288 BIRDS AND MAN 



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 con- 

 tinually. 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 stamped is on every grass. 



With a new intense interest I watched the swifts 

 careering through the air, and hstened 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 



