THE GILBERT WHITE OF THE NORTH! ii 
great charm of the garden is the little brook that runs through it with clear and 
rapid current, reflecting the green banks and orchard trees, and catching the 
sunlight here and there in its windings, and crossed in one place by a rustic bridge. 
Altogether, Nunburnholme Rectory must strike the visitor as the very home of 
peace and quietness, the chosen scene of learned^ leisure, or literary labour, or 
religious contemplation.” 
Mr. Abram gives a charming sketch of the life led by the 
“ thin, straight-shouldered, white-haired rector.” In one sense his 
was a life of leisure, for his parish was but thinly-populated, and 
although he always put his clerical duties in the foremost place, 
they afforded very insufficient occupation for a man of his ac- 
tivity ; but his leisure was never unemployed. 
“The sun is already fairly high, for the naturalist is none too early a riser, 
but when up he is alert. His first thought is of the birds. They are in the 
springtime of their love and their music. The eager gaze of the rector takes a 
hasty look at the morning ; then the door opens and he hurries out, breakfastless 
and in his shirt-sleeves. ‘ Dicky ! Dicky ! Dicky ! ’ his voice calls ; not a strong 
voice, but a sweet one, able to read the psalms and lessons on Sundays in a 
way one seldom hears now. Instantly there is a tumult, much chattering and 
screaming. There would appear to be a perfect shower of birds. From out the 
thick, nest-shading, sheltering yews, down from the strong, many-twigged elms, 
from the beeches and the birches, the birds come to greet the man who knows 
them so well, who knows them almost better than they know each other. Can- 
not he tell the names of those other countries, their winter homes ? From the 
little stand kept for the purpose the feathered friends are fed, while the naturalist 
speaks a word of welcome to one or other, or of advice, or friendly counsel. 
The birds look at their big father, turning their heads sideways to do so with 
many quaint bobs and caprices and pirouettes. Blackcaps, gold and green 
finches, wrens, perhaps even the rare hawfinch, who sometimes condescends, 
blackbirds with their yellow bills, thrushes, a whole museum of birds might have 
come to life and flocked to Nunburnholme. His favourite bird, the chaffinch ; 
his favourite flower, the primrose. And amid all the uproar and morning gossip, 
it may be scandal, the rector stands watching with a close quick eye for some 
bird notion he may not have yet noted ; still in his shirt-sleeves, breakfastless, 
and with his great mane of soft silver tossed back from his brow. This pleasure 
— it was not a duty — he enjoyed, and was able to create for himself almost to the 
end.” 
Mr. Morris’s books were numerous, but we imagine that his 
contributions to newspapers and magazines would fill as many 
more volumes. For the last fifty years, at least, his name has 
been familiar to readers of the Times ; and his contributions to 
natural history magazines and newspapers of all kinds were very 
numerous. He was a warm supporter of every organisation 
which had for its object the well-being or protection of animals ; 
and from the first was a member of the Selborne Society. He 
was, as some of our readers will remember, a warm defender of 
the sparrow, in whose favour he brought together a mass of 
evidence; and his little book, called The Gamekeeper's Museum, 
which came into our hands some thirty years since, is an admir- 
able exposure of the mischief wrought by those who destroy 
the balance of life, and thus injure the creatures they wish to 
protect. 
Mr. Morris remained till his death a firm opponent of the 
various views and theories grouped together under the term 
