Nat the Naturalist | Page 8

that had once been glued on, but now came away in my hands, and I found that the bird had been kept upright by means of wires that ran down her legs and were wound about the twig.
Uncle smoked away as solemnly as could be, while I went on, and he seemed to be admiring my earnestness.
"There's wire up the legs, uncle," I cried, as I felt about the bird.
"Oh! is there?" he said, condescendingly.
"Yes, uncle, and two more pieces in the wings."
"You don't say so, Nat!"
"Yes, uncle, and another bit runs right through the body from the head to the tail; and--yes--no--yes--no--ah, I've found out how it is that the tail is spread."
"Have you, Nat?" he cried, letting his pipe out, he was so full of interest.
"Yes, uncle; there's a thin wire threaded through all the tail feathers, just as if they were beads."
"Why, what a boy you are!" he cried, wonderingly.
"Oh, it's easy enough to find that out, uncle," I said, colouring. "Now let's see what's inside."
"Think there's anything inside, Natty, my boy?"
"Oh yes, uncle," I said; "it's full of something. Why, it's tow."
"Toe, my boy!" he said seriously, "parrot's toe?"
"T-o-w. Tow, uncle, what they use to clean the lamps. I can stuff a bird, uncle, I know."
"Think you can, Natty?"
"Yes, to be sure," I said confidently. "Why, look here, it's easy to make a ball of tow the same shape as an egg for the body, and then to push wires through the body, and wings, and legs; no, stop a moment, they seem to be fastened in. Yes, so they are, but I know I can do it."
Uncle Joe held his pipe in his mouth with his teeth and rubbed his hands with satisfaction, for he was as pleased with my imagined success as I was, and as he looked on I pulled out the stuffing from the skin, placing the wings here, the legs there, and the tail before me, while the head with its white-irised glass eye was stuck upon a nail in the wall just over the bench.
"I feel as sure as can be, uncle, that I could stuff one."
"Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed. "Wretch! wretch! wretch! That's what Polly would say if she could speak. See how you've pulled her to pieces."
I looked up as he spoke, and there was the head with its queer glass eyes seeming to stare hard at me, and at the mess of skin and feathers on the bench.
"Well, I have pulled her to pieces, haven't I, uncle?" I said.
"That you have, my boy," he said, chuckling, as if he thought it very good fun.
"But I have learned how to stuff a bird, uncle," I said triumphantly.
"And are you going to stuff Polly again?" he asked, gazing at the ragged feathers and skin.
I looked at him quite guiltily.
"I--I don't think I could put this one together again, uncle," I said. "You see it was so ragged and torn before I touched it, and the feathers are coming out all over the place. But I could do a fresh one. You see there's nothing here but the skin. All the feathers are falling away."
"Yes," said my uncle, "and I know--"
"Know what, uncle?"
"Why, they do the skin over with some stuff to preserve it, and you'll have to get it at the chemist's."
"Yes, uncle."
"And I don't know, Natty," he said, "but I think you might try and put poor old Polly together again, for I don't feel quite comfortable about her; you have made her in such a dreadful mess."
"Yes, I have, indeed, uncle," I said dolefully, for the eagerness was beginning to evaporate.
"And your aunt was very fond of her, my boy, and she wouldn't like it if she knew."
"But I'm afraid I couldn't put her together again now, uncle;" and then I began to tremble, and my uncle leaped off his stool, and broke his pipe: for there was my aunt's well-known step on the gravel, and directly after we heard her cry:
"Joseph! Nathaniel! What are you both doing?" And I knew that I should have to confess.
CHAPTER FIVE.
HOW MY UNCLE AND I PUT HUMPTY DUMPTY TOGETHER AGAIN.
My uncle stood by me very bravely when Aunt Sophia entered the tool-house with an exclamation of surprise. For a few minutes she could not understand what we had been about.
"Feathers--a bird--a parrot!" she exclaimed at last. "Why, it is like poor Polly."
I looked very guiltily at my uncle and was about to speak, but he made me a signal to be silent.
"Yes, my dear," he faltered, "it--it was poor Polly. We--we found her in the lumber-room--all in ruins, my dear, and we--we have been examining her."
"I don't believe it," said my aunt sharply. "That mischievous boy has been at his tricks again."
"I assure you, my dear," cried my uncle,