HAUNTS OF THE TOWN SPARROW. 267 



What then, if ho cannot share the delights of the country Sparrow? 

 ■ are there not a thousand things in this vast London to render the un- 

 fettered bird joyous, if he cannot nestle under the straw- thatched roofs, 

 or fly through tangled hedges; is he not at least happy and contented 

 with his lot? 



He has a dirtier brown garb than his brethren of the fields, and is 

 bolder and less easily frightened; he is fond too of charming his compan- 

 ions from ledge to ledge, twittering and fluttering most violently the while; 

 this is sometimes in a playful mood, and sometimes we fear when he feels 

 disposed to engage in mortal combat. When fighting, he is always on 

 the wing, and does not, like other birds, relish a "stand-up fight." He 

 has a peculiar way too, of edging up to solemn hens, with the intention 

 of abstracting a portion of their food, never thinking of the consequences 

 that may result. There are times when he looks plump and smooth, and 

 is glad of your company, and others when he is ragged and shy; and he 

 has also a system of daily visiting, if you only scatter a few crumbs, and 

 on these occasions he invariably announces himself. 



But there are problems connected with the Town Sparrow. Where he 

 builds his nest, or where his bones are laid when life is gone, are yet to 

 be solved. I have taken many a nest, and seen many more, under thatch 

 and tile in country towns and villages, but I never saw, or heard of a 

 Sparrow's nest in London, although there is a periodical visitation of the 

 young. It may be that they build in inaccessible places, or that men are 

 too preoccupied in the business of life, to notice so trivial a thing: that 

 they do build is certain, but where? 



Again, London Sparrows never die, at least they are never found dead; 

 like the abused and patient donkey they are always in existence, and the 

 fact of either being found dead is regarded as a rare phenomenon. Per- 

 haps they die in unknown corners of old houses, or, what is more likely, 

 retire into the country to end their days. 



There are many other peculiarities that I have noticed (and who has not?) 

 in my daily journeys through the great city, peculiarities that constitute 

 facts, and that prove that even in the crowded streets, far away from all 

 that is green and pleasant, there is work for the naturalist. Although he 

 may long to hear the warbling of other songsters, and see brighter flowers 

 and greener trees, yet he will find that the great book of nature has one 

 chapter devoted to other lanes and highways than those in which the 

 brightest flowers bloom, or the sweetest songsters sing. 



