“Then your hopes will be disappointed, my boy, for the simple reason that my travels have been in Florida, Mexico, Central America, Peru, and Brazil, with a short stay of a few months in the West Indies.”
“And are there no birds of paradise there, uncle?”
“No, my boy, nor yet within thousands of miles. Birds of paradise, as they are called, are found in the isles of the eastern seas, the Aru Isles and New Guinea.”
“Oh! how I should like to go!” I cried.
“You?” he said laughing. “What for, Nat?”
“To shoot and collect, sir,” I cried; “it must be grand.”
“And dangerous, and wearisome,” he said smiling. “You would soon want to come back to Uncle Joe.”
“I shouldn’t like to leave Uncle Joe,” I said thoughtfully; “but I should like to go all the same. I’d take Uncle Joe with me,” I said suddenly. “He’d help me ever so.”
Uncle Dick laughed, and we went on with our task, which never seemed to weary me, so delighted was I with the beauty of the birds. As one box was emptied another was begun, and by the time I had finished the second I thought we had exhausted all the beauty of the collection, and said so, but my uncle laughed.
“Why, we have not begun the chatterers yet, Nat,” he said. “Let me see—yes,” he continued, “they should be in that box upon which your uncle’s sitting.”