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STORY OF A JACKDAW 



When I laid my pen down after concluding 

 Part V it pleased me to think that I had written 

 the last word, that, my task finished, I was free 

 to go on to something else. But I was not yet 

 wholly free of the jackdaws; their yelping cries 

 were still ringing in my mental ears, and their 

 remembered shapes were still all about me in their 

 black dress, or cassock, grey hood, and malicious 

 little grey eyes. The persistent images suggested 

 that my task was not properly finished after all, 

 that it would be better to conclude with one of 

 those anecdotes or stories of the domesticated 

 bird which I have said are so common; also that 

 this should be a typical story, which would serve 

 to illustrate the peculiar daw sentiment — the affec- 

 tionate interest we take in him, not only in spite 

 of his impudence and impishness and naughtiness, 

 but also to some extent because of these same 



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