Chlorophyll
Chlorophyll, I was told at school, is the stuff of life itself. When I look at a field of hay or a hill of swedes I sometimes remember what my biology master had to say. Chlorophyll and sunlight are green life. Green life is milk, meat, fat, oil, coal, heat, in the final analysis. A short spell without light would upset the balance. If the sun did not shine, the green stuff would die. My thoughts rarely go so far when I breathe the scent of a beanfield or stand among the swedes, but I am conscious of the milk-supply when I look at the rising clover, for the summer's sun is stored in a haystack. The makers of certain products for removing bad odours have discovered the magic of chlorophyll, and through the medium of their advertise- ments the world may learn something of its function, but old George crawls up his row thinning turnips; and chlorophyll is nothing to him but cattle-food. Sometimes it is simply backache and an awful thirst.
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