During the long drought various kinds of blight established themselves in my Oxfordshire garden. The spindle was devoured, as usual, by the coal-black variety, which works havoc in beanfields; and now, in spite of the rain, most of the spindle-leaves have dropped, and what young shoots there are are in tight curling-papers. The cherries succumbed to a yellowish green marauder, and they, too, have knots now everywhere where young leaves should be; some subtler enemy has insinuated himself under the bark also, for here and there whole branches are dying off, while a thick resinous gum exudes from them at the base. Even the sturdy beech has not escaped. The attacking fly here is white, and its presence is heralded by a growth of filmy and sticky white moss on the under surface of the leaves - a kind of honey-dew. Wasps and bumble-bees find this product very attractive, and the hedge hums all day long like a bank of flowers. It is engrossing to watch a bumble-bee sweeping a leaf clean; her tongue or proboscis is evidently furnished with a powerful broom, and perhaps the principle of the vacuum cleaner also comes into play. The larger animalcule drop from the leaf as the disturbance approaches; the smaller ones seem to be absorbed, but they are so small that it is difficult to be certain what happens to them.
