154 A RUFFIAN IN FEATHERS. 



shod wheels over city pavements, the war- 

 whoop of the ferocious milkman, the unearthly 

 cries of the venders, and above all the junk- 

 man's pandemonium of " bells jangled, out of 

 tune." The harshest cries of our native birds, 

 if not always musical in themselves, seem at 

 least to accord in some way with sounds of na- 

 ture. The house sparrow alone is entirely dis- 

 cordant, the one bird without a pleasing note, 

 whose very love-song is an unmusical squeak. 

 Nor is his appearance more interesting than his 

 voice, and on looking into his manners and cus- 

 toms we discover most unlovely characteristics. 



One cannot help watching bird-life, however 

 ignoble, which goes on within sight. Sparrows 

 have long been my neighbors, and I have ob- 

 served many phases of their life, combats, 

 brawls, forcible divorce, and persecution of the 

 unfortunate. A day or two ago I saw a mur- 

 der "most foul," and now, while indignation 

 stirs my blood, I will chronicle the ruffian's 

 monstrous deeds. 



Near my window is a Norway spruce, which 

 this spring I regretted to see selected by a pair 

 of sparrows for one of their clumsy, straggling 

 nests, to which they brought rubbish of all 

 sorts and colors, from hay of the street to car- 

 pet ravelings from the spring house-cleaning, 

 till the tree was greatly disfigured. I do not 



