of just as many additional eggs as have been
taken from her.

Having a liking for the sparrow, I allure him
to my garden plat by daily feasts of bread-
crumbs and chopped fat. One sparrow seems
to tell another of the good fortune thus awaiting
the birds; and the first comer, who, in
nine cases out of ten, is a sparrow, no sooner
flies away to the tree or hedge, or house-top
which he inhabits, with a crust or crumb
about the size of his head, than down come
from all points of the compass a dozen or
two of his friends or acquaintances.
Sometimes a mutton or a fish bone that my dog
has done with is thrown among the crumbs,
and the sparrow, not at all particular about his
diet, proceeds to pick it, and, if it be a marrow
bone, to put his bill into it in search of the
choice morsels which the dog's teeth and
tongue have been unable to reach. The female
sparrow brings her young ones to these symposia
as soon as they are able to fly, and stuffs the
large pieces of bread or fat down their gaping
throats with true maternal devotion. It cannot
be said that she feeds her "little ones," for
what, considering their age, ought to be her
little ones, are, in point of fact, her "large"
ones. We have but to fancy Mrs. Smith or
Mrs. Jones, or any other fair lady of our own
acquaintance, who had been married a twelve-
month, and had a baby to feed as big as herself
and her husband rolled into one, to realise the
comparative size of the sparrow's progeny and the
mother's thoughtful care in nursing, tending, and
providing for such monsters. Not that the size
of the young sparrow represents flesh and blood.
On the contrary, it represents little but fluff and
feathers. As the young bird grows old its size
diminishes. The feast that attracts the sparrows
attracts other varieties of birds—the chaffinch,
the bullfinch, the goldfinch, the blackbird, the
thrush, the starling, and the robin redbreast.
None of these associate with the sparrow, but
watch their chance of hopping in for something
when the vulgar little birds have flown away
with prizes in their bills. The robin
especially seems to dislike and avoid the sparrow,
and will no more rub shoulders with him than
a gentleman will hob-and-nob or shake hands
with a chimney-sweep. The blackbirds and
thrushes—thrice as large as sparrows—will on
no account eat with them, but, like the robin,
take the opportunity of the sparrow's absence
to claim a share of any of the good things that
may be going. Is it because, as the nursery
rhyme says, "the sparrow killed cock robin
with his bow and arrow," in some far-distant
period of antiquity, that to this day the robin
refuses so pertinaciously to have anything to do
with his traditionary foe? or does the robin
consider himself an aristocrat and the sparrow a
rough? Whatever the reason may be, no sparrow
is admissible into the robin's society, or into
that, as far as my observations extend, of any
other bird whatever. Another difference of
character between the robin and the sparrow
deserves a word of notice. However often you
may feed the sparrow, and however well he may
in consequence become acquainted with you, he
is not to be induced to enter the house. The
robin, on the contrary, after a little while, will
hop in at the open window or door, and trust to
your generosity and sense of honour not to
molest or try to capture him. The sparrow,
besides being distrustful, seems to be a pariah
among the feathered race, the lowest of the low,
the vulgarest of the vulgar, the slightest contact
with whom is as contaminating as greased
cartridges to a Sepoy. The sparrow, however, does
not seem to take to heart the dislike with which
he is regarded; and if other birds are to dine
off the crumbs that my hand distributes, he
takes especial care that he shall dine first, or,
at all events, have the first pickings. He is not
afraid of any of them, however large, and, in
fact, does not seem to be afraid of anything but
a man, a woman, a dog, or a cat. Once I
noticed a rat venture, just as the sparrows had
left the coast clear for a minute, to run off with
a small piece of bread. Half a dozen sparrows
immediately flew down from a tree, and chased
him with vociferous twitterings, till he
disappeared into his hole—not, however, discomfited,
for he got clear off with his prize.

Though I feed the sparrows all the winter,
they do not spare my garden in the spring and
summer on that account. My gardener holds
that I do mischief by my ill-judged kindness,
and that I attract to the grounds a hundred
sparrows for every one that would otherwise
frequent them. However this may be, I know
that they have not the smallest amount of
gratitude, but, like human sinners, do those things
which they ought not to do, and eat those
things which I would much rather they let
alone. They dig up with their bills the seed
newly sown in the ground, especially the
carrots, the turnips, the spinach, the parsnips,
and the lettuces. Whether they watch with
their sharp little eyes from some neighbouring
tree the process of sowing the seed, and know
where to go to in the gardener's absence, or
whether, as the gardener says, they smell the
seed in the ground, I am unable to say. I only
know that they were very destructive in this
respect till I employed a method to punish or
prevent their depredations. The sparrow has
very tender feet, and does not like to have
them pricked or stung, either by pulverised
glass, or by what is better for the purpose, the
common prickly furze chopped small and
strewed over the ground. Thus, whenever I
sow seed which is in danger from the sparrows,
I strew chopped furze over the place; and the
sparrow after one trial at robbery gives over
the attempt, and transfers his attentions to
some one with less experience of his tricks
than I have acquired. The sparrow is particularly
fond of the first tender buds of gooseberry
and currant bushes, which in the early
spring he sometimes strip bare of their nascent
leaves. He is also very partial to the young
lettuces when they first appear above the
ground, and as for peas, strawberries, cherries,