Remember the cowboy movies wherein the ranchers grab up all the public land and think that since they got there first, the land was theirs... until the Nesters arrived and staked out a claim to some of it? And put up fences to keep the cows out, otherwise messing up the landscape and causing a range war?
You may be glad to know that this lifestyle still exists in my backyard, that magnificent spread of about 36 feet by 24 feet, pretty small for a range war. But then, the participants are pretty small, too.
When we moved from the mountain cabin into the house in the village, this was the best place available for the dime, and it had some advantages. The elevation was lower and tomatoes grow better here than at 7,500 feet above sea level. So we set to work and the first thing you knew, we had five fruit trees, a garden spot, a postage stamp of grass, wild asparagus, a solar fountain, 42 (count them) tomato plants, and a bird house in that tiny space. Naturally, we then had to add bird feeders, a swing set, raspberries, a rhubarb plant, an artichoke plant, and a table with an umbrella. Plus a sprinkler system.
I had hoped for a glamorous renter for the birdhouse -- say an oriole, or a bluebird. Instead, our Nester turned out to be Mr. English Sparrow. In nature, a nest isn't needed unless you intent to start a family, and to start a family you need one each of opposite sexes -- this is not going to turn into a political/social essay, relax -- and to attract a female, Mr. E. Sparrow does what other bird dudes do: he sings his mating song. It is nothing like the symphonic arias of his cousin the mockingbird, or like the rhapsodic melodies floating down from the trees of the house wren.
It goes like this: Chirp. Chirp-chirp. Chirpchirpchirp. Chirp.
You may be glad to know that this lifestyle still exists in my backyard, that magnificent spread of about 36 feet by 24 feet, pretty small for a range war. But then, the participants are pretty small, too.
When we moved from the mountain cabin into the house in the village, this was the best place available for the dime, and it had some advantages. The elevation was lower and tomatoes grow better here than at 7,500 feet above sea level. So we set to work and the first thing you knew, we had five fruit trees, a garden spot, a postage stamp of grass, wild asparagus, a solar fountain, 42 (count them) tomato plants, and a bird house in that tiny space. Naturally, we then had to add bird feeders, a swing set, raspberries, a rhubarb plant, an artichoke plant, and a table with an umbrella. Plus a sprinkler system.
I had hoped for a glamorous renter for the birdhouse -- say an oriole, or a bluebird. Instead, our Nester turned out to be Mr. English Sparrow. In nature, a nest isn't needed unless you intent to start a family, and to start a family you need one each of opposite sexes -- this is not going to turn into a political/social essay, relax -- and to attract a female, Mr. E. Sparrow does what other bird dudes do: he sings his mating song. It is nothing like the symphonic arias of his cousin the mockingbird, or like the rhapsodic melodies floating down from the trees of the house wren.
It goes like this: Chirp. Chirp-chirp. Chirpchirpchirp. Chirp.
All the same note. No inflections. No harmony. No crescendos. But it does the job, because sooner or later a few female sparrows arrive, and he shows off the nest he has discovered, and finally one of them likes it well enough, and they start moving in their furnishings (dry grass mostly). The insemination of the female does not occur within the privacy of the birdhouse, well maybe it does, but if it does, it is in addition to the flirtatious behavior they exhibit on the fence. My land! Such abandon!
Eventually they do get down to filling up their house with selected straw -- some pieces so large it takes two swipes at the entry to get it through. Both of them work at this until is passes muster. Several weeks go by with Mr. Sparrow bringing in worms and I guess taking his turn at incubating the eggs until one day, out pops Mrs. S. and she is followed by five or six little S's and they all fly away to continue the line.
Now enter the ranchers, in this case, wasps. It was a bad year for wasps; that is, they were everywhere. Eventually, they moved into the birdhouse and the sparrows stayed away. Finally, we sprayed the birdhouse to be rid of the wasps -- who wants to watch a wasp? -- but the sparrows didn't come back; I suppose due to the smell of Raid. So we took the birdhouse down, washed it in soap and hot water, and put it back up again. This year, we were disappointed to see wasps going back into the birdhouse again. Phooey! But who else was in the picture?
This little sparrow (I think he was wearing a cape with a big yellow S on his teeshirt) appeared, took out after the wasp, and chased him away. He actually went into the birdhouse (his, now) and came out with wasp cocoons in his beak and spit them out! Several other soldier wasps appeared, and he gave them the boot, too. He had taken charge. The underdog ruled. A sparrow with Spunk. Now we listen to:
Chirp. Chirp-chirp. Chirpchirpchirp. Chirp!
It is music to our ears.
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