I've a lovely little book in front of me about a lady who, in 1940 a few days after Dunkirk , found an abandoned sparrow chick outside her door. She looked after it, meaning to return him to the wild. But he turned out to have a deformed wing, so he stayed with her until he died 12 years later -far longer than the lifetime of a wild sparrow..

In the meantime he'd had all kinds of adventures, entertained people in air-raid shelters, and learnt to sing along with the piano (his rescuer had been a professional musician). As is well known, "sparrows can't sing", but Clarence never knew that.

The books called Sold for a farthing, by Clara Kipps, and remarkably enough, though it's been out of print in Engkland (where it all happened) for many years, there's an American edition of it still available.

Here is a relevant passage:

Feeling that if a new-born infant is left outside one's doorstep something should be done about it, I picked it up, wrapped it in warm flannel and, sitting over the kitchen fire, endeavoured for several hours to revive it.

After I had succeeded in opening its soft beak - an operation that required a delicate touch and immense patience to avoid injury - I propped it open with a spent match and dripped one drop of warm milk every minutes down the little throat. At the end of half-an-hour, though the bird was still quite cold, I noticed a slight movement of one skinny wing, so, after adding a little soaked bread to the last feed, I put it gently into a small pudding-basin lined and covered with wool, which I deposited in the airing-cupboard. Then fully expecting it to die in tye night, I went to bed.

To my astoishment, early next morning I heard a faint continuous sound coming from that airing-cupbopard - an incredibly thin yet happy sound, the kind of noise a pin would make if it could sing; and there was the little creature, still in his porcelain cradle, but warm and alert and crying for breakfast.

After that, his mouth was rarely shut; and as he required constant feeding, I took him with me in his basin to the Air-Raid Warden's post, where he began to serve is country by providing us with endless amusement during the long hours of waiting.

I fed him on soaked bread mixed with Bemax, hard-boiled yolk of egg, and one drop of halibut-liver oil, given frequently in small quantities and pushed gently down his throat with the carefully pointed end of a match. Though the children of the neighbourhood constantly brought along caterpillars and worms in matchboxes tied with blue ribbon, I kept him strictly to this vegetarian diet; and he thrived and grew into a lusty and importunate fledgling.

And I'll leave you with that. It's a great book.