One of my grandsons is becoming surrogate father to one or more House Sparrows. This is happening Thursday afternoon. The first of three eggs he has in his room under a heat lamp is so so slowly being pried open by a very tiny, very pink bird. In one other egg the occupant has poked a hole as it begins to hatch.
I would have bet a lot of money that this would not happen.
Four days ago, Cole, who is 12, and I were checking nest boxes on my bluebird trail. House Sparrows, non-native birds that out-compete bluebirds and Tree Swallows for nesting space, are not favorites of mine. When I find a nest in one of my boxes, perhaps once a season in 40 boxes, I pull the nest out, eggs and the messy nest falling to the ground, where I leave them.
Cole asked if he could have the eggs. "Sure, they're yours." It's not often that anyone gets close looks at songbird eggs. Cole is an enthusiastic birder with a love of anything alive (or dead) and outdoors. So, he took the eggs.
"Can I have the nest?" he asked. My thoughts went to bird lice before I said yes. Why not? I had no idea that he would reconstruct the nest in a box in his bedroom, find a heat lamp, and incubate the eggs.
He called that night to tell me he had candled one of the eggs — not easy with a cream-colored egg blotched with brown — but, he said he saw the outline of a chick. He sounded excited.
These are bird lessons hard to find, and I was happy for him. He was going to be disappointed when the eggs didn't hatch, but that's a lesson, too.
Just after one o'clock today, Thursday afternoon, Cole's sister Sophie called and said, "Grandpa, you have to come over and see Cole's baby birds."