“Not if it is properly used, my boy,” he said, taking up bird after bird and examining it carefully. “A fire is a very dangerous thing if you thrust your hand into it, and Uncle Joe’s razors are dangerous things if they are not properly used. You see I don’t trouble them much,” he added smiling.
“No, indeed, sir,” I said, as I glanced at his long beard.
“I don’t have hot water for shaving brought to me, Nat, when I’m at sea, my boy, or out in the jungle. It’s rough work there.”
“But it must be very nice, sir,” I said eagerly.
“Very, my boy, when you lie down to sleep beneath a tree, so hungry that you could eat your boots, and not knowing whether the enemy that attacks you before morning will be a wild beast, a poisonous serpent, or a deadly fever.”
“But it must be very exciting, sir,” I cried.
“Very, my boy,” he said drily. “Yes: that bird’s rough, but I like the shape. There’s nature in it—at least as much as you can get by imitation. Look, Joe, there’s a soft roundness about that bird. It looks alive. Some of our best bird-stuffers have no more notion of what a bird is like in real life than a baby. What made you put that tomtit in that position, Nat?” he said, turning sharply to me.
“That?—that’s how they hang by the legs when they are picking the buds, sir,” I said nervously, for I was quite startled by his quick, sudden way.
“To be sure it is, Nat, my boy. That’s quite right. Always take nature as your model, and imitate her as closely as you can. Some of the stuffed birds at the British Museum used to drive me into a rage. Glad to see you have the true ring in you, my boy.”
I hardly knew what he meant by the “true ring”, but it was evidently meant kindly, and I felt hotter than ever; but my spirits rose as I saw how pleased Uncle Joe was.