I fancy I can smell the hot steaming glue now as I went about that day’s work, for I kept on stirring it up and thinking how much I ought to put in the bird’s neck and upon its skull to keep from soiling and making sticky all its feathers. It took some consideration, and all the while dear Uncle Joe watched me as attentively as if I were going to perform some wonderful operation. He even held his breath as I began to glue the head, and uttered a low sigh of relief as I replaced the brush in the pot.
Then as carefully as I could I fixed the head in its place, securing it the more tightly by driving a long thin stocking-needle right through the skull into the wood.
And there it was, the result of a month’s spare time and labour, and I drew back to contemplate this effort of genius.
I can laugh now as I picture the whole scene. The rough bench on which stood the bird, the wall on which hung the garden tools, Uncle Joe with his pipe in one hand, his other resting upon his knee as he sat upon an upturned tub gazing straight at me, and I seem to see my own boyish self gazing at my task till I utterly broke down with the misery and vexation of my spirit, laying my head upon my arms and crying like a girl.
For a few minutes Uncle Joe was so taken aback that he sat there breathing hard and staring at me.
“Why, Nat—Nat, my boy,” he said at last, as he got down off the tub and stood there patting my shoulders. “What is the matter, my boy; are you poorly?”
“No—no—no,” I sobbed. “It’s horrid, horrid, horrid!”
“What’s horrid, Natty?” he said.
“That dreadful bird. Oh, uncle,” I cried passionately, “I knew I couldn’t do it when I began.”
“The bird? What! Humpty Dumpty? What! Polly? Why, my boy, she’s splendid, and your aunt will be so—”