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| Jacky Can Over Two Weeks After I Rescued Him |
ABove is an image of the more powerful Jacky Can the day before he returned to be with his parents, well fed and now grown into an even more handsome chap.
A number of weeks after I had rescued him from behind my fireplace (fallen chimneypot nest), my wish for him to survive and to be released back into the wild came true. I suspended a lot of my life for him, and now I was to be rewarded. My visions of him flying with his parents was about to become fact. I had visualized Jacky flying, it was a real image for me and now was soon to transpire.
Never for one minute did I doubt that Jacky would be in flight and soaring free. That is the same belief you have to apply to anything you want to manifest in life.
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| In compariison to the image above, here's Jacky the day after I rescued him |
What now seems like thousands of mealworms and many efforts to get him airborne, Jacky, today, eventually made it back to his parents.
I had kept Jacky outside during the day so as to keep him in contact with his parents, as they had a dialogue going on but Jacky just wouldn’t leave the garden and they wouldn’t come close enough to get him to go with them.
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| The fledgling Jacky having a bath |
Jacky became quite at home in my garden, although I monitored him as there are just too many predatory cats around. He even had a bath in a bowl I leave out for the other birds to drink from.
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| Jacky drying off after his bath |
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| Jacky Can, back where he started from |
Happy ending picture above shows Jacky back where it all began, on the chimney pot his nest fell down to behind my fireplace from.
After some hard work by Jacky he eventually responded to the calls of a number of other jackdaws, first tentatively flying on to a gate post, then a higher wall and then to a roof top. About 10 jackdaws were involved in calling Jacky, and eventually the call of the wild become so strong that he acted on it and up he went.
Still now, a number of hours later, he is airborne and comes and goes to the chimney pot it all started from, accompanied by his parents this time.
It was some work involved in looking after him, time consuming and at times mentally draining, but all worth it to see him back with nature.
POEMS ABOUT JACKDAWS
The Jackdaw of RheimsThe Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair!
Bishop and abbot and prior were there;
Many a monk and many a friar,
Many a knight and many a squire,
With a great many more of lesser degree,
In sooth a goodly company;
And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.
Never, I ween,
Was prouder seen,
Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!
In and out
Through the motley rout,
That little Jackdaw kept hopping about;
Here and there
Like a dog in a fair,
Over comfits and cates,
And dishes and plates,
Cowl and cope and rochet and pall,
Mitre and crosier! He hopp'd upon all!
With saucy air,
He perch'd on the chair
Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat
In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat;
And he peer'd in the face
Of his Lordship's Grace,
With a satisfied look, as if he would say,
"We two are the greatest folks here to-day!"
And the priests, with awe,
As such freaks they saw,
Said, "The Devil must be in that little Jackdaw!"
The feast was over, the board was clear'd,
The flawns and the custards had all disappear'd,
And six little singing-boys--dear little souls!
In nice clean faces and nice white stoles,
Came, in order due,
Two by two,
Marching that grand refectory through!
A nice little boy held a golden ewer,
Emboss'd and fill'd with water, as pure
As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,
Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch
In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.
Two nice little boys, rather more grown,
Carried lavender-water, and eau de Cologne
And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.
One little boy more
A napkin bore,
Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink
And a Cardinal's Hat mark'd in permanent ink.
The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight
Of these nice little boys dress'd all in white:
From his finger he draws
His costly turquoise;
And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,
Deposits it straight
By the side of his plate,
While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;
'Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing,
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!
There's a cry and a shout,
And a deuce of a rout,
And nobody seems to know what they're about,
But the Monks have their pockets all turn'd inside out.
The Friars are kneeling,
And hunting, and feeling
The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.
The Cardinal drew
Off each plum-colour'd shoe,
And left his red stockings exposed to the view;
He peeps and he feels
In the toes and the heels;
They turn up the dishes; they turn up the plates,
They take up the poker and poke out the grates,
They turn up the rugs,
They examine the mugs:
But, no! - no such thing;
They can't find THE RING!
And the Abbott declared that, "when nobody twigg'd it,
Some rascal or other had popp'd in and prigg'd it!"
The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,
He call'd for his candle, his bell and his book!
In holy anger and pious grief,
He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!
He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed;
From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head;
He cursed him in sleeping, that every night
He should dream of the devil and wake in a fright;
He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking,
He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking;
He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying;
He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying,
He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying!--
Never was heard such a terrible curse!
But what gave rise
To no little surprise,
Nobody seem'd one penny the worse!
The day was gone,
The night came on,
The Monks and the Friars they search'd till dawn;
When the Sacristan saw,
On crumpled claw,
Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw!
No longer gay,
As on yesterday;
His feathers all seem'd to be turn'd the wrong way;
His pinions droop'd - he could hardly stand,
His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;
His eye so dim,
So wasted each limb,
That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, "THAT'S HIM!
That's the scamp that's done this scandalous thing!
That's the thief that's got my Lord Cardinal's Ring!"
The poor little Jackdaw,
When the Monks he saw,
Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;
And turn'd his bald head, as much as to say,
"Pray, be so good as to walk this way!"
Slower and slower
He limp'd on before,
Till they came to the back of the belfry door,
Where the first thing they saw,
Midst the sticks and the straw,
Was the ring in the nest of that little Jackdaw!
Then the great Lord Cardinal call'd for his book,
And off that terrible curse he took;
The mute expression
Served in lieu of confession,
And, being thus coupled with full restitution,
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!
When those words were heard,
That poor little bird
Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd.
He grew sleek and fat;
In addition to that,
A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!
His tail waggled more
Even than before;
But no longer it wagg'd with an impudent air,
No longer he perch'd on the Cardinal's chair.
He hopp'd now about
With a gait devout;
At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
He always seem'd telling the Confessor's beads.
If any one lied, - or if any one swore,
Or slumber'd in pray'r-time and happen'd to snore,
That good Jackdaw
Would give a great "Caw!"
As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!"
While many remark'd, as his manners they saw,
That they "never had known such a pious Jackdaw!"
He long lived the pride
Of that countryside,
And at last in the odour of sanctity died;
When, as words were too faint
His merits to paint,
The Conclave determined to make him a Saint;
And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know,
It's the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow,
So they canonized him by the name of Jim Crow!
The above was by Reverend Richard Harris BarhamThe JackdawThere is a bird who, by his coat
And by the hoarseness of his note,
Might be supposed a crow;
A great frequenter of the church,
Where, bishop-like, he finds a perch,
And dormitory too.
Above the steeple shines a plate,
That turns and turns, to indicate
From what point blows the weather.
Look up -- your brains begin to swim,
'Tis in the clouds -- that pleases him,
He chooses it the rather.
Fond of the speculative height,
Thither he wings his airy flight,
And thence securely sees
The bustle and the rareeshow,
That occupy mankind below,
Secure and at his ease.
You think, no doubt, he sits and muses
On future broken bones and bruises,
If he should chance to fall.
No; not a single thought like that
Employs his philosophic pate,
Or troubles it at all.
He sees that this great roundabout,
The world, with all its motley rout,
Church, army, physic, law,
Its customs and its businesses,
Is no concern at all of his,
And says -- what says he? -- Caw.
Thrice happy bird! I too have seen
Much of the vanities of men;
And, sick of having seen 'em,
Would cheerfully these limbs resign
For such a pair of wings as thine
And such a head between 'em.
By William Cowper
Copyright Stephen Richards
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