actually do sing, and some seem unable to recognize a son«> 
when they hear it. 
Whilst the familiar Philip Sparrow belongs to this family 
he is not credited with song. His continuous twittering and 
chirping is cheerful or aggravating according to the mood of 
the listener. There is much to be said in his favour; he is 
extremely sociable, fond of the company of man if also fond 
of the fruit of man’s labour; where man will pioneer, so will 
the sparrow"; he is truly democratic, one might almost say 
truly British. If impudent, he is courageous; I have seen him 
fly off with a cicada that he could hardly hold, and the cicada 
sang a swan-song as he was carried off. I have often listened to 
the chattering of the sparrows under the eaves—it certainly 
enlivens a rainy day. It is said that he is capable of learning 
a song, and there is no doubt he utters musical phrases at 
times, such as the following 
8V* 
0—\ 
0—i 
0 -^- 
0^8— 
/ 
E= 
— 
F= 
w - 
mmJ 
mmd 
— 
w ^ 
wee.tit.a wort a wi. u 
The phrase may have been uttered accidentally, but if so the 
bird was able to take advantage of accident, and shewed 
appreciation of the phrase by repeating it. 
In bird-life there are many curiosities, many puzzles. Two 
sparrows, living somewhere near the Ashburton railway 
station, selected, according to the local paper, the ventilator of 
a guard’s van as a nesting-place. There they built, laid their 
eggs, and hatched their young. The van went with the Mt. 
Somers train to Springburn, thirty miles distant, every evening, 
returning every morning. Apparently the birds, or one of 
them, must have travelled with the train during incubation. 
The young birds were noisy on the journey to Ashburton each 
morning, but quiet during the up journey, so that it would 
seem they were fed in the evening before leaving, and had then 
to wait until their return for their next meal. I have a kindly 
feeling for the guard of that train. 
) 
