34 THE AU DU BON SEU Evie 
The Hanger, consisting of tall old Beeches on the hillside, reverberated 
like a cathedral with this medley of songs as I went up late in the after- 
noon, and again early the next morning. “The Blackbird, a thrush in 
this case, could be heard on all sides. “his was punctuated by the cooing 
of the Wood Pigeon and the Cuckoos; there was also the tattoo of a 
woodpecker and the derisive laughter of a jay. Songs of exquisite sweet- 
ness and tenderness were heard, one probably that of the Nightingale 
found here among the profusion of flowering shrubs. Others reminded 
one of the song of the Brown Thrasher, of the Cardinal, another, of the 
Maryland Yellowthroat, still another, of the Grasshopper Sparrow, and 
one, of the Flicker. “The Chaffinch, the Robin, the Redstart, the Wren,— 
all were in full song. “The notes, ““wheat-ear, wheat-ear,” clearly floated 
over to me; I wondered whether it might not have been the Wheat-ear. 
Coming down from the Hanger into the pastures and back gardens, 
dozens of swallows were seen darting overhead, the House Martin, the 
Bank Swallow, the smaller (Hirundo rustica), much like our Barn Swal- 
low; these flew lower down, the swifts, high up in the air, all of them 
chattering, screeching, or twittering at the top of their voices. Suddenly 
a Robin got up on a telephone post before me, and sang. A Pied Wag- 
tail showed its attractive pattern on the road. A little farther along a 
Chaffinch posed on a fence post for me; they were notably numerous. 
Going to the other end of the village, where the Wey rises, we were 
treated to a view of several water birds, such as the Land Rail, the Coot, 
and the Moor-hen. 
In conclusion, let me quote from the Introduction to an edition of 
White, gotten out by the well-known British ornithologist and bird pho- 
tographer, Richard Keaston. 
“In order to catch the glow of the spirit of Gilbert White, it is nec- 
essary to visit his beloved country. Who that has sat alone by night in 
early May at the top of the Hanger, listening to the sweet song of the 
Nightingale and the soft crick-crick of the Beech trees bursting their leaf 
sheaths, or seen the sun rise in golden splendor upon their full wealth of 
foliage in June, could escape the witchery of the place or wonder that our 
author’s heart abided with it to the end.” 
And from “Twenty Years After,” by the same author: “To every 
reader who loves the memory of Gilbert White, or whose nerves require a 
complete rest, I would say, “Come and indulge your soul in the peace and 
rest of this little Hampshire village. The voices of the Blackcap Warbler 
and the Wood Wren by day and those of the Nightingale and the Fern 
Owl by night will conjure up for you the spirit of the old naturalist who 
wrote the most widely known book on the joys of outdoor life in the 
English language.’ ” 
