“She’s not,” I cried, flashing into passion. “She isn’t like a bird at all. I know how soft and rounded and smooth birds are; and did you ever see such a horrid thing as that? It’s a beast, uncle! It’s a regular guy! It’s a—oh, oh!”
In my rage of disappointment at the miserable result of so much hard work I tore the lump of feathered wood from the bench, dashed it upon the ground, and stamped upon it. Then my passion seemed to flash away as quickly as it had come, and I stood staring at Uncle Joe and Uncle Joe stared at me.
Chapter Six.
A Piece of Deceit that was not carried out.
For a few minutes neither of us spoke. Uncle Joe seemed to be astounded and completely taken off his balance. He put on his glasses and took them off over and over again. He laid down his pipe and rubbed his hands first and then his face with his crimson silk handkerchief, ending by taking off his glasses and rolling them in the handkerchief, flipping them afterwards under the bench all amongst the broken flower-pots. And all the time I felt a prey to the bitterest remorse, and as if I had done something so wicked that I could never be forgiven again.
“Oh, uncle! dear Uncle Joe,” I cried passionately. “I am so—so sorry.”
“Sorry, Nat!” he said, taking my outstretched hands, and then drawing me to his breast, holding me there and patting my back with both his hands. “Sorry, Nat! yes, that’s what I felt, my boy. It was such a pity, you know.”
“Oh, no, Uncle Joe,” I cried, looking down at my work. “It was horrible, and I’ve been more ashamed of it every day.”