CHIRPY, THE RUFFIAN. 
‘(*HEERP! Cheerp! Cheerp!’ 
The sound came from the rain-gutter 
above the invalid’s window—from, in fact, the 
bull-head of Chirpy, just showing over the 
edge. Somewhere up there he had his nest— 
he and his mate—and somehow, by the work- 
ing of a magic unknown to me, he had 
managed to keep it from being many times 
washed overboard by the heavy thunderstorms 
of the summer. 
Chirpy’s business seemed to be to guard his 
nest. He was always miraculously on hand— 
he with his thick, strong beak. Just now, 
for instance, he flew down to the garden 
and perched on the old plum-tree. Being a 
sparrow, he had carefully reconnoitred things 
beforehand, marked every sleeping cat, noted 
who lurked behind the open windows, and 
searched with his keen eye for anything 
unusual. 
There were some crumbs in the garden 
among the raspberry-canes, and to loot these 
he went. This was a risky business, because, 
once down in the raspberry-canes, you could 
not see what was happening in the world 
without. Stealth, therefore, was necessary 
