BOOK V. 



OF BIRDS OF THE SPARROW KIND. 

 CHAPTER I. 



OP BIRDS OF THE SPARROW KIND IN GENERAL. 



STILL descending from the larger to the smaller, we come to birds 

 of the sparrow kind ; or that class of beautiful little animals that, be- 

 ing less than a pigeon, go on diminishing till we arrive at the hum- 

 ming-bird, the smallest of the feathered creation. 



The birds which compose this class, chiefly live in the neighbour- 

 hood of man, and are his greatest favourites. The falcon may be 

 more esteemed, and the turkey more useful ; but these he considers 

 as servants, not as friends ; as animals reclaimed merely to supply 

 him with some of the conveniences of life : but these little painted 

 songsters have his affections, as well from their beauty as their melo- 

 dy ; it is this delightful class that fill his groves with harmony, and 

 Jift his heart to sympathize with their raptures. All the other classes 

 are either mute or screaming ; it is this diminutive tribe only that 

 have voices equal to the beauty of their figures ; equally adapted to 

 rejoice man, and delight each other. 



As they- are the favourites of man, so they are chiefly seen near 

 him. All the great birds dread his vicinity, and keep to the thickest 

 darkness of the forest, or the brow of the most craggy precipice : but 

 these seldom resort to the thicker parts of the wood ; they keep near 

 its edges, in the neighbourhood of cultivated fields, in the hedge* 

 rows of farm-grounds, and even in the yard, mixing with the poultry. 



It must be owned, indeed, that their living near man is not a socie- 

 ty of affection on their part, as they approach inhabited grounds merely 

 because their chief provision is to be found there. In the depth of 

 the desert, or the gloom of the forest, there is no grain to be picked 

 up ; none of those tender buds that are so grateful to their appetites ; 

 insects themselves, that make so great a part of their food, are not 

 found there in abundance ; their natures being unsuited to the moist- 

 ure of the place. As we enter, therefore, deeper into uncultivated 

 woods, the silence becomes more profound ; every thing carries the 

 took of awful stillness ; there are none of those warblings, none of 

 those murmurs that awaken attention, as near the habitations of men* 

 there is nothing of that confused buzz, formed by the united, though 



