cume an spearwa

A sparrow has just flown through the house. He must have come in the kitchen window and, seeing the light coming in the front window, flown through the hall and bedroom in that direction, passing as he did so right by my head.

It is spring, nearly summer, but there is no way I can avoid thinking of Bede's account of the conversion of Edwin of Northumbria and the famous tale told by an unnamed advisor and member of the witan:

Þyslic me is gesewen, þu cyning, þis andwearde lif manna on eorðan to wiðmetenesse þære tide, þe us uncuð is, swylc swa þu æt swæsendum sitte mid þinum ealdormannum & þegnum on wintertide, & sie fyr onælæd & þin heall gewyrmed, & hit rine & sniwe & styrme ute; cume an spearwa & hrædlice þæt hus þurhfleo, cume þurh oþre duru in þurh oþre ut gewite. Hwæt he on þa tid, þe he inne bið, ne bið hrinen mid þy storme þæs wintres; ac þæt bið an eagan bryhtm & þæt læsste fæc, ac he sona of wintra on þone winter eft cymeð. Swa þonne þis monna lif to medmiclum fæce ætyweð; hwæt þær foregange, oððe hwæt þær æfterfylige, we ne cunnun.

I think I cried out in surprise and then in concern when he knocked against the largest, brightest pane. He alighted on a cushion and looked at me with one eye. He seemed unhurt. I opened the side window wider and shooed him out when he flapped aloft again. Whither he flew, we ne cunnon.