Not Exactly Connected

I'm finally getting the hang of reading Gilbert White's little classic The Natural History of Selborne (which, according to its respectable Penguin blurb is the fourth most published book in the English language.) On embarking on my reading I entertained the vague notion that there'd be some kind of continuity in the text, that it'd feature a series of anecdotes concerning the village and its wildlife and some kind of broad, linking reflections from the writer upon his observations. In fact, it's much more disjointed than that, often featuring entirely disconnected observations across a series of very individual paragraphs. 

When you're used to the linking of ideas and a certain flow in what you read this is surprisingly disconcerting. Initially I found it almost impossible to read the more fragmentary segments with any real attention since the markers that help focus attention were often non-existent. But then I found myself enjoying the enviable randomness of it all. This added to the already curious but considerable charm of the work as a whole. After all, what does maintaining the interest of the reader matter when the writer is so obviously engrossed in the minutiae of his subject matter that the reader can only feel that he or she is a kind of intruder upon the good parson's obsessions?

I can't help but quote a few of the most disconnected paragraphs (from Letter XL) to help convey the spirit of the thing, and just because I enjoy them so much:

The grasshopper-lark chirps all night in the height of summer.
Swans turn white the second year, and breed the third.
Weasels prey on moles, as appears by their being sometimes caught in mole-traps.
Sparrow-hawks sometimes breed in old crows' nests and the kestrel in churches and ruins.

I suppose it's all connected by the pleasure attendant upon handling each fragment of the jig-saw.