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A BLAGKBEBBY BU8E IN AUTUMN. 



Some years ago an Australian settler was on a journey, 

 and, as he travelled, he saw what he took for the 

 moment to be a blackberry bush. Of course it was 

 not a blackberry bush, but the very semblance of the 

 familiar bramble, with its well-remembered berries, so 

 stirred his recollections of childhood, that he could not 

 rest until he was on his way back to the old country. 

 I can fully sympathise with his feelings, for I confess 

 to a very strong affection for the blackberry, which I 

 always visit whenever there is an opportunity, though 

 I care not for its fruit. 



Within a few yards of my house there is one black- 

 berry bush for which I have the strongest admiration, 

 and there are few days when I do not visit it. It 

 stands by itself in a pasture field, of which it forms 

 one of the most conspicuous featmres. 



There are plenty of trees in the field. Nearest to 

 the blackberry is a clump of horse-chestnuts, one of 

 which is rapidly dying, having evidently been attacked 

 by the great white grub of the stag-beetle, an insect 

 which absolutely swarms in this part of the country, 



