“And do you see that sunflower looking in through the bedroom window? It stares into my room all day.” “It strolled into your room, do you say?” “Stares. Fiercely. All day. Like God!” (The last time I played it … Strumming in the King of Bohemia, London. Benskin’s Fine Ales and Stouts. And waking, after passing out, to find John and the rest singing unaccompanied that song about the balgine run. What, anyhow, is a balgine run? Revolutionary songs; bogus bolshy;—but why had one never heard such songs before? Or, for that matter, in England, seen such rich spontaneous enjoyment in singing?
