CHAPTER XV

SELBORNE

(1896)

First impressions of faces are very much to us; vivid and persistent, even long after they have been judged false they will from time to time return to console or mock us. It is much the same with places, for these, too, an ineradicable instinct will have it, are persons. Few in number are the towns and villages which are dear to us, whose memory is always sweet, like that of one we love. Those that wake no emotion, that are remembered much as we remember the faces of a crowd of shop assistants in some emporium we are accustomed to visit, are many. Still more numerous, perhaps, are the places that actually leave a disagreeable impression on the mind. Probably the reason of this is because most places are approached by railroad. The station, which is seen first, and cannot thereafter be dissociated from the town, is invariably the centre of a chaotic collection of ugly objects and discordant noises, all the more hateful because so familiar. For in coming to a new place we look instinctively for that which is new, and the old, and in themselves unpleasant sights and sounds, at such a moment produce a disheartening, deadening effect on the stranger:--the same clanging, puffing, grinding, gravel-crushing, banging, shrieking noises; the same big unlovely brick and metal structure, the long platform, the confusion of objects and people, the waiting vehicles, and the glittering steel rails stretching away into infinitude, like unburied petrified webs of some gigantic spider of a remote past--webs in which mastodons were caught like flies. Approaching a town from some other direction--riding, driving, or walking--we see it with a clearer truer vision, and take away a better and more lasting image.

Selborne is one of the noted places where pilgrims go that is happily without a station. From whichever side you approach it the place itself, features and expression, is clearly discerned: in other words you see Selborne, and not a brick and metal outwork or mask; not an excrescence, a goitre, which can make even a beautiful countenance appear repulsive. There is a station within a few miles of the village. I approached by a different route, and saw it at the end of a fifteen miles' walk. Rain had begun to fall on the previous evening; and when in the morning I looked from my bedroom window in the wayside inn, where I had passed the night, it was raining still, and everywhere, as far as I could see, broad pools of water were gleaming on the level earth. All day the rain fell steadily from a leaden sky, so low that where there were trees it seemed almost to touch their tops, while the hills, away on my left, appeared like vague masses of cloud that rest on the earth. The road stretched across a level moorland country; it was straight and narrow, but I was compelled to keep to it, since to step aside was to put my feet into water. Mile after mile I trudged on without meeting a soul, where not a house was visible--a still, wet, desolate country with trees and bushes standing in water, unstirred by a breath of wind. Only at long intervals a yellow hammer was heard uttering his thin note; for just as this bird sings in the sultriest weather which silences other voices, so he will utter his monotonous chant on the gloomiest day.

It may be because he sung

The yellow hammer in the rain

that I have long placed Faber among my best-loved minor poets of the past century. He alone among our poets has properly appreciated that the singer who never stops, but, "pleased with his own monotony," shakes off the rain and sings on in a mood of cheerfulness dashed with melancholy:

And there he is within the rain, And beats and beats his tune again, Quite happy in himself.

Within the heart of this great shower He sits, as in a secret bower, With curtains drawn about him: And, part in duty, part in mirth, He beats, as if upon the earth Rain could not fall without him.

I remember that W. E. Henley once took me severely to task on account of some jeering remarks made about our poet's way of treating the birds and their neglect of so many of our charming singers. In the course of our correspondence he questioned me about the cirl bunting, that lively singer and pretty first cousin of the yellow hammer; and after I had supplied him with full information, he informed me that it was his intention to write a poem on that bird, and that he would be the first English poet to sing the cirl bunting.

He never wrote that lyric, "part in duty, part in mirth"; he was then near his end.

To return to my walk. At last the aspect of the country changed: in place of brown heath, with gloomy fir and furze, there was cheerful verdure of grass and deciduous trees, and the straight road grew deep and winding, running now between hills, now beside woods, and hop-fields, and pasture lands. And at length, wet and tired, I reached Selborne--the remote Hampshire village that has so great a fame.

To very many readers a description of the place would seem superfluous. They know it so well, even without having seen it; the little, old-world village at the foot of the long, steep, bank-like hill, or Hanger, clothed to its summit with beech-wood as with a green cloud; the straggling street, the Plestor, or village green, an old tree in the centre, with a bench surrounding its trunk for the elders to rest on of a summer evening. And, close by, the grey immemorial church, with its churchyard, its grand old yew-tree, and, overhead, the bunch of swifts, rushing with jubilant screams round the square tower.

I had not got the book in my knapsack, nor did I need it. Seeing the Selborne swifts, I thought how a century and a quarter ago Gilbert White wrote that the number of birds inhabiting and nesting in the village, summer after summer, was nearly always the same, consisting of about eight pairs. The birds now rushing about over the church were twelve, and I saw no others.

If Gilbert White had never lived, or had never corresponded with Pennant and Daines Barrington, Selborne would have impressed me as a very pleasant village set amidst diversified and beautiful scenery, and I should have long remembered it as one of the most charming spots which I had found in my rambles in southern England. But I thought of White continually. The village itself, every feature in the surrounding landscape, and every object, living or inanimate, and every sound, became associated in my mind with the thought of the obscure country curate, who was without ambition, and was "a still, quiet man, with no harm in him--no, not a bit," as was once said by one of his parishioners. There, at Selborne--to give an altered meaning to a verse of quaint old Nicholas Culpepper--

His image stampéd is on every grass.

With a new intense interest I watched the swifts careering through the air, and listened to their shrill screams. It was the same with all the birds, even the commonest--the robin, blue tit, martin, and sparrow. In the evening I stood motionless a long time intently watching a small flock of greenfinches settling to roost in a hazel-hedge. From time to time they became disturbed at my presence, and fluttering up to the topmost twigs, where their forms looked almost black against the pale amber sky, they uttered their long-drawn canary-like note of alarm. At all times a delicate, tender note, now it had something more in it--something from the far past--the thought of one whose memory was interwoven with living forms and sounds.

The strength and persistence of this feeling had a curious effect. It began to seem to me that he who had ceased to five over a century ago, whose Letters had been the favourite book of several generations of naturalists, was, albeit dead and gone, in some mysterious way still living. I spent a long time groping about in the long rank grass of the churchyard in search of a memorial; and this, when found, turned out to be a modest-sized headstone, and I had to go down on my knees, and put aside the rank grass that half covered it, just as when we look into a child's face we push back the unkempt hair from its forehead; and on the stone were graved the name, and beneath, "1793," the year of his death.

Happy the nature-lover who, in spite of fame, is allowed to rest, as White rests, pressed upon by no ponderous stone; the sweet influences of sun and rain are not kept from him; even the sound of the wild bird's cry may penetrate to his narrow apartment to gladden his dust!

Perhaps there is some truth in the notion that when a man dies he does not wholly die; that is to say, the earthly yet intelligent part of him, which, being of the earth, cannot ascend; that a residuum of life remains, like a perfume left by some long-vanished, fragrant object; or it may be an emanation from the body at death, which exists thereafter diffused and mixed with the elements, perhaps unconscious and yet responsive, or capable of being vivified into consciousness and emotions of pleasure by a keenly sympathetic presence. At Selborne this did not seem mere fantasy. Strolling about the village, loitering in the park-like garden of the Wakes, or exploring the Hanger; or when I sat on the bench under the churchyard yew, or went softly through the grass to look again at those two letters graved on the headstone, there was a continual sense of an unseen presence near me. It was like the sensation a man sometimes has when lying still with closed eyes of some one moving softly to his side. I began to think that if that feeling and sensation lasted long enough without diminishing its strength, it would in the end produce something like conviction. And the conviction would imply communion. Furthermore, between the thought that we may come to believe in a thing and belief itself there is practically no difference. I began to speculate as to the subjects about to be discussed by us. The chief one would doubtless relate to the bird life of the district. There are fresh things to be related of the cuckoo; how "wonder has been added to wonder" by observers of that bird since the end of the eighteenth century. And here is a delicate subject to follow--to wit, the hibernation of swallows--yet one by no possibility to be avoided. It would be something of a disappointment to him to hear it stated, as an established fact, that none of our hirundines do winter, fast asleep like dormice, in these islands. But there would be comfort in the succeeding declaration that the old controversy is not quite dead yet--that at least two popular writers on British birds have boldly expressed the belief that some of our supposed migrants do actually "lay up" in the dead season. The deep interest manifested in the subject would be a temptation to dwell on it. I should touch on the discovery made recently by a young English naturalist abroad, that a small species of swallow in a temperate country in the Southern Hemisphere shelters itself under the thick matted grass, and remains torpid during spells of cold weather. We have now a magnificent monograph of the swallows, and it is there stated of the purple martin, an American species, that in some years bitter cold weather succeeds its arrival in early spring in Canada; that at such times the birds take refuge in their nesting holes and lie huddled together in a semi-torpid state, sometimes for a week or ten days, until the return of genial weather, when they revive and appear as full of life and vigour as before. It is said that these and other swallows are possessed of habits and powers of which we have as yet but slight knowledge. Candour would compel me to add that the author of the monograph in question, who is one of the first living ornithologists, is inclined to believe that some swallows in some circumstances do hibernate.

At this I should experience a curious and almost startling sensation, as if the airy hands of my invisible companion had been clapped together, and the clap had been followed by an exclamation--a triumphant "Ah!"

Then there would be much to say concerning the changes in the bird population of Selborne parish, and of the southern counties generally. A few small species--hawfinch, pretty chaps, and gold-crest--were much more common now than in his day; but a very different and sadder story had to be told of most large birds. Not only had the honey buzzard never returned to nest on the beeches of the Hanger since 1780, but it had continued to decrease everywhere in England and was now extinct. The raven, too, was lost to England as an inland breeder. It could not now be said that "there are bustards on the wide downs near Brighthelmstone," nor indeed anywhere in the kingdom. The South Downs were unchanged, and there were still pretty rides and prospects round Lewes; but he might now make his autumn journey to Ringmer without seeing kites and buzzards, since these had both vanished; nor would he find the chough breeding at Beachy Head, and all along the Sussex coast. It would also be necessary to mention the disappearance of the quail, and the growing scarcity of other once abundant species, such as the stone plover and curlew, and even of the white owl, which no longer inhabited its ancient breeding-place beneath the caves of Selborne Church.

Finally, after discussing these and various other matters which once engaged his attention, also the little book he gave to the world so long ago, there would still remain another subject to be mentioned about which I should feel somewhat shy--namely, the marked difference in manner, perhaps in feeling, between the old and new writers on animal life and nature. The subject would be strange to him. On going into particulars, he would be surprised at the disposition, almost amounting to a passion, of the modern mind to view life and nature in their æsthetic aspects. This new spirit would strike him as something odd and exotic, as if the writers had been first artists or landscape-gardeners, who had, as naturalists, retained the habit of looking for the picturesque. He would further note that we moderns are more emotional than the writers of the past, or, at all events, less reticent. There is no doubt, he would say, that our researches into the kingdom of nature produce in us a wonderful pleasure, unlike in character and perhaps superior to most others; but this feeling, which was indefinable and not to be traced to its source, was probably given to us for a secret gratification. If we are curious to know its significance, might we not regard it as something ancillary to our spiritual natures, as a kind of subsidiary conscience, a private assurance that in all our researches into the wonderful works of creation we are acting in obedience to a tacit command, or, at all events in harmony with the Divine Will?

Ingenious! would be my comment, and possibly to the eighteenth century mind it would have proved satisfactory. There was something to be said in defence of what appeared to him as new and strange in our books and methods. Not easily said, unfortunately; since it was not only the expression that was new, but the outlook, and something in the heart. We are bound as much as ever to facts; we seek for them more and more diligently, knowing that to break from them is to be carried away by vain imaginations. All the same, facts in themselves are nothing to us: they are important only in their relations to other facts and things--to all things, and the essence of things, material and spiritual. We are not like children gathering painted shells and pebbles on a beach; but, whether we know it or not, are seeking after something beyond and above knowledge. The wilderness in which we are sojourners is not our home; it is enough that its herbs and roots and wild fruits nourish and give us strength to go onward. Intellectual curiosity, with the gratification of the individual for only purpose, has no place in this scheme of things as we conceive it. Heart and soul are with the brain in all investigation--a truth which some know in rare, beautiful intervals, and others never; but we are all meanwhile busy with our work, like myriads of social insects engaged in raising a structure that was never planned. Perhaps we are not so wholly unconscious of our destinies as were the patient gatherers of facts of a hundred years ago. Even in one brief century the dawn has come nearer--perhaps a faint whiteness in the east has exhilarated us like wine. Undoubtedly we are more conscious of many things, both within and without--of the length and breadth and depth of nature; of a unity which was hardly dreamed of by the naturalists of past ages, a commensalism on earth from which the meanest organism is not excluded. For we are no longer isolated, standing like starry visitors on a mountain-top, surveying life from the outside; but are on a level with and part and parcel of it; and if the mystery of life daily deepens, it is because we view it more closely and with clearer vision. A poet of our age has said that in the meanest floweret we may find "thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears." The poet and prophet is not alone in this; he expresses a feeling common to all of those who, with our wider knowledge, have the passion for nature in their hearts, who go to nature, whether for knowledge or inspiration. That there should appear in recent literature something of a new spirit, a sympathetic feeling which could not possibly have flourished in a former age, is not to be wondered at, considering all that has happened in the present century to change the current of men's thoughts. For not only has the new knowledge wrought in our minds, but has entered, or is at last entering, into our souls.

Having got so far in my apology, a feeling of despair would all at once overcome me at the thought of the vastness of the subject I had entered upon. Looking back it seems but a little while since the introduction of that new element into thought, that "fiery leaven" which in the end would "leaven all the hearts of men for ever." But the time was not really so short; the gift had been rejected with scorn and bitterness by the mass of mankind at first; it had taken them years--the years of a generation--to overcome repugnance and resentment, and to accept it. Even so it had wrought a mighty change, only this had been in the mind; the change in the heart would follow, and it was perhaps early to boast of it. How was I to disclose all this to him? All that I had spoken was but a brief exordium--a prelude and note of preparation for what should follow--a story immeasurably longer and infinitely more wonderful than that which the Ancient Mariner told to the Wedding Guest. It was an impossible task.

At length, after an interval of silence, to me full of trouble, the expected note of dissent would come.

I had told him, he would say, either too much or not enough. No doubt there had been a very considerable increase of knowledge since his day; nevertheless, judging from something I had said on the hibernation, or torpid condition, of swallows, there was still something to learn with regard to the life and conversation of animals. The change in the character of modern books about nature, of which I had told him, quoting passages--a change in the direction of a more poetic and emotional treatment of the subject--he, looking from a distance, was inclined to regard as merely a literary fashion of the time. That anything so unforeseen had come to pass,--so important as to change the current of thought, to give to men new ideas about the unity of nature and the relation in which we stood towards the inferior creatures,--he could not understand. It should be remembered that the human race had existed some fifty or sixty centuries on the earth, and that since the invention of letters men had recorded their observations. The increase in the body of facts had thus been, on the whole, gradual and continuous. Take the case of the cuckoo. Aristotle, some two thousand years ago, had given a fairly accurate account of its habits; and yet in very recent years, as I had informed him, new facts relating to the procreant instincts of that singular fowl had come to light.

After a short interval of silence I would become conscious of a change in him, as if a cloud had lifted--of a quiet smile on his, to my earthly eyes, invisible countenance, and he would add: "No, no; you have yourself supplied me with a reason for questioning your views; your statement of them--pardon me for saying it--struck me as somewhat rhapsodical. I refer to your commendations of my humble history of the Parish of Selborne. It is gratifying to me to hear that this poor little book is still in such good repute, and I have been even more pleased at that idea of modern naturalists, so flattering to my memory, of a pilgrimage to Selborne; but, if so great a change has come over men's minds as you appear to believe, and if they have put some new interpretation on nature, it is certainly curious that I should still have readers."

It would be my turn to smile now--a smile for a smile--and silence would follow. And so, with the dispersal of this little cloud, there would be an end of the colloquy, and each would go his way: one to be re-absorbed into the grey stones and long grass, the ancient yew-tree, the wooded Hanger; the other to pursue his walk to the neighbouring parish of Liss, almost ready to believe as he went that the interview had actually taken place.

It only remains to say that the smile (my smile) would have been at the expense of some modern editors of the famous Letters, rather than at that of my interlocutor. They are astonished at Gilbert White's vitality, and cannot find a reason for it. Why does this "little cockle-shell of a book," as one of them has lately called it, come gaily down to us over a sea full of waves, where so many brave barks have foundered? The style is sweet and clear, but a book cannot live merely because it is well written. It is chock-full of facts; but the facts have been tested and sifted, and all that were worth keeping are to be found incorporated in scores of standard works on natural history. I would humbly suggest that there is no mystery at all about it; that the personality of the author is the principal charm of the Letters, for in spite of his modesty and extreme reticence his spirit shines in every page; that the world will not willingly let this small book die, not only because it is small, and well written, and full of interesting matter, but chiefly because it is a very delightful human document.

INDEX

A

Adventures among Birds, 216 "Age of Fools," story of the, 8 Agriculture, decay of, in Gloucestershire, 174 Amazon, double-fronted, 256 Arnold, Matthew, on birds, 161 Arthur, King, legend of, 165 Asses, wild, their braying, 78 Axe, daws in the valley of Somerset, 59, 61, 187

B

Baring-Gould's Broom Squire, 225 Bath, 66; bird life in, 68 Bee, stingless, in La Plata, its mode of attack, 43 Beech leaves, 84 Birds, stuffed, effect of, 1-7; at their best, 13-18; mental reproduction of voices of, 18-26; durability of images of, 28-32; their relations with man, 37, 48-50; human suggestions in voices of, 121-132; rare, their gradual extirpation, 236-248 Birds of Berkshire, 225 Birds of Wiltshire, 169 "Bishops Jacks," at Wells, 61 Blackbird, 124 Blackcap, its song, 112-114 Blue, in flowers, 136, 154 Booth collection, the, at Brighton, 3 Brean Down, singular appearance of, 188; shildrakes binding at, 194 Brissot and the Merrimac River, 35 "British Bird of Paradise," 100 British Ornithologists's Union, 24 Broadway, raven superstitions at, 114 Burns, "Address to a Wood-lark," 127 Burroughs, John, on the willow wren, 101; search for the nightingale, 222

C

Carew, Thomas, lines quoted, 144 Cathedral Daws at Wells, 61 Cattle, tended by birds, 39 Chaffinch, song of, 114 Children, imitative calls of, 177 Chrysotis guildingi, 250 Chrysotis lavalaniti, 256 Collections of birds, small educational value of, 6 Collectors, destruction of Dartford warblers by, 224-231; as law-breakers, 234-237 Cowper, the poet, on the daw's voice, 74; as naturalist, 76

D

Dartford warbler, 3; dead and alive, 4; search for the, 223; cause of decrease of, 224; gradual extirpation by collectors, 229; at its best, 31, 231-234 Daws, cows and, 39; at Savernake, 58, 90-93; choice of a breeding site, 58; stick-carrying and dropping by, 62-64; originally builders in trees, 63; at Bath, 66, 71-78; their voices, 72-75; alarm cry, 92 Deer and jackdaw, 41 Destruction of British birds and pressing need for remedy, 224-248

E

"Ebor Jacks," 61 Ebor rocks, former presence of ravens at the, 171 Exmoor, extirpation of birds by keepers in the Forest of, 170 Expression in natural objects due to human associations, 133; in flowers, 135-137

F

Faber, Father, lines on the yellow hammer, 285 Feathers, falling, birds' fear of, 252 Ferne, Sir John, on azure in blazoning, 157 Flowers, expression in, 133, 153; human colours in, 135-137; vernacular names of, 137-140, 145; yellow and white, lack of human associations in, 146-149; personal preferences, 153; charm due to human associations, 154 Fowler, Mr Warde, on wagtails, 159; on the willow wren's song, 121 Frensham Pond, swallows and swifts at, 51; gold-crests at, 53 Furze wren, see Dartford Warbler

G

Gardens, 151 Geese, on a common, 78; at Lyndhurst, 199; their lofty demeanour, 200, 206, 216-221; degraded by culinary associations, 201; as watch-dogs, 203; Egyptian representations of, 203; voice of, 210; migratory instinct in domestic, 213 Geese, Magellanic, 204; voices of, 205; courtly demeanour of, 206; a migrating pair of, 214 Gerarde, 150 Gold-crests alarmed, 53, 57 Gould, on abundance of the Dartford warbler, 224 Gray, Robert, on the gray-lag goose, 210 Gresset, the story of Vert Vert by, 264 Grey, Sir Edward, on the study of birds, 33 Grove, Sir George, blackbird's singing described by, 124 Guarani, legend of a parrot, 264

H

Hastings, daws at, 62 Henley, W. E. on bird poems, 286 Herodotus, on flying feathers and snow, 254 Honey buzzard, destruction of the, 228, 236 Humming-bird, defending its nest, 42

I

Impressions, emotion a condition of their permanence, 6, 15; sound, 18; durability of, 26

J

Jackdaws, see Daws Jays, spring assemblies, 94-100; mimicry, 95; variability of song, 97; their call, 99; mode of flight, 99; British bird of Paradise, 100 Jefferies, Richard, on yellow flowers, 148

K

Kearton, Mr Richard, suggestion for the protection of rare birds by, 240 Kennedy, Clark, on the furze wren in Berkshire, 225 King Arthur, legend of, 165 Kingfishers, alive and dead, 12

L

Land's End, the, 155 La Plata and Patagonia, images of birds of, 26 Lapwing, the spur-winged, and sheep, 44 Leslie's Riverside Letters, 124 Letters of Rusticus, 226 Linnets, a concert of, 188 Livett, Dr, a raven story told by, 171 Long-tailed tit at its best, 16 Lynton, wood wren at, 97

M

Macgillivray, on the redbreast, 48 Magellanic geese. See Geese Magpie, manner of flight of, 284 Mammals, relations of birds with, 38 Man, from the birds' point of view, 37; the robin's pleasure in his company, 48 Maxwell, Sir Herbert, on the "cursed collector," 161 Medum, representation of geese at, 203 Memory of things seen, 18; of things heard, 18 Montagu's Dictionary of Birds, account of the jay in, 95 Mivart, St George, on dead birds, 270

N

Naturalist, the old and new, 294 Nature, modern sense of the unity of, 294 Newman on the Dartford warbler, 226 Nightingale, quality of its voice, 128 Nothura maculosa, the "partridge" of Argentina, 252

O

Ossian's address to the sun, 148 Owl, wood, hooting of the, 178; superstitions regarding the, 181; a pet, 184 Owls, in a village, 173

P

Parrot, caged and free, 249; the St Vincent, 250, 254; history of a double-fronted amazon, 256; a lost language talked by a, 258; longevity of the, 261; tales and legends of the, 264-268 Partridges and rabbits, 45 Patti, Carlota, bird-like voice of, 128 Peregrine falcon, fight with raven, 167 Peterborough, the great Lord, and a canary, 263 Pheasant and chicks, 52 Pigeon family, the, original notes of, 88 Pigs in the New Forest, 81

Q

Quixote, Don, as to tradition of King Arthur, 165

R

Rabbits, how regarded by partridges, 45 Ravens, in Somerset, 160; aëreal feat of, 161; decrease and disappearance of, 169-170; superstitious fear of killing, 165; last, 170; tapping at lighted windows, 170 Raven tree, a, 169 Red, in flowers, human associations of, 141-145 Redbreast, tameness of the, 48 Reed warbler, the, in Somerset, 190-191 Ruskin, "word painting," 72; on cathedral daws, 73; on the distinction of beauty, 238

S

Saintbury, village of, 176; owl superstitions at, 180 St Vincent parrot, 250; anecdote of, 254 Savernake Forest, early spring in, 76; daws in, 90; jays in, 94 Sea-birds, protection of, 240, 242 Seebohm, on the wood wren, 105; on the willow wren, 117; on jay assemblies, 95 Selborne, a first sight of, 284; changes in its bird population, 293 Sheep, tended by birds, 39; quarrel of a spur-winged lapwing with, 44 Sheldrake in Somerset, 191; tame and wild, 193; appearance when flying, 193; singular breeding habits, 194-195 Sigerson, Miss Dora (Mrs Shorter) in "Flight of the Wild Geese," 213 Skylark, song, 116 Somerset, daws in, 59; ravens in, 160; red warbler in, 190 Sound-images, their durability, 18, 21 Spencer, Herbert, on social animals, 47; on the origin of music, 131 Starlings, their services to cattle, 39; abundance at Bath of, 71 Summer Studies of Birds and Books, 159 Sunlight, effects on plumage of birds, 3, 12 Swallows, how man is regarded by, 49-53, 55; alarmed by a grey hat, 57; quality of the voice of, 125; Gilbert White on hybernation of, 291 Swifts, unconcern of in man's presence, 51; at Selborne, 287

T

Tennyson, on the speedwell, 149 Throstle, loudness of its song, 118 Tits, blue, at Bath, 71; long-tailed, seen at their best, 16 Tree-pipit, quality of voice of, 126

U

Upland geese. See Geese.

V

Visitants, rare annual slaughter of, 237

W

Wagtail, pied, attending cows in the pasture ... quality of voice of, 125 Wallace, Alfred Russel, Bird of Paradise assemblies described by, 100 Wells, daws at the cathedral, 60; a wood wren at, 102 White, Gilbert, wood wren's song, described by, 106; willow wren's song described by, 122; associations with, at Selborne, 288; an imaginary conversation with, 291 Whiteness, in flowers, 146; magnifying effect of, 193 Willersey, owls at, 173; a pet wood owl at, 184 Willow wren, Burroughs on the song of the, 101; Gilbert White's description of its song, 122; Warde Fowler's description of its song, 121, 122; abundance and wide distribution of, 117 Willoughby, Father of British Ornithology, willow wren described by, 118 Wood lark, Burns' address to, 127 Wood owl. See Owls. Wood pigeon, song of, 85; human quality in voice of, 87-90 Wood wren, at Wells, 102; difficulty in seeing, 103; inquisitiveness, 104; secret of its charm, 114 Wookey Hole, source of the Somerset Axe, 59 Wordsworth, bird voices preferred by, 107

Y

Year with the Birds, A, 122 Yellow, in flowers, 146 Yellow-hammer, singing in the rain, 285

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Transcriber's Notes

Beyond the list of corrections detailed below, a number of minor corrections may have been applied where commas, or periods were either missing or existed where other similar usage (for example, index listings) does not have it.

Typographical Corrections

Page Correction 8 Barragan => Barragán 14 procesess => processes 19 has becomes => has become 34 scare => score 48 een => even 49 comany => company 89 accompnay => accompany 112 shubbery => shrubbery 150 beauitful => beautiful 151 adnire => admire 152 destested => detested 161 pasages => passages 175 intervvals => intervals 203 if => of 214 yon => you 226 vey => very 232 torquoise => turquoise 233 curosity => curiosity 246 offender's => offenders 252 tinamu => tinamou (twice on this page) 253 tinamu => tinamou 256 dosing => dozing 267 familes => families 303 ascociations => associations