He was dead!
One little crimson drop that had rolled down his glossy breast, and fallen upon Diddle's cheek, like a tear of blood, told the story. He had been shot.
Poor little bird! He had flown up with the others, and had tried to follow them; but, faint with pain and bleeding, he could not keep up, and so, as the flock was passing our kite, he had settled down upon that, hoping, may be, that the pain in his little breast would get better soon. But, alas! his gold and crimson wings were never again to beat the sunny air as he piped his blithe gossip to his dusky-winged mate: they were folded at his sides, and would be still for ever.
We did not say much to each other, and what we did say, was in a lower and softer tone than usual; for the piteous history of the little bird had touched our hearts.
At first we decided to make a little coffin and bury him. But, suddenly, I remembered that my uncle, the doctor, sometimes stuffed birds and animals; so I proposed that we should go to him, tell the story, and ask him to stuff our blackbird. Uncle was a kind-hearted man, and, after listening to the story, which he said was a very singular one, he promised to stuff the bird.
In about ten days he gave it back to us, looking almost alive. We took it, fixed its little feet on the kite, just as they had been, and persuaded our teacher to put it up on the top of his mineral cabinet; and there it stood all the rest of the time I went to that school.
May be it stands there yet.