“Pigeons?” he said, as I hesitated. “To be sure, Nat; why not? Do you suppose that because birds have bright feathers they are not good to eat?”
“Well, no, uncle,” I replied, as I thought of pheasants, and that at one time people used to eat the peacock; “but these birds have green feathers.” It was a very stupid remark, but it seemed the only thing I could then say.
“Ah! they’ll be none the worse for that, my boy,” he said, laughing, as he removed the birds’ crops on to a great leaf which I held for him. “We’ll examine those after dinner, Nat, so as to see on what the birds feed. If I’m not mistaken they eat the large fruit of the nutmeg for one thing.”
“Then they ought to taste of spice, uncle,” I said, laughing.
“Wait a bit, Nat, and you’ll see how good these fruit-pigeons are. Now, cut with that great jack-knife of yours a good sharp pair of bamboo skewers, or spits, and we’ll soon have the rascals roasting. We can’t eat the insects, but we can the birds, and a great treat they will be after so much shipboard food.”
“That they will be, uncle,” I said, as the pigeons, each quite double or three times the size of one of our home birds, were stuck before the fire, and began to send out a nice appetising smell.
“Then you won’t be too prejudiced to eat them?” he said, laughing.
“Oh, uncle!” I said, “I’m so hungry I could eat anything now.”
“Well done, Nat. Well, my boy, as long as we get plenty of specimens to skin we sha’n’t starve. Turn that skewer round. That’s right; stick it tightly into the sand, and now let’s have on a little more wood. Pick up those old cocoa-nut shells and husks, and put on, Nat.”
“Will they burn well?” I said. “I was afraid of putting out the fire.”