Chapter Seven.The Return of the Wanderer.One day when I came home from school I was surprised to find a tall dark gentleman in the drawing-room with my uncle and aunt. He was so dark that he looked to me at first to be a foreigner, and his dark keen eyes and long black beard all grizzled with white hairs made him so very different to Uncle Joseph that I could not help comparing one with the other.“This is Master Nathaniel, I suppose,” said the stranger in a quick sharp way, just as if he was accustomed to order people about.“Yes, that’s Joseph’s nephew,” said my aunt tartly, “and a nice boy he is.”“You mean a nasty one,” I said to myself, as I coloured up, “but you needn’t have told a stranger.”“Yes,” said Uncle Joseph, “he is a very nice boy, Richard, and I’m very proud of him.”My aunt gave a very loud sniff.“Suppose we shake hands then, Nathaniel,” said the stranger, whom I immediately guessed to be my Aunt Sophia’s brother Richard, who was a learned man and a doctor, I had heard.He seemed to order me to shake hands with him, and I went up and held out mine, gazing full in his dark eyes, and wondering how much he knew.“Well done, youngster,” he said, giving my hand a squeeze that hurt me ever so, but I would not flinch. “I like to see a boy able to look one full in the face.”“Oh! he has impudence enough for anything,” said my aunt.“Oh! has he?” said our visitor smiling. “Well, I would rather see a boy impudent than a milksop.”“Nat was never impudent to me,” said my uncle, speaking up for me in a way that made my aunt stare.“I see—I see,” said our visitor. “You never were fond of boys, Sophy.”“No, indeed,” said my aunt.“Cats and dogs were always more in your way,” said our visitor. “Get out!”This was to Nap, who had been smelling about him for some time, and he gave him so rough a kick that the dog yelped out, and in a moment the temper that I had promised my uncle to keep under flashed forth again, as I caught at Nap to protect him, and flushing scarlet—“Don’t kick our dog,” I said sharply.I’ve often thought since that my aunt ought to have been pleased with me for taking the part of my old friend and her favourite, but she turned upon me quickly.“Leave the room, sir, directly. How dare you!” she cried. “To dare to speak to a visitor like that!” and I had to go out in disgrace, but as I closed the door I saw our visitor laughing and showing his white teeth.“I shall hate him,” I said to myself, as I put my hands in my pockets and began to wander up and down the garden; but I had hardly gone to and fro half a dozen times before I heard voices, and I was about to creep round by the side path and get indoors out of the way when Mr Richard Burnett caught sight of me, and shouted to me to come.I went up looking hurt and ill-used as he was coming down the path with Uncle Joe; but he clapped me on the shoulder, swung me round, and keeping his arm half round my neck, walked me up and down with them, and I listened as he kept on telling Uncle Joseph about where he had been.“Five years in South America, wandering about away from civilisation, is a long time, Joe; but I shall soon be off again.”I pricked up my ears.“Back to South America, Dick?”“No, my dear boy, I shall go in another direction this time.”“Where shall you go this time, sir?” I said eagerly.“Eh? where shall I go, squire?” he said sharply. “Right away to Borneo and New Guinea, wherever I am likely to collect specimens and find new varieties.”“Do you collect, sir?” I said excitedly.“To be sure I do, my boy. Do you?” he added with a smile.“Yes, sir, all I can.”“Oh yes! he has quite a wonderful collection down in the tool-house, Richard. Come and see.”Our visitor smiled in such a contemptuous way that I coloured up again, and felt as if I should have liked to cry, “You sha’n’t see them to make fun of my work.” But by that time we were at the tool-house door, and just inside was my cabinet full of drawers that uncle had let the carpenter make for me, and my cases and boxes, and the birds I had stuffed. In fact by that time, after a couple of years collecting, the tools had been ousted to hang in another shed, and the tool-house was pretty well taken up with my lumber.“Why, hallo!” cried our visitor; “who stuffed those birds?”I answered modestly enough that it was I.“And what’s in these drawers, eh?” he said, pulling them out sharply one after the other, and then opening my cases.“Nat’s collections,” said my uncle very proudly. “Here’s his catalogue.”“Neatly written out—numbered—Latin names,” he said, half to himself. “Why, hallo, young fellow, I don’t wonder that your Aunt Sophia says you are a bad character.”“But he isn’t, Dick,” said Uncle Joe warmly; “he’s a very good lad, and Sophy don’t mean what she says.”“She used to tell me I should come to no good in the old days when I began to make a mess at home, Joe,” he said merrily. “Why, Nat, my boy, you and I must be good friends. You would like to come and see my collection, eh?”“Will you—will you show it to me, sir?” I said, catching him in my excitement by the sleeve.“Well, I don’t know,” he said drily; “you looked daggers at me because I kicked your aunt’s pet.”“I couldn’t help it, sir,” I said; “Nap has always been such good friends with me that I didn’t like to see him hurt.”“Then I beg Nap’s pardon,” he said smiling. “I thought he was only a useless pet; but if he can be a good friend to you he is a better dog than I thought for.”“He’d be a splendid dog to hunt with, sir, if he had a chance.”“Would he? Well, I’m glad of it, and you shall come and see my collection, and help me catalogue and arrange them if you like. Here, hi! stop a minute: where are you going?”“Only to fetch my cap, sir,” I said excitedly, for the idea of seeing the collections of a man who had been five years in South America seemed to set me on fire.“Plenty of time yet, my boy,” he said, showing white teeth in a pleasant smile; “they are in the docks at Southampton, on board ship. Wait a bit, and you shall see all.”
One day when I came home from school I was surprised to find a tall dark gentleman in the drawing-room with my uncle and aunt. He was so dark that he looked to me at first to be a foreigner, and his dark keen eyes and long black beard all grizzled with white hairs made him so very different to Uncle Joseph that I could not help comparing one with the other.
“This is Master Nathaniel, I suppose,” said the stranger in a quick sharp way, just as if he was accustomed to order people about.
“Yes, that’s Joseph’s nephew,” said my aunt tartly, “and a nice boy he is.”
“You mean a nasty one,” I said to myself, as I coloured up, “but you needn’t have told a stranger.”
“Yes,” said Uncle Joseph, “he is a very nice boy, Richard, and I’m very proud of him.”
My aunt gave a very loud sniff.
“Suppose we shake hands then, Nathaniel,” said the stranger, whom I immediately guessed to be my Aunt Sophia’s brother Richard, who was a learned man and a doctor, I had heard.
He seemed to order me to shake hands with him, and I went up and held out mine, gazing full in his dark eyes, and wondering how much he knew.
“Well done, youngster,” he said, giving my hand a squeeze that hurt me ever so, but I would not flinch. “I like to see a boy able to look one full in the face.”
“Oh! he has impudence enough for anything,” said my aunt.
“Oh! has he?” said our visitor smiling. “Well, I would rather see a boy impudent than a milksop.”
“Nat was never impudent to me,” said my uncle, speaking up for me in a way that made my aunt stare.
“I see—I see,” said our visitor. “You never were fond of boys, Sophy.”
“No, indeed,” said my aunt.
“Cats and dogs were always more in your way,” said our visitor. “Get out!”
This was to Nap, who had been smelling about him for some time, and he gave him so rough a kick that the dog yelped out, and in a moment the temper that I had promised my uncle to keep under flashed forth again, as I caught at Nap to protect him, and flushing scarlet—
“Don’t kick our dog,” I said sharply.
I’ve often thought since that my aunt ought to have been pleased with me for taking the part of my old friend and her favourite, but she turned upon me quickly.
“Leave the room, sir, directly. How dare you!” she cried. “To dare to speak to a visitor like that!” and I had to go out in disgrace, but as I closed the door I saw our visitor laughing and showing his white teeth.
“I shall hate him,” I said to myself, as I put my hands in my pockets and began to wander up and down the garden; but I had hardly gone to and fro half a dozen times before I heard voices, and I was about to creep round by the side path and get indoors out of the way when Mr Richard Burnett caught sight of me, and shouted to me to come.
I went up looking hurt and ill-used as he was coming down the path with Uncle Joe; but he clapped me on the shoulder, swung me round, and keeping his arm half round my neck, walked me up and down with them, and I listened as he kept on telling Uncle Joseph about where he had been.
“Five years in South America, wandering about away from civilisation, is a long time, Joe; but I shall soon be off again.”
I pricked up my ears.
“Back to South America, Dick?”
“No, my dear boy, I shall go in another direction this time.”
“Where shall you go this time, sir?” I said eagerly.
“Eh? where shall I go, squire?” he said sharply. “Right away to Borneo and New Guinea, wherever I am likely to collect specimens and find new varieties.”
“Do you collect, sir?” I said excitedly.
“To be sure I do, my boy. Do you?” he added with a smile.
“Yes, sir, all I can.”
“Oh yes! he has quite a wonderful collection down in the tool-house, Richard. Come and see.”
Our visitor smiled in such a contemptuous way that I coloured up again, and felt as if I should have liked to cry, “You sha’n’t see them to make fun of my work.” But by that time we were at the tool-house door, and just inside was my cabinet full of drawers that uncle had let the carpenter make for me, and my cases and boxes, and the birds I had stuffed. In fact by that time, after a couple of years collecting, the tools had been ousted to hang in another shed, and the tool-house was pretty well taken up with my lumber.
“Why, hallo!” cried our visitor; “who stuffed those birds?”
I answered modestly enough that it was I.
“And what’s in these drawers, eh?” he said, pulling them out sharply one after the other, and then opening my cases.
“Nat’s collections,” said my uncle very proudly. “Here’s his catalogue.”
“Neatly written out—numbered—Latin names,” he said, half to himself. “Why, hallo, young fellow, I don’t wonder that your Aunt Sophia says you are a bad character.”
“But he isn’t, Dick,” said Uncle Joe warmly; “he’s a very good lad, and Sophy don’t mean what she says.”
“She used to tell me I should come to no good in the old days when I began to make a mess at home, Joe,” he said merrily. “Why, Nat, my boy, you and I must be good friends. You would like to come and see my collection, eh?”
“Will you—will you show it to me, sir?” I said, catching him in my excitement by the sleeve.
“Well, I don’t know,” he said drily; “you looked daggers at me because I kicked your aunt’s pet.”
“I couldn’t help it, sir,” I said; “Nap has always been such good friends with me that I didn’t like to see him hurt.”
“Then I beg Nap’s pardon,” he said smiling. “I thought he was only a useless pet; but if he can be a good friend to you he is a better dog than I thought for.”
“He’d be a splendid dog to hunt with, sir, if he had a chance.”
“Would he? Well, I’m glad of it, and you shall come and see my collection, and help me catalogue and arrange them if you like. Here, hi! stop a minute: where are you going?”
“Only to fetch my cap, sir,” I said excitedly, for the idea of seeing the collections of a man who had been five years in South America seemed to set me on fire.
“Plenty of time yet, my boy,” he said, showing white teeth in a pleasant smile; “they are in the docks at Southampton, on board ship. Wait a bit, and you shall see all.”
Chapter Eight.I find myself a Brother Naturalist.I stood looking very hard at our visitor, Doctor Burnett, and thought how very different he was to Aunt Sophia. Only a little while before, I had felt as if I must hate him for behaving so badly to Nap, and for talking to me in such a cold, contemptuous way. It had seemed as if he would join with Aunt Sophia in making me uncomfortable, and I thought it would have been so much pleasanter if he had stayed away.But now, as I stood watching him, he was becoming quite a hero in my eyes, for not only had he been abroad seeing the wonders of the world, but he had suddenly shown a liking for me, and his whole manner was changed.When he had spoken to me in the house it had been in a pooh-poohing sort of fashion, as if I were a stupid troublesome boy, very much in the way, and as if he wondered at his sister and brother-in-law’s keeping me upon the premises; but now the change was wonderful. The cold distant manner had gone, and he began to talk to me as if he had known me all my life.“Shall we go round the garden again, Dick?” said my uncle, after standing there nodding and smiling at me, evidently feeling very proud that his brother-in-law should take so much notice of the collection.“No,” said our visitor sharply. “There, get your pipe, Joe, and you can sit down and look on while I go over Nat’s collection. We naturalists always compare notes—eh, Nat?”I turned scarlet with excitement and pleasure, while Uncle Joseph rubbed his hands, beaming with satisfaction, and proceeded to take down his long clay pipe from where it hung upon two nails in the wall, and his little tobacco jar from a niche below the rafters.“That’s what I often do here, Dick,” he said; “I sit and smoke and give advice—when it is asked, and Nat goes on with his stuffing and preserving.”“Then now, you may sit down and give advice—when it is asked,” said our visitor smiling, “while Nat and I compare notes. Who taught you how to stuff birds, Nat?”“I—I taught myself, sir,” I replied.“Taught yourself?” he said, pinching one of my birds—a starling that I had bought for a penny of a man with a gun.“Yes, sir; I pulled Polly to pieces.”“You did what?” he cried, bursting into a roar of laughter. “Why, who was Polly—one of the maids?”“Oh no, sir! Aunt Sophy’s stuffed parrot.”“Well, really, Nat,” he said, laughing most heartily, “you’re the strangest boy I ever met.”“Am I, sir?” I said, feeling a little chilled again, for he seemed to be laughing unpleasantly at me.“That you are, Nat; but I like strange boys. So you pulled Polly to pieces, eh? And found out where the naturalists put the wires, eh?”“Yes, sir.”“And how do you preserve the skins?”“With arsenical soap, sir.”“That’s right; so do I.”“But it’s very dangerous stuff, sir,” I said eagerly.“Not if it is properly used, my boy,” he said, taking up bird after bird and examining it carefully. “A fire is a very dangerous thing if you thrust your hand into it, and Uncle Joe’s razors are dangerous things if they are not properly used. You see I don’t trouble them much,” he added smiling.“No, indeed, sir,” I said, as I glanced at his long beard.“I don’t have hot water for shaving brought to me, Nat, when I’m at sea, my boy, or out in the jungle. It’s rough work there.”“But it must be very nice, sir,” I said eagerly.“Very, my boy, when you lie down to sleep beneath a tree, so hungry that you could eat your boots, and not knowing whether the enemy that attacks you before morning will be a wild beast, a poisonous serpent, or a deadly fever.”“But it must be very exciting, sir,” I cried.“Very, my boy,” he said drily. “Yes: that bird’s rough, but I like the shape. There’s nature in it—at least as much as you can get by imitation. Look, Joe, there’s a soft roundness about that bird. It looks alive. Some of our best bird-stuffers have no more notion of what a bird is like in real life than a baby. What made you put that tomtit in that position, Nat?” he said, turning sharply to me.“That?—that’s how they hang by the legs when they are picking the buds, sir,” I said nervously, for I was quite startled by his quick, sudden way.“To be sure it is, Nat, my boy. That’s quite right. Always take nature as your model, and imitate her as closely as you can. Some of the stuffed birds at the British Museum used to drive me into a rage. Glad to see you have the true ring in you, my boy.”I hardly knew what he meant by the “true ring”, but it was evidently meant kindly, and I felt hotter than ever; but my spirits rose as I saw how pleased Uncle Joe was.“You can stuff birds, then, sir?” I said, after a pause, during which our visitor made himself very busy examining everything I had.“Well, yes, Nat, after a fashion. I’m not clever at it, for I never practise mounting. I can make skins.”“Make skins, sir?”“Yes, my boy. Don’t you see that when I am in some wild place shooting and collecting, every scrap of luggage becomes a burden.”“Yes, sir; of course,” I said, nodding my head sagely, “especially if the roads are not good.”“Roads, my boy,” he said laughing; “the rivers and streams are the only roads in such places as I travel through. Then, of course, I can’t use wires and tow to distend my birds, so we make what we call skins. That is to say, after preparing the skin, all that is done is to tie the long bones together, and fill the bird out with some kind of wild cotton, press the head back on the body by means of a tiny paper cone or sugar-paper, put a band round the wings, and dry the skin in the sun.”“Yes, I know, sir,” I cried eagerly; “and you pin the paper round the bird with a tiny bamboo skewer, and put another piece of bamboo through from head to tail.”“Why, how do you know?” he said wonderingly.“Oh! Nat knows a deal,” said Uncle Joe, chuckling. “We’re not such stupid people as you think, Dick, even if we do stay at home.”“I’ve got a skin or two, sir,” I said, “and they were made like that.”As I spoke I took the two skins out of an old cigar-box.“Oh! I see,” he said, as he took them very gently and smoothed their feathers with the greatest care. “Where did you get these, Nat?”“I bought them with my pocket-money in Oxford Street, sir,” I said, as Uncle Joe, who had not before seen them, leaned forward.“And do you know what they are, my boy?” said our visitor.“No, sir; I have no books with pictures of them in, and the man who sold them to me did not know. Can you tell me, sir?”“Yes, Nat, I think so,” he said quietly. “This pretty dark bird with the black and white and crimson plumage is the rain-bird—the blue-billed gaper; and this softly-feathered fellow with the bristles at the side of his bill is a trogon.”“A trogon, sir?”“Yes, Nat, a trogon; and these little bamboo skewers tell me directly that the birds came from somewhere in the East.”I looked at him wonderingly.“Yes, Nat,” he continued, “from the East, where the bamboo is used for endless purposes. It is hard, and will bear a sharp point, and is so abundant that the people seem to have no end to the use they make of it.”“And have you seen birds like these alive, sir?”“No, Nat, but I hope to do so before long. That blue-billed gaper probably came from Malacca, and the trogon too. See how beautifully its wings are pencilled, and how the bright cinnamon of its back feathers contrasts with the bright crimson of its breast. We have plenty of trogons out in the West; some of them most gorgeous fellows, with tails a yard long, and of the most resplendent golden metallic green.”“And humming-birds, sir?”“Thousands, my boy; all darting through the air like living gems. The specimens brought home are very beautiful, but they are as nothing compared to those fairy-like little creatures, full of life and action, with the sun flashing from their plumage.”“And are there humming-birds, sir, in the East?” I cried, feeling my mouth grow dry with excitement and interest.“No, my boy; but there is a tribe of tiny birds there that we know as sun-birds, almost as beautiful in their plumage, and of very similar habit. I hope to make a long study of their ways, and to get a good collection. I know nothing, however, more attractive to a man who loves nature than to lie down beneath some great plant of convolvulus, or any trumpet-shaped blossom, and watch the humming-birds flashing to and fro in the sunlight. Their scale-like feathers on throat and head reflect the sun rays like so many gems, and their colours are the most gorgeous that it is possible to conceive. But there, I tire you. Why, Joe, your pipe’s out!”“Please go on, sir,” I said in a hoarse whisper, for, as he spoke, I felt myself far away in some wondrous foreign land, lying beneath the trumpet-flowered tree or plant, gazing at the brilliant little creatures he described.“Do you like to hear of such things, then?” he said smiling.“Oh! so much, sir!” I cried; and he went on.“I believe some of them capture insects at certain times, but as a rule these lovely little birds live upon the honey they suck from the nectaries of these trumpet-shaped blossoms; and their bills are long and thin so that they can reach right to the end. Some of these little creatures make quite a humming noise with their wings, and after darting here and there like a large fly they will seem to stop midway in the air, apparently motionless, but with their wings all the while beating so fast that they are almost invisible. Sometimes one will stop like this just in front of some beautiful flower, and you may see it hang suspended in the air, while it thrusts in its long bill and drinks the sweet honey that forms its food.”“And can you shoot such little things, sir?” I asked.“Oh, yes, my boy; it is easy enough to shoot them,” he replied. “The difficulty is to bring them down without hurting their plumage, which is extremely delicate. The Indians shoot them with a blow-pipe and pellets and get very good specimens; but then one is not always with the Indians; and in those hot climates a bird must be skinned directly, so I generally trust to myself and get my own specimens.”“With a blow-pipe, sir?”“No, Nat; I have tried, but I never got to be very clever with it. One wants to begin young to manage a blow-pipe well. I always shot my humming-birds with a gun.”“And shot, sir?”“Not always, Nat. I have brought them down with the disturbance of the air or the wad of the gun. At other times I have used sand, or in places where I had no sand I have used water.”“Water!” I exclaimed.“Yes, and very good it is for the purpose, Nat. A little poured into the barrel of the gun after the powder is made safe with a couple of wads, is driven out in a fine cutting spray, which has secured me many a lovely specimen with its plumage unhurt.”“But don’t it seem rather cruel to shoot such lovely creatures, Dick?” said Uncle Joe in an apologetic tone.“Well, yes, it has struck me in that light before now,” said our visitor; “but as I am working entirely with scientific views, and for the spread of the knowledge of the beautiful occupants of this world, I do not see the harm. Besides, I never wantonly destroy life. And then, look here, my clear Joe, if you come to think out these things you will find that almost invariably the bird or animal you kill has passed its life in killing other things upon which it lives.”“Ye–es,” said Uncle Joe, “I suppose it has.”“You wouldn’t like to shoot a blackbird, perhaps?”“Well, I don’t know,” said Uncle Joe. “They are the wickedest thieves that ever entered a garden; aren’t they, Nat?”“Yes, uncle, they are a nuisance,” I said.“Well, suppose you killed a blackbird, Joe,” continued our visitor; “he has spent half his time in killing slugs and snails, and lugging poor unfortunate worms out of their holes; and it seems to me that the slug or the worm is just as likely to enjoy its life as the greedy blackbird, whom people protect because he has an orange bill and sings sweetly in the spring.”“Ye–es,” said my uncle, looking all the while as if he were terribly puzzled, while I sat drinking in every word our visitor said, feeling that I had never before heard any one talk like that.“For my part,” continued our visitor, “I never destroy life wantonly; and as for you, young man, you may take this for a piece of good advice—never kill for the sake of killing. Let it be a work of necessity—for food, for a specimen, for your own protection, but never for sport. I don’t like the word, Nat; there is too much cruelty in what is called sport.”“But wouldn’t you kill lions and tigers, sir?” I said.“Most decidedly, my boy. That is the struggle for life. I’d sooner kill a thousand tigers, Nat, than one should kill me,” he said laughing; “and for my part—”“Joseph, I’m ashamed of you. Nathaniel, this is your doing, you naughty boy,” cried my aunt, appearing at the door. “It is really disgraceful, Joseph, that you will come here to sit and smoke; and as for you, Nathaniel, what do you mean, sir, by dragging your un—, I mean a visitor, down into this nasty, untidy place, and pestering him with your rubbish?”“Oh, it was not Nathaniel’s doing, Sophy,” said our visitor smiling, as he rose and drew aunt’s arm through his, “but mine; I’ve been making the boy show me his treasures. There, come along and you and I will have a good long chat now. Nat, my boy, I sha’n’t forget what we said.”
I stood looking very hard at our visitor, Doctor Burnett, and thought how very different he was to Aunt Sophia. Only a little while before, I had felt as if I must hate him for behaving so badly to Nap, and for talking to me in such a cold, contemptuous way. It had seemed as if he would join with Aunt Sophia in making me uncomfortable, and I thought it would have been so much pleasanter if he had stayed away.
But now, as I stood watching him, he was becoming quite a hero in my eyes, for not only had he been abroad seeing the wonders of the world, but he had suddenly shown a liking for me, and his whole manner was changed.
When he had spoken to me in the house it had been in a pooh-poohing sort of fashion, as if I were a stupid troublesome boy, very much in the way, and as if he wondered at his sister and brother-in-law’s keeping me upon the premises; but now the change was wonderful. The cold distant manner had gone, and he began to talk to me as if he had known me all my life.
“Shall we go round the garden again, Dick?” said my uncle, after standing there nodding and smiling at me, evidently feeling very proud that his brother-in-law should take so much notice of the collection.
“No,” said our visitor sharply. “There, get your pipe, Joe, and you can sit down and look on while I go over Nat’s collection. We naturalists always compare notes—eh, Nat?”
I turned scarlet with excitement and pleasure, while Uncle Joseph rubbed his hands, beaming with satisfaction, and proceeded to take down his long clay pipe from where it hung upon two nails in the wall, and his little tobacco jar from a niche below the rafters.
“That’s what I often do here, Dick,” he said; “I sit and smoke and give advice—when it is asked, and Nat goes on with his stuffing and preserving.”
“Then now, you may sit down and give advice—when it is asked,” said our visitor smiling, “while Nat and I compare notes. Who taught you how to stuff birds, Nat?”
“I—I taught myself, sir,” I replied.
“Taught yourself?” he said, pinching one of my birds—a starling that I had bought for a penny of a man with a gun.
“Yes, sir; I pulled Polly to pieces.”
“You did what?” he cried, bursting into a roar of laughter. “Why, who was Polly—one of the maids?”
“Oh no, sir! Aunt Sophy’s stuffed parrot.”
“Well, really, Nat,” he said, laughing most heartily, “you’re the strangest boy I ever met.”
“Am I, sir?” I said, feeling a little chilled again, for he seemed to be laughing unpleasantly at me.
“That you are, Nat; but I like strange boys. So you pulled Polly to pieces, eh? And found out where the naturalists put the wires, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how do you preserve the skins?”
“With arsenical soap, sir.”
“That’s right; so do I.”
“But it’s very dangerous stuff, sir,” I said eagerly.
“Not if it is properly used, my boy,” he said, taking up bird after bird and examining it carefully. “A fire is a very dangerous thing if you thrust your hand into it, and Uncle Joe’s razors are dangerous things if they are not properly used. You see I don’t trouble them much,” he added smiling.
“No, indeed, sir,” I said, as I glanced at his long beard.
“I don’t have hot water for shaving brought to me, Nat, when I’m at sea, my boy, or out in the jungle. It’s rough work there.”
“But it must be very nice, sir,” I said eagerly.
“Very, my boy, when you lie down to sleep beneath a tree, so hungry that you could eat your boots, and not knowing whether the enemy that attacks you before morning will be a wild beast, a poisonous serpent, or a deadly fever.”
“But it must be very exciting, sir,” I cried.
“Very, my boy,” he said drily. “Yes: that bird’s rough, but I like the shape. There’s nature in it—at least as much as you can get by imitation. Look, Joe, there’s a soft roundness about that bird. It looks alive. Some of our best bird-stuffers have no more notion of what a bird is like in real life than a baby. What made you put that tomtit in that position, Nat?” he said, turning sharply to me.
“That?—that’s how they hang by the legs when they are picking the buds, sir,” I said nervously, for I was quite startled by his quick, sudden way.
“To be sure it is, Nat, my boy. That’s quite right. Always take nature as your model, and imitate her as closely as you can. Some of the stuffed birds at the British Museum used to drive me into a rage. Glad to see you have the true ring in you, my boy.”
I hardly knew what he meant by the “true ring”, but it was evidently meant kindly, and I felt hotter than ever; but my spirits rose as I saw how pleased Uncle Joe was.
“You can stuff birds, then, sir?” I said, after a pause, during which our visitor made himself very busy examining everything I had.
“Well, yes, Nat, after a fashion. I’m not clever at it, for I never practise mounting. I can make skins.”
“Make skins, sir?”
“Yes, my boy. Don’t you see that when I am in some wild place shooting and collecting, every scrap of luggage becomes a burden.”
“Yes, sir; of course,” I said, nodding my head sagely, “especially if the roads are not good.”
“Roads, my boy,” he said laughing; “the rivers and streams are the only roads in such places as I travel through. Then, of course, I can’t use wires and tow to distend my birds, so we make what we call skins. That is to say, after preparing the skin, all that is done is to tie the long bones together, and fill the bird out with some kind of wild cotton, press the head back on the body by means of a tiny paper cone or sugar-paper, put a band round the wings, and dry the skin in the sun.”
“Yes, I know, sir,” I cried eagerly; “and you pin the paper round the bird with a tiny bamboo skewer, and put another piece of bamboo through from head to tail.”
“Why, how do you know?” he said wonderingly.
“Oh! Nat knows a deal,” said Uncle Joe, chuckling. “We’re not such stupid people as you think, Dick, even if we do stay at home.”
“I’ve got a skin or two, sir,” I said, “and they were made like that.”
As I spoke I took the two skins out of an old cigar-box.
“Oh! I see,” he said, as he took them very gently and smoothed their feathers with the greatest care. “Where did you get these, Nat?”
“I bought them with my pocket-money in Oxford Street, sir,” I said, as Uncle Joe, who had not before seen them, leaned forward.
“And do you know what they are, my boy?” said our visitor.
“No, sir; I have no books with pictures of them in, and the man who sold them to me did not know. Can you tell me, sir?”
“Yes, Nat, I think so,” he said quietly. “This pretty dark bird with the black and white and crimson plumage is the rain-bird—the blue-billed gaper; and this softly-feathered fellow with the bristles at the side of his bill is a trogon.”
“A trogon, sir?”
“Yes, Nat, a trogon; and these little bamboo skewers tell me directly that the birds came from somewhere in the East.”
I looked at him wonderingly.
“Yes, Nat,” he continued, “from the East, where the bamboo is used for endless purposes. It is hard, and will bear a sharp point, and is so abundant that the people seem to have no end to the use they make of it.”
“And have you seen birds like these alive, sir?”
“No, Nat, but I hope to do so before long. That blue-billed gaper probably came from Malacca, and the trogon too. See how beautifully its wings are pencilled, and how the bright cinnamon of its back feathers contrasts with the bright crimson of its breast. We have plenty of trogons out in the West; some of them most gorgeous fellows, with tails a yard long, and of the most resplendent golden metallic green.”
“And humming-birds, sir?”
“Thousands, my boy; all darting through the air like living gems. The specimens brought home are very beautiful, but they are as nothing compared to those fairy-like little creatures, full of life and action, with the sun flashing from their plumage.”
“And are there humming-birds, sir, in the East?” I cried, feeling my mouth grow dry with excitement and interest.
“No, my boy; but there is a tribe of tiny birds there that we know as sun-birds, almost as beautiful in their plumage, and of very similar habit. I hope to make a long study of their ways, and to get a good collection. I know nothing, however, more attractive to a man who loves nature than to lie down beneath some great plant of convolvulus, or any trumpet-shaped blossom, and watch the humming-birds flashing to and fro in the sunlight. Their scale-like feathers on throat and head reflect the sun rays like so many gems, and their colours are the most gorgeous that it is possible to conceive. But there, I tire you. Why, Joe, your pipe’s out!”
“Please go on, sir,” I said in a hoarse whisper, for, as he spoke, I felt myself far away in some wondrous foreign land, lying beneath the trumpet-flowered tree or plant, gazing at the brilliant little creatures he described.
“Do you like to hear of such things, then?” he said smiling.
“Oh! so much, sir!” I cried; and he went on.
“I believe some of them capture insects at certain times, but as a rule these lovely little birds live upon the honey they suck from the nectaries of these trumpet-shaped blossoms; and their bills are long and thin so that they can reach right to the end. Some of these little creatures make quite a humming noise with their wings, and after darting here and there like a large fly they will seem to stop midway in the air, apparently motionless, but with their wings all the while beating so fast that they are almost invisible. Sometimes one will stop like this just in front of some beautiful flower, and you may see it hang suspended in the air, while it thrusts in its long bill and drinks the sweet honey that forms its food.”
“And can you shoot such little things, sir?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, my boy; it is easy enough to shoot them,” he replied. “The difficulty is to bring them down without hurting their plumage, which is extremely delicate. The Indians shoot them with a blow-pipe and pellets and get very good specimens; but then one is not always with the Indians; and in those hot climates a bird must be skinned directly, so I generally trust to myself and get my own specimens.”
“With a blow-pipe, sir?”
“No, Nat; I have tried, but I never got to be very clever with it. One wants to begin young to manage a blow-pipe well. I always shot my humming-birds with a gun.”
“And shot, sir?”
“Not always, Nat. I have brought them down with the disturbance of the air or the wad of the gun. At other times I have used sand, or in places where I had no sand I have used water.”
“Water!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, and very good it is for the purpose, Nat. A little poured into the barrel of the gun after the powder is made safe with a couple of wads, is driven out in a fine cutting spray, which has secured me many a lovely specimen with its plumage unhurt.”
“But don’t it seem rather cruel to shoot such lovely creatures, Dick?” said Uncle Joe in an apologetic tone.
“Well, yes, it has struck me in that light before now,” said our visitor; “but as I am working entirely with scientific views, and for the spread of the knowledge of the beautiful occupants of this world, I do not see the harm. Besides, I never wantonly destroy life. And then, look here, my clear Joe, if you come to think out these things you will find that almost invariably the bird or animal you kill has passed its life in killing other things upon which it lives.”
“Ye–es,” said Uncle Joe, “I suppose it has.”
“You wouldn’t like to shoot a blackbird, perhaps?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Uncle Joe. “They are the wickedest thieves that ever entered a garden; aren’t they, Nat?”
“Yes, uncle, they are a nuisance,” I said.
“Well, suppose you killed a blackbird, Joe,” continued our visitor; “he has spent half his time in killing slugs and snails, and lugging poor unfortunate worms out of their holes; and it seems to me that the slug or the worm is just as likely to enjoy its life as the greedy blackbird, whom people protect because he has an orange bill and sings sweetly in the spring.”
“Ye–es,” said my uncle, looking all the while as if he were terribly puzzled, while I sat drinking in every word our visitor said, feeling that I had never before heard any one talk like that.
“For my part,” continued our visitor, “I never destroy life wantonly; and as for you, young man, you may take this for a piece of good advice—never kill for the sake of killing. Let it be a work of necessity—for food, for a specimen, for your own protection, but never for sport. I don’t like the word, Nat; there is too much cruelty in what is called sport.”
“But wouldn’t you kill lions and tigers, sir?” I said.
“Most decidedly, my boy. That is the struggle for life. I’d sooner kill a thousand tigers, Nat, than one should kill me,” he said laughing; “and for my part—”
“Joseph, I’m ashamed of you. Nathaniel, this is your doing, you naughty boy,” cried my aunt, appearing at the door. “It is really disgraceful, Joseph, that you will come here to sit and smoke; and as for you, Nathaniel, what do you mean, sir, by dragging your un—, I mean a visitor, down into this nasty, untidy place, and pestering him with your rubbish?”
“Oh, it was not Nathaniel’s doing, Sophy,” said our visitor smiling, as he rose and drew aunt’s arm through his, “but mine; I’ve been making the boy show me his treasures. There, come along and you and I will have a good long chat now. Nat, my boy, I sha’n’t forget what we said.”
Chapter Nine.Uncle Dick’s Boxes.“I’m afraid we’ve made your aunt very cross, Nat, my boy,” said Uncle Joe, rubbing his hands softly, and looking perplexed and troubled. “Do you think, Nat, that I have been leading you wrong?”“I hope not, uncle,” I said, “and I don’t think so, for it has been very nice out here in the toolshed, and we have enjoyed ourselves so.”“Yes, my boy, we have, very much, indeed, but I’m afraid your aunt never forgave us for not putting Humpty Dumpty together again.”“But, uncle,” I said, “isn’t it unreasonable of Aunt Sophia to expect us to do what all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could not do?”He looked at me for a few minutes without speaking, and then he began to smile very slightly, then a little more and a little more, till, instead of looking dreadfully serious, his face was as happy as it could be. Then he began to laugh very heartily, and I laughed too, till the tears were in our eyes.“Of—of course it was, Nat,” he cried, chuckling and coughing together. “We couldn’t do what all the king’s horses and all the king’s men didn’t manage, Nat, and—yes, my dear, we’re coming.”Uncle Joe jumped up and went out of the tool-house, for my aunt’s voice could be heard telling us to come in.“Hush!” he whispered, with a finger on his lips. “Make haste in, Nat, and run up to your room and wash your hands.”I followed him in, and somehow, whenever Doctor Burnett was in the room, my aunt did not seem so cross, especially as her brother took a good deal of notice of me, and kept on asking me questions.I soon found, to my great delight, that he was going to stay with us till he started for Singapore, a place whose name somehow set me thinking about Chinese people and Indian rajahs, but that was all; the rest was to me one great mystery, and I used to lie in bed of a night and wonder what sort of a place it could be.Every day our visitor grew less cool and distant in his ways, and at last my aunt said pettishly:“Well, really, Richard, it is too bad; this is the third morning this week you have kept that boy away from school by saying you wanted him. How do you expect his education to get on?”“Get on?” said Doctor Burnett; “why, my dear sister, he is learning the whole time he is with me; I’ll be bound to say that he has picked up more geography since he has been with me than he has all the time he has been to school.”“I don’t know so much about that,” said my aunt snappishly.“Then I do,” he said. “Let the boy alone, he is learning a great deal; and I shall want him more this next week.”“You’d better take him away from school altogether,” said my aunt angrily.“Well, yes,” said the doctor quietly; “as it is so near his holidays, he may as well stop away the rest of this half.”“Richard!” cried my aunt as I sat there pinching my legs to keep from looking pleased.“He will have to work hard at helping me with my collections, which are on the way here, I find, from a letter received this morning. There will be a great deal of copying and labelling, and that will improve his writing, though he does write a fair round hand.”“But it will be neglecting his other studies,” cried my aunt.“But then he will be picking up a good deal of Latin, for I shall explain to him the meaning of the words as he writes them, and, besides, telling him as much as I know of natural history and my travels.”“And what is to become of the boy then?” cried my aunt. “I will not have him turn idler, Richard.”“Well, if you think I have turned idler, Sophy,” he said laughing, and showing his white teeth, “all I can say is, that idling over natural history and travelling is very hard work.”“But the boy must not run wild as—”“I did? There, say it out, Sophy,” said her brother. “I don’t mind, my dear; some people look upon everything they do not understand as idling.”“I think I understand what is good for that boy,” said my aunt shortly.“Of course you do,” said the doctor, “and you think it will do him good to help me a bit, Sophy. Come along, Nat, my boy, we are to have the back-room for the chests, so we must make ready, for they will be here to-morrow.”“Oh, Doctor Burnett,” I cried as soon as we were alone.“Suppose you call me Uncle Richard for the future, my boy,” he said. “By and by, when we get to know each other better, it will be Uncle Dick. Why not at once, eh?”“I—I shouldn’t like to call you that, sir,” I said.“Why not?”“I—I hardly know, sir, only that you seem so clever and to know so much.”“Then it shall be Uncle Dick at once,” he said, laughing merrily; “for every day that you are with me, Nat, you will be finding out more and more that I am not so clever as you think.”So from that day it was always Uncle Dick, and as soon as the great chests arrived we set to work.I shall never forget those great rough boxes made of foreign wood, nor the intense interest with which I watched them as they were carried in upon the backs of the stout railway vanmen and set carefully in the large back-room.There were twenty of them altogether, and some were piled upon the others as if they were building stones, till at last the men’s book had been signed, the money paid for carriage, and Uncle Joe, Uncle Dick, and I sat there alone staring at the chests and wondering at their appearance.For they were battered, and bruised, and chipped away in splinters, so that they looked very old indeed, though, as my uncle told me, there was not one there more than five years old, though they might have been fifty.Every one had painted upon it in large white letters:“Dr Burnett, FZS, London,” and I wondered what FZS might mean. Then I noticed that the chests were all numbered, and I was longing intensely for them to be opened, when Uncle Dick, as I suppose I must call him now, made me start by crying out:“Screw-driver!”I jumped up and ran to Uncle Joe’s tool-box for the big screw-driver, and was back with it in a very short time, Uncle Dick laughing heartily as he saw my excitement.“Thank you, Nat, that will do,” he said. “It will be nice and handy for me to-morrow morning.”“Ha—ha—ha!” he laughed directly after, as he saw my blank disappointed face. “Did you think I was going to open the cases to-day, Nat?”“I did hope so, sir,” I said stoutly.“Then I will,” he cried, “for your being so frank. Now then, which shall it be?”“I should begin with number one, sir,” I said.“And so we will, Nat. Nothing like order. Look here, my boy. Here is my book for cataloguing.”He showed me a large blank book ruled with lines, and on turning it over I found headings here and there under which the different specimens were to be placed.But I could not look much at the book while “our great traveller”, as Uncle Joe used to call him to me, was busy at work with the screw-driver, taking out the great screws, one after another, and laying them in a box.“Now, Nat,” he said, “suppose after going through all my trouble I find that half my specimens are destroyed, what shall I do?”“I don’t know, uncle,” I said. “I know what I should do.”“What, my boy?”“Go and try and find some more.”“A good plan,” he said laughing; “and when it means journeying ten or twelve thousand miles, my boy, to seek for more, it becomes a serious task.”All this while he was working away at the screws, till they were half out and loose enough for me to go on turning them with my fingers, and this, after the first two or three, I did till we came to the last, when my uncle stopped and pretended that it was in so tight that it would not turn.“Let me try, uncle,” I cried.“You? Nonsense! boy. There, I think we shall have to give up for to-day.”He burst out laughing the next moment at my doleful face, gave the screw a few rapid twists; and in a few more moments it was out, and he took hold of the lid.“Ready?” he exclaimed.“Yes, quite ready,” said Uncle Joe, who was nearly as much excited as I was myself; and then the lid was lifted and we eagerly looked inside.There was not much to see, only what looked like another lid, held in its place by a few stout nails. These were soon drawn out though, the second lid lifted, and still there was nothing to see but cotton-wool, which, however, sent out a curious spicy smell, hot and peppery, and mixed with camphor.Then the treat began, for Uncle Dick removed a few layers of cotton-wool, and there were the birds lying closely packed, and so beautiful in plumage that we—that is, Uncle Joe and I—uttered a cry of delight.I had never before seen anything so beautiful, I thought, as the gorgeous colours of the birds before me, or they seemed to be so fresh and bright and different to anything I had seen in the museum, Uncle Dick having taken care, as I afterwards found, to reject any but the most perfect skins; and these were before me ready to be taken out and laid carefully upon some boards he had prepared for the purpose, and as I helped him I kept on asking questions till some people would have been answered out. Uncle Dick, however, encouraged me to go on questioning him, and I quickly picked up the names of a good many of the birds.Now it would be a magnificent macaw all blue and scarlet. Then a long-tailed paroquet of the most delicate green, and directly after quite a trayful of the most lovely little birds I had ever seen. They were about the size of chaffinches for the most part; but while some were of the richest crimson, others were blue and green and violet, and a dozen other shades of colour mixed up in the loveliest way.“Now what are those, Nat?” said my uncle.“I don’t know, sir,” I very naturally said.“What would they be if they were in England and only plain-coloured?”“Why, I should have said by their beaks, uncle, that they were finches, and lived on seed.”“Finches they are, Nat, and you are quite right to judge them by their beaks.”“But I didn’t know that there were finches abroad, Uncle Dick,” I said.“Then you know now, my boy, and by degrees you will learn that there are finches all over the world, and sparrows, and thrushes, and cuckoos, and larks, and hawks, crows, and all the other birds that you find in England.”“Why, I thought they were all different, uncle,” I said.“So most people think,” he said, as he went on unpacking the birds; “the difference is that while our British finches are sober coloured, those of hot countries are brilliant in plumage. So are the crow family and the thrushes, as you will see, while some of the sparrows and tits are perfect dandies.”“Why, I thought foreign birds were all parrots and humming-birds, and things like that.”“Well, we have those birds different abroad, Nat,” he replied, “and as I tell you the principal difference is in the gorgeous plumes.”“But such birds as birds of paradise, uncle?” I said.“Well, what should you suppose a bird of paradise to be?”“I don’t know,” I said.“Well, should you think it were a finch, Nat?”“No, uncle,” I said at once.“Well, it isn’t a pheasant, is it?”“Oh no!”“What then?”I stood with a tanager in one hand, a lovely manakin in the other, thinking.“They couldn’t be crows,” I said, “because—”“Because what?”“I don’t know, uncle.”“No, of course you do not, my boy, for crows they really are.”“What! birds of paradise with their lovely buff plumes, uncle?”“Yes, birds of paradise with their lovely buff and amber plumes, my boy; they are of the crow family, just as our jays, magpies, and starlings are. You would be surprised, my boy, when you came to study and investigate these matters, how few comparatively are the families and classes to which birds belong, and how so many of the most gorgeous little fellows are only showily-dressed specimens of the familiar flutterers you have at home. Look at that one there, just on the top.”“What! that lovely orange and black bird, uncle?” I said, picking up the one he pointed at, and smoothing its rich plumage.“Yes, Nat,” he said; “what is it?”Uncle Joe took his pipe from his lips, and looked at it very solemnly.“’Tisn’t a parrot,” he said, “because it has not got a hooky beak.”“No, it isn’t a parrot, uncle,” I exclaimed; “its beak is more like a starling’s.”“If it were a starling, what family would it belong to?”I stopped to think, and then recollected what he had said a short time before.“A crow, uncle.”“Quite right, my boy; but that bird is not one of the crows. Try again.”“I’m afraid to try, uncle,” I said.“Why, my boy?”“Because I shall make some silly mistake.”“Then make a mistake, Nat, and we will try to correct it. We learn from our blunders.”“It looks to me something of the same shape as a thrush or blackbird, sir,” I said.“And that’s what it is, my boy. That bird is an oriole—the orange oriole; and there is another, the yellow oriole. Both thrushes, Nat, and out in the East there are plenty more of most beautiful colours, especially the ground-thrushes. But there is someone come to call us to feed, I suppose. We must go now.”“Oh!” I exclaimed, “what a pity! we seem to have just begun.”All the same we had been at work for a very long time, so hands were washed, and we all went in to dinner.
“I’m afraid we’ve made your aunt very cross, Nat, my boy,” said Uncle Joe, rubbing his hands softly, and looking perplexed and troubled. “Do you think, Nat, that I have been leading you wrong?”
“I hope not, uncle,” I said, “and I don’t think so, for it has been very nice out here in the toolshed, and we have enjoyed ourselves so.”
“Yes, my boy, we have, very much, indeed, but I’m afraid your aunt never forgave us for not putting Humpty Dumpty together again.”
“But, uncle,” I said, “isn’t it unreasonable of Aunt Sophia to expect us to do what all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could not do?”
He looked at me for a few minutes without speaking, and then he began to smile very slightly, then a little more and a little more, till, instead of looking dreadfully serious, his face was as happy as it could be. Then he began to laugh very heartily, and I laughed too, till the tears were in our eyes.
“Of—of course it was, Nat,” he cried, chuckling and coughing together. “We couldn’t do what all the king’s horses and all the king’s men didn’t manage, Nat, and—yes, my dear, we’re coming.”
Uncle Joe jumped up and went out of the tool-house, for my aunt’s voice could be heard telling us to come in.
“Hush!” he whispered, with a finger on his lips. “Make haste in, Nat, and run up to your room and wash your hands.”
I followed him in, and somehow, whenever Doctor Burnett was in the room, my aunt did not seem so cross, especially as her brother took a good deal of notice of me, and kept on asking me questions.
I soon found, to my great delight, that he was going to stay with us till he started for Singapore, a place whose name somehow set me thinking about Chinese people and Indian rajahs, but that was all; the rest was to me one great mystery, and I used to lie in bed of a night and wonder what sort of a place it could be.
Every day our visitor grew less cool and distant in his ways, and at last my aunt said pettishly:
“Well, really, Richard, it is too bad; this is the third morning this week you have kept that boy away from school by saying you wanted him. How do you expect his education to get on?”
“Get on?” said Doctor Burnett; “why, my dear sister, he is learning the whole time he is with me; I’ll be bound to say that he has picked up more geography since he has been with me than he has all the time he has been to school.”
“I don’t know so much about that,” said my aunt snappishly.
“Then I do,” he said. “Let the boy alone, he is learning a great deal; and I shall want him more this next week.”
“You’d better take him away from school altogether,” said my aunt angrily.
“Well, yes,” said the doctor quietly; “as it is so near his holidays, he may as well stop away the rest of this half.”
“Richard!” cried my aunt as I sat there pinching my legs to keep from looking pleased.
“He will have to work hard at helping me with my collections, which are on the way here, I find, from a letter received this morning. There will be a great deal of copying and labelling, and that will improve his writing, though he does write a fair round hand.”
“But it will be neglecting his other studies,” cried my aunt.
“But then he will be picking up a good deal of Latin, for I shall explain to him the meaning of the words as he writes them, and, besides, telling him as much as I know of natural history and my travels.”
“And what is to become of the boy then?” cried my aunt. “I will not have him turn idler, Richard.”
“Well, if you think I have turned idler, Sophy,” he said laughing, and showing his white teeth, “all I can say is, that idling over natural history and travelling is very hard work.”
“But the boy must not run wild as—”
“I did? There, say it out, Sophy,” said her brother. “I don’t mind, my dear; some people look upon everything they do not understand as idling.”
“I think I understand what is good for that boy,” said my aunt shortly.
“Of course you do,” said the doctor, “and you think it will do him good to help me a bit, Sophy. Come along, Nat, my boy, we are to have the back-room for the chests, so we must make ready, for they will be here to-morrow.”
“Oh, Doctor Burnett,” I cried as soon as we were alone.
“Suppose you call me Uncle Richard for the future, my boy,” he said. “By and by, when we get to know each other better, it will be Uncle Dick. Why not at once, eh?”
“I—I shouldn’t like to call you that, sir,” I said.
“Why not?”
“I—I hardly know, sir, only that you seem so clever and to know so much.”
“Then it shall be Uncle Dick at once,” he said, laughing merrily; “for every day that you are with me, Nat, you will be finding out more and more that I am not so clever as you think.”
So from that day it was always Uncle Dick, and as soon as the great chests arrived we set to work.
I shall never forget those great rough boxes made of foreign wood, nor the intense interest with which I watched them as they were carried in upon the backs of the stout railway vanmen and set carefully in the large back-room.
There were twenty of them altogether, and some were piled upon the others as if they were building stones, till at last the men’s book had been signed, the money paid for carriage, and Uncle Joe, Uncle Dick, and I sat there alone staring at the chests and wondering at their appearance.
For they were battered, and bruised, and chipped away in splinters, so that they looked very old indeed, though, as my uncle told me, there was not one there more than five years old, though they might have been fifty.
Every one had painted upon it in large white letters:
“Dr Burnett, FZS, London,” and I wondered what FZS might mean. Then I noticed that the chests were all numbered, and I was longing intensely for them to be opened, when Uncle Dick, as I suppose I must call him now, made me start by crying out:
“Screw-driver!”
I jumped up and ran to Uncle Joe’s tool-box for the big screw-driver, and was back with it in a very short time, Uncle Dick laughing heartily as he saw my excitement.
“Thank you, Nat, that will do,” he said. “It will be nice and handy for me to-morrow morning.”
“Ha—ha—ha!” he laughed directly after, as he saw my blank disappointed face. “Did you think I was going to open the cases to-day, Nat?”
“I did hope so, sir,” I said stoutly.
“Then I will,” he cried, “for your being so frank. Now then, which shall it be?”
“I should begin with number one, sir,” I said.
“And so we will, Nat. Nothing like order. Look here, my boy. Here is my book for cataloguing.”
He showed me a large blank book ruled with lines, and on turning it over I found headings here and there under which the different specimens were to be placed.
But I could not look much at the book while “our great traveller”, as Uncle Joe used to call him to me, was busy at work with the screw-driver, taking out the great screws, one after another, and laying them in a box.
“Now, Nat,” he said, “suppose after going through all my trouble I find that half my specimens are destroyed, what shall I do?”
“I don’t know, uncle,” I said. “I know what I should do.”
“What, my boy?”
“Go and try and find some more.”
“A good plan,” he said laughing; “and when it means journeying ten or twelve thousand miles, my boy, to seek for more, it becomes a serious task.”
All this while he was working away at the screws, till they were half out and loose enough for me to go on turning them with my fingers, and this, after the first two or three, I did till we came to the last, when my uncle stopped and pretended that it was in so tight that it would not turn.
“Let me try, uncle,” I cried.
“You? Nonsense! boy. There, I think we shall have to give up for to-day.”
He burst out laughing the next moment at my doleful face, gave the screw a few rapid twists; and in a few more moments it was out, and he took hold of the lid.
“Ready?” he exclaimed.
“Yes, quite ready,” said Uncle Joe, who was nearly as much excited as I was myself; and then the lid was lifted and we eagerly looked inside.
There was not much to see, only what looked like another lid, held in its place by a few stout nails. These were soon drawn out though, the second lid lifted, and still there was nothing to see but cotton-wool, which, however, sent out a curious spicy smell, hot and peppery, and mixed with camphor.
Then the treat began, for Uncle Dick removed a few layers of cotton-wool, and there were the birds lying closely packed, and so beautiful in plumage that we—that is, Uncle Joe and I—uttered a cry of delight.
I had never before seen anything so beautiful, I thought, as the gorgeous colours of the birds before me, or they seemed to be so fresh and bright and different to anything I had seen in the museum, Uncle Dick having taken care, as I afterwards found, to reject any but the most perfect skins; and these were before me ready to be taken out and laid carefully upon some boards he had prepared for the purpose, and as I helped him I kept on asking questions till some people would have been answered out. Uncle Dick, however, encouraged me to go on questioning him, and I quickly picked up the names of a good many of the birds.
Now it would be a magnificent macaw all blue and scarlet. Then a long-tailed paroquet of the most delicate green, and directly after quite a trayful of the most lovely little birds I had ever seen. They were about the size of chaffinches for the most part; but while some were of the richest crimson, others were blue and green and violet, and a dozen other shades of colour mixed up in the loveliest way.
“Now what are those, Nat?” said my uncle.
“I don’t know, sir,” I very naturally said.
“What would they be if they were in England and only plain-coloured?”
“Why, I should have said by their beaks, uncle, that they were finches, and lived on seed.”
“Finches they are, Nat, and you are quite right to judge them by their beaks.”
“But I didn’t know that there were finches abroad, Uncle Dick,” I said.
“Then you know now, my boy, and by degrees you will learn that there are finches all over the world, and sparrows, and thrushes, and cuckoos, and larks, and hawks, crows, and all the other birds that you find in England.”
“Why, I thought they were all different, uncle,” I said.
“So most people think,” he said, as he went on unpacking the birds; “the difference is that while our British finches are sober coloured, those of hot countries are brilliant in plumage. So are the crow family and the thrushes, as you will see, while some of the sparrows and tits are perfect dandies.”
“Why, I thought foreign birds were all parrots and humming-birds, and things like that.”
“Well, we have those birds different abroad, Nat,” he replied, “and as I tell you the principal difference is in the gorgeous plumes.”
“But such birds as birds of paradise, uncle?” I said.
“Well, what should you suppose a bird of paradise to be?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Well, should you think it were a finch, Nat?”
“No, uncle,” I said at once.
“Well, it isn’t a pheasant, is it?”
“Oh no!”
“What then?”
I stood with a tanager in one hand, a lovely manakin in the other, thinking.
“They couldn’t be crows,” I said, “because—”
“Because what?”
“I don’t know, uncle.”
“No, of course you do not, my boy, for crows they really are.”
“What! birds of paradise with their lovely buff plumes, uncle?”
“Yes, birds of paradise with their lovely buff and amber plumes, my boy; they are of the crow family, just as our jays, magpies, and starlings are. You would be surprised, my boy, when you came to study and investigate these matters, how few comparatively are the families and classes to which birds belong, and how so many of the most gorgeous little fellows are only showily-dressed specimens of the familiar flutterers you have at home. Look at that one there, just on the top.”
“What! that lovely orange and black bird, uncle?” I said, picking up the one he pointed at, and smoothing its rich plumage.
“Yes, Nat,” he said; “what is it?”
Uncle Joe took his pipe from his lips, and looked at it very solemnly.
“’Tisn’t a parrot,” he said, “because it has not got a hooky beak.”
“No, it isn’t a parrot, uncle,” I exclaimed; “its beak is more like a starling’s.”
“If it were a starling, what family would it belong to?”
I stopped to think, and then recollected what he had said a short time before.
“A crow, uncle.”
“Quite right, my boy; but that bird is not one of the crows. Try again.”
“I’m afraid to try, uncle,” I said.
“Why, my boy?”
“Because I shall make some silly mistake.”
“Then make a mistake, Nat, and we will try to correct it. We learn from our blunders.”
“It looks to me something of the same shape as a thrush or blackbird, sir,” I said.
“And that’s what it is, my boy. That bird is an oriole—the orange oriole; and there is another, the yellow oriole. Both thrushes, Nat, and out in the East there are plenty more of most beautiful colours, especially the ground-thrushes. But there is someone come to call us to feed, I suppose. We must go now.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, “what a pity! we seem to have just begun.”
All the same we had been at work for a very long time, so hands were washed, and we all went in to dinner.
Chapter Ten.All amongst the Bird Skins.My aunt waylaid me with a very unpleasant task directly after dinner, but Uncle Dick saw my disappointment, and said that he must have me, so I escaped, and, to my great delight, we went at once to his room to go on unpacking the birds, my excitement and wonder increasing every minute. I was rather disappointed with some of the skins, for they were as plain and ordinary looking as sparrows or larks; but Uncle Dick seemed to set great store by them, and said that some of the plainest were most valuable for their rarity.Uncle Joe sat and looked on, saying very little, while Uncle Dick and I did the unpacking and arranging, laying the beautiful skins out in rows upon the boards and shelves.“They wanted unpacking,” said Uncle Dick, “for some of them are quite soft and damp with exposure to the sea air. Well, Nat, what is it?”“I was hoping to find some birds of paradise, uncle,” I replied.“Then your hopes will be disappointed, my boy, for the simple reason that my travels have been in Florida, Mexico, Central America, Peru, and Brazil, with a short stay of a few months in the West Indies.”“And are there no birds of paradise there, uncle?”“No, my boy, nor yet within thousands of miles. Birds of paradise, as they are called, are found in the isles of the eastern seas, the Aru Isles and New Guinea.”“Oh! how I should like to go!” I cried.“You?” he said laughing. “What for, Nat?”“To shoot and collect, sir,” I cried; “it must be grand.”“And dangerous, and wearisome,” he said smiling. “You would soon want to come back to Uncle Joe.”“I shouldn’t like to leave Uncle Joe,” I said thoughtfully; “but I should like to go all the same. I’d take Uncle Joe with me,” I said suddenly. “He’d help me ever so.”Uncle Dick laughed, and we went on with our task, which never seemed to weary me, so delighted was I with the beauty of the birds. As one box was emptied another was begun, and by the time I had finished the second I thought we had exhausted all the beauty of the collection, and said so, but my uncle laughed.“Why, we have not begun the chatterers yet, Nat,” he said. “Let me see—yes,” he continued, “they should be in that box upon which your uncle’s sitting.”Uncle Joe solemnly moved to another case and his late seat was opened, the layers of cotton-wool, in this case a little stained with sea-water, removed, and fresh beauties met my gaze.“There, Nat,” said Uncle Dick; “those are the fruits of a long stay in Central America and the hotter parts of Peru. What do you think of that bird?”I uttered an exclamation of delight as I drew forth and laid gently in my hand a short stumpy bird that must in life have been about as big as a very thick-set pigeon. But this bird was almost entirely of a rich orange colour, saving its short wings and tail, which were of a cinnamon-brown, and almost hidden by a fringe of curly, crisp orange plumes, while the bird’s beak was covered by the radiating crest, something like a frill, that arched over the little creature’s head.“Why, nothing could be more beautiful than that, uncle,” I cried. “What is it?”“The rock manakin, or chatterer,” he replied; “an inhabitant of the hottest and most sterile parts of Central America. Here is another kind that I shot in Peru. You see it is very similar but has less orange about it, and its crest is more like a tuft or shaving-brush than the lovely radiating ornament of the other bird. That is almost like a wheel of feathers in rapid motion.”“And as orange as an orange,” said Uncle Joe, approvingly.“I thought we could not find any more beautiful birds in your boxes, uncle,” I said.“Oh! but we have not done yet, my boy; wait and see.”We went on with our task, the damp peculiar odour showing that it was high time the cases were emptied.“Now, Nat, we are coming to the cuckoos,” he said, as I lifted a thin layer of wool.“It does seem curious for there to be cuckoos in America,” I said.“I don’t see why, Nat,” he replied, as he carefully arranged his specimens. “You remember I told you it was a cuckoo, probably from Malacca, that you showed me you had bought; well, those you are about to unpack are some of the American representatives of the family. You will see that they are soft-billed birds, with a very wide gape and bristles like moustaches at the sides like thin bars to keep in the captives they take.”“And what do they capture, sir?” I asked.“Oh, caterpillars and butterflies and moths, Nat. Soft-bodied creatures. Nature has given each bird suitable bills for its work. Mind how you take out that bird. No: don’t lift it yet. See, that top row must come out after the whole of that layer which is arranged all over the top row’s tails.”“What! do their tails go right along the box, uncle?” I cried.“Yes, some of them, my boy. Be careful: those are very tender and delicate birds.”I lifted one, and held it out to Uncle Joe, who came down from his seat to examine the glories of the bird I had in my hands.It was something like the cinnamon-brown and crimson bird I had bought, but much larger. Its breast was of a vivid rosy crimson, and its back and head one mass of the most brilliant golden-green. Not the green of a leaf or strand of grass, but the green of glittering burnished metal that flashed and sparkled in the sunshine. It seemed impossible for it to be soft and downy, for each feather looked harsh, hard, and carved out of the brilliant flashing metal, while turn it which way I would it flashed and looked bright.“Well, Nat,” said Uncle Dick, “what do you say to that?”“Oh, uncle,” I cried; “it is wonderful! But that cannot be a cuckoo.”“Why not, Nat? If cuckoos are slaty coloured here and have breasts striped like a hawk, that is no reason why in the hot climates, where the sun burns your skin brown, they should not be brightly coloured in scarlet and green. You have seen that the modest speckled thrush of England has for relatives thrushes of yellow and orange. What has the poor cuckoo done that his hot country friends should not be gay?”“But do these lovely creatures suck all the little birds’ eggs to make their voices clear?”“And when they cry ‘cuckoo’ the summer draws near, eh, Nat? No, my boy, I think not. To begin with, I believe that it is all a vulgar error about the cuckoo sucking little birds’ eggs. Doubtless cuckoos have been shot with eggs in their mouths, perhaps broken in the fall, but I think the eggs they carried were their own, which, after laying, they were on their way to put in some other bird’s nest to be hatched, as it is an established fact they do; and because they are very small eggs people think they are those of some other bird that the cuckoo has stolen.”“Are cuckoos’ eggs small, uncle?” I said.“Very, my boy, for so large a bird. I have seen them very little larger than the wagtail’s with which they were placed. Then as to their crying ‘cuckoo’ when summer draws near. I have heard their notes, and they live in a land of eternal summer. But go on emptying the case.”I drew out specimen after specimen, some even more beautiful than the first I had taken from the case, though some were far more sober in their hues; but I had not taken out one yet from the top row. When at last I set one of these free, with his tail quite a yard in length, my admiration knew no bounds.In colouring it was wonderfully like the first which I have described, but in addition it had a golden-green crest, and the long feathers of the tail were of the same brilliant metallic colour. It seemed to me then—and though now I find beauties in sober hues I do not think I can alter my opinion—one of the loveliest, I should say one of the most magnificent, birds in creation, and when fourteen of these wonderful creatures were laid side by side I could have stopped for hours revelling in their beauties.“Well, Nat,” said my uncle, who quite enjoyed my thorough admiration, “I should make quite a naturalist of you if I had you with me.”“Oh, if I could go!” I cried in an excited tone, at which he merely laughed. “I’d give anything to see those birds alive.”“It requires some work and patience, my boy. I was a whole year in the most inaccessible places hunting for those trogons before I got them.”“Trogons! Yes, you said they were trogons.”“Trogon resplendens. Those long-tailed feathers are fitly named, Nat, for they are splendid indeed.”“Glorious!” I cried enthusiastically; and though we worked for some time longer my help was very poor, on account of the number of times I kept turning to the splendid trogons to examine their beauties again and again.
My aunt waylaid me with a very unpleasant task directly after dinner, but Uncle Dick saw my disappointment, and said that he must have me, so I escaped, and, to my great delight, we went at once to his room to go on unpacking the birds, my excitement and wonder increasing every minute. I was rather disappointed with some of the skins, for they were as plain and ordinary looking as sparrows or larks; but Uncle Dick seemed to set great store by them, and said that some of the plainest were most valuable for their rarity.
Uncle Joe sat and looked on, saying very little, while Uncle Dick and I did the unpacking and arranging, laying the beautiful skins out in rows upon the boards and shelves.
“They wanted unpacking,” said Uncle Dick, “for some of them are quite soft and damp with exposure to the sea air. Well, Nat, what is it?”
“I was hoping to find some birds of paradise, uncle,” I replied.
“Then your hopes will be disappointed, my boy, for the simple reason that my travels have been in Florida, Mexico, Central America, Peru, and Brazil, with a short stay of a few months in the West Indies.”
“And are there no birds of paradise there, uncle?”
“No, my boy, nor yet within thousands of miles. Birds of paradise, as they are called, are found in the isles of the eastern seas, the Aru Isles and New Guinea.”
“Oh! how I should like to go!” I cried.
“You?” he said laughing. “What for, Nat?”
“To shoot and collect, sir,” I cried; “it must be grand.”
“And dangerous, and wearisome,” he said smiling. “You would soon want to come back to Uncle Joe.”
“I shouldn’t like to leave Uncle Joe,” I said thoughtfully; “but I should like to go all the same. I’d take Uncle Joe with me,” I said suddenly. “He’d help me ever so.”
Uncle Dick laughed, and we went on with our task, which never seemed to weary me, so delighted was I with the beauty of the birds. As one box was emptied another was begun, and by the time I had finished the second I thought we had exhausted all the beauty of the collection, and said so, but my uncle laughed.
“Why, we have not begun the chatterers yet, Nat,” he said. “Let me see—yes,” he continued, “they should be in that box upon which your uncle’s sitting.”
Uncle Joe solemnly moved to another case and his late seat was opened, the layers of cotton-wool, in this case a little stained with sea-water, removed, and fresh beauties met my gaze.
“There, Nat,” said Uncle Dick; “those are the fruits of a long stay in Central America and the hotter parts of Peru. What do you think of that bird?”
I uttered an exclamation of delight as I drew forth and laid gently in my hand a short stumpy bird that must in life have been about as big as a very thick-set pigeon. But this bird was almost entirely of a rich orange colour, saving its short wings and tail, which were of a cinnamon-brown, and almost hidden by a fringe of curly, crisp orange plumes, while the bird’s beak was covered by the radiating crest, something like a frill, that arched over the little creature’s head.
“Why, nothing could be more beautiful than that, uncle,” I cried. “What is it?”
“The rock manakin, or chatterer,” he replied; “an inhabitant of the hottest and most sterile parts of Central America. Here is another kind that I shot in Peru. You see it is very similar but has less orange about it, and its crest is more like a tuft or shaving-brush than the lovely radiating ornament of the other bird. That is almost like a wheel of feathers in rapid motion.”
“And as orange as an orange,” said Uncle Joe, approvingly.
“I thought we could not find any more beautiful birds in your boxes, uncle,” I said.
“Oh! but we have not done yet, my boy; wait and see.”
We went on with our task, the damp peculiar odour showing that it was high time the cases were emptied.
“Now, Nat, we are coming to the cuckoos,” he said, as I lifted a thin layer of wool.
“It does seem curious for there to be cuckoos in America,” I said.
“I don’t see why, Nat,” he replied, as he carefully arranged his specimens. “You remember I told you it was a cuckoo, probably from Malacca, that you showed me you had bought; well, those you are about to unpack are some of the American representatives of the family. You will see that they are soft-billed birds, with a very wide gape and bristles like moustaches at the sides like thin bars to keep in the captives they take.”
“And what do they capture, sir?” I asked.
“Oh, caterpillars and butterflies and moths, Nat. Soft-bodied creatures. Nature has given each bird suitable bills for its work. Mind how you take out that bird. No: don’t lift it yet. See, that top row must come out after the whole of that layer which is arranged all over the top row’s tails.”
“What! do their tails go right along the box, uncle?” I cried.
“Yes, some of them, my boy. Be careful: those are very tender and delicate birds.”
I lifted one, and held it out to Uncle Joe, who came down from his seat to examine the glories of the bird I had in my hands.
It was something like the cinnamon-brown and crimson bird I had bought, but much larger. Its breast was of a vivid rosy crimson, and its back and head one mass of the most brilliant golden-green. Not the green of a leaf or strand of grass, but the green of glittering burnished metal that flashed and sparkled in the sunshine. It seemed impossible for it to be soft and downy, for each feather looked harsh, hard, and carved out of the brilliant flashing metal, while turn it which way I would it flashed and looked bright.
“Well, Nat,” said Uncle Dick, “what do you say to that?”
“Oh, uncle,” I cried; “it is wonderful! But that cannot be a cuckoo.”
“Why not, Nat? If cuckoos are slaty coloured here and have breasts striped like a hawk, that is no reason why in the hot climates, where the sun burns your skin brown, they should not be brightly coloured in scarlet and green. You have seen that the modest speckled thrush of England has for relatives thrushes of yellow and orange. What has the poor cuckoo done that his hot country friends should not be gay?”
“But do these lovely creatures suck all the little birds’ eggs to make their voices clear?”
“And when they cry ‘cuckoo’ the summer draws near, eh, Nat? No, my boy, I think not. To begin with, I believe that it is all a vulgar error about the cuckoo sucking little birds’ eggs. Doubtless cuckoos have been shot with eggs in their mouths, perhaps broken in the fall, but I think the eggs they carried were their own, which, after laying, they were on their way to put in some other bird’s nest to be hatched, as it is an established fact they do; and because they are very small eggs people think they are those of some other bird that the cuckoo has stolen.”
“Are cuckoos’ eggs small, uncle?” I said.
“Very, my boy, for so large a bird. I have seen them very little larger than the wagtail’s with which they were placed. Then as to their crying ‘cuckoo’ when summer draws near. I have heard their notes, and they live in a land of eternal summer. But go on emptying the case.”
I drew out specimen after specimen, some even more beautiful than the first I had taken from the case, though some were far more sober in their hues; but I had not taken out one yet from the top row. When at last I set one of these free, with his tail quite a yard in length, my admiration knew no bounds.
In colouring it was wonderfully like the first which I have described, but in addition it had a golden-green crest, and the long feathers of the tail were of the same brilliant metallic colour. It seemed to me then—and though now I find beauties in sober hues I do not think I can alter my opinion—one of the loveliest, I should say one of the most magnificent, birds in creation, and when fourteen of these wonderful creatures were laid side by side I could have stopped for hours revelling in their beauties.
“Well, Nat,” said my uncle, who quite enjoyed my thorough admiration, “I should make quite a naturalist of you if I had you with me.”
“Oh, if I could go!” I cried in an excited tone, at which he merely laughed. “I’d give anything to see those birds alive.”
“It requires some work and patience, my boy. I was a whole year in the most inaccessible places hunting for those trogons before I got them.”
“Trogons! Yes, you said they were trogons.”
“Trogon resplendens. Those long-tailed feathers are fitly named, Nat, for they are splendid indeed.”
“Glorious!” I cried enthusiastically; and though we worked for some time longer my help was very poor, on account of the number of times I kept turning to the splendid trogons to examine their beauties again and again.
Chapter Eleven.My Hopes.It was a long task, the emptying of those cases, even to get to the end of the birds, and I could not help thinking, as day after day crept by, what a wonderfully patient collector my Uncle Richard must have been. Certainly he had been away for years and had travelled thousands of miles, but the labour to obtain all these birds, and then carefully skin, prepare, and fill them with wool, must have been tremendous.“And did you shoot them all, uncle?” I asked one day.“With very few exceptions, my boy,” he replied, laying down his pen for a minute to talk. “I might have bought here and there specimens of the natives, but they are very rough preservers of birds, and I wanted my specimens to be as perfect as could be, as plenty of poor ones come into this country, some of which are little better than rubbish, and give naturalists a miserable idea of the real beauty of the birds in their native homes. But no one can tell the immense amount of labour it cost me to make this collection, as you will see, Nat, when we open this next case.”Uncle Dick was right. I was astonished as we emptied the next case, which was full of tiny specimens, hundreds upon hundreds of humming-birds, with crests and throats like beautiful precious stones, and all so small that it seemed wonderful how they could have been skinned and preserved.The more I worked with Uncle Dick the more I wondered, and the stronger grew my desire to follow in his steps. So when we had all the birds out so that they could dry in the warm air of the room, there were the cases full of beetles of all kinds, with glistening horny wing-cases; butterflies so large and beautiful that I used to lean over them, feast my eyes on their colours, and then go into day-dreams, in which I pictured to myself the wonderful far-off lands that produced such creatures, and think and think how it would be possible to go out there all alone, as my uncle had gone, and spend years in collecting these various objects to bring home.Then I used to wake up again and work hard with my uncle, writing out names in his lists, all as carefully as I could, but of course making plenty of mistakes in the Latin names, while Uncle Joe used to sit and smoke and look on, rarely speaking for fear of interrupting us, till Uncle Dick looked up and started a conversation by way of a rest.Then all the different birds when thoroughly dry had to be repacked in the boxes, with plenty of camphor and other preservative spices and gums to keep the various insects away, and quite a couple of months had slipped away before we were nearly done.I ought to have been back at school, but Uncle Dick would not hear of my going, and he seemed to have such influence over my aunt that his word was quite law.“No, Sophy, I have not half done with him,” he said one evening. “I don’t want to flatter the boy, but he is very valuable to me. I could easily get a clerk or copyist to make out my lists and help me select and rearrange my specimens; but he would do it mechanically. Nat takes an interest in what he is doing, and is a naturalist at heart.”“But he ought to be going on with his studies,” said Aunt Sophia. “It is quite time he was back at school.”“He is learning a great deal more than he would at school,” said Uncle Dick; “and his handwriting is a good deal improved. It is more free and quicker.”“But there are his other studies,” said Aunt Sophia, who was in a bad humour.“Well, Sophy, he has picked up a great deal of Latin since he has been helping me; knows ten times as much as he did about America and the West Indian Islands, and has picked up a host of little natural history facts, for he is always asking questions.”“Oh yes,” said my aunt tartly, “he can ask questions enough! so can all boys.”“But not sensible questions, my dear,” said Uncle Dick smiling; but my aunt kept looking angrily at me as I sat hearing all that was going on.“Sensible questions, indeed!” she said; “and pray, of what use is it going to be to him that he knows how to stick a pin through a butterfly and leave the poor thing to wriggle to death.”“Naturalists do not stick pins through butterflies and leave them to wriggle to death,” said Uncle Dick, looking at me and smiling. “Suppose they did, Nat, what would happen?”“It would be very cruel, uncle, and would spoil the specimen,” I said promptly.“To be sure it would, Nat.”“It’s all waste of time, Richard, and the boy shall go back to school.”“I have not done with Nat yet, Sophy, and I shall be obliged by your ceasing to talk nonsense. It worries me.”This was said in so quiet and decided a way, and in the voice of one so accustomed to command, that my aunt said:“Well, Richard, I suppose it must be as you wish.”“Yes, if you please,” he said quietly. “I have the boy’s interest at heart as much as you.”As the time went on my aunt and Uncle Dick had two or three little encounters over this, in all of which Aunt Sophy was worsted; Uncle Dick quietly forcing her to let him have his own way in everything.This set me thinking very much about the future, for I knew that in less than two months’ time Uncle Dick would be off upon his new expedition; one that was to be into the most unfrequented regions of the East Indian Islands, though he had said very little about it in my presence.“I should like to know all about where you are going, Uncle Dick,” I said one afternoon, as we were working together.“Why, my boy?”“Because it is so interesting to know all about foreign lands, uncle.”“Well, my boy, I think of going from here straight away to Singapore, either with or without a stay at Ceylon. From Singapore I mean to traverse most of the islands along the equator, staying longest at such of them as give me plenty of specimens. Then I shall go on and on to New Guinea, collecting all the time, spending perhaps four or five years out there before I return; that is, if the Malays and Papuans will be kind enough to leave me alone and not throw spears at me.”“You will go where all the most beautiful birds are plentiful, uncle?” I said.“Yes, my boy, collecting all the time.”“Shall you go alone, uncle?” I ventured to say after a pause.“Yes, my boy, quite alone, except that I shall engage one or two native servants at the places where I stay, and perhaps I shall buy a boat for my own special use to cruise from island to island. Why, what are you sighing about, boy?”“I was thinking about your going out there, uncle, all alone.”“Well, my boy, do you suppose I shall be frightened?”“No, uncle, of course not; but won’t you be dull?”“I shall be too busy to be dull, my boy. The only likely time for me to be dull is of an evening, and then I shall go to sleep.”He went on with his work until it grew dark, and then at his request I lit the lamp, placed it down close to his writing, and remained standing there by his elbow wanting to speak but not daring to do so, till he suddenly turned round and looked me in the face.“Why, Nat, my boy, what’s the matter? Are you unwell?”“No, uncle,” I said slowly.“What then? Is anything wrong?”“I—I was thinking about when you are gone, uncle.”“Ah! yes, my boy; you’ll have to go back to school then and work away at your ciphering and French. I shall often think about you, Nat, when I am busy over the birds I have shot, skinning and preserving them; and when I come back, Nat, you must help me again.”“When you come back?” I said dolefully.“Yes, my lad. Let me see—you are fourteen now. In four or five years you will have grown quite a man. Perhaps you will not care to help me then.”“Oh, uncle!” I cried; for I could keep it back no longer. It had been the one great thought of my mind night and day for weeks now, and if my prayer were not gratified the whole of my future seemed to be too blank and miserable to be borne.“Why, what is it, my boy?” he said. “Nat, my lad, don’t be afraid to speak out. Is anything wrong?”“Yes, uncle,” I panted; for my words seemed to choke me.“Speak out then, my boy, what is it?”“You—you are going away, uncle.”“Well, Nat, you’ve known that for months,” he said, with a smile.“Yes, uncle; but don’t go by yourself,” I cried. “Take me with you; I won’t want much to eat—I won’t give you any trouble; and I’ll work so very, very hard to help you always, and I could be useful to you. Pray—pray, uncle, take me too.”He pushed his chair away from the table and sat gazing at me with a frown upon his face, then he jumped up and began walking swiftly up and down the room.“I would hardly let you know that I was with you, uncle, and there should be nothing you wanted that I would not do. Don’t be angry with me for asking to go, for I do want to go with you so very, very much.”“Angry, my boy! No, not angry,” he cried; “but no, no; it is impossible.”“Don’t say that, uncle,” I cried; “I would work so hard.”“Yes, yes, my boy, I know that; but it would not be just to you to drag you away there to those wild lands to live like a savage half your time.”“But I should like that, uncle,” I cried excitedly.“To expose you to risks of voyaging, from the savages, and from disease. No, no, Nat, you must not ask me. It would not do.”“Oh, uncle!” I cried, with such a pitiful look of disappointment on my face, that he stopped and laid his hand upon my shoulder.“Why, Nat, my boy,” he said in a soft, gentle way, very different to his usual mode of speaking, “nothing would be more delightful to me than to have you for my companion; not for my servant, to work so hard, but to be my friend, helpmate, and counsellor in all my journeyings. Why, it would be delightful to have you with me, boy, to enjoy with me the discovery of some new specimen.”“Which we had hunted out in some wild jungle where man had never been before, uncle!”“Bird or butterfly, it would be all the same, Nat; we should prize it and revel in our discovery.”“Yes, and I’d race you, uncle, and see which could find most new sorts.”“And of an evening we could sit in our tent or hut, and skin and preserve, or pin out what we had found during the day, Nat, eh?”“Oh, uncle, it would be glorious!” I cried excitedly. “And I say—birds of paradise! We would make such a collection of all the loveliest kinds.”“Then we should have to hunt and fish, Nat, for the pot, for there would be no butchers’ and fishmongers’ shops, lad.”“Oh! it would be glorious, uncle!” I cried.“Glorious, my boy!” he said as excitedly as I; “why, we should get on splendidly, and—tut, tut, tut! what an idiot am I! Hold your tongue, sir, it is impossible!”“Uncle!”“Here have I been encouraging the boy, instead of crushing the idea at once,” he cried impatiently. “No, no, no, Nat, my boy. It was very foolish of me to speak as I did. You must not think of it any more.”“Oh! uncle, don’t talk to me like that,” I cried. “Pray, pray take me with you.”“I tell you no, boy,” he said impatiently. “It would be unjust to you to encourage you to lead such a vagabond life as mine. Say no more about it, sir,” he added harshly. “It is impossible!”A deep sigh escaped my lips, and then I was silent, for my uncle turned to his writing again, and for the next week he was cold and distant to me, while I went on with my task in a dull, spiritless manner, feeling so miserable that I was always glad to go and hide myself away, to sit and think, and wonder what I should do when my uncle had gone.
It was a long task, the emptying of those cases, even to get to the end of the birds, and I could not help thinking, as day after day crept by, what a wonderfully patient collector my Uncle Richard must have been. Certainly he had been away for years and had travelled thousands of miles, but the labour to obtain all these birds, and then carefully skin, prepare, and fill them with wool, must have been tremendous.
“And did you shoot them all, uncle?” I asked one day.
“With very few exceptions, my boy,” he replied, laying down his pen for a minute to talk. “I might have bought here and there specimens of the natives, but they are very rough preservers of birds, and I wanted my specimens to be as perfect as could be, as plenty of poor ones come into this country, some of which are little better than rubbish, and give naturalists a miserable idea of the real beauty of the birds in their native homes. But no one can tell the immense amount of labour it cost me to make this collection, as you will see, Nat, when we open this next case.”
Uncle Dick was right. I was astonished as we emptied the next case, which was full of tiny specimens, hundreds upon hundreds of humming-birds, with crests and throats like beautiful precious stones, and all so small that it seemed wonderful how they could have been skinned and preserved.
The more I worked with Uncle Dick the more I wondered, and the stronger grew my desire to follow in his steps. So when we had all the birds out so that they could dry in the warm air of the room, there were the cases full of beetles of all kinds, with glistening horny wing-cases; butterflies so large and beautiful that I used to lean over them, feast my eyes on their colours, and then go into day-dreams, in which I pictured to myself the wonderful far-off lands that produced such creatures, and think and think how it would be possible to go out there all alone, as my uncle had gone, and spend years in collecting these various objects to bring home.
Then I used to wake up again and work hard with my uncle, writing out names in his lists, all as carefully as I could, but of course making plenty of mistakes in the Latin names, while Uncle Joe used to sit and smoke and look on, rarely speaking for fear of interrupting us, till Uncle Dick looked up and started a conversation by way of a rest.
Then all the different birds when thoroughly dry had to be repacked in the boxes, with plenty of camphor and other preservative spices and gums to keep the various insects away, and quite a couple of months had slipped away before we were nearly done.
I ought to have been back at school, but Uncle Dick would not hear of my going, and he seemed to have such influence over my aunt that his word was quite law.
“No, Sophy, I have not half done with him,” he said one evening. “I don’t want to flatter the boy, but he is very valuable to me. I could easily get a clerk or copyist to make out my lists and help me select and rearrange my specimens; but he would do it mechanically. Nat takes an interest in what he is doing, and is a naturalist at heart.”
“But he ought to be going on with his studies,” said Aunt Sophia. “It is quite time he was back at school.”
“He is learning a great deal more than he would at school,” said Uncle Dick; “and his handwriting is a good deal improved. It is more free and quicker.”
“But there are his other studies,” said Aunt Sophia, who was in a bad humour.
“Well, Sophy, he has picked up a great deal of Latin since he has been helping me; knows ten times as much as he did about America and the West Indian Islands, and has picked up a host of little natural history facts, for he is always asking questions.”
“Oh yes,” said my aunt tartly, “he can ask questions enough! so can all boys.”
“But not sensible questions, my dear,” said Uncle Dick smiling; but my aunt kept looking angrily at me as I sat hearing all that was going on.
“Sensible questions, indeed!” she said; “and pray, of what use is it going to be to him that he knows how to stick a pin through a butterfly and leave the poor thing to wriggle to death.”
“Naturalists do not stick pins through butterflies and leave them to wriggle to death,” said Uncle Dick, looking at me and smiling. “Suppose they did, Nat, what would happen?”
“It would be very cruel, uncle, and would spoil the specimen,” I said promptly.
“To be sure it would, Nat.”
“It’s all waste of time, Richard, and the boy shall go back to school.”
“I have not done with Nat yet, Sophy, and I shall be obliged by your ceasing to talk nonsense. It worries me.”
This was said in so quiet and decided a way, and in the voice of one so accustomed to command, that my aunt said:
“Well, Richard, I suppose it must be as you wish.”
“Yes, if you please,” he said quietly. “I have the boy’s interest at heart as much as you.”
As the time went on my aunt and Uncle Dick had two or three little encounters over this, in all of which Aunt Sophy was worsted; Uncle Dick quietly forcing her to let him have his own way in everything.
This set me thinking very much about the future, for I knew that in less than two months’ time Uncle Dick would be off upon his new expedition; one that was to be into the most unfrequented regions of the East Indian Islands, though he had said very little about it in my presence.
“I should like to know all about where you are going, Uncle Dick,” I said one afternoon, as we were working together.
“Why, my boy?”
“Because it is so interesting to know all about foreign lands, uncle.”
“Well, my boy, I think of going from here straight away to Singapore, either with or without a stay at Ceylon. From Singapore I mean to traverse most of the islands along the equator, staying longest at such of them as give me plenty of specimens. Then I shall go on and on to New Guinea, collecting all the time, spending perhaps four or five years out there before I return; that is, if the Malays and Papuans will be kind enough to leave me alone and not throw spears at me.”
“You will go where all the most beautiful birds are plentiful, uncle?” I said.
“Yes, my boy, collecting all the time.”
“Shall you go alone, uncle?” I ventured to say after a pause.
“Yes, my boy, quite alone, except that I shall engage one or two native servants at the places where I stay, and perhaps I shall buy a boat for my own special use to cruise from island to island. Why, what are you sighing about, boy?”
“I was thinking about your going out there, uncle, all alone.”
“Well, my boy, do you suppose I shall be frightened?”
“No, uncle, of course not; but won’t you be dull?”
“I shall be too busy to be dull, my boy. The only likely time for me to be dull is of an evening, and then I shall go to sleep.”
He went on with his work until it grew dark, and then at his request I lit the lamp, placed it down close to his writing, and remained standing there by his elbow wanting to speak but not daring to do so, till he suddenly turned round and looked me in the face.
“Why, Nat, my boy, what’s the matter? Are you unwell?”
“No, uncle,” I said slowly.
“What then? Is anything wrong?”
“I—I was thinking about when you are gone, uncle.”
“Ah! yes, my boy; you’ll have to go back to school then and work away at your ciphering and French. I shall often think about you, Nat, when I am busy over the birds I have shot, skinning and preserving them; and when I come back, Nat, you must help me again.”
“When you come back?” I said dolefully.
“Yes, my lad. Let me see—you are fourteen now. In four or five years you will have grown quite a man. Perhaps you will not care to help me then.”
“Oh, uncle!” I cried; for I could keep it back no longer. It had been the one great thought of my mind night and day for weeks now, and if my prayer were not gratified the whole of my future seemed to be too blank and miserable to be borne.
“Why, what is it, my boy?” he said. “Nat, my lad, don’t be afraid to speak out. Is anything wrong?”
“Yes, uncle,” I panted; for my words seemed to choke me.
“Speak out then, my boy, what is it?”
“You—you are going away, uncle.”
“Well, Nat, you’ve known that for months,” he said, with a smile.
“Yes, uncle; but don’t go by yourself,” I cried. “Take me with you; I won’t want much to eat—I won’t give you any trouble; and I’ll work so very, very hard to help you always, and I could be useful to you. Pray—pray, uncle, take me too.”
He pushed his chair away from the table and sat gazing at me with a frown upon his face, then he jumped up and began walking swiftly up and down the room.
“I would hardly let you know that I was with you, uncle, and there should be nothing you wanted that I would not do. Don’t be angry with me for asking to go, for I do want to go with you so very, very much.”
“Angry, my boy! No, not angry,” he cried; “but no, no; it is impossible.”
“Don’t say that, uncle,” I cried; “I would work so hard.”
“Yes, yes, my boy, I know that; but it would not be just to you to drag you away there to those wild lands to live like a savage half your time.”
“But I should like that, uncle,” I cried excitedly.
“To expose you to risks of voyaging, from the savages, and from disease. No, no, Nat, you must not ask me. It would not do.”
“Oh, uncle!” I cried, with such a pitiful look of disappointment on my face, that he stopped and laid his hand upon my shoulder.
“Why, Nat, my boy,” he said in a soft, gentle way, very different to his usual mode of speaking, “nothing would be more delightful to me than to have you for my companion; not for my servant, to work so hard, but to be my friend, helpmate, and counsellor in all my journeyings. Why, it would be delightful to have you with me, boy, to enjoy with me the discovery of some new specimen.”
“Which we had hunted out in some wild jungle where man had never been before, uncle!”
“Bird or butterfly, it would be all the same, Nat; we should prize it and revel in our discovery.”
“Yes, and I’d race you, uncle, and see which could find most new sorts.”
“And of an evening we could sit in our tent or hut, and skin and preserve, or pin out what we had found during the day, Nat, eh?”
“Oh, uncle, it would be glorious!” I cried excitedly. “And I say—birds of paradise! We would make such a collection of all the loveliest kinds.”
“Then we should have to hunt and fish, Nat, for the pot, for there would be no butchers’ and fishmongers’ shops, lad.”
“Oh! it would be glorious, uncle!” I cried.
“Glorious, my boy!” he said as excitedly as I; “why, we should get on splendidly, and—tut, tut, tut! what an idiot am I! Hold your tongue, sir, it is impossible!”
“Uncle!”
“Here have I been encouraging the boy, instead of crushing the idea at once,” he cried impatiently. “No, no, no, Nat, my boy. It was very foolish of me to speak as I did. You must not think of it any more.”
“Oh! uncle, don’t talk to me like that,” I cried. “Pray, pray take me with you.”
“I tell you no, boy,” he said impatiently. “It would be unjust to you to encourage you to lead such a vagabond life as mine. Say no more about it, sir,” he added harshly. “It is impossible!”
A deep sigh escaped my lips, and then I was silent, for my uncle turned to his writing again, and for the next week he was cold and distant to me, while I went on with my task in a dull, spiritless manner, feeling so miserable that I was always glad to go and hide myself away, to sit and think, and wonder what I should do when my uncle had gone.