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?”