Now openeth the season when diners in sundry and many country hostelries eat their meals to the music of the buzzing bluebottle. At one backblocks hotel, last mid-summer, I happened to remark to the buxom young party who served me my lunch, something about the cheerful menagerie that hovered and zoomed in the ceiling—where the hanging decorations were. “Oh,” said she, “we never take any notice of them now. They don't settle, that's one good point about them, mister. The boss, he calls them our canaries.”