Nat the Naturalist | Page 7

had been for hours feasting my eyes upon the stuffed birds and noting the wondrous colours on their scale-like feathers.
I could think of scarcely anything else, talk of nothing else afterwards for days; and nothing would do but I must begin to collect birds and prepare and stuff them for myself.
"You wouldn't mind, would you, uncle?" I said.
"Mind? No, my boy," he said, rubbing his hands softly; "I should like it; but do you think you could stuff a bird?"
"Not at first," I said thoughtfully; "but I should try."
"To be sure, Nat," he cried smiling; "nothing like trying, my boy; but how would you begin?"
This set me thinking.
"I don't know, uncle," I said at last, "but it looks very easy."
"Ha! ha! ha! Nat; so do lots of things," he cried, laughing; "but sometimes they turn out very hard."
"I know," I said suddenly.
"I know," I said, "I could find out how to do it."
"Have some lessons, eh?" he said.
"No, uncle."
"How would you manage it then, Nat?"
"Buy a stuffed bird, uncle, and pull it to pieces, and see how it is done."
"To be sure, Nat," he cried; "to be sure, my boy. That's the way; but stop a moment; how would you put it together again?"
"Oh! I think I could, uncle," I said; "I'm nearly sure I could. How could I get one to try with?"
"Why, we might buy one somewhere," he said thoughtfully; "for I don't think they'd lend us one at the British Museum; but I tell you what, Nat," he cried: "I've got it."
"Have you, uncle?"
"To be sure, my boy. There's your aunt's old parrot that died and was stuffed. Don't you know?"
I shook my head.
"It was put somewhere up-stairs in the lumber-room, and your aunt has forgotten all about it. You might try with that."
"And I'd stuff it again when I had found out all about it, uncle," I said.
"To be sure, my boy," said uncle, thoughtfully; "I wonder whether your aunt would want Buzzy and Nap stuffed if they were to die?"
"She'd be sure to; aunt is so fond of them," I said. "Why, uncle, I might be able to do it myself."
"Think so?" he said thoughtfully. "Why, it would make her pleased, my boy."
But neither Buzzy nor Nap showed the slightest intention of dying so as to be stuffed, and I had to learn the art before I could attempt anything of the kind.
CHAPTER FOUR.
THE REMAINS OF POOR POLLY.
The very first opportunity, my uncle took me up with him to the lumber-room, an attic of which my aunt kept the key; and here, after quite a hunt amongst old portmanteaux, broken chairs, dusty tables, bird-cages, wrecked kennels, cornice-poles, black-looking pictures, and dozens of other odds and ends, we came in a dark corner upon the remains of one of my aunt's earliest pets. It was the stuffed figure of a grey parrot that had once stood beneath a glass shade, but the shade was broken, and poor Polly, who looked as if she had been moulting ever since she had been fixed upon her present perch, had her head partly torn from her shoulders.
"Here she is," said my uncle. "Poor old Polly! What a bird she was to screech! She never liked me, Nat, but used to call me wretch, as plain as you could say it yourself. It was very wicked of me, I dare say, Nat, but I was so glad when she died, and your aunt was so sorry that she cried off and on for a week."
"But she never was a pretty bird, uncle," I said, holding the stuffed creature to the light.
"No, my boy, never, and she used to pull off her feathers when she was in a passion, and call people wretch. She bit your aunt's nose once. But do you think it will do?"
"Oh yes, uncle," I said; "but may I pull it to pieces?"
"Well, yes, my boy, I think so," he said dreamily. "You couldn't spoil it, could you?"
"Why, it is spoiled already, Uncle Joe," I said.
"Yes, my boy, so it is; quite spoiled. I think I'll risk it, Nat."
"But if aunt would be very cross, uncle, hadn't I better leave it?" I said.
"If you didn't take it, Nat, she would never see it again, and it would lie here and moulder away. I think you had better take it, my boy."
I was so eager to begin that I hesitated no more, but took the bird out into the tool-house, where I could make what aunt called "a mess" without being scolded, and uncle put on his smoking-cap, lit his pipe, and brought a high stool to sit upon and watch me make my first attempt at mastering a mystery.
The first thing was to take Polly off her perch, which was a piece of twig covered with moss,