"Yes, Nat," he continued, "from the East, where the bamboo is used for
endless purposes. It is hard, and will bear a sharp point, and is so
abundant that the people seem to have no end to the use they make of
it."
"And have you seen birds like these alive, sir?"
"No, Nat, but I hope to do so before long. That blue-billed gaper
probably came from Malacca, and the trogon too. See how beautifully its
wings are pencilled, and how the bright cinnamon of its back feathers
contrasts with the bright crimson of its breast. We have plenty of
trogons out in the West; some of them most gorgeous fellows, with tails
a yard long, and of the most resplendent golden metallic green."
"And humming-birds, sir?"
"Thousands, my boy; all darting through the air like living gems. The
specimens brought home are very beautiful, but they are as nothing
compared to those fairy-like little creatures, full of life and action,
with the sun flashing from their plumage."
"And are there humming-birds, sir, in the East?" I cried, feeling my
mouth grow dry with excitement and interest.
"No, my boy; but there is a tribe of tiny birds there that we know as
sun-birds, almost as beautiful in their plumage, and of very similar
habit. I hope to make a long study of their ways, and to get a good
collection. I know nothing, however, more attractive to a man who loves
nature than to lie down beneath some great plant of convolvulus, or any
trumpet-shaped blossom, and watch the humming-birds flashing to and fro
in the sunlight. Their scale-like feathers on throat and head reflect
the sun rays like so many gems, and their colours are the most gorgeous
that it is possible to conceive. But there, I tire you. Why, Joe, your
pipe's out!"
"Please go on, sir," I said in a hoarse whisper, for, as he spoke, I
felt myself far away in some wondrous foreign land, lying beneath the
trumpet-flowered tree or plant, gazing at the brilliant little creatures
he described.
"Do you like to hear of such things, then?" he said smiling.
"Oh! so much, sir!" I cried; and he went on.
"I believe some of them capture insects at certain times, but as a rule
these lovely little birds live upon the honey they suck from the
nectaries of these trumpet-shaped blossoms; and their bills are long and
thin so that they can reach right to the end. Some of these little
creatures make quite a humming noise with their wings, and after darting
here and there like a large fly they will seem to stop midway in the
air, apparently motionless, but with their wings all the while beating
so fast that they are almost invisible. Sometimes one will stop like
this just in front of some beautiful flower, and you may see it hang
suspended in the air, while it thrusts in its long bill and drinks the
sweet honey that forms its food."
"And can you shoot such little things, sir?" I asked.
"Oh, yes, my boy; it is easy enough to shoot them," he replied. "The
difficulty is to bring them down without hurting their plumage, which is
extremely delicate. The Indians shoot them with a blow-pipe and pellets
and get very good specimens; but then one is not always with the
Indians; and in those hot climates a bird must be skinned directly, so I
generally trust to myself and get my own specimens."
"With a blow-pipe, sir?"
"No, Nat; I have tried, but I never got to be very clever with it. One
wants to begin young to manage a blow-pipe well. I always shot my
humming-birds with a gun."
"And shot, sir?"
"Not always, Nat. I have brought them down with the disturbance of the
air or the wad of the gun. At other times I have used sand, or in
places where I had no sand I have used water."
"Water!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, and very good it is for the purpose, Nat. A little poured into
the barrel of the gun after the powder is made safe with a couple of
wads, is driven out in a fine cutting spray, which has secured me many a
lovely specimen with its plumage unhurt."
"But don't it seem rather cruel to shoot such lovely creatures, Dick?"
said Uncle Joe in an apologetic tone.
"Well, yes, it has struck me in that light before now," said our
visitor; "but as I am working entirely with scientific views, and for
the spread of the knowledge of the beautiful occupants of this world, I
do not see the harm. Besides, I never wantonly destroy life. And then,
look here, my clear Joe, if you come to think out these things you will
find that almost invariably the bird or animal you kill has passed its
life in killing other things upon which it lives."
"Ye-es," said Uncle Joe, "I suppose it has."
"You wouldn't like to shoot a blackbird, perhaps?"
"Well, I don't know," said Uncle Joe. "They are the wickedest thieves
that ever entered a garden; aren't they, Nat?"
"Yes, uncle, they are a nuisance," I said.
"Well, suppose you killed a blackbird, Joe," continued our visitor; "he
has spent half his time in killing slugs and snails, and lugging poor
unfortunate worms out of their holes; and it seems to me that the slug
or the worm is just as likely to enjoy its life as the greedy blackbird,
whom people protect because he has an orange bill and sings sweetly in
the spring."
"Ye-es," said my uncle, looking all the while as if he were terribly
puzzled, while I sat drinking in every word our visitor said, feeling
that I had never before heard any one talk like that.
"For my part," continued our visitor, "I never destroy life wantonly;
and as for you, young man, you may take this for a piece of good
advice--never kill for the sake of killing. Let it be a work of
necessity--for food, for a specimen, for your own protection, but never
for sport. I don't like the word, Nat; there is too much cruelty in
what is called sport."
"But wouldn't you kill lions and tigers, sir?" I said.
"Most decidedly, my boy. That is the struggle for life. I'd sooner
kill a thousand tigers, Nat, than one should kill me," he said laughing;
"and for my part--"
"Joseph, I'm ashamed of you. Nathaniel, this is your doing, you naughty
boy," cried my aunt, appearing at the door. "It is really disgraceful,
Joseph, that you will come here to sit and smoke; and as for you,
Nathaniel, what do you mean, sir, by dragging your un--, I mean a
visitor, down into this nasty, untidy place, and pestering him with your
rubbish?"
"Oh, it was not Nathaniel's doing, Sophy," said our visitor smiling, as
he rose and drew aunt's arm through his, "but mine; I've been making the
boy show me his treasures. There, come along and you and I will have a
good long chat now. Nat, my boy, I sha'n't forget what we said."