John Keble's Parishes: A History of Hursley and Otterbourne

Before entirely quitting the parish, a few of the older words and forms of expression may be recorded, chiefly as remembered from the older generation, for “the schoolmaster” and the influx of new inhabitants have changed much that was characteristic of the genuine West Saxon.  Nor, indeed, was there any very pronounced dialect, like a separate language.  The speech is slow, and with a tendency to make o like aa, as Titus Oates does in Peveril of the Peak.  An Otterbourne man going into Devonshire was told, “My son, you speak French.”  No one ever showed the true Hampshire south-country speech and turn of expression so well as Lady Verney in her Lettice Lisle, and she has truly Hampshire characters too, such as could once easily be matched in these villages.

The words and phrases here set down are only what can be vouched for by those who have grown up to them:—

Words

Caddle, untidy condition.

“In he comes when I’m all of a caddle.”

To stabble, to walk about aimlessly, or in the wet.

“Now, Miss, don’t you come stabbling in and out when I am scouring.”

Or,

“I can’t come stabbling down that there dirty lane, or I should be all of a muck.”

Want, mole.

Chiselbob, woodlouse; also called a cud-worm, and, rolled in a pill, put down the throat of a cow to promote the restoration of her cud, which she was supposed to have lost.

Gowk, cuckoo.

Fuzz-Buzz, traveller’s joy.

Palmer, caterpillar.

Dish-washer, water-wagtail.

Chink, chaffinch.

Long-tailed caper, long-tailed tit.

Yaffil, green woodpecker.

“The yaffil laughed loud.”—See Peacock at Home.

Smellfox, anemone.

Dead men’s fingers, orchis.

Granny’s night-cap, water avens.

Jacob’s ladder, Solomon’s seal.

Lady’s slipper, Prunella vulgaris.

Poppy, foxglove.

To routle, to rummage (like a pig in straw).

To terrify, to worry or disturb.

“Poor old man, the children did terrify him so, he is gone into the Union.”

Wind-list, white streak of faint cloud across a blue sky, showing the direction of the wind.

Shuffler, man employed about a farmyard.

Randy go, uproar.

“I could not sleep for that there randy go they was making.”

Pook, a haycock.

All of a pummy, all of a moulter, because it was so very brow, describing the condition of a tree, which shattered as it fell because it was brow, i.e. brittle.

Leer, empty, generally said of hunger.—See German.

Hulls, chaff.  The chaff of oats; used to be in favour for stuffing mattresses.

Heft, Weight.

To huck, to push or pull out.  Scotch (howk).

Stook, the foundation of a bee hive.

Pe-art, bright, lively, the original word bearht for both bright and pert.

Loo (or lee), sheltered.

Steady, slow.

“She is so steady I can’t do nothing with her.”

Kickety, said of a one-sided wheel-barrow that kicked up (but this may have been invented for the nonce).

Pecty, covered with little spots of decay.

Fecty, defective throughout—both used in describing apples or potatoes.

Hedge-picks, shoes.

Hags or aggarts, haws.

Rauch, smoke (comp. German and Scotch).

Pond-keeper, dragon-fly.

Stupid, ill-conditioned.

To plim, to swell, as bacon boiled.

To side up, to put tidy.

Logie, poorly, out-of-sorts.

Village Specifics.

Cure for Epilepsy

To wear round the neck a bag with a hair from the cross on a he-donkey.

Or,

To wear a ring made of sixpences begged from six young women who married without change of name.

Cure for Whooping Cough

An infusion of mouse ear hawkweed (Hieracium Pilosella), flavoured with thyme and honey.  This is really effective, like other “yarbs” that used to be in vogue.

Cure for Shingles

Grease off church bells.

For Sore Throat

Rasher of fat bacon fastened round the neck.

For Ague

To be taken to the top of a steep place, then violently pushed down.

Or,

To have gunpowder in bags round the wrists set on fire.

Powdered chaney (china), a general specific.

Phrases

Singing psalms to a dead horse, exhorting a stolid subject.

Surplice, smock-frock.

“Ah! sir, the white surplice covers a great deal of dirt”—said by a tidy woman of her old father.

“And what be I to pay you?”

“What the Irishman shot at,” i.e. nothing—conversation overheard between an old labourer and his old friend, the thatcher, who had been mending his roof.

“Well, dame, how d’ye fight it out?”—salutation overheard.

Curate.  Have you heard the nightingale yet?

Boy.  Please, sir, I don’t know how he hollers.

Everything hollers, from a church bell to a mouse in a trap.

A tenth child, if all the former ones are living, is baptized with a sprig of myrtle in his cap, and the clergyman was supposed to charge himself with his education.

If possible, a baby was short-coated on Good Friday, to ensure not catching cold.

The old custom (now gone out) was that farmers should send their men to church on Good Friday.  They used all to appear in their rough dirty smock frocks and go back to work again.  Some (of whom it would never have been expected) would fast all day.

The 29th of May is still called Shick-shack day—why has never been discovered.  There must have been some observance earlier than the Restoration, though oak-apples are still worn on that day, and with their oak sprays are called Shick-shack.

On St. Clement’s Day, the 23rd of November, explosions of gunpowder are made on country blacksmiths’ anvils.  It is viewed as the blacksmiths’ holiday.  The accepted legend is that St. Clement was drowned with an anchor hung to his neck, and that his body was found in a submarine temple, from which the sea receded every seven years for the benefit of pilgrims.  Thus he became the patron of anchor forgers, and thence of smiths in general.  Charles Dickens, in Great Expectations describes an Essex blacksmith as working to a chant, the refrain of which was “Old Clem.”  I have heard the explosions at Hursley before 1860, but more modern blacksmiths despise the custom.  At Twyford, however, the festival is kept, and at the dinner a story is read that after the Temple was finished, Solomon feasted all the artificers except the blacksmiths, but they appeared, and pointed out all that they had done in the way of necessary work, on which they were included with high honour.

St. Thomas’s Day, 21st December, is still at Otterbourne held as the day for “gooding,” when each poor house-mother can demand sixpence from the well-to-do towards her Christmas dinner.

Christmas mummers still perambulate the villages, somewhat uncertainly, as their performance depends on the lads willing to undertake it, and the willingness of some woman to undertake the bedizening of them with strips of ribbon or coloured paper; and, moreover, political allusions are sometimes introduced which spoil the simplicity.  The helmets are generally made of wallpaper, in a shape like auto-da-fé caps, with long strips hanging over so as to conceal the face, and over the shirts are sewn streamers.

Thus tramp seven or eight lads, and stand drawn up in a row, when the foremost advances with, at the top of his hoarse voice:

Room, room, brave gallants, room,
I’m just come to show you some merry sport and game,
To help pass away
This cold winter day.
Old activity, new activity, such activity
As never was seen before,
And perhaps never will be seen no more.

(Alas! too probably.  Thanks to the schoolmaster abroad.)

Then either he or some other, equipped with a little imitation snow, paces about announcing himself:

Here comes I, Old Father Christmas, Christmas, Christmas,
   Welcome or welcome not,
   I hope old Father Christmas
      Will never be forgot.
All in this room, there shall be shown
The dreadfullest battle that ever was known.
So walk in, St. George, with thy free heart
And see whether thou canst claim peace for thine own part.

So far from “claiming peace,” St. George waves (or ought to wave) his wooden sword, as he clumps forth, exclaiming:

In comes I, St. George, St. George, that man of courage bold,
With my broad sword and spear I won the crown of gold,
      I fought that fiery dragon,
         And drove him to the slaughter,
      And by that means I won
         The King of Egypt’s daughter.
   Therefore, if any man dare enter this door
      I’ll hack him small as dust,
   And after send him to the cook’s shop
      To be made into mince-pie crust!

On this defiance another figure appears:

Here comes I, the Turkish knight
Just come from Turkey land to fight;
I’ll fight thee, St. George, St. George, thou man of courage bold,
If thy blood be too hot, I’ll quickly make it cold.

To which St. George responds, in the tone in which he would address a cart-horse:

Wo ho!  My little fellow, thou talk’st very bold,
Just like the little Turks, as I have been told,
Therefore, thou Turkish knight,
Pull out thy sword and fight,
Pull out thy purse and pay,
I’ll have satisfaction, or thou guest away.

Turkish Knight.

Satisfaction, no satisfaction at all,
My head is made of iron, my body lined with steel,
I’ll battle thee, to see which on the ground shall fall.

The two wooden swords clatter together till the Turkish knight falls, all doubled up, even his sword, with due regard to his finery; and St. George is so much shocked that he marches round, lamenting:

O only behold what I have been and done,
Cut and slain my brother, just the evening sun.

Then, bethinking himself, he exclaims:

I have a little bottle, called elecampane,
If the man is alive, let him rise and fight again.

The application of the elecampane so far restores the Turkish knight that he partly rises, entreating:

O pardon me, St. George, O pardon me, I crave,
O pardon me this once, and I will be thy slave.

Very inconsistently with his late remorse, St. George replies—

I never will pardon a Turkish knight,
Therefore arise, and try thy might.

The combat is renewed, and the Turkish knight falls prostrate, on which the Foreign King comes forward, shouting:

St. George, St. George, what hast thou done,
For thou hast slain mine only son!

But, after marching round the fallen hero, he cries:

Is there a doctor to be found,
That can cure this man lies bleeding on the ground?

In response, the doctor appears:

O yes, there is a doctor to be found,
That can cure this man lies bleeding on the ground.

The anxious father asks:

Doctor, doctor, what is thy fee?

The doctor replies:

Ten guineas is my fee,
But ten pounds I’ll take of thee.

The king answers:

“Take it, doctor, but what canst thou cure?”

The doctor’s pretensions are high, for he says:

I can cure the ague, palsy, and the gout,
And that’s a roving pain that goes within and out;
A broken leg or arm, I soon can cure the pain,
And if thou break’st thy neck, I’ll stoutly set it again.
Bring me an old woman of fourscore years and ten,
Without a tooth in her head, I’ll bring her young again.

The king observes:

“Thou be’st a noble doctor if that’s all true thou be’st talking about.”

And the doctor, taking to prose, replies:

“I’m not like those little mountebank doctors that go about the streets, and say this, that, and the other, and tell you as many lies in one half-hour as you would find in seven years; but what I does, I does clean before your eyes, and ladies and gentlemen, if you won’t believe your own eyes, ’tis a very hard case.”

The king agreeing that it is, the doctor goes to the patient, saying:

“I have a little bottle that I call golden foster drops.  One drop on the root of this man’s tongue and another on his crown, will strike the heat through his body, and raise him off the ground.”

Accordingly the Turkish knight slowly rises and decamps, St. George exclaiming:

“Arise, arise, thou cowardly dog, and see how uprightly thou can’st stand.  Go home into your own country and tell them what old England has done for you, and how they’ll fight a thousand better men than you.”

This last speech may have been added after the Crimean War, as the drama was copied out in 1857; but the staple of it was known long before, though with variations, in different villages, and it always concludes with little Johnny Jack, the smallest of the troup, with a bundle of dolls on his back, going round with a jingling money-box, saying:

Here comes I, little Johnny Jack,
Wife and family at my back,
My family’s large though I am small,
And so a little helps us all.
Roast beef, plum pudding, strong beer and mince-pies,
Who loves that better than Father Christmas or I?
One mug of Christmas ale soon will make us merry and sing;
Some money in our pockets will be a very fine thing.
So, ladies and gentlemen, all at your ease,
Give the Christmas boys just what you please.

Before Christmas carols had to be reformed and regulated lest they should be a mere occasion of profanity and rudeness, that curious one of Dives and Lazarus was occasionally heard, of which two lines could never be forgotten—

He had no strength to drive them ’way,
And so they licked his sores.

And when Lazarus afterwards sees “Divers” “sitting on a serpent’s knee.”

May Day too survived in a feeble state, with the little voices singing:

April’s gone!  May’s come!
Come and see our garland.

Mr. Keble improved the song into:

   April’s gone, the king of showers,
   May is come, the queen of flowers,
   Give me something, gentles dear,
   For a blessing on the year.
   For my garland give, I pray,
   Words and smiles of cheerful May;
   Birds of spring, to you we come,
   Let us pick a little crumb.
In the dew of the morning we gathered our flowers
From the woodlands and meadows and garden bowers,
And now we have twisted our garland so gay,
We are come here to wish you a happy May Day.

We cannot but here add an outline of a village character from Old Times at Otterbourne:—

Mr. William Stainer was a baker.  His bread was excellent, and he was also noted for what were called Otterbourne buns, the art of making which seems to have gone with him.  They were small fair-complexioned buns, which stuck together in parties of three, and when soaked, expanded to twice or three times their former size.  He used to send them once or twice a week to Winchester.  But though baking was his profession, he did much besides.  He was a real old-fashioned herbalist, and had a curious book on the virtues of plants, and he made decoctions of many kinds, which he administered to those in want of medicine.  Before the Poor Law provided Union doctors, medical advice, except at the hospital, was almost out of reach of the poor.  Mr. and Mrs. Yonge, like almost all other beneficent gentlefolks in villages, kept a medicine chest and book, and doctored such cases as they could venture on, and Mr. Stainer was in great favour as a practitioner, as many of our elder people can remember.  He was exceedingly charitable and kind, and ready to give his help so far as he could.  He was a great lover of flowers, and had contrived a sort of little greenhouse over the great oven at the back of his house, and there he used to bring up lovely geraniums and other flowers, which he sometimes sold.  He was a deeply religious and devout man, and during an illness of the clerk took his place in Church, which was more important when there was no choir and the singers sat in the gallery.  He was very happy in this office, moving about on felt shoes that he might make no noise, and most reverently keeping the Church clean, and watching over it in every way.  He also continued in the post of schoolmaster, which at first he had only taken temporarily, and quaintly managing it.  He was found setting as a copy “A blind man’s wife needs no paint,” which he defended as “Proverbs, sir, Proverbs.”  Giving up part of his business to his nephew, he still sat up at night baking, for the nephew, he said, was only in the A B C book of baking, and he also had other troubles: there was insanity in his family, and he was much harassed.  His kindness and simplicity were sometimes abused.  He never had the heart to refuse to lend money, or to deny bread on credit to hopeless debtors; and altogether debts, distress, baking, and watching his sisters all night, and school keeping all day, were too much for him.  The first hint of an examination of his school completed the mischief and he died insane, drowning himself in the canal.  It is a sad story, but many of us will remember with affectionate regard the good, kind, quaint, and most excellent little man.

A few lines, half parody, half original, may be added as picturing the old aspect of Otterbourne, about 1830:—

OLD REMEMBRANCES

I remember, I remember,
   Old times at Otterbourne,
Before the building of the Church,
   And when smock frocks were worn!

I remember, I remember,
   When railroads there were none,
When by stage coach at early dawn
   The journey was begun.

And through the turnpike roads till eve
   Trotted the horses four,
With inside passengers and out
   They carried near a score.

“Red Rover” and the “Telegraph,”
   We knew them all by name,
And Mason’s and the Oxford coach,
   Full thirty of them came.

The coachman wore his many capes,
   The guard his bugle blew;
The horses were a gallant sight,
   Dashing upon our view.

I remember, I remember,
   The posting days of old;
The yellow chariot lined with blue
   And lace of colour gold.

The post-boys’ jackets blue or buff,
   The inns upon the road;
The hills up which we used to walk
   To lighten thus the load.

The rattling up before the inn,
   The horses led away,
The post-boy as he touched his hat
   And came to ask his pay.

The perch aloft upon the box,
   Delightful for the view;
The turnpike gates whose keepers stood
   Demanding each his due.

I remember, I remember,
   When ships were beauteous things,
The floating castles of the deep
   Borne upon snow-white wings;

Ere iron-dads and turret ships,
   Ugly as evil dream,
Became the hideous progeny
   Of iron and of steam.

You crossed the Itchen ferry
   All in an open boat,
Now, on a panting hissing bridge
   You scarcely seem afloat.

Southampton docks were sheets of mud,
   Grim colliers at the quay.
No tramway, and no slender pier
   To stretch into the sea.

I remember, I remember,
   Long years ere Rowland Hill,
When letters covered quarto sheets
   Writ with a grey goose quill;

Both hard to fold and hard to read,
   Crossed to the scarlet seal;
Hardest of all to pay for, ere
   Their news they might reveal.

No stamp with royal head was there,
   But eightpence was the sum
For every letter, all alike,
   That did from London come!

I remember, I remember,
   The mowing of the hay;
Scythes sweeping through the heavy grass
   At breaking of the day.

The haymakers in merry ranks
   Tossing the swathes so sweet,
The haycocks tanning olive-brown
   In glowing summer heat.

The reapers ’mid the ruddy wheat,
   The thumping of the flail,
The winnowing within the barn
   By whirling round a sail.

Long ere the whirr, and buzz, and rush
   Became a harvest sound,
Or monsters trailed their tails of spikes,
   Or ploughed the fallow ground.

Our sparks flew from the flint and steel,
   No lucifers were known,
Snuffers with tallow candles came
   To prune the wick o’ergrown.

Hands did the work of engines then,
   But now some new machine
Must hatch the eggs, and sew the seams,
   And make the cakes, I ween.

I remember, I remember,
   The homely village school,
The dame with spelling book and rod,
   The sceptre of her rule.

A black silk bonnet on her head,
   Buff kerchief on her neck,
With spectacles upon her nose,
   And apron of blue check.

Ah, then were no inspection days,
   No standards then were known,
Children could freely make dirt pies,
   And learning let alone!

Those Sundays I remember too,
   When Service there was one;
For living in the parish then
   Of parsons there were none.

And oh, I can recall to mind,
   The Church and every pew;
William and Mary’s royal arms
   Hung up in fullest view.

The lion smiling, with his tongue
   Like a pug dog’s hung out;
The unicorn with twisted horn,
   Brooding upon his rout.

Exalted in the gallery high
   The tuneful village choir,
With flute, bassoon, and clarionet,
   Their notes rose high and higher.

They shewed the number of the Psalm
   In white upon a slate,
And many a time the last lines sung
   Of Brady and of Tate.

While far below upon the floor
   Along the narrow aisle,
The children on their benches sat
   Arranged in single file.

And there the clerk would stump along
   And strike with echoing blow
Each idle guilty little head
   That chattered loud or low.

Ah!  I remember many things,
   Old, middle-aged, and new;
Is the new better than the old,
   More bright, more wise, more true?

The old must ever pass away,
   The new must still come in;
When these new things are old to you
   Be they unstained by sin.

So will their memory be sweet,
   A treasury of bliss
To be borne with us in the days
   When we their presence miss.

Trifles connected with the love
   Of many a vanished friend
Will thrill the heart and wake the sense,
   For memory has no end!

Or animal life, though abundant, there is little or nothing special to record, besides the list of birds.

Polecats and martens only exist in the old rating book, but weasels and stoats remain, as well as a profusion of their prey—hares and rabbits.  Squirrels haunt the trees, and otters are occasionally found in the river.  Trout, grayling, now and then a pike, as well as the smaller fry of minnows and sticklebacks, are of course found in the streams.  Eels used to be caught there on the moonlight nights by old labourers with a taste for sport, and the quaint little river cray-fish may be picked out of the banks of the “water-carriages.”

Toads and frogs are a matter of course.  Sometimes a procession of tiny, but perfectly formed “Charley Frogs,” as the village boys call them, just emerged from their tadpole state, may be seen making their way up from their native pools.

The pretty crested newt, dark brown and orange, with a gold crest along its back like an iguana, is found in shallow ponds, also the smooth newt.  These efts, or evvets, as the people call them, are regarded with horror by the peasantry.  The children speak of having seen one as if it were a crocodile; and an abscess in the arm has been ascribed to having picked up an “evvet in a bundle of grass.”

The slow-worm, in silvery coat, is too often slaughtered as a snake.  Vipers come to light in the woods, also the harmless brown snake.  One of these has been seen swimming across a pond, his head just out of the water, another climbing an oak tree, and one, upon the lawn, was induced to disgorge a frog, which gathered up its legs and hopped away as if nothing had happened.

Of rats and mice and such small deer there are only too many, though it is worth while to watch rats at play round a hay-rick on Sunday evenings, when they know they will not be persecuted, and sit up like little kangaroos.  The vole, which is not a rat, is a goodly sight, and the smooth round dormouse (or sleep-mouse, as the children call it) is a favourite gift imprisoned in an old tea-pot.

The beautiful nest of a field-mouse has been found in a cypress’s thick foliage, and dead shrews bestrew the paths; though the magic effects of having a “sherry mouse” die in one’s hand, and thus being enabled to stroke cattle and cure them, have never been experienced.

The anodon or fresh water mussel used to be found in Fisher’s Pond on Colden Common, bordering on Otterbourne, and the green banks were strewn with shells left by the herons, but the pond is fast drying up and the herons have been driven away by guns.

The delicate paludina, of brown, horn-coloured, gracefully-formed shell, creeps on the water weeds, and hosts of snails may be studied.

Of insects less can be said here, but it is worth noting that one live purple emperor has been captured in Ampfield wood, two dead dilapidated ones picked up at Otterbourne.

The forest fly, so called, does not often come here; but it is observable that while strange horses are maddened by it, the native ones do not seem disturbed, knowing that it only creeps and does not bite.  It is small and brown, not so formidable looking as the large fly, popularly called a stout, as big as a hornet, which lays eggs under the skin of cows.

But with the blue, green, and orange dragonflies of summer, this list must conclude, and turn to the birds and botany of the place, mostly well known, and verified by Mr. Townsend’s Flora of Hampshire.

BIRDS

The Kite (Milvus ictinus).—Sometimes hovering over heathlands or farmyards, but not very common.

Sparrow-Hawk (Accipiter fringillarius).—Taken in a trap set for rats at Otterbourne House.

Peregrine Falcon (Falco peregrinus), Hursley, 1857.—As a pair for many years had a nest on Salisbury spire, this one may have flown thus far.

Kestrel (Falco tinnunculus)—Otterbourne, 1856.

Short-Eared Owl (Otus brachyotus).—Baddesley Common, 5th March 1861.

White Owl (Strix flammea).—Nested in a barn, another year in a pigeon-loft, and again in an old tub at Otterbourne.  To be seen skimming softly along on summer evenings.

Brown Owl (Ulula stridula).—Glides over the fields like a huge moth, and on moonlight nights in August may be heard the curious hunting note.  As the eggs are hatched, not all at once, but in succession, a family taken out of a loft and put into a sea-kale pot were of various ages, the eldest nearly fledged, standing up as if to guard the nest, the second hissing and snapping, as if a naughty boy, and two downy infants who died.  One brown owl was kept tame, and lived 14 years.  The village people call this bird Screech Owl, and after a sudden death always mention having heard it.

Chimney Swallow (Hirundo rustica).—They chase the flies under the bridges on the Itchen, and display their red throats.

House-Martin (Hirundo urbica).—Twittering everywhere ’neath the straw-built shed.

Sand-Martin (Hirundo riparia).—Swarms sit in rows along the electric wires, and bore deeply into every sand-pit.

Swift (Cypselus murarius).—First to come and first to go.  Their peculiar screech and floating flight are one of the charms of the summer evenings.

Nightjar (Caprimulgus europæus).—All through the twilight of the long days his purr-purr comes down from the heathery summit of Otterbourne Hill, where he earns his other name of Fern Owl, and may be seen flitting on silent wing in search of moths.

Kingfisher (Alcedo ispida).—This beautiful creature darts out of the reeds bordering the Itchen, and it used to be at Chandler’s Ford before the place was so populated.  It seems also to haunt ponds or marshy places in woods, for a young full-fledged one was brought into Otterbourne House by a cat, alive and apparently unhurt.  Another took a fancy to the gold-fish in a stone basin at Cranbury, and was shot, as the poor fish could not escape.

Spotted Flycatcher (Muscicapa grisola).—Late in summer these dainty little birds come whisking about the garden, perching on a rail, darting off after a fly, returning to the same post, or else feeding their young in nests on the side of the house.  A pair built in 1897 in a flower-pot close to the window of Otterbourne House.

Butcher-Bird (Lanius collurio).—Said to have been seen at Otterbourne.  A slug has been found impaled on a thorn, but whether this was the shrike’s larder, or as a charm for removing warts, is uncertain.

Missel-Thrush (Merula viscivora).—This handsome bird is frequent, and commonly called House Screech.  A story told by Warden Barter may be worth preserving.  A pair of Missel Thrush seeing a peacock too near their nest, charged full at him, and actually knocked him down.

Song-Thrush (Merula musica).—Happily everywhere warbling on warm days in autumn and winter with a sweet, powerful song, some notes more liquid than even the nightingale’s.  The shells of the snails he has devoured bestrew the garden-walks.

Blackbird (Merula vulgaris).—Out, with angry scream and chatter at the approach of an enemy, darts the “ousel cock so black of hue, with orange-tawny bill.”  How dull a lawn would be without his pert movements when he comes down alternately with his russet wife.  One blackbird with a broad white feather on each side of his tail haunted Elderfield for two years, but, alas! one spring day a spruce sable rival descended and captivated the faithless dame.  They united, chased poor Mr. Whitetail over the high garden hedge, and he was seen no more.

Redwing (Merula iliaca).—Not common, but noted by J. B. Y.

Ring-Ouzel (Merula torquata).—Rare, but observed by J. B. Yonge in Otterbourne Park, 14th September 1865, and it has been seen several times later.

Fieldfare (Merula pilaris).—In flocks in winter.

Wheatear (Sylvia ænanthe).—Comes to the downs.

Stonechat (Saxicola rubicola).—Hops about on stones.

Whinchat (Saxicola rubetra).—On furze bushes on Otterbourne Hill.

Redbreast (Sylvia rubecula).—A whole brood, two old and four young, used to disport themselves on the quilt of an old bedridden woman on Otterbourne Hill.  It is the popular belief that robins kill their fathers in October, and the widow of a woodman declared that her husband had seen deadly battles, also that he had seen a white robin, but she possibly romanced.

Redstart (Phænicura ruticilla).—Sometimes seen, but not often.

Grasshopper-Warbler (Salicaria locustella).—Well named, for it chirps exactly like a grasshopper in the laurels all through a summer evening.

Sedge-Warbler (Salicaria fragilis).—Whoever has heard it scolding and chattering in a ridiculous rage at a strange footstep will not wonder at the Scotch name of Blethering Jock.  A pair nested in Dell Copse for some years, and the curious nest has been found among the reeds on the banks of the Itchen.

Nightingale (Sylvia luscinia).—Every year about the 18th of April the notes may be heard by the gate of Cranbury, in a larch wood on Otterbourne Hill, in the copse wood of Otterbourne House, at Oakwood, and elsewhere.  For about a week there is constant song, but after nesting begins, it is less frequent.  One year there was a nest in the laurels at Otterbourne House (since taken away), and at eight in the morning and seven at night the nightingale came on the lawn to feed, and was every morning chased by a surly John Bull of a robin.  When the young are coming out of the nest the parents chide them, or strangers, in a peculiarly harsh chirp.

Blackcap (Sylvia atricapilla).—Fair and sweet, but not very frequent; nested in Dell Copse.

Whitethroat (Sylvia cinerea).—Darts about gardens, and is locally called Nettle-creeper.

Lesser Whitethroat (S. curruca).—Eggs in Dell Copse.

Wood-Warbler (Sylvia sylvicola).—Eggs taken at Cranbury.

Willow-Warbler (Sylvia trochilus).—Eggs taken at Baddesley.

Chiefchaff (Sylvia hippolaïs).—Common in spring.

Golden-Crested Wren (Sylvia auricapilla).—A happy little inhabitant of the fir-trees, where it nests, and it is often to be seen darting in and out of a quickset hedge.

Skylark (Alauda arvensis).—The joy of eyes and ears in every open field.  True to the kindred points of heaven and home.

Woodlark (Alauda arborea).—Otterbourne Park and Cranbury.

Yellow-Bunting or Yellow-Hammer (Emberiza citrinella).—A great ornament, especially in autumn, when it sits on rails, crying, “A little bit of bread and no che-e-ese!”

Blackheaded or Reed Bunting (Emberiza schænidus).—Brambridge, April 1896.

Sparrow (Passer domesticus).—One curious fact about this despised animal is that the retired farmer, after whom Elderfield is named, made it his business to exterminate the village sparrows.  He often brought them down to one, but always by the next morning that sparrow had provided himself with a mate to share his Castle Dangerous.  Sparrows’ (or sprows’) heads make a figure in many church ratebooks.

Chaffinch (Fringilla cælebs).—Chink is the Hampshire name.  The hens do not here migrate in winter, but a whole flight of them has been seen in the autumn on the Winchester road, evidently on their way; and once, after an early severe frost, about a hundred were found dead in a haystack near Basingstoke.  Thomas Chamberlayne, Esq., who had a singular attraction for birds, used to have them coming to eat grain from his pocket.  It has the perfection of a nest.

Goldfinch (Carduelis elegans).—This exquisite little bird is frequent on the borders of the chalk hills, where there is plenty of thistledown.

Hawfinch (Coccothraustes vulgaris).—Sometimes seen, but not common.

Linnet (Linota cannabina).—Fairly frequent.

Green Linnet (Coccothraustes chloris).—Greenfinch, or Beanbird as they call it in Devonshire, is a pleasant visitor, though it has a great turn for pease.

Wren (Sylvia troglodytes).—This brisk little being Kitty Wren is to be seen everywhere.  Whether Kingsley’s theory is right that the little birds roll themselves into a ball in a hole in the winter, I know not.  Single ones are certainly to be seen on a bank on a frosty, sunshiny day.  Have they come out to view the world and report on it?  Those very odd, unused nests are often to be found hanging from the thatch within outhouses.  May it be recorded here that a wren once came to peck the sprigs on Miss Keble’s gown?

Great Titmouse (Parus major)—or Ox-eye, as he is here called, bold and bright, crying “Peter” in early spring, and beautiful with his white cheek, and the black bar down his yellow waistcoat.

Blue Tit (Parus cæruleus).—Bolder and prettier is the little blue-cap, a true sprite and acrobat as Wordsworth calls him.

Marsh-Tit (Parus palustris).—Known by less bright colouring and white breast.

Cole-Tit (Parus ater).—More grey, and very graceful.  All these four will gladly come to a window in winter for a little fat hung to a string, and will put themselves into wonderful inverse positions.

Long-Tailed Tit (Parus caudatus).—Long-tailed Caper, as is his local name, is more shy, and will not come to be fed; but the antics of a family after they have left their domed nest are delightful to watch, as they play in the boughs of a fir-tree.

Hedge-Sparrow (Accentur modularis).—Quiet, mottled bird, to be seen everywhere.

Pied Wagtail (Motacilla lutor).—Most of these stay with us all winter, but one March evening at least forty-three descended on the lawn at Elderfield, doubtless halting in their flight from southern lands.  Most winning birds they are, with their lively hop and jerking tails.  Dish-washer is their Hampshire name.

Grey Wagtail (Motacilla boarula).—This pretty bird is really partly yellow.  It is not very frequent here, but is sometimes found on the Itchen bank; likewise the nest in a reedy meadow.

Ray’s Wagtail (Motacilla Rayi).—Ray’s Wagtail was catching flies on a window at Otterbourne House in 1890.

Tree Pitt (Anthus arboreus), Meadow Pipit (Anthus pratensis).—Small brown birds, not easy to distinguish; but the eggs differ, and both have been found.

Bullfinch (Pyrrhula vulgaris).—It is charming to greet the black head and red waistcoat in the tops of the laurels or apple-trees, and surely this destroyer of insect devourers does more good than harm, if he does pick the buds to pieces in the search.  He is a delightful pet, of exclusive and jealous attachments, hating every one except his own peculiar favourite; and his sober-coloured lady has quite as much character as he.  One which was devoted to her own mistress would assail another of the family with such spite as sometimes to drive her out of the room.

Starling (Sturnus vulgaris).—Green bedropped with gold when seen closely, but at a distance looking more like a rusty blackbird, though its gait on the lawn always distinguishes it, being a walk instead of a hop.  Though not tuneful, no bird has such a variety of notes, and the clatter on the root the call-note, the impatient summons of the brood about to be fed, make it a most amusing neighbour, when it returns to the same tree year after year.

Raven (Corvus corax).—He has flown over the village several times.  One lived for many years in the yard of the George Inn at Winchester.

Crow (Corvus coronæ).—Game-preserving has nearly put an end to him, but he is seen round the folds on the downs in lambing time.

Rook (Corvus frugilegus).—Shining and black the great birds come down on the fields.  There is a rookery at Cranbury, another at Hams Farm at Allbrook, and a considerable one in the beeches near Merdon, for which the rooks deserted some oak-trees nearer the House.  While these trees were still inhabited, Mr. G. W. Heathcote observed a number of walnuts under them, and found that the rooks brought them from the walnut avenues.  A parliament of these wise birds is sometimes held on the downs, and there are woods where they assemble in great numbers in the autumn, contingents from all lesser rookeries pouring in to spend the winter, and whirling round and round in clouds before roosting.

Jackdaw (Corvus monedula).—A very amusing, though very wicked pet.  There used to be throngs of them in the tower of the old church at Hursley, and their droll voices might be heard conversing in the evening.  Mr. Chamberlayne had one which, after being freed, always came down to greet him when he walked in the garden.

Magpie (Corvus pica).—Pages might be filled with the merry mischief of this handsome creature.  Perhaps the most observable characteristic of the three tame ones closely observed was their exclusive and devoted attachment to one person, whom they singled out for no cause that could be known, and followed about from place to place.

Jay (Garrulus glandarius).—May be heard calling in the pine plantations on Hursley Common.  It would be as amusing as the magpie if tamed.

Green Woodpecker (Picus viridis).—The laugh and the tap may be heard all through the Spring days.  In 1890 Picus major, a small, black, and spotted French Magpie, as Devonians call it, was found, but we have no other right to claim it.

Wryneck (Yunx torquilla), or Cuckoo’s mate, squeaks all round the woods with his head on one side just as the cuckoo comes.

Nuthatch (Sitta europæa).—This pretty creature will come and be fed on nuts at windows in the winter.  These nuts he thrusts into crevices of bark to hold them fast while he hammers the shell.  The remains may often be found.  For many years a pair built in a hole half-way down an old apple-tree covered with ivy at Otterbourne House, and the exertions of the magpie with clipped wing to swing himself on a trail of ivy into the hole were comical, as well as his wrath when he fell off, as he uniformly did.

Tree-Creeper (Certhia familiaris), winds round and round the trees like a little mouse.

Hoopoe (Upupa vulgaris).—Once in a frost caught alive by a shepherd on the downs, but it soon died.

Cuckoo (Cuculus canorus).—They cuckoo till “in June he altereth his tune.”  Probably the stammer is the effort of the young ones to sing.  One grew up in a wagtail’s nest in the flints that were built into the wall of Otterbourne Churchyard.  Another, carried to the other side of the road and caged, was still fed by its foster-parents till it was ready to fly.

Wood-Pigeon (Columba palumbus)—

Take two cows, Taffy,
Taffy, take two-o-o.

Plenty of this immoral exhortation may be heard in the trees.  One young pigeon taken from the nest proved incorrigibly wild and ready to flutter to death whenever any one came near it.

Turtle-Dove (Columba turtur).—This pretty delicate creature with speckled neck builds in bushes lower than the wood-pigeon, and the mournful note resounds in the trees.

Pheasant (Phasianus colchicus).—Not a real native, but cultivated to any extent.  A cock pheasant with the evening sun gilding his back is a rare picture of beauty.

Partridge (Tetrao perdix).—Numerous.

Heron (Ardea cinerea).—Sometimes flies far overhead, the long legs projecting behind.

Sandpiper (Totanus hypoleucus).—Seen walking over a mass of weeds in the Itchen canal.

Snipe (Scolopax gallinago).—Brought in by sportsmen from the water meadows.

Woodcock (Scolopax rusticola).—Not common, but sometimes shot.

Jack-Snipe (Scolopax gallinula).—Not common, but sometimes shot.

Land-Rail (Crex pratensis).—Corn-Crake.  May be heard “craking” in the long grass in early morning before the hay is cut.

Water-Rail (Rallus aquaticus).—In a meadow at Otterbourne, 22nd January 1855.

Little Grebe (Podiceps minor).—Dabchick, as it is commonly called, swims in the Itchen and in Fisher’s Pond (on Colden Common), dipping down suddenly without a trace of the least alarm.

Moor-Hen (Gallinula chloropus).—Very similar are the ways of the moor-hen, with its brilliant beak.  But once, by some extraordinary chance, a moor-hen fell down a cottage chimney, and was brought alive for inspection by a boy, who, ignorant of natural objects, as was always the case in villages forty years ago, thought it a rare foreign specimen.  It was a thatched cottage, but if it had been slated the moor-hen might have taken the roof for a sheet of water by moonlight, as the Great Water-Beetle has been known to do, and come down the chimney in like manner.  A brood comes constantly to be fed on a lawn at Bishopstoke.

Peewit (Vanellus cristatus).—Otherwise the Crested Lapwing.  It floats along in numbers when migrating, the whole flock turning at the same time and displaying either the dark or the white side of their wings with a startling effect.  They seem effaced for a moment, the next the white sails are shown, then gone again.  When paired, and nesting in the meadows, their cry causes their local name, as their other English title is derived from their characteristic manœuvres to lead the enemy from their young.  Did they learn the habit when their so-called plovers’ eggs became a dainty?

Golden Plover (Charadrius pluvialis).—Noted at Otterbourne meadows by J. B. Yonge.

Wild Duck (Anas boschas).—The mallard is splendid in plumage, and in shape is far more graceful than his domesticated brother.  In early winter the wild ducks fly overhead in a wedge-shaped phalanx, and by and by they pair, and if disturbed start up with a sudden quack, quack from the copse-wood pond.  Broods of downy wild ducks have been brought in by boys, but it has almost always proved impossible to rear them.

Teal (Querquedula anas).—This very pretty little duck used to build on Cranbury Common, but may have been frightened away by increasing population.

Gull (Larus canus).—Flocks of those white-breasted birds sometimes alight on ploughed fields round Otterbourne, and even some miles farther from the sea.  They are sometimes kept in gardens to destroy the slugs.