“And may I ask how old you are?”
“Six years.”
“You must be very wise,” I said. “I feel as if I knew a great deal, and I am not one year yet.”
“I know everything about this neighborhood,” he said grandly. “If you wish the life history or habits of any bird here, I can inform you of them.”
“I shall be sure to come to you for information,” I said. Then I asked anxiously, “What are the birds like in this street?”
“Pretty decent, on the whole. There were some bad sparrows and two ugly old pigeons, but we had a midwinter drive, and chased them all down in St. John’s ward, where the common birds live. You know we sparrows have our own quarters all over this city.”
“Have you?” I said. “Like big bird-rooms?”
“Yes, my little sir, we in this district near the gray old university are known as the Varsity sparrows. We are bounded on the north by Bloor Street, on the south by College Street, on the east by Yonge Street, and on the west by Spadina Avenue, and this is the worst street of all for food.”
“I have heard that this has been a very hard winter for all birds,” I said.
“It has been perfectly terrible. It snowed, and it snowed, and it snowed. Every scrap of food was under a white blanket. If it hadn’t been for covers left off trash cans, and a few kind people who threw out crumbs, the sparrows would all have died.”