Birds and flowers and other country things :: :: University of Virginia Library

In birds as men there is a strange variety,
In both your dandies and your petits mattres;
Your clowns, your grooms, in feathered legs or gaiters;
Your hawks, and gulls, and harpies to satiety.
On sea or land it matters not an ace—
You find the feathered or unfeathered race
Of bipeds, showing every form and figure,
But everywhere the sharp-clawed and the bigger—
Falcons that shoot, and men that pull the trigger—
Still pressing on the lesser and forlorn!
'Tis hard to bear, and yet it must be borne,
Although we walk about in wrath and scorn,

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To see the hectoring, lording, and commotion
For ever going on in earth or ocean!
The conquerors fierce; those thievish chaps, the lawyers,
That chirp and gabble, wheedle and bamboozle;
The jackdaw-race of pleaders, the pert cawyers
In their grey wigs, the sober rooks that puzzle:
Land-sharks, and pirates both of sea and land;
Your cormorants acting the sedate and grand:
The singers, and the Paganinis,
Who filch your fruit, and pocket up your guineas;
The tomtit, mime;—the wren, small poet:
The silly creatures that by scores
Nurse cuckoo-imps, that out of doors
Have turned their children, and they never know it!

I walk in cities, 'mong the human herds,
And then I think of birds:
I walk in woods among the birds, and then
I think of men!
'Tis quite impossible in one or other
To walk and see not—man and bird are brother.

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The owl can't see in day light;—
Oh no! he's blind and stupid—
A very fool,—a blockhead plain to see!
But just step out and look at him at night,
When all the world is slumbering, save he—
My word! you'll find him then as brisk as Cupid!
With open eyes and beak that has the knack
To snap up mouse or rabbit by the back!
The owl in hollow oak—the man in den,
Chamber, or office, dusky and obscure,
Are creatures very heavy and demure;
But soon their turn comes round, and then,
Oh, what sharp claw and pitiless beak have they
To feather, fleece and worry up their prey!

“A fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind,”
So sang the noble bard, who, like the swallow,
Flew through far climes and soared where few can follow.
'Tis true; and therefore still we find
That gentle spirits love the robin,
That comes, as Wordsworth says, “when winds are sobbing;”

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Pecks at your window; sits upon your spade,
And often thanks you in a serenade.
But what is it that brings about you
That pert, conceited good-for-nothing Sparrow,
Which seems to say—“I'd do as well without you,”
Yet, never for a second,
Night or day
Will be away,
Though hooted, shot at, nor once coaxed or beckoned?
In town or country—in the densest alley
Of monstrous London—in the loneliest valley—
On palace-roof—on cottage-thatch,
On church or chapel—farm or shop,
The Sparrow's still “the bird on the house-top.”
I think 'twas Solomon who said so,
And in the bible having read so,
You find that his ubiquity
Extends itself far up into antiquity.
Yes, through all countries and all ages
While other birds have sung in woods or cages,
This noisy, impudent and shameless varlet
Though neither noble, rich, nor clad in scarlet,

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Would have the highest place without the asking.
Upon your roof the lazy scamp is basking—
Chirping, scuffling, screaming, fighting,
Flying and fluttering up and down
From peep of day to evening brown.
You may be sleeping, sick, or writing,
And needing silence—there's the Sparrow,
Just at your window—and enough to harrow
The soul of Job in its severest season.
There, as it seemeth, for no other reason
But to confound you;—he has got,
Up in the leaden gutter burning hot,
Every low scape-grace of the Sparrow-clan,
Loons of all ages,—grandsire, boy and man,
Old beldame Sparrow, wenches bold,
All met to wrangle, raffle, rant and scold.
Send out your man! shoot! blow to powder
The villanous company, that fiercer, louder
Drive you distracted. There! bang! goes the gun
And all the little lads are on the run
To see the slaughter;—not a bird is slain—
There were some feathers flew—a leg was broke,
But all went off as if it were a joke—
In comes your man—and there they are again!

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Of all the creatures, that were ever set
Upon two legs, there's nothing to be met,
Save some congeners in our own sweet race,
Made of such matter, common, cocket, base,
As are these Sparrows! Would that some magician,
Philosopher or chemist would but show us
What 'tis that constitutes the composition
Of certain men in town, who drive, or row us,
Cads, jarvies, porters of a low degree,
Haunters of theatre, tavern, and coach-doors,
Men all alert in dust and misery;
Men made to elbow, bustle, cheat or steal,
Careless of scorn, incapable to feel
Indignity or shame—vulgar and vain,
Hunger and cold their only sense of pain.

Just of this class, amongst all feathered things,
Is this Jack Sparrow. He's no bird that sings,
He makes no grand pretences; has no fine
Airs of high breeding—he but wants to dine.
His dress is brown, his body stiff and stout,
Coarse in his nature made to prog about.

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What are his delicate fancies? Who e'er sees
The Sparrow in his sensibilities?
There are the nightingales, all soul and song,
Moaning and warbling the green boughs among.
There are the larks that on etherial wing,
Sing to high Heaven as heavenly spirits sing;
There are the merle, the mavis, birds whose lays,
Inspired the minstrel songs of other days.
There are the wandering tribes, the cuckoo sweet;
Swallows that singing on your chimneys meet,
Through spring and summer, and anon are flown
To lands and climes, to sages yet unknown.
Those are your poets;—birds of genius—those
That have their nerves and feel refined woes.
But these Jack Sparrows; why they love far more
Than all this singing nonsense, your barn-door!
They love your cherry-tree—your rows of peas,
Your ripening corn crop, and to live at ease!
You find no Sparrow in the far-off-woods—
No—he's not fond of hungry solitudes.
He better loves the meanest hamlet—where

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Aught's to be had, the Sparrow will be there,
Sturdy and bold, and wrangling for his share.
The tender linnet bathes her sides and wings
In running brooks and purest forest-springs.
The Sparrow rolls and scuffles in the dust—
That is his washing, or his proper rust.

Before your carriage as you drive to town
To his base meal the Sparrow settles down;
He knows the safety-distance to an inch,
Up to that point he will not move or flinch;—
You think your horse will crush him—no such thing—
That coachman's whip might clip his fluttering wing,
Or take his head of in a twink—but he
Knows better still and liveth blithe and free.

At home he plagues the martins with his noise—
They build, he takes possession and enjoys;
Or if he want it not, he takes it still,
Just because teasing others is his will.
From hour to hour, from tedious day to day
He sits to drive the rightful one away.

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At home, abroad, wherever seen or heard
Still is the Sparrow just the self-same bird;
Thievish and clamorous, hardy, bold and base,
Unlike all others of the feathered race.
The bully of his tribe—to all beyond
The gipsey, beggar, knave, and vagabond!

It may be thought that I have here dealt hard measure to the Sparrow, but the character I have given of him will be recognised by those who know him, as true. Cowper calls them, a thievish race, that scared as often as you please,

As oft return, a pert, voracious kind;

and that every farmer knows them to be. What multitudes do you see dropping down upon, or rising from the wheat as it is ripening in the fields. Formerly a price was set upon their heads, and eggs by country parishes. In many places a penny was given for a Sparrow's head, and the same for three or four eggs; but this is now done away with, and the farmer must destroy them himself, or pay dearly for it in his corn.

Nothing can exceed the self-complacence of

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this bird. You see him build his nest amongst the richest tracery of a church roof or window; within the very coronet or escutcheon set up over the gate of hall or palace. We saw this summer, the hay and litter of his nest hanging out from the richly-cut initial-letters of William and Mary over one of the principal windows of Hampton Court. Nay he would build in a span-new V. R. set up only yesterday, or in the queen's very crown itself though it were worth a kingdom, if it were only conveniently placed for his purpose. He thinks nothing too good for him.

But the most provoking part of his character is, the pleasure which he takes in teasing, molesting and hectoring over birds of the most quiet and inoffensive nature. He builds about your houses, and thinks no other bird has any business to do the same, The martin, which loves to build under the eaves of our dwellings, after crossing the seas from some far country,—has especially to bear his insolence and aggressions. There is a pretty story in the “Evenings at Home,” of two of these interesting birds, who had their nest usurped by a Sparrow, getting

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together their fellows, and building him up in the nest, where he was left a prisoner amid his plunder. But the gentleness of the martin is so great, that such an instance of poetical justice is more curious, than likely to occur a second time. But every summer the Sparrow lords it over the martin, and frequently drives it away by its impertinence. We watched his behaviour this year with a good deal of attention. Two pairs of martins came and built their nests beneath the eaves of the stable, near each other. Scarcely were the nests half finished, when several sparrows were seen watching on the tiles close to them, chirping loudly, and conceitedly, and every now and then flying at the martins. The nests, however, were completed; but no sooner was this done, than the sparrows took possession of them, and lined them with coarse hay, which is an abomination to the martin, which lines its nest with the softest feathers, Having witnessed this, we waited for about ten days, by which time we supposed the sparrows would have laid their full number of eggs; and a ladder was set up, in order to inflict just retribution on them, by taking

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the whole. But to our surprise there were none. The hay was therefore carefully removed, that the martins, if they pleased, might retake possession; but the very next day, the nests were again filled with hay, and long bents of it hung dangling from the entrance-hole. The sparrows had, with wonderful assiduity, and, as it were, with a feeling of vindictive spite, relined the nests with as much hay as they ordinarily carry to their own nests in several days. Now it was supposed they would really lay in these nests, but no such thing,—they never did. Their only object had been to dislodge the martins, for it was found that these very sparrows had nests of their own in the water-spouts of the house, with young ones in them, at the very time, and their purpose of ousting the martins from their own nests being accomplished, the hay remained in the nests quietly all summer.

But this was not all. The poor martins, driven from the stable, came now to the house; and, as if for special protection, began to build their nests under the roof, nearly over the front door. No sooner was this intention discovered by the sparrows, than they were all in arms again. They

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were seen watching for hours on the tiles just above, chirping, strutting to and fro, flying down upon the martins when they came to their nests with materials, and loudly calling upon their fellow sparrows to help them to be as offensive as possible. The martins, however, rendered now more determined, persisted in their building, and so far succeeded as to prevent the sparrows getting more than a few bents of hay into their nests when complete. The martins laid their eggs; but for several times successively, the sparrows entered in their absence, and hoisted out all the eggs, which of course fell to the ground and were dashed to pieces. Provoked at this mischievous propensity of the sparrows, we had them now shot at, which had the desired effect. One or two of them were killed, and the rest took the hint, and permitted the martins to hatch and rear their young in peace.