296 BIRDS AND MAN 



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, con- 

 sisting 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 



