October 1880. The
boughs broken by the snow had leaves upon them which at once turned
brown, and in the case of the oak were visible, the following spring, as
brown spots among the green. These snapped boughs never bore leaf again.
It was the young fresh green leaves of the elms, those that appeared in
the spring of 1881, that withered as if scorched. The boughs upon which
they grew had not been injured; they were small boughs at the outside of
the tree. I hear that this scorching up of elm leaves has been noticed
in other districts for several seasons.

The dewdrops of the morning, preserved by the mist, which the sun does
not disperse for some hours, linger on late in shaded corners, as under
trees, on drooping blades of grass and on the petals of flowers. Wild
bees and wasps may often be noticed on these blades of grass that are
still wet, as if they could suck some sustenance from the dew. Wasps
fight hard for their existence as the nights grow cold. Desperate and
ravenous, they will eat anything, but perish by hundreds as the warmth
declines.

Dragon-flies of the larger size are now very busy rushing to and fro on
their double wings; those who go blackberrying or nutting cannot fail to
see them. Only a very few days since--it does not seem a week--there was
a chiffchaff calling in a copse as merrily as in the spring. This little
bird is the first, or very nearly the first, to come in the spring, and
one of the last to go as autumn approaches. It is curious that, though
singled out as a first sign of spring, the chiffchaff has never entered
into the home life of the people like the robin, the swallow, or even
the sparrow.

There is nothing about it in the nursery rhymes or stories, no one goes
out to listen to it, children are not taught to recognise it, and
grown-up persons are often quite unaware of it. I never once heard a
countryman, a labourer, a farmer, or any one who was always out of
doors, so much as allude to it. They never noticed it, so much is every
one the product of habit.

The first swallow they looked for, and never missed; but they neither
heard nor saw the chiffchaff. To those who make any study at all of
birds it is, of course, perfectly familiar; but to the bulk of people it
is unknown. Yet it is one of the commonest of migratory birds, and sings
in every copse and hedgerow, using loud, unmistakable notes. At last, in
the middle of September, the chiffchaff, too, is silent. The swallow
rema