Sparrows. 1 9 



As I sit here and read and muse, or give myself up 

 to no end of pleasant fancies, I see at the outskirts 

 lime trees in their delicate, semi-transparent green, 

 outlined against the blue sky — the lower leaves, how- 

 ever, taking a darker tinge, while the loftier preserve 

 something of earlier green — and among their leaves 

 sparrows, wrens, robins, tomtits, linnets, and other 

 finches delight to flutter and sport and preen and hide 

 themselves. Between are fruit trees of many kinds, 

 laden with their various fruits, still green and shiny. 

 And, higher than all the rest, and close to the lime trees, 

 is a copper-beech — dark, rich, and effective, drooping 

 in the lower branches almost like a weeping-willow. 



I noted a peculiar circumstance about this tree in 

 the spring of 1889. The buds came out soft and 

 green, and — the weather having been unusually favour- 

 able — it burst into leaf and became copper-dark almost 

 in one night. 



Over a screen of ivy I command a view of a high 

 chimney of the house, in which, during the past season, 

 a couple of pairs of house-martins have had their 

 nests. Often have I sat and watched their steady 

 coming and going with the favourite food for their 

 young ones, admiring their wonderful adaptation to 

 their life and environment. And now my attention is 

 particularly attracted to them by a peculiar circum- 

 stance. A number of sparrows have clustered on a 

 branch of a high sycamore tree almost overhanging 

 the chimney, and there they flutter and twitter in a 

 most busybody style, as though they had some very 

 important business on their minds. They have evi- 

 dently something extraordinary on hand. Now I 

 notice that whenever the swallows wish to enter into 

 their nests the sparrows try to bar the way. I watch. 



