Rufous-collared sparrow

It is common to see rufous-collared sparrows; it's a very common bird over there, and around here too. I remember when I was little, I went hunting for birds for the first, only, and last time. It wasn't a total success—in fact, I didn't catch any of the ones people usually get—but four or five sparrows did fall into the trap. Up until that point, I didn't know those birds were sparrows (chingolos). I was coming back happy with the four little birds, since one had managed to break free and escape. Over time, I learned they were rufous-collared sparrows. They spend their time singing, and they have a very loud song. They can live in captivity, but nobody keeps them—it's believed to be because they are so common. That time, we caught them using glue. That method is awful because their wings get completely stuck, and as they try to escape, they get stuck even more, making it hard to remove the glue later without hurting them. These sparrows lived for a few years in a large aviary until the day they were released. That same day or the next—I can't recall clearly now—while playing in the street, I ran into one of them about a block away. It couldn't fly well due to a lack of practice from being enclosed. It was a mistake to release them in the city; I should have taken them to the countryside.

Following this anecdote comes the memory of a primary school textbook that contained a poem dedicated to the rufous-collared sparrow. The book had poems about several small birds, and among them, one about the chingolo. The poem was by Leopoldo Lugones, which I transcribe below.

The chingolo is the most gaucho of the songbirds; its fame reached folklore, legends, and popular sayings, even inspiring poets, as demonstrated by Leopoldo Lugones, who sang to it like this:

When the countryside is at its loneliest,
and the house, in peace, stands open,
there appears through the doorway,
bold as can be, the chingolo.
It comes looking for a crumb
or a strand of broom straw,
which it certainly does not steal,
for the people are its friends.
It hops trustingly to the threshold
and asks for permission
with a short, concise chirp,
like a pinch of crystal.
Its pastoral attire
is graced by a lovely crest.
(If the cardinal is a cadet,
it is a gentle conscript).

To read a brief summary about the bird, I leave the following links:
http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zonotrichia_capensis
http://www.avesdelapatagonia.com.ar/chingolotx1.htm

And below is the Legend of the Chingolo:
Guillermo Perkins Hidalgo, in ‘Legends and Superstitions of Iberá’, published in Cuadernos del Instituto Nacional de Antropología No. 4, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1963, collects this version:

"The Chingolo. It still seems to walk with its leg irons, reminding the world of a sin. He was an impetuous man, full of pride. He possessed great strength and once committed the terrible desecration of knocking down the heavy portal of a church. For that, he was put in irons and taken to prison, from where he later flew away, doubly punished by Heaven's justice."

"The Chingolo, tiny and nervous, is the only bird that walks by hopping, as if hobbled by invisible leg irons..."

"The Chingolo is sociable and visits family yards in search of breadcrumbs and food scraps. It only moves away quickly when it senses the dangerous presence of a cat. That is why the saying goes, when someone arrives at a house like the Chingolo, unexpectedly, without prior invitation or notice, right at the usual mealtime:

He walks right in on his own,

just like the Chingolo!"