The Sparrow and Her Young Ones

Lying atop a tree was the nest of a Mother Sparrow. She had five eggs ready to hatch, nestled neatly inside the roost. Her mate was nowhere to be found, but she could think no more of that matter at the moment, for the eggs were shifting in place. Excitement fell over the Mother Sparrow, and, chirping hysterically, she hopped toward them, anticipating the beautiful moment.

The first egg cracked open. From the inside crawled the chick, clumsily making his way out. The top of his head bore a brown tint—the shade of the hazelnut—which streamed down along his back until it reached the wings and tail. His underside, however, remained a mixture of gray and a creamy tone. His legs stood wobbily in the nest, and occasionally he would rustle his wings and twitch his head, curious about his surroundings. The Mother Sparrow had been observing him all the time, and only at that moment did the young one notice her. He ran toward his mother, and in her embrace he said:

“Mother, Mother! Food! I’m hungry!”

Not long after, another cracking sound caught the attention of the Mother Sparrow. Out came a second chick, and soon enough, all five hatchlings were waiting in front of their mother, demanding a little breakfast to fill their stomachs. The Mother Sparrow, upon seeing this, was quickly overwhelmed, but she also felt delighted, for she had found herself a purpose: a reason for living so great she could not comprehend how she would possibly complete it—to take care of her young ones.

And she did just that. Day after day, she would wake up to the cries of the nestlings, leave the nest for a little while, and return with a stout, healthy worm inside her beak. Because there were five of them but only one worm for all, the strongest one would snatch the worm right away, leaving the others empty-handed. For this reason the Mother Sparrow always had to make several trips to search for food for her children—and this was all done before she had breakfast herself, till every one of the infants had quieted down and gone back to their much-needed rest—then she would reward herself with a trifling seed she had found somewhere.

But she could not rest for long. A Python was slithering up the bole, up to where the nestlings were sleeping soundly, hissing as it went. The Mother Sparrow was guarding her children when she noticed the Python slipping right next to her and toward the nest. Agitated and enraged, she immediately took to her wings and fluttered toward the reptile. She stood in front of it, blocking its way to the infants, where she could hear them yelping, “Snake! Snake!” and crouching far behind her, trembling at the horrible sight. The Python did not want to attack the Mother Sparrow, for it had no interest in hunting adult birds, but there would be no choice but to fight. And it went on. The two animals stayed opposite each other, staring and threatening, until the Python pulled itself forward, but the Mother Sparrow flew out of the way. Just as it had met the eyes of the young ones, the Mother Sparrow dove toward it, beak pointed straight forward, sharp as a knife, swift like a missile, and began pecking repeatedly at the Python’s back, who screamed in misery, its tail swinging violently as it lost its mind. The nestlings recoiled even more, petrified by the scene. In an instant, the Python slipped away down the tree, disappearing into the wood.

The Mother Sparrow turned to her children.

“Is everyone all right?” she said, but could not believe what she was about to hear next.

“I think there’s one missing,” replied the largest of them.

There was a long silence, followed by a small commotion as the remaining four nestlings counted themselves and looked around for the sight of the fifth one. Apparently, he was nowhere to be seen.

“I hate to break the news to you, Mother,” continued the oldest child, “but our youngest brother, who also happens to be a runt, has been lost. I believe I know the reason, and I think you do, too.”

It could not have happened. There would be no chance for the Python to get past the Mother Sparrow without attracting her attention in the slightest. Did she doze off at some point? Had she not kept a close watch on her infants? Was she failing at her job? None of these questions could she find an answer to, but she had a problem to solve, and solve it quickly.

So she allowed them to leave the nest and taught them to fly. The fledglings caught on to the lessons, and soon enough they could glide from one tree to the next, but they still could not fly freely and independently. During these flights they noticed yet again that another one of them—and the smallest—was too weak to embark on prolonged trips, and had to take frequent breaks in the middle of a flight, which proved a nuisance to the whole group. Even the Mother Sparrow would feel defeated sometimes, but she did not permit herself to complain and always encouraged him to keep trying. They were doing this in preparation for the upcoming winter so that they would have enough confidence to fend for themselves without the Mother’s aid.

Time flew, and snow had already begun to cover the entire forest. It was plain white on the ground and the treetops, and occasionally snowflakes would dot the sky, concealing the horizon and forbidding any sunlight to pass through. It was one day when the Mother Sparrow returned home to find that only three of the fledglings remained. As recounted by the oldest, it appeared that the missing one was the runt, who had been feeding somewhere far away when a snowstorm had hit him, and then he was not seen again. The poor little one could not make it to spring, and, vowing never to lose another child again, the Mother Sparrow huddled close together with her young ones. They slept for the night, staying within each other’s reach throughout the entire winter.

Once spring came, there was a clear difference in the fledglings’ appearances. They had grown bigger, stronger, and more self-reliant. They were no longer children, and they no longer needed the Mother Sparrow’s care and protection. So they made up their mind and, one by one, came to her to say good-by. Regardless of her attempt to hold them back, they needed to search for a new home, find a mate, and start a family of their own. They could not stay with their mother forever, but this all happened too soon for her. What had begun as fragile, helpless eggs had transformed into mature, adult birds—what she had been spending so much time with would leave her shelter soon; and there was nothing she could do to oppose it. Bidding them farewell and offering them a few pieces of advice, she stayed back near the nest and watched as her three remaining children flew away from her—into the unknown world of the forest.

The next day, the Mother Sparrow showed up with a stout, healthy worm for her children, but all that was left was the deserted, empty nest.

“Now what am I supposed to do?” she asked herself, but she did not know whether she would find an appropriate response. She ate the worm and, as warm winds of spring burst around her, waited in the nest, hoping that one day her children would return.

Then she fended for herself from that day on.