IN AN OLD GARDEN 345 



medicinal and restorative effect on the jarred and 

 wounded sense. 



From the elms hard by comes a subdued, airy 

 prattle of a few sparrows. It is rather pleasant, 

 something like a low accompaniment to the notes 

 of the more tuneful birds; the murmurous music 

 of a many-stringed instrument, forming the indis- 

 tinct ground over which runs the bright em- 

 broidery of clear melodious singing. 



This morning, while lying awake from four to 

 five o'clock, I almost hated the sparrows, they 

 were there in such multitudes, and so loud and 

 persistent sounded their jangling through the 

 open window. It set me thinking of the England 

 of the future — of a time a hundred years hence, 

 let us say — when there will remain with us only 

 two representatives of feral life — the sparrow 

 and the house-fly. Doubtless It will come, unless 

 something happens; but, doubtless. It will not 

 continue. It will still be necessary for a man to 

 kill something in order to be happy; and the 

 sportsmen of that time, like great Gambetta, in 

 the past, will sit In the balconies, popping with 

 pea-rifles at the sparrows until not one is left to 

 twitter. Then will come the turn of the untamed 



