in the September sunlight as the feathery awns lengthen on its seed vessels.  What could be more beautiful!  Later on it becomes the “old man’s beard,” and the hedges will be white with the snowy down right up to Christmas, until the winter frosts have once more scattered the seeds along the hedgerow.  Of a rich russet tint are the maple leaves in every copse and fence.  On the blackthorn hang the purple sloeberries, like small damsons, luscious and covered with bloom.  Tart are they to the taste, like the crab-apples which abound in the hedges.  These fruits are picked by the poor people and made into wine.  Crab-apples may be seen on the trees as late as January.  Blackberries are found in extraordinary numbers on this limestone soil, and the hedges are full of elder-berries, as well as the little black fruit of the privet.  Add to these the red berries of the hawthorn or the may, the hips and haws, the brown nuts and the succulent berries of the yew, and we have an extraordinary variety of fruits and bird food.  Woodbine or wild honeysuckle may often be picked during October as well as in the spring.  By the river the trout grow darker and more lanky day by day as the nights lengthen.  The water is very, very clear.  “You might as well throw your ’at in as try to catch them,” says Tom Peregrine.  The willows are gold as well as silver now, for some of the leaves have turned; while others still show white downy backs when the breeze ruffles them.  In the garden by the brook-side the tall willow-herbs are seeding; the pods are bursting, and the gossamer-like, grey down—­the “silver mist” of Tennyson—­is conspicuous all along the brook.  The water-mint and scorpion-grasses remain far into November, and the former scents more sweetly as the season wanes.  But

     “Heavily hangs the broad sunflower,
        Over its grave in the earth so chilly;
      Heavily hangs the hollyhock;
        Heavily hangs the tiger lily.”

An old wild duck that left the garden last spring to rear her progeny in a more secluded spot half a mile up stream has returned to us.  Every morning her ten young ones pitch down into the water in front of the house, and remain until they are disturbed; then, with loud quacks and tumultuous flappings, they rise in a long string and fly right away for several miles, often returning at nightfall.  Such wild birds are far more interesting as occasional visitors to your garden than the fancy fowl of strange shape and colouring often to be seen on ornamental water.  A teal came during the autumn of 1897 to the sanctuary in front of the house, attracted by the decoys; she stayed six weeks with us, taking daily exercise in the skies at an immense height, and circling round and round.  Unfortunately, when the weeds were cut, she left us, never to return.