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The door opened and in he came, hat in hand, and my mother advanced to meet him, armed with some mild rebuke. But neither of them was allowed to speak, for no sooner did the old man make his appearance in the room than the bird leaped down from its perch, spread its wings, and broke out into so triumphant a song of joy, that it seemed as if the whole room vibrated with that burst of melody.

“What, pretty Speckledy,” said the man, approaching the cage, “you know me then, do you?” and the thrush kept flapping his wings, and moving from side to side, one might almost say, dancing with joy.

There was no doubt about it; it was the same bird that had charmed our ears in the lane at Molesey, but, like the Hebrew captives, it could not sing its songs in a strange land.

“Take it back,” my mother said, “I would not part such friends for all the world,” and off together went that loving pair, “Pretty Speckledy” still in full song, which he continued all the way down our turret stairs.