Three hours afterward the postman brought me a large envelope containing my MS.and a piece of inexpensive paper, about 3 inches by 4--I suppose some of you have seen them--upon which was written in violet ink, "With the ~Sun's~ thanks."I went over to the square and sat upon a bench.No; I did not think it necessary to eat any breakfast that morning.The confounded pests of sparrows were making the square hideous with their idiotic "cheep, cheep." I never saw birds so persistently noisy, impudent, and disagreeable in all my life.
By this time, according to all traditions, I should have been standing in the office of the editor of the ~Sun~.That personage--a tall, grave, white-haired man--would strike a silver bell as he grasped my hand and wiped a suspicious moisture from his glasses.
"Mr.McChesney," he would be saying when a subordinate appeared, "this is Mr.Henry, the young man who sent in that exquisite gem about the sparrows in Madison Square.You may give him a desk at once.Your salary, sir, will be $80 a week, to begin with."This was what I had been led to expect by all writers who have evolved romances of literary New York.
Something was decidedly wrong with tradition.I could not assume the blame, so I fixed it upon the sparrows.I began to hate them with intensity and heat.
At that moment an individual wearing an excess of whiskers, two hats, and a pestilential air slid into the seat beside me.
"Say, Willie," he muttered cajolingly, "could you cough up a dime out of your coffers for a cup of coffee this morning?""I'm lung-weary, my friend," said I."The best I can do is three cents.""And you look like a gentleman, too," said he."What brung you down?--boozer?""Birds," I said fiercely."The brown-throated songsters carolling songs of hope and cheer to weary man toiling amid the city's dust and din.The little feathered couriers from the meadows and woods chirping sweetly to us of blue skies and flowering fields.The confounded little squint-eyed nuisances yawping like a flock of steam pianos, and stuffing themselves like aldermen with grass seeds and bugs, while a man sits on a bench and goes without his breakfast.
Yes, sir, birds! look at them!"
As I spoke I picked up a dead tree branch that lay by the bench, and hurled it with all my force into a close congregation of the sparrows on the grass.The flock flew to the trees with a babel of shrill cries; but two of them remained prostrate upon the turf.
In a moment my unsavory friend had leaped over the row of benches and secured the fluttering victims, which he thrust hurriedly into his pockets.Then he beckoned me with a dirty forefinger.
"Come on, cully," he said hoarsely."You're in on the feed."Thank you very much!
Weakly I followed my dingy acquaintance.He led me away from the park down a side street and through a crack in a fence into a vacant lot where some excavating had been going on.Behind a pile of old stones and lumber he paused, and took out his birds.
"I got matches," said he."You got any paper to start a fire with?"I drew forth my manuscript story of the sparrows, and offered it for burnt sacrifice.There were old planks, splinters, and chips for our fire.My frowsy friend produced from some interior of his frayed clothing half a loaf of bread, pepper, and salt.
In ten minutes each of us was holding a sparrow spitted upon a stick over the leaping flames.
"Say," said my fellow bivouacker, "this ain't so bad when a fellow's hungry.It reminds me of when I struck New York first--about fifteen years ago.I come in from the West to see if I could get a job on a newspaper.I hit the Madison Square Park the first mornin' after, and was sitting around on the benches.I noticed the sparrows chirpin', and the grass and trees so nice and green that I thought I was back in the country again.Then I got some papers out of my pocket, and--""I know," I interrupted."You sent it to the ~Sun~ and got $15.""Say," said my friend, suspiciously, "you seem to know a good deal.
Where was you? I went to sleep on the bench there, in the sun, and somebody touched me for every cent I had--$15."
