VII 

 MY NEIGHBOUR'S BIRD STORIES 



WE sometimes make mistakes, and I certainly 

 made one about my neighbour over the way, Mr. 

 Redburn, when I formed the conclusion that I 

 had no use for him. For I was just then birding 

 in an east-coast village, and when engaged on that 

 business I look for some interest in the subject 

 which absorbs me, some bird-lore in those I meet 

 and converse with. If they are entirely without it, 

 they are negligible persons; and Mr. Redburn, a 

 retired bank manager and a widower, living alone 

 in a house opposite my lodgings, fell quite naturally 

 into this category. A kindly man with friendly 

 feelings towards a stranger, one it was pleasant 

 to talk with, but unfortunately he knew nothing 

 about birds. 



One day we met a mile from the village, he out 

 for a constitutional, and I returning from a prowl; 

 and as he seemed inclined to have a talk, we sat 

 down on a green bank at the roadside and got out 

 our pipes. 



" You are always after birds," he said, " and I 

 know so little about them ! " Then to prove how 



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