the mellow fruitfulness, for I myself saw strawberries in flower on February 2, and on February 9 Helen came in saying she had found a{248} real strawberry. That was strange enough, though perhaps the finding of an unreal strawberry would have been stranger still, so I said, ‘Where?’ and she said, ‘On the strawberry beds, silly.’

Therefore I started up, leaving a most important and epoch-making sentence unfinished (and I have never been able to remember what the end of it was going to be), because I wanted to see the strawberry, and write to the Field about it. So she said, ‘Are you going out already?’ and I said, ‘Yes, just to see the strawberry, and write to the Field, saying I have.’

Then she pointed⁷ to half-way down her person (since we are so abstemious⁸ of words that indicate the anatomy⁹ below the throat), and said:

‘Would X rays help?’

Being extremely clever that morning, of course I understood, and

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