life is that of Prime Minister or Field Marshal: he feels it. Do
you think the man has no yearning for higher things? Do you think we
like the office, the shop, the factory? We ought to be writing
poetry, painting pictures, the whole world admiring us. You seem to
imagine your man goes off every morning to a sort of City picnic, has
eight hours' fun--which he calls work--and then comes home to annoy
you with chatter about dinner.

It is the old fable reversed; man said woman had nothing to do all
day but to enjoy herself. Making a potato pie! What sort of work
was that? Making a potato pie was a lark; anybody could make a
potato pie.

So the woman said, "Try it," and took the man's spade and went out
into the field, and left him at home to make that pie.

The man discovered that potato pies took a bit more making than he
had reckoned--found that running the house and looking after the
children was not quite the merry pastime he had argued. Man was a
fool.

Now it is the woman who talks without thinking. How did she like
hoeing the potato patch? Hard work, was it not, my dear lady? Made
your back ache? It came on to rain and you got wet.

I don't see that it very much matters which of you hoes the potato
patch, which of you makes the potato pie. Maybe the hoeing of the
patch demands more muscle--is more suited to the man. Maybe the
making of the pie may be more in your department. But, as I have
said, I cannot see that this matter is of importance. The patch has