He built for a big family, and he had it.  Not “it” indeed, but them; for there were three batches of from six to ten youngsters each during the course of the season.  He also did a father’s share of work with the children.  I think he hated hatching them.  He would settle upon the roof above the nest, and chirp in a crabbed, imposed-upon tone until his wife came out.  As she flew briskly away, he would look disconsolately around at the bright busy world, ruffle his feathers, scold to himself, and then crawl dutifully in upon the eggs.

I knew how he felt.  It is not in a cock sparrow to enjoy hatching eggs.  I respected him; for though he grumbled, as any normal husband might, still he was “drinking fair” with Mrs. Sparrow.  He built and brooded and foraged for his family, if not as sweetly, yet as faithfully, as his wife.  He deserved his blessed abundance of children.

Is he songless, sooty, uninteresting, vulgar?  Not if you live on a roof.  He may be all of this, a pest even, in the country.  But upon my roof, for weeks at a stretch, his is the only bird voice I hear.  Throughout the spring, and far into the summer, I watch the domestic affairs in the eaves-trough.  During the winter, at nightfall, I see little bands and flurries of birds scudding over and dropping behind the high buildings to the east.  They are sparrows on the way to their roost in the elms of an old mid-city burial-ground.

I not infrequently spy a hawk soaring calmly far away above the roof.  Not only the small ones, like the sharp-shinned, but also the larger, wilder species come, and winding up close to the clouds, circle and circle there, trying apparently to see some meaning in the maze of moving, intersecting lines of dots below yonder in the cracks of that smoking, rumbling blur.

In the spring, from the trees of the Common, which are close, but, except for the crown of one noble English elm, are shut away from me, I hear an occasional robin and Baltimore oriole.  Very rarely a woodpecker will go over.  The great northern shrike is a frequent winter visitor, but by ill chance I have not been up when he has called at the roof.

One of these fiend birds haunts a small court only a block away, which is inclosed in a high board fence, topped with nails.  He likes the court because of these nails.  They are sharp; they will stick clean through the body of a sparrow.  Sometimes the fiend has a dozen sparrows run through with them, leaving the impaled bodies to flutter in the wind and finally fall away.

In sight from my roof are three tiny patches of the harbor; sometimes a fourth, when the big red-funneled liner is gone from her slip.  Down to the water of the harbor in flocks from the north come other winter visitors, the herring and black-backed gulls.  Often during the winter I find them in my sky.

One day they will cross silently over the city in a long straggling line.  Again they will fly low, wheeling and screaming, their wild sea-voices shrill with the sound of storm.  If it is thick and gray overhead, the snow-white bodies of the herring-gulls toss in the wind above the roofs like patches of foam.  I hear the sea—­the wind, the surf, the wild, fierce tumult of the shore—­whenever the white gulls sail screaming into my winter sky.