"Books!" he screamed, "books! What do the people who write books know about sparrows? And yet, do you know that there has been more ink spilt over sparrows than over any other bird? that laws innumerable have been passed concerning sparrows? that associations have been formed to exterminate sparrows? that--that--that----" [Illustration: THERE IS AN ODD EGG IN EACH CLUTCH.] The excitement was too much for him; he had been keeping time with his tail to this declamatory crescendo. With the last effort he cocked it a shade too high, lost his balance, and landed, considerably ruffled, some four feet beneath his own reserved and particular twig. His eye was on me, and I felt it too serious a matter for laughter. He made what was evidently intended for a dignified ascent, choosing, with minute exactness, the steps he had originally employed on my approach. It was a full minute before he broke the silence, and for that full minute I had to preserve my gravity. [Illustration: IT WAS A FULL MINUTE BEFORE HE BROKE THE SILENCE.] "Have you any clutches by you?" he said at last. I had, and fetched them. "Now," said he, "look at that one, four dark and one light; look at this, four light and one dark; and at this, six light mottled, and one among them with a few black spots." I had to admit that it seemed true. "True," said he, "of course it's true. Didn't I tell you that I was the odd egg myself?" "Well, _one_ of you had to be the odd egg, I suppose?" "Wrong again," said he. "What you don't seem to realize is, that the odd egg is nearly always addled; in my case it wasn't." "Then, in your case," said I, "there was one more mouth to feed than your parents expected. How did they take it?" "Mother kept it quiet as long as she could," said he. "And father?" "Father didn't find out for a day or two, and when he did, he pushed one of my brothers over the side of the nest--he did holler for his life!" 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?"