“Why, of course, the sparrow was dying when it got in. One part of white arsenic to fifteen parts of corn-meal is the usual recipe. It is illegal, as you doubtless know, but it has the advantage of acting slowly. Of course, if we saw a friend of ours writhing about in the feeding-ground, we should give that feeding-ground a wide berth.”
“I see,” said I; “but what about the entrance being plastered up?”
“It is never quite plastered up,” said he; “and even if it was, a healthy, able-bodied sparrow could knock the whole thing to pieces with two pecks. No; when there are any disputes as to proprietorship between sparrows and martins, the martins have a trick of waiting till the sparrow is out, and then narrowing down the entrance so that the sparrow will have a job to get in decent nest material. When a live sparrow is in possession, he very soon lets callers know it. The martins, in these cases, miss their usual greeting, and probably conclude that the sparrow is away, whereas he is really dead inside. That’s just about the whole truth of the matter.”
“But why on earth,” I protested, “can’t you build a proper nest for yourself?”
“I don’t know why it is,” said he, “but the mere thought of a martin makes a sparrow feel bad inside. Why does a dog naturally go for a cat? One thing is quite certain, however. We both fancy human dwellings, and, if we left the martins altogether alone, they would have all the best places in no time. Now, that wouldn’t be fair at all. I appeal to you as a fellow Briton. We are British born and bred. We stay with you all the year round. The martin only comes to look you up in the fine weather. Then he puts on his showy foreign manners, and you say, ‘How charming! so different to those dirty, vulgar sparrows!’ but, as soon as the weather breaks, off he goes. Now, a hard winter is no fun for the sparrows. We are glad of any shelter we can get, and the martins’ deserted nests come in very handy. Not only do we use them, but we keep them from falling to pieces, line them with feathers, and make them into snug winter quarters. Back comes the martin in the spring. ‘Dear me!’ he says, ‘most gratifying, I am sure. So kind of you to act as caretaker. Why, I declare, the old place looks better than when I left. Of course, you won’t mind my coming in at once. I’ve got to make my family arrangements for the season.’ ‘Not quite,’ says the sparrow. ‘If it hadn’t been for me, this nest would have been down in the last gale. I’ve put money into this nest, and you can jolly well go and build another. You ought to have stayed to look after it, if you wanted it again.’”
“That is all very well,” said I; “but it seems to me that there ought to be room for both of you.”
“Well, there isn’t,” said he, “and Nature has worked it out that there shan’t be, and if you write a thousand letters to the Field, you won’t alter that.”
“Suppose the martins got the pull over the sparrows, do you think it would be better for things in general?”
“You mean better for yourself,” said the sparrow, sharply.
On reflection, I came to the conclusion that that was just what I did mean.