It will seem strange to those who do not know suburban London that here in Chiswick (from which I write to-day) one may feel oneself to be in a quite country place, despite the endless number of railways, tramlines, and motor buses busy incessantly with traffic to the centre of London. All night a tawny owl was calling. He makes his home in the ivy-covered trunk of an old pear tree, and as the fox-terrier is able by great scrambling occasionally to get a footing very near his perch the owl now and then has a flight during the day-time. Usually, however, he scares off his enemies, hissing and using his claws most effectually. Between this house and the Thames, a quarter of a mile away, and extending almost unbroken for a mile in both directions along the river bank, is a dense orchard, chiefly composed of pear trees, now heavily laden with fruit. Birds are wonderfully numerous, and, judging by the number of species and young fledglings about, they must have had a good breeding season. The heavy thunderstorms of the past week culminated on Sunday, when till evening all sign of bird life had disappeared. All are cheery enough in the morning, and the flowers everywhere are a wonderful show.
Yesterday I travelled through the low-lying dockside slums of East London, where smoke and heavy odours of chemicals are never absent, yet even there flowers are cultivated wherever a cottager can get a yard of ground. There were hundreds of hollyhocks and dahlias, still dashed to some extent by the recent storms, but showing good evidence of coming beauty. I think we gardeners in Manchester are a bit afraid of trying our atmosphere.
This fine day has at last given many farmers their chance to get in the last of the hay, and in the southern counties and the Midlands a considerable quantity of corn is in sheaf.
