"I--I don't think I could put this one together again, uncle," I said.
"You see it was so ragged and torn before I touched it, and the feathers
are coming out all over the place. But I could do a fresh one. You see
there's nothing here but the skin. All the feathers are falling away."
"Yes," said my uncle, "and I know--"
"Know what, uncle?"
"Why, they do the skin over with some stuff to preserve it, and you'll
have to get it at the chemist's."
"Yes, uncle."
"And I don't know, Natty," he said, "but I think you might try and put
poor old Polly together again, for I don't feel quite comfortable about
her; you have made her in such a dreadful mess."
"Yes, I have, indeed, uncle," I said dolefully, for the eagerness was
beginning to evaporate.
"And your aunt was very fond of her, my boy, and she wouldn't like it if
she knew."
"But I'm afraid I couldn't put her together again now, uncle;" and then
I began to tremble, and my uncle leaped off his stool, and broke his
pipe: for there was my aunt's well-known step on the gravel, and
directly after we heard her cry:
"Joseph! Nathaniel! What are you both doing?" And I knew that I
should have to confess.