# The House Sparrow/A Ruffian in Feathers

A RUFFIAN IN FEATHERS.
By OLIVE THORNE MILLER.
Abbreviated from the 'Atlantic Monthly.'
The harshest cries of our native American birds, if not always musical in themselves, seem at least to accord in some way with sounds of nature. The house-sparrow alone is entirely discordant—the one bird without a pleasing note, whose very love-song is an unmusical squeak. Nor is his appearance more interesting than his voice, and on looking into his manners and customs we discover most unlovely characteristics.
One cannot help watching bird-life, however ignoble, which goes on within sight. Sparrows have long been my neighbours, and I have observed many phases of their life—combats, brawls, forcible divorce, and persecution of the unfortunate. A day or two ago I saw a murder 'most foul,' and now, while indignation stirs my blood, I will chronicle the ruffian's monstrous deeds.
Near my window is a Norway spruce, which this spring I regretted to see selected by a pair of sparrows for one of their clumsy, straggling nests, to which they brought rubbish of all sorts and colours, from hay of the street to carpet ravellings from the spring house-cleaning, till the tree was greatly disfigured. I do not know how many broods have been raised there, but on the 6th of July I ​was attracted by cries of infant distress, mingled with harsh parental scolding. On looking out I saw great excitement in the spruce: the mother hopping about with an air of anxiety; the father scolding his loudest, and making constant raids to drive away intrusive neighbours who collected in the next tree. An opera-glass brought the scene near, and I saw at once the cause of the trouble. A nestling had entangled one foot in the edge of the nest, and hung head downwards, calling loudly for help. The mother was evidently trying to coax him to 'make an effort,' while the stern father was uttering dire threats if he did not conduct himself in a more becoming manner. The poor sparrowling struggled bravely, but every attempt ended in failure, and the little fluffy body drooped more wearily after each trial.
A life is a life, if it is but a sparrow's, and so greatly were my sympathies aroused that I would have despatched human help to the scene of the accident; but the tree was tall and slender, and the only available climber was a young gentleman who would laugh to scorn the demand. Nothing could be done but watch the movements of the birds.
The mother perched on a lower branch and stood quiet, evidently aware that her lord and master would settle the matter. That choleric individual made one or two attempts to aid the youngster, seizing him by his wide-open mouth, and pulling so violently that I thought he would dismember him. All was of no avail. Neighbours crowded nearer; the tree was loaded with interested spectators, and the father grew more and more irritated, till at last he seemed suddenly seized with an irresistible frenzy. With the harshest 'chur-r-r' of which he was capable, he pounced upon that unfortunate infant, ​seizing him by the throat, burying his bill in his breast, shaking him as a dog would shake a rat, and in less than thirty seconds dragged him from his hold, and dropped him to the ground—a dead bird.
I was horrified, and so were the other spectators. Once during the occupation the mother had tried to interfere, and was told unmistakably to 'mind her own business.' Several times the male audience attempted to take part—whether for or against the victim I could only guess—but were as summarily disposed of. That little incarnate fury was the tyrant of the moment, and worked his own wicked will to the end.
As soon as the tragedy ended every bird disappeared, and the tree was completely deserted as though accursed. The murderer alone did not leave the neighbourhood, but strutted back and forth, on an elm which overlooked the scene of his crime; fluttering his wings, calling loud defiance to all the world, in the greatest excitement for hours. Were there no other youngsters in the nest? Were they left to starve? And where was the mother? As to the first query, I could not be sure. Once during the fray I thought I saw something drop from the nest, and I was obliged to conclude that if there had been another it had fallen victim to a passing cat.
In an hour or two the mother came back, as if to put her house in order and resume her duties, but her spouse had other designs. Whether he resented her interference with his lordly will, or whether the late unpleasantness was attributed to her because of defective training or untidy house-building—whatever the cause, the fact was patent that he had made up his mind to divorce the partner of his sorrows. She appreciated his intention, as was evident from the cautious way in which she ​approached, looking around for him, and stealing to the nest, as it were, but was resolved to make every effort to induce in him a better spirit and mollify his rage. She did not seem greatly grieved, nor in the least angry. She never opened her mouth to answer back the torrent of reproaches with which he greeted her, but instantly retired before his fierce onslaught. Not once did that fiery spirit go to the ground for food, or lose sight of his nest. Most of the time he perched on a branch of the elm, where he could overlook the spruce and be ready for intruders; but occasionally he went by his usual alighting-places to the empty home, clearing out beakfuls of small downy feathers, and apparently setting his house in order.
But the strange little bird-drama, suggestive, alas! of some phases of human passion, was not yet concluded. Many times during the day the divorced spouse came near, as if to survey her late home, and see if her lord was in a more amiable mood; but she found him utterly remorseless, ever on guard to repel all attempts to 'make up.' When at last, after the long hours of night had calmed his savage temper, his mood did change, it was not to her that he turned for sympathy. He would not forgive, but he had no notion of remaining a pining widower. Before evening the next day he went a-wooing, and there appeared upon the spruce-tree, with the evident purpose of examining the home and assuming possession, a dainty, young bird. It had taken that disreputable sparrow less than thirty-six hours to kill his baby, divorce his wife, and woo and bring home a bride!
It may be a matter of surprise that one can distinguish between birds, but it is not at all difficult when their habits are watched closely. I knew the new wife from the ​old one in two ways: first, the old one, after the labours of bringing up a brood or two, was worn and ragged, while the new-comer was fresh as a daisy, and fluffy and young-looking as a nestling; second, she approached the nest in a different way. It is true of sparrows, however it may be with other birds, that each one has his special alighting-places, a certain twig where he first settles, and certain others on which, as a flight of steps, he invariably proceeds to his nest. The mother of the dead infant always came to the home from the right side, and her grim tyrant does so still, but the bride selected a convenient series of twigs on the left side.
It is now four or five days since the crime was committed, and although the new spouse is perfectly at home and settled, peace, even to the extent that a sparrow enjoys it, is still a stranger to the spruce-tree nest. I think it is haunted by the discarded mate. Certainly a sparrow, that I have no doubt is she, comes to the neighbourhood, and scolds the meek-looking bride and her spouse in most savage fashion. No one resents her performance, and after a moment she goes away.
The sparrow is an autocrat, especially addicted to divorcing his partner upon the smallest pretext. I have elsewhere chronicled two small dramas in sparrow life which I watched from beginning to end. The actors in the first were a pair living in a hole in a maple-tree before my window. For some undiscoverable reason the graceless head of the household decided to make a change in his domestic arrangements, and to begin by divorce. In that case the female had the advantage, since the home was not an open nest, but a castle. She had possession and kept it for two days, in spite of violent vituperation and the most threatening manner. In this case, also, I ​observed that she never 'talked back,' indulged in unseemly scolding, or assumed the offensive in any way. She appeared indifferent to his opinions, but enough attached to her home to endure his annoyances for two days before she tired of the controversy. When at last she accepted her fate and departed, I saw him bring home the bride, as coquettish a young thing as can be imagined, coax her by many wiles to examine the snug house, follow her about, and finally induce her to take up her residence with him.
The other case was of trouble on the other side. A cock sparrow lost one leg, and his mate, who had nestlings to feed, attempted to divorce him. Several birds appeared upon the scene, evidently aspirants for the soon-to-be-vacant place. But the little fellow, though evidently suffering so greatly that several times he appeared to be dying, never failed to revive and attack with fury every pretender, and after a day or two of this conflict was able to resume his duties as assistant provider for the little ones, when his spouse amiably 'kissed and made up.' All through the trouble she never displayed temper. She refused him admission into the honeysuckle vine, where the nest was; but she would come out and alight near him on the window-sill, talk to him calmly, reproach him, evidently, reminding him of the babies to feed, and he not able to help. To these remarks he made little reply.
As I said, the sparrow is a domestic tyrant, brooking no opposition. I have never observed a case in which the hen had her own way. He is so great a bully, so self-willed and violent, that whatever the cause of disagreement, he holds out with dogged obstinacy till he gets his will. In one case there was difference of opinion as to the site for a nest; he wishing to occupy an empty cottage ​of man's providing, while she, with finer instinct, had decided upon a charming crotch in an evergreen tree. At first she opposed him strongly, scattering the material he brought, throwing the choicest bits to the winds, while he stormed and scolded, and—brought more. In the intervals between thwarting his plans, she would accumulate materials in the chosen tree. He scorned to touch them; he simply ignored her designs, and proceeded with obstinacy almost sublime to bring, and bring, and bring, till she was worn out, gave up, and accepted the cottage at last.
One of the most familiar habits of this graceless bird is his delight in a mob. No sooner does anything occur to disturb the even tenor of sparrow life, whether a domestic skirmish, the first outing of a young family, or some danger to a nest, than a crowd collects, not only as interested spectators, but quite ready and willing to take a hand in any sport or crime that is going; not only a hand but a voice as well. Loud cries always announce when a rabble is at work. Whether, as is declared by some observers, they drive away our native birds by this means I am not sure. I have seen them annoy the cat-bird, the robin, and the Baltimore oriole, but in each case they were put to flight by the native bird; though no doubt the experience is sufficiently disagreeable to induce either of these birds to select a more retired neighbourhood for nest-building. I once noticed the same tactics successfully applied to a cat which climbed up among the nests.
Next to the sparrow's mobbing propensity is his impudence. Not only will he insist on sharing the food of chickens and domestic animals, but he is a common guest at the table of the great bald eagles in the parks, and does not disdain the crumbs that fall from the repast of ​the polar bear, one touch of whose paw would flatten him like a wafer.
Perhaps the most saucy thing reported of a sparrow was witnessed in Brooklyn by a well-known artist. He was watching a robin hard at work on the lawn, gathering food for his family, when he noticed a sparrow, who also seemed interested in the operation. The sparrow looked on, evidently with growing excitement, while one bit after another was uncovered, till at last a particularly large and attractive grub was brought to light. This was too much for sparrow philosophy. He made one dash, snatched the tempting morsel from the very bill of the robin, and disappeared before the astounded bird recovered from his surprise.
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