29 MARCH 1930, Page 16

A DEAD THRUSH.

The scene of a strangely pathetic story of a Norfolk bird-lover is familiar to me. A dying woman lay in bed listen- ing day after day with ever enhanced delight to the song of a thrush, who perched himself on the end of a fir bough close to the bedroom window. He sang early and he sang late, with all the zest of returning spring in his throat. By some utterly strange coincident fatality the bird must have fallen to the ground dead almost at the time when the blinds were drawn down in the house. At any rate, he was found dead on the lawn the next day. There was no question of the fact and no explanation. Nor is there any sign on the plumage of the stuffed bird to indicate why he died.

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