o departments,--real birds
and English sparrows. English sparrows are not real birds; they are
little beasts.

There was a church in Brooklyn which was once covered with a great and
spreading vine, in which the sparrows built innumerable nests. These
ungodly little birds kept up such a din that it was impossible to hear
the service of the sanctuary. The faithful clergy strained their voices
to the verge of ministerial sore throat, but the people had no peace in
their devotions until the vine was cut down, and the Anglican intruders
were evicted.

A talkative person is like an English sparrow,--a bird that cannot
sing, and will sing, and ought to be persuaded not to try to sing. But
a talkable person has the gift that belongs to the wood thrush and
the veery and the wren, the oriole and the white-throat and the
rose-breasted grosbeak, the mockingbird and the robin (sometimes); and
the brown thrush; yes, the brown thrush has it to perfection, if you can
catch him alone,--the gift of being interesting, charming, delightful,
in the most off-hand and various modes of utterance.

Talkability is not at all the same thing as eloquence. The eloquent man
surprises, overwhelms, and sometimes paralyzes us by the display of his
power. Great orators are seldom good talkers. Oratory in exercise is
masterful and jealous, and intolerant of all interruptions. Oratory in
preparation is silent, self-centred, uncommunicative. The painful
truth of this remark may be seen in the row of countenances along the
president's table at a public banquet about nine o'clock in the evening.
The bicycle-face seems unconstrained and merry by comparison with
the after-dinner-speech-face. The flow of table-talk is corked by the
anxious conception of post-prandial oratory.

Thackeray, in one of his ROUNDABOUT PAPERS, speaks of "the sin
of tall-talking," which, he says, "is the sin of schoolmasters,
governesses, critics, sermoners, and instructors of young or old
people." But this is not in accord with my observation. I should say it
was rather the sin of dilettanti who are ambitious of that high-stepping
accomplishment which is called "conversational ability."

This has usually, to my mind, something set and artificial about it,
although in its most perfect form the art almost succeeds in concealing
itself. But, at all events, ''conversation'' is talk in evening dress,
with perhaps a little powder and a touch of rouge. 'T is like one of
those wise virg