the sleeping sparrows. By the moonlight I could see six come out and fly away; but I think there were more.
Two pairs of sparrows came back in the morning. They had made their nests side by side in the third story. Long grasses were hanging out from the entrances. Perhaps the martins were sorry for them; anyway, it looked as if they were willing to play fair. They did not chase them off any more; and the sparrows, being now so few, no longer molested the martins.
The martins now began to clean house. There were wads of chicken feathers and some broken eggs among the rubbish which they threw out. This was soon replaced by straws and sticks which they brought for their own nesting. I could only count twelve pairs of martins, so that there were plenty of rooms for them and the sparrows too. I suppose one reason why the sparrows were unwelcome is because they are such untidy housekeepers as to render close neighboring with them insanitary.
The more I see of martins, the better I like them. They are always cheerful, always busy. Their shiny, purple plumage, broad shoulders, and tapering body give them a distinguished air. These purple birds are the father martins. The mother martins' back feathers, when exposed to the sunlight, have all the shades of violet. In front they are cream-colored, and finely speckled.
