A few days ago I was watching the curious actions of a sparrow on the
sidewalk in a rather quiet part of town. On either side of the street
were lofty brick and stone buildings, with the usual multiplicity of
little niches and cavities in and about the projecting cornices and
ornamental architecture. These sheltered and inviting ledges had been
utilized from year to year by divers smaller tribes of the feathered
folk as nest-building sites, and the little bird which had attracted my
attention had already laid the foundation timbers of its prospective
house in a cosy niche of the cornice almost directly over my head where
I was standing.
It was plainly evident that the sprightly creature was seeking sticks of
proper length and strength to barricade a broad hiatus in the front part
of the cavity it had chosen for its future home.
This opening was angular in form with the vertex at the bottom and its
sides separating outwards towards the top, where there was a span of
perhaps four or five inches.
As I stood with my elbow resting against the low paling the confiding
sparrow hopped to within a yard or two of my feet in searching for tiny
twigs that had fallen from the overhanging shrubbery.
It picked up a great many pieces and as quickly dropped them. Then it
would stand perfectly still for a few minutes intently scanning the
limited landscape as if in a brown study as to what move it should next
make.
Finally it set vigorously to work picking up bits of material from an
inch or two to six inches in length. Instead of flying away with a load
it dropped them in a little heap nearly if not quite parallel to each
other. Then poking its beak into the pile and throwing the sticks hither
and thither it settled down to practical business by seizing a stick of
medium length and flying away with its burden dangling in the air. Of
course, I watched the little architect and saw her mount straight up to
the chosen ledge and deposit the twig exactly crosswise of the gaping
notch. This operation she repeated several times, always throwing the
sticks about as if intent upon selecting a piece of special dimensions.
No human carpenter with measuring rule in his hand could have been more
expert.
In a moment the truth flashed into my mind and I realized that I was
verily the human pupil of a little bird made famous by honored mention
in Holy Writ.
Why, the cunning worker had foreseen to the ridicule of my own confessed
stupidity that in order to effectually bar the exposed side of the
chamber it must of necessity select girders of successively increasing
length and size. Thus, as I fancied it reasoned, a short stick would not
span the top of the dangerous gap; while, on the other hand, a long
stick could not be used at the bottom because it would strike smack
against the side walls before it could be placed in position low enough.
So all this clearly explained why the bird should exercise such studied
care in selecting the large “timbers.”
A few days afterwards I visited the scene of operations again, and by
using an opera glass found that the nest was very nearly if not quite
finished. The menacing gap in the ledge no longer existed; for there was
a solid bulkhead in its stead composed of longitudinal sticks tied and
stiffened by interwoven bits of dry grass and such shreds of various
waste material as only bird intelligence knows where to find.
More interested now than ever, I took pains to climb into the attic of
the three story building where from a narrow gable window I could look
obliquely down into the pretty nest now neatly lined with tiny feathers
and thistle down. So much, then, for the sparrows and their house
building. I say sparrows now, for during my later observations I had
seen both Mr. and Mrs. Sparrow diligently working together.
But to advert now to our alleged “libel” on the birds, I have only to
say that it is very convenient for great men and ponderous books to tell
us that the lower animals perform their actions by means of a tendency
called “instinct;” and thus divest themselves of all further
responsibility in the matter. Confronted by this obscure declaration we
are led as pupils in natural history to ask, “What is instinct?” The
following definitions of this much-abused term are, perhaps, the best to
be found in the English language:
“Instinct is a propensity prior to experience and independent of
instruction.”—William Paley.
“Instinct is a blind tendency to some mode of action, independent of any
consideration on the part of the agent, of the end to which the action
leads.”—Richard Whately.
“Instinct is an agent which performs blindly and ignorantly a work of
intelligence and knowledge.”—Sir William Hamilton.
Now such names as Paley, Whately and Hamilton stand high upon the roll
of honor in the sparkling literature of our language; and yet the words
of these great scholars are but as sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal
when they undertake to tell us what is the real import and inwardness of
that occult and wonderful faculty in the mental essence of animals which
scientists by force of circumstances have agreed to call “instinct.”
“Aha!” my little sparrow would say, could she speak our language, “we
perform our actions neither blindly nor ignorantly, as your famous Mr.
Hamilton learnedly remarks; but God has taught us to both reason and
work according to existing circumstances, from cause to effect; nay,
even as your great logicians would have it, a priori. And although five
of our little bodies were sold in the markets of Jerusalem for two
farthings, not one of us ever fell to the ground without our Father’s
notice!”
There, that is about the kind of sermon our little bird would preach to
the utter discomfiture of human wisdom, which, after all, is but
“foolishness with God.”
Verily, and in conclusion, we declare that it is a libel upon the birds
to say that they build their nests guided only by that nameless tendency
signified by the common acceptation of the term “instinct.”
The humblest creature God has made
Fulfills some noble, wise design;
And, dowered rich with reason’s aid,
It boasts a lineage divine.
L. P. Veneen.