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Then there is the English Sparrow! What an insufferable chatterbox,
what an incurable scold, what a voluble and tiresome blackguard is
this little feathered cockney. There is not a sweet or pleasant
word in all his vocabulary.
I am convinced that he talks altogether of scandals and fights and
street-sweepings.
The kingdom of ornithology is divided into two departments,--real
birds and English sparrows. English sparrows are not real birds;
they are little beasts.
There was a church in Brooklyn which was once covered with a great
and spreading vine, in which the sparrows built innumerable nests.
These ungodly little birds kept up such a din that it was impossible
to hear the service of the sanctuary. The faithful clergy strained
their voices to the verge of ministerial sore throat, but the people
had no peace in their devotions until the vine was cut down, and the
Anglican intruders were evicted.
A talkative person is like an English sparrow,--a bird that cannot
sing, and will sing, and ought to be persuaded not to try to sing.
But a talkable person has the gift that belongs to the wood thrush
and the veery and the wren, the oriole and the white-throat and the
rose-breasted grosbeak, the mockingbird and the robin (sometimes);
and the brown thrush; yes, the brown thrush has it to perfection, if
you can catch him alone,--the gift of being interesting, charming,
delightful, in the most off-hand and various modes of utterance.
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