But, Believe Me, What I Write Is All True And
Real.
Some time ago, as I sat smoking a contemplative pipe in my piazza, I
saw with amazement a remarkable instance of selfishness displayed in
a very small bird, which I had hitherto respected for its
inoffensiveness.
Three nests were placed almost contiguous to each
other in my piazza: that of a swallow was affixed in the corner next
to the house, that of a phebe in the other, a wren possessed a
little box which I had made on purpose, and hung between. Be not
surprised at their tameness, all my family had long been taught to
respect them as well as myself. The wren had shown before signs of
dislike to the box which I had given it, but I knew not on what
account; at last it resolved, small as it was, to drive the swallow
from its own habitation, and to my very great surprise it succeeded.
Impudence often gets the better of modesty, and this exploit was no
sooner performed, than it removed every material to its own box with
the most admirable dexterity; the signs of triumph appeared very
visible, it fluttered its wings with uncommon velocity, an universal
joy was perceivable in all its movements. Where did this little bird
learn that spirit of injustice? It was not endowed with what we term
reason! Here then is a proof that both those gifts border very near
on one another; for we see the perfection of the one mixing with the
errors of the other!
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