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 he 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.