You are servants. Your thoughts are the thoughts of cooks curious to skim perquisites from every pan, your quarrels are the quarrels of scullions who fight for the privilege of cleaning the pot with most leavings in it, your committees sit upon the landings of backstairs, and your quarrels are the quarrels of kitchens.

"The Earth?" quoth a Dandelion to my Oak, "what earth? where is any? I float, and find none!"

At that moment the wind blew.

"Nevertheless, it is here," quoth my oak, with pleasure in all his roots, what time the dandelion was blown out of hearing.