206 
NATURE NOTES 
nearest railway stations. There is much, however, to occupy 
your attention on the road. Slowly the beauties of the spot 
unfold themselves ; and, if you are acquainted with the immortal 
letters, you can pick out the Round House, Norton Farm, and 
many of the bye-lanes about which White wrote so charmingly. 
There is none, or very little, of that “ varied valley ” and “ moun- 
tain grand ” until you reach Selborne itself. Going down the 
quiet country road I could see Selborne Hill in the distance 
through the slight haze which hung about. It was one of those 
glorious afternoons of November when the golden autumn sun 
bursts out in full splendour, as if trying to stem back the 
approaching short dark days of winter. Like a huge red ball 
of fire it hung, rather low down, a little to the north of the 
Hanger. The slight mist which hung about was scarcely 
dispelled from the hollows, and over all the country there was 
that peace and calm so characteristic of the fall of the year. 
The echo of the church bells from the town of Alton, heard in 
the distance, added a charm to the scene, and I felt as the good 
old naturalist, at whose shrine I wished to worship, must have 
felt, that there is nothing in the world half so inspiring as 
nature’s calm magnificence. There was no noise save the 
barking of a dog, or the laughter of the children near the farms. 
A boy carelessly seated on a bare-backed horse, leading a 
number of others to water at the pond, and a shepherd in a 
meadow here and there, with his dog, were the only signs of 
life. 
“ All was as peaceful and as still 
As the mist slumbering on yon hill.” 
The road into the village dips sharply, and as I stood on the 
top of the slope I could see the cottages scattered among the 
trees, with the hill for a background. From the chimneys were 
issuing curling streaks of smoke, which hung like a cloud under 
the Hanger. Down the hill and across the stream I found 
myself in the “ straggling street.” Here was the very place. 
There was the “ Plestor ” and the church ; there was the house 
itself in which he lived. In my own mind I could picture the 
keen student of nature walking leisurely about taking note of 
everything — of every bird he saw, and every shrub or tree ; 
talking with the villagers and hearing from them all the stories 
they could tell him about any of nature’s creatures. There was 
not a soul to be seen on the street ; the village looked as quiet 
as it might have been any Sunday during White’s time. I 
admired the handsome sycamore in the “Plestor” which 
occupies the position held by the “ vast oak,” and then walked 
into the churchyard. Here I was struck with the famous yew 
tree. It was a huge tree when White was alive, but must now 
be four or five feet larger in circumference than it was when our 
naturalist measured it about the middle of the last century. It 
may have furnished bows for the gallant archers in the days of 
mythical Robin Hood ! The old church, with its square tower 
