Last time I blogged about Clare Kipps’ account of the baby sparrow she adopted, saved and lived with for twelve years through the Second World War and beyond.
He became a feature of air raid shelters and began to sing, influenced by the piano-playing of the author, an extension beyond most sparrows.
Finally, aged twelve, his health began to deteriorate and it was then an enterprising vet suggested champagne. “The next morning – and let all Bacchanalians take note of it – there was a decided improvement in his condition. He had turned the corner.”
The Solitary Reader 