“Splendidly, my boy. The shells are full of oil, and will send out a capital heat.”
We were obliged to nibble a biscuit while we waited, and anxiously watched the frizzling and browning birds, for we were terribly hungry.
“I hope they won’t be long, uncle,” I said.
“So do I, Nat,” he replied; “but what a splendid dining-room we have got out here! Isn’t it lovely, my boy, under this blue sky and shading trees?”
“Hundreds of times better than going to a picnic at Bushey Park, uncle,” I said. “But you talked of eating the birds we shot. Thrushes would be good, wouldn’t they?”
“Delicious, Nat, only so very small.”
“But you wouldn’t eat parrots, uncle, lories, and paroquets, and these sort of birds?”
“Why not?” he replied, turning his skewer, while I imitated him, it seeming to be settled that we were each to have a couple of pigeons for our dinner.
“I don’t know why not, uncle,” I said thoughtfully, “only it seems so queer to eat a Poll parrot;” and as I spoke I could not help thinking of poor Humpty Dumpty, and all the trouble I had had. “It seems queer,” I said again.
“But why does it seem queer, Nat?” he said, smiling. “Come, my boy, you must throw aside prejudices.”