THE BREATH OF AUTUMN 
IOI 
is on the Lanuginosa varieties that all my fancy dwells; 
the grand scale on which their blossoms are planned 
attracts me vastly, while the silvery lavenders and 
mauves that are their most usual wear are singularly 
pure in tone. Their principal enemy for the moment 
is the irrepressible earwig, against whom I and the 
Wuzeer have for once joined issue and made common 
cause. I am told by my friend Candida that the ear¬ 
wig is a pattern of all imaginable domestic virtues. I 
do not dispute it; my Lady the Earwig may be an 
uncanonised saint for aught I know or care; my sole 
acquaintance with her and her multitudinous brood is 
bounded by the abomination of their misdeeds. By 
their works I know them: luxuriant leafage riddled 
through and through, hanging unsightly; admired 
blossoms half-devoured, left to rust and ruin on the 
spray. The earwig may quite possibly be the fondest 
parent the world has known; she is certainly the most 
indefatigable of marplots, and were it not for our many 
caches of short hollow pieces of bamboo niched subtly 
here and there in pergola and trellis, and orchard wall 
to boot, both fruits and flowers would be sadly to seek. 
cc Red rose leaves will never make wine,” it is true, 
but the damask petals of my second rose-harvest of 
Jacqueminots, together with the pink and silver tribute 
of La France, are to lay the fragrant foundations of the 
very best pot-pourri that is yet to be made. The last 
was good, and very good; and still, with the rose-jar, 
it is always the next time that must excel all other 
essays. One half of my sweet-scented spoils bestrews 
the yellow marble pavement of the loggia, while the 
