From the lofty cliffs at the back of the Isle of Wight, numerous
wild-fowl may be seen whirling in rapid flight through the air, now
rising above the green downs, now descending to the blue surface of the
water. Towards the west end of that romantic island, in a hollow
between the cliffs, is the village of Calbourne. Here, some time since,
might have been seen, sailing over the village green, Old Phil, one of
the white-winged birds I have described. Abandoning the wild freedom of
his brethren, he had associated himself with the human inhabitants of
the place. His chief friend was a grocer, near whose shop he would
alight on a neighbouring wall, and receive with gratitude the bits of
cheese and other dainties which were offered him. At certain times of
the year, however, he would take his departure, and generally return
with a wife, whom he used to introduce to his old friends, that she
might partake of their hospitality. Not, indeed, that she would venture
so close to the grocer's shop, even for the sake of the cheese-parings;
but she used to enter the village, and frequently spent her time at a
pond hard by, while Old Phil went to pay his respects to the purveyor of
groceries.