CHAPTER V 



A CHAPTER ON WAGTAILS 



WERE I condemned to live on a desert island, I 

 should wish to have some birds, as well as books, for 

 my companions. Among books I should need some 

 few of those that abound in such choice detail as will 

 easily slip off the mind, and as easily be recalled and 

 enjoyed at the next perusal a good old word, by the 

 way, which cannot be applied to the reading of every 

 book. Boswell, The Vicar, Jane Austen, Elia, are of 

 this kind ; we can peruse them, the page lies open a 

 while for leisurely enjoyment, and is not feverishly 

 turned. I would have birds too that can be perused ; 

 not hasty ones that are up and away the moment they 

 catch sight of you, nor huge ones, such as Mr. Hudson 

 loves, sailing solemnly over your head and vanishing 

 over the hill while you adjust your glass. I would 

 have little ones that come and go regardless of you, 

 dallying about close at hand, pursuing their avocations 

 while you sit and watch them with the same fresh 

 interest that drew you to them twenty years ago. I 



