THE GARDEN OF MY YOUTH 
9 
ning, and a few great tits — veritable demons for getting in a 
bird-trap, seeming to delight in being caught one minute, then 
released, only to be caught again the next — but beyond these, 
I am at this time of day pleased to relate, my prisoners were 
few indeed. 
I never intentionally killed a bird in my life ; I have never 
fired a gun at one : thus my fellow Selbornians and bird pro- 
tectionists will, I trust, overlook my accidental misdeeds in those 
younger days, when that fatal brick happened to bring death to 
the feathered intruder. 
It was from the precincts of this garden of my youth that I 
first watched the fairy flight of the swift-winged swallow and the 
white-breasted martin, where I used to observe the rooks pass- 
ing morning and evening, or the chattering starlings scrambling 
for tit-bits on the rubbish heap. Here, too, I used to listen 
to the warble of the hedge-sparrow and the choice lyrics of 
king thrush, and their sweet cadences made a great impression 
on my young mind ; and it was here in this garden of my youth 
that I first heard the hoot of the owl and watched its silent and 
graceful flight at the gloaming hour. 
How I was interested in the mouse-like attitude of the little 
brown wren, the sprightly gait of the pied wagtail and the bright 
plumed chaffinch, or his more pugnacious relative the greenfinch. 
It was here, without a doubt, that the foundation of a love for 
natural history was laid in my young mind, and how thankful I 
am to that Nature-soul — now, alas, gone hence — who inculcated 
and fostered that love until he was no longer able to wander 
with me down the favourite lane or through the old loved copse, 
nor sit upon the cowslip-covered bank to listen and adore the 
woodland choir. 
But it is not only of the birds that visited the garden that I 
have pleasant recollections. Was it not here that I first feasted 
my eyes one early spring day on a brimstone butterfly, and later 
in the season upon a delicately Nature-painted orange tip, a 
peacock, a large cabbage white, a red admiral, or one of the 
beautiful blues? Yes, it was here that my love for these, and 
all forms of wild life, and a sense of the beautiful, was first 
instituted, and how I long sometimes for a peep over the old 
wall, or better still, to be able to wander alone in the loved spots 
once more. How well I remember where the rustic bee-hives 
stood and those large filberts grew ; I seem to see now those 
Cox’s orange pippin apples and William pears, and rue the day 
that ever allowed me to part with such luscious fruit and sweet 
associations. I can see now that bower of fragrant white 
jessamine, and can almost catch the sweet aroma wafted on the 
breeze as I pass towards the masses of roses against the wall, 
the ground around strewn with their tresses. If my memory 
serves me, too, we had a yucca tree, or plant, or shrub — what- 
ever its correct definition may be — which was the envy of all 
who saw it, especially when it unexpectedly burst into flower one 
happy day — a very rare occurrence I believe in this country. 
