As the circumstances are extraordinary, I
shall intrude only a few words to the incredulous
reader. I am one of many persons
who have frequently seen this sparrow fly
into the apartment in which I saw her. I
have repeatedly seen this sparrow leave her
companions upon the roofs and in the trees.
I have seen her wait until the window was
opened. I have seen her study the countenances
of the persons in the room. She does
not like my looks, for example; and the
truth is, I have in my time dissected individuals
of her kind; and perhaps, a guilty
conscience needing no accuser, she sees my
guilt in my face. I may have a dissect-bird
look, although I hope not. Most certainly I
have known her dark hazel eyes gaze at me for
a long time, and have learned from her manner
that she deemed me decidedly a suspicious
character, whose presence on the premises
was dangerous. She trusts all ladies implicitly.
To have the pleasure of seeing her
fly into the room, I have had to make myself
invisible in a corner. When the persons
who have excited her distrust are hidden, she
flies into the room, and the window is shut
upon her. From her cornice she can
contemplate even men-folks with composure.

I came to live, says Mademoiselle l'Apprivoiseuse
de Moineau, in my present abode,
rue de la Ville l'Evêque, Paris, in April,
eighteen hundred and fifty-one. Almost my
first care was to make a sort of garden upon
a little terrace upon which the sunniest
sitting-room opens. Finding that the
sparrows ate up all the best blossoms, I provided
a good supply of bird-seed and bread crumbs,
which they soon found out to be better food
than flowers. One day I perceived that one
of them could scarcely fly. It fluttered
about the table where I sat at work, and at
last fell down almost insensible. I called my
good Louise, who is skilful in the treatment
of those who suffer. She found that this
poor bird had broken its leg and injured its
foot. We contrived to set the broken limb
as well as we could, and bound it with
worsted to a lucifer-match by way of a splint.
The foot was much swollen, but a bath in a
wine-glass of warm water soon relieved it.
We laid it in a soft warm nest in a cage, and
in a few minutes it went to sleep. That our
little patient might not feel lonely, we placed
the cage close to that of two canaries, Paul
and Virginia, who live in the window. They
became excellent neighbours; and the doors
of the two cages being open, the canaries
used to bring food to the invalid; and I
have often see them pushing towards it little
bits of spongecake through the bars of the
two cages. Paul would sit by the nest and
sing to the sparrow whenever he had a
moment to spare. Within a week our guest
was able to join its companions on the
terrace, but towards evening it came back to
sleep in the cage. It continued for about
ten days to go out every morning, returning
regularly at eventide. It then left us altogether,
and we saw it no more, except now
and then, when it flew in for a moment to
pick up a hurried meal. Louise now guessed
that our little friend had eggs, and we
discovered that she too lived in a hole in the
convent wall which forms one side of our garden.
That day we gave her the name of Pierrette.

To my surprise she arrived one morning
with a young bird upon her back. There it
sat with the tips of its little wings slipped
under the wings of its mother, and its tender
claws buried in her feathers, so that it could
not fall during their flight. Having landed
her little one inside the window, Pierrette
fed it abundantly, and then lowered herself
down by its side, to enable it to mount easily
upon her back to be carried home. In due
time she brought all her five young ones,
ranged them in a row on the carpet before
me, and then flew upon the flounce of my
dress, and, by her wistful looks, seemed to
invite me to admire her family. While she
fed her little ones inside the window, her
mate, Pierrot we called him, stood outside on
the rail, to be ready to warn her of any
coming danger.

As the young ones grew from day to day,
it was wonderful to see with what care
Pierrette taught the two elder of the brood to
feed their little brothers. They evidently
understood all she said and soon set to work,
while she sat on a sprig of ivy watching their
movements. The good sense and tenderness
evinced by these parent birds in the management
of their young, were perfectly marvellous.
When the little ones quarrelled over
their crumbs, or pushed one another aside
in the eagerness to catch a drop of dew from
any ivy-leaf, Pierrette would interfere with
gentle decision and set them to rights directly.
On, more serious occasions Pierrot would step
in to restore order by means of vehement
language and a peck or two of his beak for
the more turbulent.

And so they went on, until these baby
birds grew to be large and strong. Pierrette
then began to think of another brood, and
disappeared as she had done before. As the
time drew near for the second brood to
visit us, it seemed to be Pierrot's duty to
keep the first brood from coming into the
room, so that the new little ones and their
mother might have their territory in the
window quite to themselves.

One evening in October, instead of going
home as usual to sleep, Pierrette remained
with us. She flew rapidly round and round
the room, and at last selected for her
resting-place the top of a looking-glass in the
least frequented corner of the room. When
she had satisfied herself that this was a
good position, she came down to the window
which was still open, eat her supper,
chatted with her friends the canaries, and
then flew back to the top of her looking-glass
for the night. From that time she