I spoke just now of mischievous and bell-ringing children, but there are others not intentionally mischievous, who are yet, perhaps, apt to be a little wearing to the nerves of quiet folk who live within gardens behind tall wooden fences overhung by flowering shrubs, such as lilac and syringa. These are a great temptation in their flowering season to all kinds of persons who ought to be able to enjoy the sight of them without tearing off branches; but the Goth and the Vandal we have always with us on Bank Holidays and fine Sundays and Saturday afternoons. We expect them, and our expectations are commonly realised. But sorrow’s crown of sorrow is reached when, hearing a crash of boards, you rush out and find a dismayed child standing among the ruins of a part of your fence, and explaining that she “didn’t mean it, and was only reaching up to pick a bit of syringa for nyture study.” And to this the modern attempt to inculcate the study and the love of Nature brings us! [Illustration: PETERSHAM, FROM THE MIDDLESEX SHORE.] Before reluctantly I leave Petersham, let something be said as to its name. And, firstly, let it be duly borne in mind that we who reside here are perhaps a little concerned that the place-name shall be properly pronounced. Petersham, we like to think, is the real thing, with no sham about it at all. Hence the particularity with which “Peters-ham” is enunciated by the nice in these things; even as the villagers of Bisham, near Marlow, say “Bis-ham,” or (the tongue being ever at odds with the letter H) “Bis-sam.”