Oct 10—Much water has flowed beneath many bridges since I last wrote an entry ju my Country Diary: yet when I returned to my garden today the past few months might have been merely a hectic yesterday. Masses of red oid me that autumn was ave them the lie at every passing sparrow Maggie swoops across to lord it over all comers from her almost leafless Poplar. And, as if to remind me that my knowledge of birds will never be complete, there is a white-cheeked, red-billed Java Sparrow waiting for his ration in the old apple tree taunting me with memories of my early endeavours to discover if such birds were merely chance "escapes" or wanderers from some migration route. Can I explain exactly how it is we find these birds either singly or in small mobs right out of their proper range? Perhaps but I am becoming wary of all knowledge, as this true story will illustrate. Watċhing a scene among disaffected workers in Europe, I saw a burly artisan approach a rat-like little comrade doing duty as a sandwich-men with slogans fore and aft: approaching him warily he muttered (sotto voce) much advice to which the all-knowing one replied with great disdain, "Yus, ai know, ai know"; only to get reply from the-burly one, "Yus, and what-der-yer-know?" following which he wiped the back of his hand beneath a sibilantly sniffing nose, and so de-pere. And that's exactly Tow I feel about
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.