things, takes something of his colour from his
habitat, and is a brown, dingy, dirty, smoky-
hued feathering, compared with the country
sparrow, in whose plumage white, and grey, and
pure black, mingle harmoniously with the russet
brown, which is the predominant colour of his
livery. He has to make as hard a fight for his
living as the "city Arab." There are no
cornfields to pillage, no orchards to rob, no
succulent green peas or juicy cherries to be got.
There is nothing for him but the refuse of men
and animals; flies, spiders, earwigs, and all
the vermin that haunt the crannies of old
brickwork, or imbed themselves in the
interstices of the slates and tiles. In the country
he has human enemies, and a good many of
them; in the town his only enemy is the cat.
There is, it is true, a tradition that some poor
Polish and other political refugees from the
wars, revolutions, and intrigues of Continental
Europe, who inhabit the foreign settlements
around Leicester-square, are in the habit of
setting traps and springes for the sparrows
at the windows of their squalid attics, and
eating them, in default sometimes of any other
kind of food; but if this be the case, it is
exceptional, and can make but slight inroad
upon the security of almost the only small bird
that lives in a state of nature and wild freedom
in the metropolis. Among the Londoners
the sparrow is rather a favourite than otherwise,
and many a fair hand of child or woman
in many a poor locality strews bread-crumbs
on some humble balcony to attract the little
dusky chirper to the window. The sparrows
soon discover the places where such treats are
provided, and learn to come regularly for their
dinner or breakfast, if punctuality be one of
the gifts of the donor.

Nature, all wise and beneficent, provided a
means for keeping down the exuberant
propagation of the sparrow, as of every other
kind of life. The means were hawks, falcons,
owls, and other birds of prey. Man, however,
if he have not wholly, has almost extirpated
these birds in England; and as a consequence,
the sparrow has increased beyond
due bounds. And if the farmers, for self-
protection, do no more than thin the numbers of
the sparrow at certain seasons of the year,
without waging a war of annihilation against him,
they will do no more than supply the place in
the wise economy of nature, which would have
been filled by the carnivorous birds, which
sportsmen—real or pretended—have not allowed
to find a home in our hills and valleys. The
herring as we all know is a very excellent fish;
but it is so prolific that a single pair produces
in one season a progeny to be numbered by
hundreds of thousands. If there were no check
to its increase in the shape, not alone of the
fishermen, but of the whales and other fish that
devour them by myriads, the deep sea itself
would in the course of a score or two of years,
become as thick as barley broth, with this one
form of life to the exclusion of others. So of
the sparrow. He is an excellent bird in his
way, and earns the grain that he consumes by
his services in the destruction of insects which
are much greater enemies to the crop than he
is. It is only when he becomes too many for
the work to be done that the thinning of his
number becomes justifiable.

POLLY'S ONE OFFER.

IN SIX CHAPTERS. CHAPTER III.

BOB was quite that sort of person. He had
taken a fancy to Polly—everybody in the house
had taken a fancy to Polly; but, with the
exception of Mrs. Livingstone, no one treated her
with the respect that was her due. She seemed
made for kisses, caresses, teasing, and spoiling,
and petting—for anything but grave airs and
work. Of course, Polly did not see herself in
the light of a good joke, very far from it, and
yet she was happy in the atmosphere of kindly
sarcasm that surrounded her. They were all so
good to her, so easy and pleasant, and Bob and
his mother especially. Mrs. Livingstone drew
her on to talk of herself, and approved of what
she heard of the principles and practical sense
of the young creature.

"Yes, I know I am pretty, but children will
like me all the better for it, so I am glad," said
she, in reply to some comment on her beauty.
"Miss Mill, an old governess near us, thought
I might wear spectacles, but the occulist said
if I did not require them they would
permanently injure my eyes, and I was not going to
suffer that. I did alter my hair and cut a lot
off, which rather went to my heart, but it will
take less time to do, and people who only see
me with it plain will never know how much
nicer I look in curls. And, besides, I don't
think anybody calls me pretty except those who
are fond of me. And, after all, I can't help it,
and I am not inclined to starve or be a burden
on Jane because of my face. I dare say it will
prove quite as serviceable a face as if it began
by being ugly—governesses age so fast; Jane
has some white hairs already."

"But you may marry, dear. Don't you ever
dream of a husband and children and house of
your own? My girls do, and it is most
natural," said Mrs. Livingstone.

"My mother does not approve of marrying,"
said Polly, calmly. "I used to think I should
like it, but since I have heard how much there
is to be borne from men, and what trouble in
the bringing up of children, I am sure I shall
be better out of it, and I have turned my mind
to other things. Jane had an offer once, but my
mother would not consent; and she has given
up caring. We shall teach as long as we can, and
when we have saved up money enough we shall
live together and be two old maids. All my
ambition now is to be a good governess."

"I wish you'd come and be mine, Polly," said
Bob, who, entering as she spoke, had caught
the last words. "You have no notion what a
good boy I should be under wise and judicious
guidance, though I am nothing to boast of
under present misrule. The fact is, they don't