Jackdaws

I am reading a short story by William Trevor called "Traditions"; in it he describes how a group of schoolboys have been keeping jackdaws but somone has killed them all. It called to mind a farmer who lived a mile or so from us when I was a child who had a pet jackdaw.
In the story by Trevor the boys had tried to make the birds talk; so, according to his son, did the farmer. I'm not sure if he was successful because you always took everything his son said with a pinch of salt: the jackdaw was real alright, but whether it could talk no one knew - it never talked to other people perhaps, only to "close family", so to speak!
Dickens creates a wonderful bird, not a jackdaw but a close relative of his, a raven in his novel "Barnaby Rudge".

"Look at him!" said Varden, divided between admiration of the bird and a kind of fear of him. "Was there ever such a knowing imp as that! O he's a dreadful fellow."
The raven with his head very much on one side and his bright eye shining like a diamond, preserved a thoughtful silence for a while....
"Halloa, halloa, halloa!" the bird said. "What's the matter here? Keep up your spirits. Never say die. Bow, wow, wow. I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a devil. Hurrah" - and then, as if exulting in his infernal character, he began to whistle.
"I more than half believe he speaks the truth. Upon my word I do," said Varden.

One day someone asked about the farmer's jackdaw - he hadn't been seen for some time.
"He died," the farmer's son told us boys sadly. "We'd clipped his wings to stop him flying away but he fell in a barrel of water, couldn't fly out and drowned."
We all looked sad.
"Dad's very upset," he added. "Drowning his sorrows."
I'll bet he was. He had a good excuse for once!