There was a shrill cry from the birds, and the flock took flight, but not until I had managed to get another shot, the result being that I secured three very beautiful specimens to take back to my uncle, showing them to him with a glow of pride.
“I want to be of some use, uncle,” I said, for I had been afraid that he would think I could not shoot.
“Use, Nat! why, you shot one of those pigeons this morning.”
“Did I, uncle?” I said.
“To be sure, my boy. At all events I did not, so it must have been you.”
He was delighted with the three specimens I had secured, and saying that these would be as many as he could comfortably preserve that day, we went on exploring more than collecting, in what was to me quite a fairyland of wonders.
Perhaps long confinement on shipboard had something to do with it; but all the same, every place we came to had its beauties of some kind or another. Now it was a noisy stream leaping from the rocks in a feathery cascade; at another time, a grove full of curious orchids. Every now and then some lovely butterfly would start from flower or damp spot in the openings, but it was of no use to chase them then, my uncle said, for we had no means of preserving them.
“Let’s collect, Nat,” he said, “and make a splendid set of cases of birds and insects; but let’s have no wanton destruction. I hate to see birds shot except for a purpose.”
“We shall have to look out, uncle,” I said, laughing, “for it is hard enough work to walk on this ground; I don’t know how we shall run.”
In fact, when we got back to our hut, after shooting a couple more pigeons, our shoes were showing already how sharp the rocks were that formed a great part of the ground over which we tramped.