"I don't care a pin about fine society," replied the excited young Sparrow. And he whistled defiantly, "Tweet, tweet!"
"No other Sparrow is studying such a respectable profession," despairingly piped Mother Sparrow.
Then the young Sparrow began to make such a fuss that the whole nest shook. "A respectable profession, truly a beautiful profession. To build nests in which others live. To slave in the heat of the sun, carrying straws from all over, to weave them together, to see that everything is just perfect—and then the fine ladies and gentlemen move in, and throw me a little worm for my wages, hardly enough for a decent meal. Above all, these fine people. The swallows, always dressed up in their frock-coats; the Yellow-bills, always showing off their fine jewelry. And how they treat our own people, full of pride and scorn. Common laborer, they call me. I've had enough of it, I'm as good as they are, and maybe better."
Mother Sparrow shrank in horror, but Father Sparrow blew up until he nearly burst and shouted, "Be silent, you lost soul, you whipper-snapper. You talk like a Bolshevik. You forget that I am chairman of the Council of Jesters. My son must not rebel against law and order."
"Yes," exclaimed Mother Sparrow, "and suppose the neighbors should hear you! How dreadful!"
The young Sparrow laughed shamelessly, seated himself on the edge of the nest and whistled a revolutionary song.
Father Sparrow rose hastily and grumbled in an undertone to his wife, "See to that young fool and make him behave. I must go to the meeting of the Singing Society." He flew away without one look at his naughty son.
Mother Sparrow sighed deeply and asked in a complaining voice, "Now what is it you really want?"
The young Sparrow came closer, nestled against his mother, and
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