IN A HAMPSHIRE VILLAGE 159 



these, who are never sent to Portland or Dartmoor, 

 are depriving the country with its millions of in- 

 habitants of one of its best possessions — its lustrous 

 wild life. 



Here I came to a village which happened to be one 

 of the very few, certainly not above half a dozen, 

 in all that county never previously visited by me; 

 and as it was within easy distance of the spot I had 

 come to explore I had some idea of settling in it for 

 a few days. I had long known it by name, and it had 

 furthermore been minutely and lovingly described to 

 me by an old soldier, decorated with many medals, 

 who is now a keeper in one of the royal parks. One 

 day last spring he showed me a blackbird's nest in 

 which he took a somewhat anxious interest on account 

 of its unsafe position on a wart or projection on the 

 trunk of a Spanish chestnut tree, a few feet from the 

 ground and plainly visible to mischievous eyes. Our 

 talk about this careless blackbird and other birds 

 led to his telling me of his boyhood in a small out-of- 

 the-world Hampshire village, and I asked him how, 

 with such a feeling as he had revealed about his 

 native place, he had been able to spend his life away 

 from it, and why he did not go back there now. 

 That, he answered, was his desire and intention, 

 not only since he had begun to grow old, but he had 

 cherished the idea even when he was a young man 

 and in his prime, in India, Burma, Afghanistan, 

 Egypt. Now at last the time seemed near when his 

 desire would be fulfilled; two years more in the park 

 and he would retire with a small pension, which, 



