“What story?” said Charles, eagerly.
“Of a humming-bird that flew into a fury with a flower, and tore it to pieces, because it could not get the honey out of it all at once.”
“Oh, ma’am,” said little Charles, peeping over his tutor’s shoulders, “will you show me that? Have you got the book, dear aunt?”
“It is Mr. Russell’s book,” said his aunt.
“Your book!” cried Charles: “what, and do you know all about animals, and those sorts of entertaining things, as well as Latin? And can you tell me, then, what I want very much to know, how they catch the humming-bird?”
“They shoot it.”
“Shoot it! but what a large hole they must make in its body and beautiful feathers! I thought you said its whole body was no bigger than a bee—a humble bee.”
“They make no hole in its body—they shoot it without ruffling even its feathers.”
“How, how?” cried Charles, fastening upon his tutor, whom he now regarded no longer as a mere man of Latin.
“They charge the gun with water,” said Mr. Russell, “and the poor little humming-bird is stunned by the discharge.”