“H’m! Then he must have been a prehistoric wretch,” said the Ambassador, absently. “Dear me! I always knew he was extinct, but I had no idea he was antediluvian as well. That accounts for a lot of things. No wonder he was eccentric.” And he gazed at the Dodo quite sorrowfully.
The Dodo was rigid, motionless.
“Well, well,” he resumed, “it can’t be helped now. We must make the best of a bad matter; all the talking in the world won’t restore him to life again.” And he turned to the Little Panjandrum and entered into a lengthy conversation with him in their native language, which the children could not understand in the least.
The Little Panjandrum seemed greatly distressed at the disaster which had befallen the Dodo, and, it appeared, insisted upon a monument being erected to his memory. Thereupon the Ambassador, by a brilliant inspiration, thought of the novel plan of making the bird act as his own statue.
“As he is turned into stone,” said he, “we have only to find a pedestal to put him on, and there we are.”
A little way off, a stone Cupid, rather the worse for wear, stood beside the pathway, and this, the Ambassador decided, should be removed to make way for the Dodo.
The united efforts of the Little Panjandrum’s suite (who had by this time returned, having been assured that the creatures which had so alarmed them had been rendered harmless) soon succeeded in overthrowing Cupid from his pedestal, and after a great deal of pulling, pushing, and straining, the Dodo, still posing in his grotesque attitude, was stuck up in his place.
“There must be an inscription,” said the Ambassador, and, rummaging about in his pockets, he brought forth a piece of black crayon. “The Dodo, now fortunately extinct,” he wrote in large letters, and then stood back to admire the effect.