The Natural History of Selborne

Apricot begins to blow.  red-wings, & starlings abound in the meadow, where they feed in the moist, & watered spots.

There is a glade cut thro’ the covert of the Holt opposite these windows, up to the great Lodge.  To this opening a herd of deer often resorts, & contributes to enliven & diversify the prospect, in itself beautiful & engaging.

The sweet bells at Farnham, heard up the vale of a still evening, is a pleasant circumstance belonging to this situation, not only as occasioning agreeable associations in the mind, & remembrances of the days of my youth, when I once resided in that town: — but also by bringing to one’s recollection many beautiful passages from the poets respecting this tuneable & manly amusement, for which this island is so remarkable. Of these none are more distinguished, & masterly than the following:–

“Let the village bells as often wont,/
Come swelling on the breeze, & to the sun/
Half set, ring merrily their evening round.
– – – – /
It is enough for me to hear the sound/
Of the remote, exhilerating peal,/
Now dying all away, now faintly heard./
And now with loud, & musical relapse/
In mellow changes pouring on the ear.”
— The Village Curate

Trouts begin to rise: some angling takes place in this month. By Brother’s cucumbers are strong, & healthy.  Lady Stawell tells Mrs White that they have seen more woodcocks & snipes at their table this winter than usual.

Dogs-tooth violets blow.  Wag-tails on the grass-plots: they were here all this mild winter.  Goldfinches are not paired.

Herons haunt the stream below the house, where the Wey meanders along the meads. Lord Stawell sent me a curious water-fowl, shot on Frinsham pond, which proved to be the Shoveler, remarkable for the largeness of it’s bill. It is a species of duck, & most exactly described by Mr Ray. Large wood-pecker laughs very loud. My Brother’s lambs frolick before the windows, & run to a certain hillock, which is their goal, from whence they hurry back; & put us in mind of the following passage in the Poet of nature:
“Now the sprightly race/
Invites them forth; then swift, the signal given,/
They start way, & sweep the mossy mound/
That runs around the hill.”

We are much amused every morning by a string of Lord Stawell’s Hunters that are aired, exercised, & watered in a meadow opposite to the windows of this house.  There seem to be two sets, which appear alternately on the days that they are not hunted.  He has in all sixteen.

The wind last night blowed-off some tiles from my roof.  This storm did much mischief about the kingdom.