172 A PHILOSOPHER WITH NATURE 



store in her floating nest among the tall bulrushes. 

 As I lean out of the window and catch the rumble of 

 a belated cab my ears are filled with a peculiar noise 

 which. Londoners do not often listen to ; for it is 

 only to be heard about this time, and this is just the 

 hour at which the great city falls into such short and 

 fitful sleep as she gets. In the still air it sounds not 

 unlike an army of stone-cutters at work with chisels 

 and mallets on hard stone ; but strange to say it 

 does not come from anything so harsh as steel and 

 stone, but from the throats of innumerable spar- 

 rows. 



It is everywhere, along the street, on the slates 

 overhead, in the trees in the gardens below, and a 

 good deal of it comes from the sooty ivy on the 

 wall where the birds have their nests. As the grey 

 light grows brighter the eye begins to follow the 

 movements of the birds in the back gardens below, 

 and the sight is one worth seeing. It is the London 

 sparrow at work in the breeding season during the 

 first hour after the dawn. The incessant chirrup- 

 ing which goes on comes principally from the young 

 birds. Some of them are still fledglings in the nests 

 hidden away out of sight ; others are standing about 

 in lines and groups, along the ledge under the roofs, 

 on the walls and palings, and on the branches of the 

 trees. They are cold after the night and sit huddled 

 up in their feathers, and they are all hungry. Their 

 impatient cries drive the old birds frantic ; I can 

 see these going and coming in short quick flights over 

 the opposite house to and from the deserted cab- 

 rank in the adjacent street ; they are hopping with 

 quick anxious gait over the gravel below exploring 

 everywhere for food ; they are round the doors, on 



