106 
BRAMBLES AND BAY LEAVES. 
sparrow cliirp all day long, the houses seem by no means 
deserted. But he would only need to watch them as 
they come to roost, to note the comparison between the 
few that remain, and the crowds that haunted the same 
roosting-grounds in spring. 
Towards September the numbers thicken, and when 
the last gleaning is carried from the harvest-field, those 
that remained with the gleaners turn their faces to the 
town, and in a short time the gardens and the eaves are 
crowded. The morning matins and the evening vespers 
are as loud as ever, and there is something really cheer¬ 
ing in the confused chaos of voices, and the whirring of 
wings, and rustling of feathers, which blend so harmo¬ 
niously with the growth of the morning daylight and 
the* increase of the evening darkness. “Just as the 
leaves begin to fall,” says Rusticus, “ the sparrows begin 
to hold their r evenings at home ; 9 and strange evenings 
they are; such chattering and chirping; such hopping 
up and down; such changing of places; such bicker¬ 
ing and squabbling; such fidgetting and wriggling; the 
row often lasting more than an hour, and only ceasing 
when they have chattered themselves to sleep.” To¬ 
wards winter, the sparrow grows impudent, bold, and 
thievish. He will feed at your feet if you give him en¬ 
couragement, and may be tempted to the window-ledge 
for crumbs, or into the room, even, with a little patience, 
and the absence of everything likely to threaten his 
safety. As soon as Christmas is past, he looks out for 
the green sprigs of bulbous plants, and nibbles down 
the snow-drops and crocuses, and enlivens the dull days 
of February and March with his incessant chatter and 
