SELBORNE 297 



associated in my mind with the thought of the 

 obscure country curate, who was without ambi- 

 tion, 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 stampe'd is on every grass. 



With a new intense interest I watched the 

 swifts careering through the air, and hstened to 

 their shrUl 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 time intently watching 

 a small flock of greenfinches settling to roost in 

 a hazel-hedge. From time to time they became 

 disturbed at my presence, and fluttering up to 

 the topmost twigs, where their forms looked 

 almost black against the pale amber sky, they 

 uttered their long-drawn canary-like note of 

 alarm. At all times a delicate, tender note, now 

 it had something more in it — something from the 

 far past — the thought of one whose memory was 

 interwoven with living forms and sounds. 



