"Help him! Help the bombardier."

Only this morning, walking in the overgrown part of the garden near the ornamental lake that was only discovered when I started to cut back the overgrowth, I caught a glimpse of something white in the lower branches of a magisterial oak and was intrigued enough to hurry away and fetch the ladder.

A closer look, then. Returning to the spot, it was difficult, for a moment, even to remember which tree had caught my attention. One day last year I counted over two hundred ivy-clad gentlemen (to say nothing of the trees on the far side of the lake, as yet uncounted) and another day managed a tally of only fifty or so.

It wasn't until almost noon, crunching around in the copper-leaf shadows, that I happened once again upon the sight that had first caught my eye.

But where had I left the ladder?