It was a long task, the emptying of those cases, even to get to the end
of the birds, and I could not help thinking, as day after day crept by,
what a wonderfully patient collector my Uncle Richard must have been.
Certainly he had been away for years and had travelled thousands of
miles, but the labour to obtain all these birds, and then carefully
skin, prepare, and fill them with wool, must have been tremendous.
"And did you shoot them all, uncle?" I asked one day.
"With very few exceptions, my boy," he replied, laying down his pen for
a minute to talk. "I might have bought here and there specimens of the
natives, but they are very rough preservers of birds, and I wanted my
specimens to be as perfect as could be, as plenty of poor ones come into
this country, some of which are little better than rubbish, and give
naturalists a miserable idea of the real beauty of the birds in their
native homes. But no one can tell the immense amount of labour it cost
me to make this collection, as you will see, Nat, when we open this next
case."
Uncle Dick was right. I was astonished as we emptied the next case,
which was full of tiny specimens, hundreds upon hundreds of
humming-birds, with crests and throats like beautiful precious stones,
and all so small that it seemed wonderful how they could have been
skinned and preserved.
The more I worked with Uncle Dick the more I wondered, and the stronger
grew my desire to follow in his steps. So when we had all the birds out
so that they could dry in the warm air of the room, there were the cases
full of beetles of all kinds, with glistening horny wing-cases;
butterflies so large and beautiful that I used to lean over them, feast
my eyes on their colours, and then go into day-dreams, in which I
pictured to myself the wonderful far-off lands that produced such
creatures, and think and think how it would be possible to go out there
all alone, as my uncle had gone, and spend years in collecting these
various objects to bring home.
Then I used to wake up again and work hard with my uncle, writing out
names in his lists, all as carefully as I could, but of course making
plenty of mistakes in the Latin names, while Uncle Joe used to sit and
smoke and look on, rarely speaking for fear of interrupting us, till
Uncle Dick looked up and started a conversation by way of a rest.
Then all the different birds when thoroughly dry had to be repacked in
the boxes, with plenty of camphor and other preservative spices and gums
to keep the various insects away, and quite a couple of months had
slipped away before we were nearly done.
I ought to have been back at school, but Uncle Dick would not hear of my
going, and he seemed to have such influence over my aunt that his word
was quite law.
"No, Sophy, I have not half done with him," he said one evening. "I
don't want to flatter the boy, but he is very valuable to me. I could
easily get a clerk or copyist to make out my lists and help me select
and rearrange my specimens; but he would do it mechanically. Nat takes
an interest in what he is doing, and is a naturalist at heart."
"But he ought to be going on with his studies," said Aunt Sophia. "It
is quite time he was back at school."
"He is learning a great deal more than he would at school," said Uncle
Dick; "and his handwriting is a good deal improved. It is more free and
quicker."
"But there are his other studies," said Aunt Sophia, who was in a bad
humour.
"Well, Sophy, he has picked up a great deal of Latin since he has been
helping me; knows ten times as much as he did about America and the West
Indian Islands, and has picked up a host of little natural history
facts, for he is always asking questions."
"Oh yes," said my aunt tartly, "he can ask questions enough! so can all
boys."
"But not sensible questions, my dear," said Uncle Dick smiling; but my
aunt kept looking angrily at me as I sat hearing all that was going on.
"Sensible questions, indeed!" she said; "and pray, of what use is it
going to be to him that he knows how to stick a pin through a butterfly
and leave the poor thing to wriggle to death."
"Naturalists do not stick pins through butterflies and leave them to
wriggle to death," said Uncle Dick, looking at me and smiling. "Suppose
they did, Nat, what would happen?"
"It would be very cruel, uncle, and would spoil the specimen," I said
promptly.
"To be sure it would, Nat."
"It's all waste of time, Richard, and the boy shall go back to school."
"I have not done with Nat yet, Sophy, and I shall be obliged by your
ceasing to talk nonsense. It worries me."
This was said in so quiet and decided a way, and in the voice of one so
accustomed to command, that my aunt said:
"Well, Richard, I suppose it must be as you wish."
"Yes, if you please," he said quietly. "I have the boy's interest at
heart as much as you."
As the time went on my aunt and Uncle Dick had two or three little
encounters over this, in all of which Aunt Sophy was worsted; Uncle Dick
quietly forcing her to let him have his own way in everything.
This set me thinking very much about the future, for I knew that in less
than two months' time Uncle Dick would be off upon his new expedition;
one that was to be into the most unfrequented regions of the East Indian
Islands, though he had said very little about it in my presence.
"I should like to know all about where you are going, Uncle Dick," I
said one afternoon, as we were working together.
"Why, my boy?"
"Because it is so interesting to know all about foreign lands, uncle."
"Well, my boy, I think of going from here straight away to Singapore,
either with or without a stay at Ceylon. From Singapore I mean to
traverse most of the islands along the equator, staying longest at such
of them as give me plenty of specimens. Then I shall go on and on to
New Guinea, collecting all the time, spending perhaps four or five years
out there before I return; that is, if the Malays and Papuans will be
kind enough to leave me alone and not throw spears at me."
"You will go where all the most beautiful birds are plentiful, uncle?"
I said.
"Yes, my boy, collecting all the time."
"Shall you go alone, uncle?" I ventured to say after a pause.
"Yes, my boy, quite alone, except that I shall engage one or two native
servants at the places where I stay, and perhaps I shall buy a boat for
my own special use to cruise from island to island. Why, what are you
sighing about, boy?"
"I was thinking about your going out there, uncle, all alone."
"Well, my boy, do you suppose I shall be frightened?"
"No, uncle, of course not; but won't you be dull?"
"I shall be too busy to be dull, my boy. The only likely time for me to
be dull is of an evening, and then I shall go to sleep."
He went on with his work until it grew dark, and then at his request I
lit the lamp, placed it down close to his writing, and remained standing
there by his elbow wanting to speak but not daring to do so, till he
suddenly turned round and looked me in the face.
"Why, Nat, my boy, what's the matter? Are you unwell?"
"No, uncle," I said slowly.
"What then? Is anything wrong?"
"I--I was thinking about when you are gone, uncle."
"Ah! yes, my boy; you'll have to go back to school then and work away at
your ciphering and French. I shall often think about you, Nat, when I
am busy over the birds I have shot, skinning and preserving them; and
when I come back, Nat, you must help me again."
"When you come back?" I said dolefully.
"Yes, my lad. Let me see--you are fourteen now. In four or five years
you will have grown quite a man. Perhaps you will not care to help me
then."
"Oh, uncle!" I cried; for I could keep it back no longer. It had been
the one great thought of my mind night and day for weeks now, and if my
prayer were not gratified the whole of my future seemed to be too blank
and miserable to be borne.
"Why, what is it, my boy?" he said. "Nat, my lad, don't be afraid to
speak out. Is anything wrong?"
"Yes, uncle," I panted; for my words seemed to choke me.
"Speak out then, my boy, what is it?"
"You--you are going away, uncle."
"Well, Nat, you've known that for months," he said, with a smile.
"Yes, uncle; but don't go by yourself," I cried. "Take me with you; I
won't want much to eat--I won't give you any trouble; and I'll work so
very, very hard to help you always, and I could be useful to you.
Pray--pray, uncle, take me too."
He pushed his chair away from the table and sat gazing at me with a
frown upon his face, then he jumped up and began walking swiftly up and
down the room.
"I would hardly let you know that I was with you, uncle, and there
should be nothing you wanted that I would not do. Don't be angry with
me for asking to go, for I do want to go with you so very, very much."
"Angry, my boy! No, not angry," he cried; "but no, no; it is
impossible."
"Don't say that, uncle," I cried; "I would work so hard."
"Yes, yes, my boy, I know that; but it would not be just to you to drag
you away there to those wild lands to live like a savage half your
time."
"But I should like that, uncle," I cried excitedly.
"To expose you to risks of voyaging, from the savages, and from disease.
No, no, Nat, you must not ask me. It would not do."
"Oh, uncle!" I cried, with such a pitiful look of disappointment on my
face, that he stopped and laid his hand upon my shoulder.
"Why, Nat, my boy," he said in a soft, gentle way, very different to his
usual mode of speaking, "nothing would be more delightful to me than to
have you for my companion; not for my servant, to work so hard, but to
be my friend, helpmate, and counsellor in all my journeyings. Why, it
would be delightful to have you with me, boy, to enjoy with me the
discovery of some new specimen."
"Which we had hunted out in some wild jungle where man had never been
before, uncle!"
"Bird or butterfly, it would be all the same, Nat; we should prize it
and revel in our discovery."
"Yes, and I'd race you, uncle, and see which could find most new sorts."
"And of an evening we could sit in our tent or hut, and skin and
preserve, or pin out what we had found during the day, Nat, eh?"
"Oh, uncle, it would be glorious!" I cried excitedly. "And I say--
birds of paradise! We would make such a collection of all the loveliest
kinds."
"Then we should have to hunt and fish, Nat, for the pot, for there would
be no butchers' and fishmongers' shops, lad."
"Oh! it would be glorious, uncle!" I cried.
"Glorious, my boy!" he said as excitedly as I; "why, we should get on
splendidly, and--tut, tut, tut! what an idiot am I! Hold your tongue,
sir, it is impossible!"
"Uncle!"
"Here have I been encouraging the boy, instead of crushing the idea at
once," he cried impatiently. "No, no, no, Nat, my boy. It was very
foolish of me to speak as I did. You must not think of it any more."
"Oh! uncle, don't talk to me like that," I cried. "Pray, pray take me
with you."
"I tell you no, boy," he said impatiently. "It would be unjust to you
to encourage you to lead such a vagabond life as mine. Say no more
about it, sir," he added harshly. "It is impossible!"
A deep sigh escaped my lips, and then I was silent, for my uncle turned
to his writing again, and for the next week he was cold and distant to
me, while I went on with my task in a dull, spiritless manner, feeling
so miserable that I was always glad to go and hide myself away, to sit
and think, and wonder what I should do when my uncle had gone.