“Bless the man! Taxi what?” cried my aunt, who seemed to be fascinated by Polly’s eyes; and she began to softly scratch the feathers on the back of the head.
“Taxi-dermy,” said my uncle, “and—and, my dear, I wouldn’t scratch Polly’s head if I were you; the skins are preserved with poison.”
“Bless my heart!” exclaimed my aunt, snatching back her hand; and then holding out a finger to me: “Wipe that, Nat.”
I took out my handkerchief, dipped a corner in the watering-pot, and carefully wiped the finger clear of anything that might be sticking to it, though, as my own hands were so lately in contact with Polly’s skin, I don’t believe that I did much good; but it satisfied my aunt, who turned once more to Uncle Joe.
“Now then, Joseph; what did you say?”
“Taxi-dermy, my dear,” he said again importantly; “the art of preserving and mounting the skins of dead animals.”
“And a nice mess you’ll both make, I dare say,” cried my aunt.
“But not indoors, my dear. We shall be very careful. You see Polly had been a good deal knocked about. Your large black box had fallen right upon her, and her head was off, my dear. The glass shade was in shivers.”
“Poor Polly, yes,” said my aunt, “I had her put there because of the moths in her feathers. Well, mind this, I shall expect Natty to repair her very nicely; and you must buy a new glass shade, Joseph. Ah, my precious!”
This was to Nap, who, in reply to her tender speech, made three or four bounds to get to me, but aunt caught him by the ear and held him with the skin of his face pulled sidewise, so that he seemed to be winking at me as he lolled out his thin red tongue, and uttered a low whine.