must have struggled in man against the limitations imposed upon

him by his social ineptitude. It was a long smouldering fire

that flamed out at last in all these things. The evidence of a

pathetic, perpetually thwarted urgency to make something, is one

of the mosttouching aspects of the relics and records of our

immediate ancestors. Thereexists still in the death area about

the London bombs, a region of deserted small homes that furnish

the most illuminating comment on the oldstate of affairs. These

homes are entirely horrible, uniform, square, squat, hideously

proportioned, uncomfortable, dingy, and in some respects quite

filthy, only people in completedespair of anything better could

have lived in them, but to each is attached a ridiculous little

rectangle of land called 'the garden,' containing usually a prop

for drying clothes and a loathsome box of offal, the dustbin,

full of egg-shells, cinders, and such-like refuse. Now that one

may go about this region in comparitive security-for the London

radiations have dwindled to inconsiderable proportions-it is

possible to trace in nearly every one of these gardens some

effort to make. Here it is a poor little plank summer-house,

here it is a 'fountain' of bricks and oyster-shells, here a

'rockery,' here a 'workshop.' And in the houses everywhere there

are pitiful little decorations, clumsy models, feeble drawings.

These efforts are almost incredibly inept, like the drawings of

blindfolded men, they are only one shade less harrowing to a

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