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to slender swaying reeds and rushes, or placed down 

 among the grasses, or on wood, or high among the 

 clustering leaves on trees as to seem a natural growth, 

 with their gem-like pearly and speckled eggs, many- 

 coloured, resting in them like bright polished seeds 

 in an opening capsule, yet it was not so; they had 

 not been produced by Nature like leaf and flower and 

 fruit, but were artificial basket-houses built with much 

 labour, with many selected materials gathered in many 

 places, by the little winged men and women called 

 birds. 



The other remembered passage, too long to quote 

 in full, concludes with these excellent lines : 



Give to repose the solemn hour she claims, 

 And from the forehead of the morning steal 

 The sweet occasion. Oh, there is a charm 

 Which morning has, that gives the brow of age 

 A smack of youth, and makes the lips of youth 

 Shed perfumes exquisite. 



Nothing more did I learn of Hurdis until quite 

 recently, after it had occurred to me to write this 

 book, when at the Brighton Library, in looking 

 through a collection of works, mostly rubbish, on local 

 subjects, I came upon a long poem entitled The 

 Favorite Village, by the Rev. James Hurdis a thin 

 quarto bound in calf in the old style, on coarse bluey- 

 grey paper, " Printed at the Author's own Press, 

 Bishopstone, Sussex, 1800." This was to me a 

 delightful discovery, not only on account of the old 



