Chapter 8. I Find Myself A Brother Naturalist

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_ CHAPTER EIGHT. I FIND MYSELF A BROTHER NATURALIST

I stood looking very hard at our visitor, Doctor Burnett, and thought how very different he was to Aunt Sophia. Only a little while before, I had felt as if I must hate him for behaving so badly to Nap, and for talking to me in such a cold, contemptuous way. It had seemed as if he would join with Aunt Sophia in making me uncomfortable, and I thought it would have been so much pleasanter if he had stayed away.

But now, as I stood watching him, he was becoming quite a hero in my eyes, for not only had he been abroad seeing the wonders of the world, but he had suddenly shown a liking for me, and his whole manner was changed.

When he had spoken to me in the house it had been in a pooh-poohing sort of fashion, as if I were a stupid troublesome boy, very much in the way, and as if he wondered at his sister and brother-in-law's keeping me upon the premises; but now the change was wonderful. The cold distant manner had gone, and he began to talk to me as if he had known me all my life.

"Shall we go round the garden again, Dick?" said my uncle, after standing there nodding and smiling at me, evidently feeling very proud that his brother-in-law should take so much notice of the collection.

"No," said our visitor sharply. "There, get your pipe, Joe, and you can sit down and look on while I go over Nat's collection. We naturalists always compare notes--eh, Nat?"

I turned scarlet with excitement and pleasure, while Uncle Joseph rubbed his hands, beaming with satisfaction, and proceeded to take down his long clay pipe from where it hung upon two nails in the wall, and his little tobacco jar from a niche below the rafters.

"That's what I often do here, Dick," he said; "I sit and smoke and give advice--when it is asked, and Nat goes on with his stuffing and preserving."

"Then now, you may sit down and give advice--when it is asked," said our visitor smiling, "while Nat and I compare notes. Who taught you how to stuff birds, Nat?"

"I--I taught myself, sir," I replied.

"Taught yourself?" he said, pinching one of my birds--a starling that I had bought for a penny of a man with a gun.

"Yes, sir; I pulled Polly to pieces."

"You did what?" he cried, bursting into a roar of laughter. "Why, who was Polly--one of the maids?"

"Oh no, sir! Aunt Sophy's stuffed parrot."

"Well, really, Nat," he said, laughing most heartily, "you're the strangest boy I ever met."

"Am I, sir?" I said, feeling a little chilled again, for he seemed to be laughing unpleasantly at me.

"That you are, Nat; but I like strange boys. So you pulled Polly to pieces, eh? And found out where the naturalists put the wires, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"And how do you preserve the skins?"

"With arsenical soap, sir."

"That's right; so do I."

"But it's very dangerous stuff, sir," I said eagerly.

"Not if it is properly used, my boy," he said, taking up bird after bird and examining it carefully. "A fire is a very dangerous thing if you thrust your hand into it, and Uncle Joe's razors are dangerous things if they are not properly used. You see I don't trouble them much," he added smiling.

"No, indeed, sir," I said, as I glanced at his long beard.

"I don't have hot water for shaving brought to me, Nat, when I'm at sea, my boy, or out in the jungle. It's rough work there."

"But it must be very nice, sir," I said eagerly.

"Very, my boy, when you lie down to sleep beneath a tree, so hungry that you could eat your boots, and not knowing whether the enemy that attacks you before morning will be a wild beast, a poisonous serpent, or a deadly fever."

"But it must be very exciting, sir," I cried.

"Very, my boy," he said drily. "Yes: that bird's rough, but I like the shape. There's nature in it--at least as much as you can get by imitation. Look, Joe, there's a soft roundness about that bird. It looks alive. Some of our best bird-stuffers have no more notion of what a bird is like in real life than a baby. What made you put that tomtit in that position, Nat?" he said, turning sharply to me.

"That?--that's how they hang by the legs when they are picking the buds, sir," I said nervously, for I was quite startled by his quick, sudden way.

"To be sure it is, Nat, my boy. That's quite right. Always take nature as your model, and imitate her as closely as you can. Some of the stuffed birds at the British Museum used to drive me into a rage. Glad to see you have the true ring in you, my boy."

I hardly knew what he meant by the "true ring", but it was evidently meant kindly, and I felt hotter than ever; but my spirits rose as I saw how pleased Uncle Joe was.

"You can stuff birds, then, sir?" I said, after a pause, during which our visitor made himself very busy examining everything I had.

"Well, yes, Nat, after a fashion. I'm not clever at it, for I never practise mounting. I can make skins."

"Make skins, sir?"

"Yes, my boy. Don't you see that when I am in some wild place shooting and collecting, every scrap of luggage becomes a burden."

"Yes, sir; of course," I said, nodding my head sagely, "especially if the roads are not good."

"Roads, my boy," he said laughing; "the rivers and streams are the only roads in such places as I travel through. Then, of course, I can't use wires and tow to distend my birds, so we make what we call skins. That is to say, after preparing the skin, all that is done is to tie the long bones together, and fill the bird out with some kind of wild cotton, press the head back on the body by means of a tiny paper cone or sugar-paper, put a band round the wings, and dry the skin in the sun."

"Yes, I know, sir," I cried eagerly; "and you pin the paper round the bird with a tiny bamboo skewer, and put another piece of bamboo through from head to tail."

"Why, how do you know?" he said wonderingly.

"Oh! Nat knows a deal," said Uncle Joe, chuckling. "We're not such stupid people as you think, Dick, even if we do stay at home."

"I've got a skin or two, sir," I said, "and they were made like that."

As I spoke I took the two skins out of an old cigar-box.

"Oh! I see," he said, as he took them very gently and smoothed their feathers with the greatest care. "Where did you get these, Nat?"

"I bought them with my pocket-money in Oxford Street, sir," I said, as Uncle Joe, who had not before seen them, leaned forward.

"And do you know what they are, my boy?" said our visitor.

"No, sir; I have no books with pictures of them in, and the man who sold them to me did not know. Can you tell me, sir?"

"Yes, Nat, I think so," he said quietly. "This pretty dark bird with the black and white and crimson plumage is the rain-bird--the blue-billed gaper; and this softly-feathered fellow with the bristles at the side of his bill is a trogon."

"A trogon, sir?"

"Yes, Nat, a trogon; and these little bamboo skewers tell me directly that the birds came from somewhere in the East."

I looked at him wonderingly.

"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." _

Read next: Chapter 9. Uncle Dick's Boxes

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