By the way said Pliny the Elder companionably, did you ever find out what happened to the unidentified baby bird that fell out of the unidentified tree?
Well, yes and no, I said. We were out to dinner last night with Sean and Belinda and she started telling us the story. It seems that when Sean got home the baby bird was chirping loudly in the wash basin. Is it alright? I asked. No, it's dead, she said.
I asked her what happened and she replied darkly, You don't want to know, especially as we're eating. She looked pointedly at Sean. Whatever did you do? I asked him warily. I'm in trouble over this, he said. I wish I'd never seen the dratted bird.
It was obvious that something unspeakable had occurred. I changed tack by recounting my Gwendolen/Bob death saga to Belinda but at this she only laughed and said I should have flushed it down the toilet.
Very curious indeed, remarked Pliny the Elder. So whatever happened to the nestling must have been very much worse than the well-meaning boiling of a sickly fish. In my day of course we did not agonise over such things, but I realise today people are more sensitive.
Yes, I agreed. It's too late now but I have found out the correct procedure to be followed should one discover a baby bird that has fallen from its nest. If the mother bird is somewhere around, you should either replace the baby in the nest, or, if it's too high, make an artificial nest out of a margarine container, making a few drainage holes in the bottom, and lining it with soft paper; place the baby bird in it, then tack it to the tree a bit lower down. If only I had known that on Friday morning!
You might have saved your own son from a roasting, nodded Pliny.
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