ABSTRACT
Bright, rich colour the costermonger's barrow, piled high with oranges from distant Southern shores, gives to London's dingy streets. But in the joyous South all the year round it ripens, its golden liquid a solace when heat and dust parch the throat, as when winds from the frozen North blow with unwonted cold. In the South, it was a crime not to eat this fruit, created for the immortals, just as God made it. Feast, then, upon its natural charms, and as the hot Southern breeze brings to you the scent of strange Southern blossoms, and the sky stretches blindingly blue above, and one sits at your side feasting in silent sympathy, fancy yourself, if you will, the new Adam, or Eve. Bread and butter might better go than this most British of British institutions, the country's stay and support in time of peace, its bulwark when war drives Tommy Atkins into action.
