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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