The Dickinson Press

Every day about 10 o'clock there appears in the doorway of the Pierrepont house, Brooklyn, a gentleman with gray hair and whiskers of a rather English pattern. The closely buttoned frock coat shows the figure of a well kept man, careful and methodical in his habits. This man is Col. P. White, who for the last twenty years has been a boarder at the Montague street hotel, and who is as well known as the very name of the house he inhabits.

Regular as a planet, rain or shine, Col. White appears with the same object in view.

He feeds the sparrows, who daily await in the big tree opposite the hotel the appearance of their friend.

Generally Col. White has a handful of corn bread. When he stands outside the door the little gray and brown birds swoop down from their perches. Some of the boldest light on Col. White's arms and shoulders, and there is one very sedate and methodical bird that will take his stand on the colonel's thumb and pick crumbs from his open hand.

Not less than twenty sparrows are regular in their attendance, and often there are a half a hundred chirping and twittering for their share of the food. When the crowd is unusually large Col. White walks around to the Hicks street side and deals out the crumbs on the sidewalk or on the asphalt street. Some of the birds know his voice, and stand around his feet twittering impudently and impatiently for their rations. When the meal is ended they are told to go, and they do, but only to return about 2 o'clock in the afternoon for their dinner from the same kind hands. New York Telegram.