I had returned from the chase and was walking along one of the alleys in
the garden. My hound was running on in front of me.
Suddenly he retarded his steps and began to crawl stealthily along as
though he detected game ahead.
I glanced down the alley and beheld a young sparrow, with a yellow ring
around its beak and down on its head. It had fallen from the nest (the
wind was rocking the trees of the alley violently), and sat motionless,
impotently expanding its barely-sprouted little wings.
My hound was approaching it slowly when, suddenly wrenching itself from
a neighbouring birch, an old black-breasted sparrow fell like a stone in
front of my dog's very muzzle--and, with plumage all ruffled, contorted,
with a despairing and pitiful cry, gave a couple of hops in the
direction of the yawning jaws studded with big teeth.
It had flung itself down to save, it was shielding, its offspring ...
but the whole of its tiny body was throbbing with fear, its voice was
wild and hoarse, it was swooning, it was sacrificing itself!
What a huge monster the dog must have appeared to it! And yet it could
not have remained perched on its lofty, secure bough.... A force greater
than its own will had hurled it thence.
My Trésor stopped short, retreated.... Evidently he recognised that
force.
I hastened to call off the discomfited hound, and withdrew with
reverence.
Yes; do not laugh. I felt reverential before that tiny, heroic bird,
before its loving impulse.
Love, I thought, is stronger than death.--Only by it, only by love, does
life support itself and move.
April, 1878.