Nat the Naturalist Part 5

Then as carefully as I could I fixed the head in its place, securing it the more tightly by driving a long thin stocking-needle right through the skull into the wood.

And there it was, the result of a month's spare time and labour, and I drew back to contemplate this effort of genius.

I can laugh now as I picture the whole scene. The rough bench on which stood the bird, the wall on which hung the garden tools, Uncle Joe with his pipe in one hand, his other resting upon his knee as he sat upon an upturned tub gazing straight at me, and I seem to see my own boyish self gazing at my task till I utterly broke down with the misery and vexation of my spirit, laying my head upon my arms and crying like a girl.

For a few minutes Uncle Joe was so taken aback that he sat there breathing hard and staring at me.

"Why, Nat--Nat, my boy," he said at last, as he got down off the tub and stood there patting my shoulders. "What is the matter, my boy; are you poorly?"

"No--no--no," I sobbed. "It's horrid, horrid, horrid!"

"What's horrid, Natty?" he said.

"That dreadful bird. Oh, uncle," I cried pa.s.sionately, "I knew I couldn't do it when I began."

"The bird? What! Humpty Dumpty? What! Polly? Why, my boy, she's splendid, and your aunt will be so--"

"She's not," I cried, flashing into pa.s.sion. "She isn't like a bird at all. I know how soft and rounded and smooth birds are; and did you ever see such a horrid thing as that? It's a beast, uncle! It's a regular guy! It's a--oh, oh!"

In my rage of disappointment at the miserable result of so much hard work I tore the lump of feathered wood from the bench, dashed it upon the ground, and stamped upon it. Then my pa.s.sion seemed to flash away as quickly as it had come, and I stood staring at Uncle Joe and Uncle Joe stared at me.

CHAPTER SIX.

A PIECE OF DECEIT THAT WAS NOT CARRIED OUT.

For a few minutes neither of us spoke. Uncle Joe seemed to be astounded and completely taken off his balance. He put on his gla.s.ses and took them off over and over again. He laid down his pipe and rubbed his hands first and then his face with his crimson silk handkerchief, ending by taking off his gla.s.ses and rolling them in the handkerchief, flipping them afterwards under the bench all amongst the broken flower-pots. And all the time I felt a prey to the bitterest remorse, and as if I had done something so wicked that I could never be forgiven again.

"Oh, uncle! dear Uncle Joe," I cried pa.s.sionately. "I am so--so sorry."

"Sorry, Nat!" he said, taking my outstretched hands, and then drawing me to his breast, holding me there and patting my back with both his hands.

"Sorry, Nat! yes, that's what I felt, my boy. It was such a pity, you know."

"Oh, no, Uncle Joe," I cried, looking down at my work. "It was horrible, and I've been more ashamed of it every day."

"Have you, Nat, my boy?" he said. "Oh, yes, uncle, but I kept on hoping that--that somehow--somehow it would come better."

"That's what I've been hoping, my boy," he said, "for you did try very hard."

"Yes, uncle, I tried very, very hard, but it never did come better."

"No, my boy, you are quite right; it never did come any better, but I hoped it would when you put on its head."

"So did I, uncle, but it only seemed to make it look more ridiculous, and it wasn't a bit like a bird."

"No, my boy, it wasn't a bit like a bird," he said weakly.

"Then why did you say it was capital, uncle?" I cried sharply.

"Well, my boy, because--because I--that is--I wanted to encourage you, and," he cried more confidently, "it was capital for you."

"Oh, Uncle Joe, it was disgraceful, and I don't know what aunt would have said."

"I don't know what she will say now," said my uncle ruefully, as he gazed down at Humpty Dumpty's wreck, where it lay crushed into the dust.

"I'm afraid she'll be very cross. You see I half told her that it would be done to-day, and I'm afraid--"

"Oh, uncle, why did you tell her that?" I said reproachfully.

"Well, my boy, you see she had been remonstrating a little about our being out here so much, and I'm afraid I have been preparing her for a surprise."

"And now she'll be more cross than ever, uncle," I said, picking up the bird.

"Yes, my boy, now she'll be more cross than ever. It's a very bad job, Nat, and I don't like to see you show such a temper as that."

"I'm very sorry, Uncle Joe," I said humbly. "I didn't mean to fly out like that. It's just like Jem Boxhead at our school."

"Does he fly out into tempers like that, Nat?"

"Yes, uncle, _often_."

"It's a very bad job, my boy, and I never saw anything of the kind before in you. It isn't a disease, temper isn't, or I should think you had caught it. You couldn't catch a bad temper, you know, my boy. But don't you think, Natty, we might still manage to put Humpty Dumpty together again?"

"No, uncle," I said, "it's impossible;" and I know now that it was an impossibility from the first, for my hours of experience have taught me that I had engaged upon a hopeless task.

He took out his crimson handkerchief, and reseating himself upon the tub began wiping his face and hands once more.

"You've made me very hot, Natty," he said. "What is to be done?"

"I don't know, uncle," I said dolefully. "But are you very cross with me?"

"Cross, my boy? No. I was only thinking how much you are like my poor sister, your dear mother, who would go into a temper like that sometimes when we were boy and girl."

"Please, uncle," I said, laying my hand upon his arm, "I'll try very hard not to go into a temper again like that."

"Yes, yes, do, my boy," he said, taking my hand in his and speaking very affectionately. "Don't give way to temper, my boy, it's a bad habit.

But I'm not sorry, Nat, I'm not a bit sorry, my dear boy, to see that you've got some spirit in you like your poor mother. She was so different to me, Nat. I never had a bit of spirit, and people have always done as they pleased with me."

I could not help thinking about my aunt just then, but I said nothing, and it was Uncle Joe who began again about the parrot.

"So you think we could not put Humpty Dumpty together again, Nat?"

"No, uncle," I said despairingly, "I'm sure we could not. It's all so much lost time."

"There's plenty more time to use, Nat, for some things," he said dreamily, "but not for doing our work, and--and, my boy, after your aunt has let us be out here so much, I'm afraid that I dare not tell her of our failure."

"Then what's to be done, uncle?" I said.

"I'm afraid, my boy, we must be very wicked and deceitful."