AN OCTOBER PIKE 333 



Below the mill and lock the river comes down 

 in two streams, one scarcely running, for the mill 

 is not working to-day, the other hastening in little 

 waves that leap over one another in their haste to 

 leave the wide pool behind the island. Oaks and 

 a wild pear tree all in scarlet stand there, great 

 blotches of indigo shadow caught in the yet well- 

 foliaged branches of the former. Across them an 

 insect flying in the sun traces a lazy golden line, for 

 it is flying with the langour of almost its last day. 

 We trace it to a hole almost at our feet, whence 

 peers out the sleepy face of another wasp pretending 

 to keep guard, as was done in summer days. We 

 can poke a stick into the doorway, stamp overhead, 

 and tickle the door-keeper with impunity. The great 

 round cave down there is empty of wasp valuables, 

 its paper cubicles sinking down into one shapeless, 

 bulkless ruin. Overhead, the last brood of the buff- 

 tip caterpillars are endeavouring to find food enough 

 to enable them to get into chrysalis before the winter 

 begins. Ten of them are eating at once almost the 

 last leaf on the tree, and that little more than juice- 

 less fibre. It has handed in its little store of starch 

 to the community, and is being slowly but surely 

 cut adrift by the bud that will take its place next 

 year. And the buff-tips will be cast away in their 

 youth, instances of Nature's carelessness of the in- 

 dividual so long as the type is preserved. 



From above the island the broad pool shows white 

 and vast. Here the green cloth of the meadow 

 curves over to meet it, hiding caves in which the 

 water-voles and an occasional otter can drowse in 

 dry security, their favourite element within reach at 



