would not be morally profitable to describe how I learnt Sparrowese. The language of the sparrow is the language of the gutter. I have Englishized it throughout.]
“I was the odd egg, for one thing,” said the sparrow. He was speaking with his mouth full, as usual.
HE WAS SPEAKING WITH HIS MOUTH FULL, AS USUAL.
“What on earth do you mean by that?” I replied.
He laughed offensively. “Do you know anything about sparrows?” he sneered.
I confessed I did not know much.
“I never knew any one write about them who did,” he went on. “What was I saying when you interrupted me?”
“You said you were the odd egg,” I replied. “What is an odd egg?”
“Do you know what a clutch is?” His intonation was insolence itself.
“A clutch,” said I, “is, I believe, a sitting of eggs destined to be simultaneously hatched.”
“Perhaps you may have noticed,” said he, “that in our family”—his every feather bristled with importance, and the white bars on his wings were beautifully displayed—“we do not confine ourselves to a single monotonous pattern of egg.”
“A string of variegated sparrows’ eggs was one of my earliest treasures,” said I.
“Well, then, if you know that much, and don’t know what the odd egg is, you must be a fool,” said he.
It is hard to be insulted by a sparrow, and, as it is, I have toned down the expression, but I preserved a meek silence.
“Any one,” he went on, with bland condescension, “who has seen a few clutches of sparrows’ eggs, and has not noticed that there is an odd egg in each clutch, must be an uncommonly poor observer.”
“It is not in the books,” I ventured to protest.
“Books!” he screamed, “books! What do the people who write books know about sparrows? And yet, do you know that there has been more ink spilt over sparrows than over any other bird? that laws innumerable have been passed concerning sparrows? that associations have been formed to exterminate sparrows? that—that—that–”
THERE IS AN ODD EGG IN EACH CLUTCH.
The excitement was too much for him; he had been keeping time with his tail to this declamatory crescendo. With the last effort he cocked it a shade too high, lost his balance, and landed, considerably ruffled, some four feet beneath his own reserved and particular twig. His eye was on me, and I felt it too serious a matter for laughter. He made what was evidently intended for a dignified ascent, choosing, with minute exactness, the steps he had originally employed on my approach. It was a full minute before he broke the silence, and for that full minute I had to preserve my gravity.
IT WAS A FULL MINUTE BEFORE HE BROKE THE SILENCE.
“Have you any clutches by you?” he said at last.
I had, and fetched them.
“Now,” said he, “look at that one, four dark and one light; look at this, four light and one dark; and at this, six light mottled, and one among them with a few black spots.”
I had to admit that it seemed true.
“True,” said he, “of course it’s true. Didn’t I tell you that I was the odd egg myself?”
“Well, one of you had to be the odd egg, I suppose?”
“Wrong again,” said he. “What you don’t seem to realize is, that the odd egg is nearly always addled; in my case it wasn’t.”
“Then, in your case,” said I, “there was one more mouth to feed than your parents expected. How did they take it?”
“Mother kept it quiet as long as she could,” said he.
“And father?”
“Father didn’t find out for a day or two, and when he did, he pushed one of my brothers over the side of the nest—he did holler for his life!”
The little beast was actually chuckling at the recollection.
“He hung head downwards by one leg, and wouldn’t let go till father dug his beak into him.”
“Brutal,” I murmured.
“Brutal! not a bit of it. You can’t feed more than a certain number of nestlings; besides which, there wouldn’t be room in the nest. As it was, I fell out before I could fly.”
“What happened then?”
“Why, the old folks came and fed me, and helped me back again the shortest way up the bark. Brutal, wasn’t it? A martin wouldn’t do that.”
“Which reminds me,” said I, “that you were not born in a martin’s-nest. Are trees the fashionable quarter just now?”
“They’ve come in more since thatched roofs went out,” said the sparrow. “It’s tree or martins’-nests nowadays.”
“You do really drive away the martins, I suppose?”
“Yes,” he sniggered; “poor, dear little martins! Look here,” said he, and his voice changed from a snigger to vicious earnest. “We sparrows are just about sick of being accused of bullying martins. White of Selborne started it, but he didn’t know what it would lead to. Would you like to know the truth of the matter?”
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