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At one time, my garden would have been
inundated with house sparrows from the neighbouring mixed
farm. But I rarely see even a single sparrow and I miss their lively chirping and varied antics. They
must be one of our cleverest and most inventive birds.
I have to make do with a small colony a
quarter of a mile down the road. There is usually something
happening as I walk past, but I cannot always make it out
because their favourite place is a tall beech hedge which
retains its withered, brown leaves through the winter. The
sparrows can socialise inside it without showing themselves
and all I see is dim shapes moving among the twigs.
The other day there were great
goings-on: much chirruping and chasing among the foliage. It
was what used to be called a sparrows' wedding, but the
details give the lie to the concept. There is always only
one female in the party and the rest are males. The 'ceremony' starts with a
male sparrow displaying to his mate. For some reason she vigorously
rejects his advances and the ensuing scuffle
attracts other males. The female now finds herself in the
middle of a melée of males, all displaying noisily. She
attempts to fight them off, assisted by her mate, and may
flee for cover. But after half a minute or so, the males begin to
lose interest and disperse, leaving the original couple to
themselves.
One feature of these communal displays
is that the sparrows become so engrossed that they readily
fall prey to cats and cars. Detailed study suggests that
'wedding' is not quite the right word for this boisterous
behaviour. The objective of the extra males is to father a
few eggs at the expense of the female's rightful mate – a
rather more serious aim than horseplay and tying tin
cans to the happy couple's car.
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