The Pigeons of Saint Paul’s

Once upon a peculiar time, long before there were towers or

steeples or tall buildings of any sort in the city of London, all the
pigeons lived high up in the trees where they could keep away from
the bustle and fracas of human society. They didn’t care for the way
humans smelled or the strange noises they made with their mouths
or the mess they made of things generally, but they did appreciate
the perfectly edible things they dropped on the street and threw into
garbage heaps. Thus, the pigeons liked to stay near humans, but not
too near…
But then London started to grow—not just outward, but
upward —and the humans began building lookout towers and
churches with steeples and other things that intruded upon what the
pigeons considered their private domain. So the pigeons called a
meeting, and several thousand of them gathered on an empty island
in the middle of the river Thames to decide what to do about the
humans and their increasingly tall buildings. Pigeons being
democratic, speeches were made and the question was put to a vote…
The vast majority voted to declare war…
In the beginning it was easy because the humans built
everything from wood and straw. Just a few burning embers
deposited in a thatch roof could reduce an annoyingly tall building to
ashes. But the humans kept rebuilding —they were bafflingly un-
discourageable—and the pigeons continued to torch any structure
taller than two stories just as fast as the humans could erect them.
Eventually the humans grew wiser and began building their
towers and steeples from stone, which made them much harder to
burn down—so the pigeons tried to disrupt their construction
instead. They pecked at workers’ heads, knocked down scaffolding,
and pooped on architectural plans…
Early on the morning of September 2, 1666, their efforts were
disastrously successful. A pigeon named Nesmith set fire to a bakery
a half mile from Saint Paul’s. As the bakery was consumed, a
ferocious wind pushed the flames straight uphill toward the
cathedral. It burned completely—naves, belfries, and all—and after
four days of destruction, so had eighty-seven other churches and
more than ten thousand homes. The city was a smoking ruin.
The Pigeons of Saint Paul’s
Once upon a peculiar time, long before there were towers or
steeples or tall buildings of any sort in the city of London, all the
pigeons lived high up in the trees where they could keep away from
the bustle and fracas of human society. They didn’t care for the way
humans smelled or the strange noises they made with their mouths
or the mess they made of things generally, but they did appreciate
the perfectly edible things they dropped on the street and threw into
garbage heaps. Thus, the pigeons liked to stay near humans, but not
too near…
But then London started to grow—not just outward, but
upward —and the humans began building lookout towers and
churches with steeples and other things that intruded upon what the
pigeons considered their private domain. So the pigeons called a
meeting, and several thousand of them gathered on an empty island
in the middle of the river Thames to decide what to do about the
humans and their increasingly tall buildings. Pigeons being
democratic, speeches were made and the question was put to a vote…
The vast majority voted to declare war…
In the beginning it was easy because the humans built
everything from wood and straw. Just a few burning embers
deposited in a thatch roof could reduce an annoyingly tall building to
ashes. But the humans kept rebuilding —they were bafflingly un-
discourageable—and the pigeons continued to torch any structure
taller than two stories just as fast as the humans could erect them.
Eventually the humans grew wiser and began building their
towers and steeples from stone, which made them much harder to
burn down—so the pigeons tried to disrupt their construction
instead. They pecked at workers’ heads, knocked down scaffolding,
and pooped on architectural plans…
Early on the morning of September 2, 1666, their efforts were
disastrously successful. A pigeon named Nesmith set fire to a bakery
a half mile from Saint Paul’s. As the bakery was consumed, a
ferocious wind pushed the flames straight uphill toward the
cathedral. It burned completely—naves, belfries, and all—and after
four days of destruction, so had eighty-seven other churches and
more than ten thousand homes. The city was a smoking ruin.