. HE FALL OF THE YEAR 113 
chutes. From a crowded area the little spinners 
were borne in passive migration on the wings of 
the wind, and the tangle of gossamer on the grass 
tells of the accomplished journeys. In the forenoon 
the threads glisten with dew or thawed hoar-frost, 
making one of the finest sights in the world— 
“every thread of cobweb dew-bediamonded,” as 
R. L. Stevenson put it—and all the finer in our 
eyes because we know that the gossamer strewn in 
disarray spells a victory of life over matter. 
Showers of gossamer are not by any means re- 
stricted to autumn, but they are in many localities 
very characteristic of that season, and we may link 
them in thought to the more active migrations of 
birds—migrations which have taken from us all our 
summer visitors and are bringing us a small con- 
tingent of winter visitors, such as fieldfares and 
redwings, snow buntings and great northern divers. 
There are also incoming flocks of various sorts 
(gold-crests and hoodie-crows make a_ good 
contrast) which take Great Britain en route as they 
wend their way from Scandinavia to the genial 
South. 
Another very characteristic sight in autumn is 
the rush of the salmon up the rapids and over the 
falls on their way to the spawning-grounds where 
the females deposit their eggs in the gravel—usually 
in November and December in Scotland. Their 
nutritive period in the sea has given them great 
stores of energy for their fasting but reproductive 
period in the rivers; they are influenced, no doubt, 
