“Oh, uncle, why did you tell her that?” I said reproachfully.
“Well, my boy, you see she had been remonstrating a little about our being out here so much, and I’m afraid I have been preparing her for a surprise.”
“And now she’ll be more cross than ever, uncle,” I said, picking up the bird.
“Yes, my boy, now she’ll be more cross than ever. It’s a very bad job, Nat, and I don’t like to see you show such a temper as that.”
“I’m very sorry, Uncle Joe,” I said humbly. “I didn’t mean to fly out like that. It’s just like Jem Boxhead at our school.”
“Does he fly out into tempers like that, Nat?”
“Yes, uncle, often.”
“It’s a very bad job, my boy, and I never saw anything of the kind before in you. It isn’t a disease, temper isn’t, or I should think you had caught it. You couldn’t catch a bad temper, you know, my boy. But don’t you think, Natty, we might still manage to put Humpty Dumpty together again?”
“No, uncle,” I said, “it’s impossible;” and I know now that it was an impossibility from the first, for my hours of experience have taught me that I had engaged upon a hopeless task.
He took out his crimson handkerchief, and reseating himself upon the tub began wiping his face and hands once more.