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AUTUMN There reigns a rusty richness everywhere; See the last orange roses, how they blow Deeper and heavier than in their prime, In one defiant flame before they go; See the red-yellow vine leaves, how they climb In desperate tangle to the upper air; So might a hoyden gypsy toss and throw A scarf across her disobedient hair. See the last zinnias, waiting for the frost, The deadly touch, the crystals and the rime, Intense of colour, violent, extreme, Loud as a trumpet lest a note be lost In blackened death that nothing can redeem; They make the most of moments that remain, And with the florid dahlia, ruddy stain, Endorse the sun-clock's motto, sour and plain: THE WHOLE OF LIFE IS BUT A POINT OF TIME Vita Sackville-West: "The Garden." A SAD AND SHOCKING DISCOVERY Last night it was full moon, and in consequence there is today a large tide running. It was at about halfebb as I made my way along the newly-washed beach, a flat-calm sea lapping gently in the morning sunshine. I was about to cross the creek by the still-negotiable causeway of stepping stones, when I was saddened and shocked to come upon the dead body of a Harbour or Hair Seal, lying outstretched upon the sand where the receding tide had deposited it. Saddened, because of the empathy I feel for most living things; shocked, because upon closer examination I discovered a neat bullet hole through the creature's small round head. A fine shot, if you happen to admire clean precise marksmanship. But why? I suppose a fisherman's facile answer might be, "Well, y'know, they do tend to eat up all the fish!" The seals of course do not "eat up all the fish," though fish are a staple of their diets, and they eat what they need to sustain a vigorously active lifestyle. And it must be admitted, when the salmon run is "on" they often tend to gorge. But it is the fishermen themselves who seem to feel they have a prior claim to "all the fish," begrudging any to wild creatures to whom it is their natural diets. We seem to be beset on every hand by selfish greed ... In order to make a sketch I moved the poor little carcass (which was in perfect condition) into a position approximating the attitude it might have adopted had it been alive and basking upon the sand; and, as I did so, the intelligent, dog-like face, with its wide-open though sightless eyes seemed to regard me, even in death, with an expression of sorrowful reproach. The incident rather spoiled, for me, an otherwise golden morning. Philip Croft: "Nature Diary of a Quiet Pedestrian" BLACKBERRIES FOR REMEMBRANCE The finest blackberries I have ever seen grow upon a heath about two miles distant from Peverel. A much-frequented main road from London to the sea cuts through it, and motorists, halting for a picnic lunch, marvel at the exceptional size of the blackberries there. It is no wonder, really, for those particular brambles have a costly pruning: it took a European war to bring them to their present perfection. .../3