THE ENGLISH SPARROW. 



" Oh, it's just a common Spar- 

 row,'' I hear Bobbie say to his 

 mamma, '' why, I see lots of them 

 on the street every day." 



Of course you do, but for all 

 that you know very little about 

 me I guess. Some people call 

 me "Hoodlum," and '^ Pest," 

 and even ''Rat of the Air." I 

 hope you don't. It is only the 

 folks who don't like me that call 

 me ugly names. 



AVhy don't they like me ? 



Well, in the first place the city 

 people, who like fine feathers, 

 you know, say I am not pretty ; 

 then the farmers, who are not 

 grateful for the insects I eat, say 

 I devour the young buds and 

 vines as well as the ripened 

 grain. Then the folks who like 

 birds with fine feathers, and 

 that can sing like angels, such 

 as the Martin and the Bluebird 

 and a host of others, say I drive 

 them away, back to the forests 

 where they came from. 



Do I do all these things? 



I'm afraid I do. I like to 

 have my own way. Maybe you 

 know something about that your- 

 self, Bobbie. When I choose 

 a particular tree or place 

 for myself and family to live in, 

 I am going to have it if I have 

 to fight for it. I do chase the 

 other birds away then, to be 

 sure. 



Oh, no, I don't always succeed. 

 Once I remember a Robin got 

 the better of me, so did a Cat- 

 bird, and another time a Balti- 

 more Oriole. When I can't 

 whip a bird myself I generally 

 give a call and a whole troop of 

 Sparrows will come to my aid. 

 My, how we do enjoy a fuss like 

 that! 



A bully ? Well, yes, if by that 

 you mean I rule around my own 

 house, then I am a bully. My 

 mate has to do just as I say, and 

 the little Sparrows have to mind 

 their papa, too. 



''Don't hurt the little darlings, 

 papa," says their mother, when it 

 comes time for them to fly, and 

 I hop about the nest, scolding 

 them at the top of my voice. 

 Then I scold her for daring to 

 talk to me, and sometimes make 

 her fly away while I teach the 

 young ones a thing or two. 

 Once in a while a little fellow 

 among them will "talk back." 

 I don't mind that though, ii he 

 is a Cock Sparrow and looks 

 like his papa. 



No, we do not sing. We leave 

 that for the Song Sparrows. We 

 talk a great deal, though. In 

 the morning when we get up, 

 and at night when we go to bed 

 we chatter a great deal. Indeed 

 there are people shabby enough 

 to say that we are great nuis- 

 ances about that time. 



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