“He’s too big and fat,” I said.
“Yes, I stuffed him too much; but I’m going to try and do another.”
The starling was laid down, and a jay picked up.
“That’s another one I tried,” he said sadly, “but it never would look like a bird. They’re ever so much handsomer than that out in the woods.”
“I suppose,”—I said, and then quickly—“Are they?”
“Yes, you know they are,” said Mercer dolefully. “These are horrid. I know exactly how I want them to look, but they will not come so.”
“They will in time,” I said, to cheer him, for his failures seemed to make him despondent.
“No,” he said, “I’m afraid not. Birds are beautiful things,—starlings are and jays,—and nobody can say that those are beautiful. Regular old Guy Fawkes’s of birds, aren’t they?”
“You mustn’t ask me,” I replied evasively. “I’m no judge. But what’s this horrid thing?”
“Frog. Better not touch it. I never could get on with that. It’s more like a toad than a frog. It’s too full of sand.”