Filly Fallow?s a fine fellow. He frets with the best and cajoles the worst. You may see him huddled upon that sunny hilltop where the Gillyweed and silk grass grows. High to the sky and downy soft and fresh. A favored spot for the solemn and lonesome, strident in their independence, partnering with nature and ponderous thoughts; a duet of pleasure. Here he hangs and hems his haw, holding out for heaven?s sake.

This fellow he does dress well, always with a suede jacket and vest, bowtie tied ever so lightly (though he detests the sartorial accoutrement), matching stockings on his nobby little legs devoid of those prickly stalks. A finer image has not struck you as the one he embodies. With what little he has he makes due; stubby grubby stout teapot of a man, shapely in a queer fashion, or a fashionable queer, it makes no difference. Here…