100 
BRAMBLES AND BAY LEAVES. 
self; but the moment he lights in a land of plenty—as, 
for instance, a stone-pavement covered with crumbs, or 
a granary with a hole in the roof—he immediately 
abandons the good habit of foraging on his own account, 
and filches from his neighbour. He has great faith in 
the sweet flavour of forbidden food, and eats that which 
he has stolen with indescribable relish. 
But it is as a member of a community that the sparrow 
appears in his true light. He is a sociable fellow and 
loves company. Nothing more delights him than to 
meet a score of his companions on the top of a pear-tree 
within view of a kitchen “ whence smells arise ” along 
with pieces, and there to beguile the afternoon with small 
conversation, and the first lines of songs which none of 
them can sing through, with occasional sallies after food, 
and then a fight or two, and a gossip, as before. At 
roosting-time he has compunctions; and, for fear he 
should die in the night—cut off by a black cat even in 
the act of digesting the stolen provender—he turns reli¬ 
gious, and mumbles a few disjointed prayers, with his 
head leaning on an ivy leaf, and, after another incoherent 
gossip, dozes off in a state of plethoric sobriety. 
The sparrow is precocious. He enters the world “ on 
his own hands ” or claws, at six weeks old; he quarrels 
with his parents, and attempts to kick them out of the 
nest a day or two afterwards, and goes on all sorts of 
voyages and travels, and gets steeped in crime within 
two months of being fledged. When nine months old, 
he marries and sets up a domestic establishment, and 
during courtship, and the first of the honeymoon, keeps 
the neighbourhood in constant alarm with his repeated 
