y uncle stood by me very bravely when Aunt Sophia entered the
tool-house with an exclamation of surprise. For a few minutes she could
not understand what we had been about.

"Feathers--a bird--a parrot!" she exclaimed at last. "Why, it is like
poor Polly."

I looked very guiltily at my uncle and was about to speak, but he made
me a signal to be silent.

"Yes, my dear," he faltered, "it--it was poor Polly. We--we found her
in the lumber-room--all in ruins, my dear, and we--we have been
examining her."

"I don't believe it," said my aunt sharply. "That mischievous boy has
been at his tricks again."

"I assure you, my dear," cried my uncle, "I had to do with it as well.
I helped him. Nat wants to understand bird-stuffing, and we have been
to the museum and then we came home."

"Well, of course you did," said my aunt tartly; "do you suppose I
thought you stopped to live in the museum?"

"No, my dear, of course not," said my uncle, laughing feebly. "We are
studying the art of taxidermy, my dear, Nat and I."

He added this quite importantly, putting his eyeglasses on and nodding
to me for my approval and support.

"Bless the man! Taxi what?" cried my aunt, who seemed to be fascinated
by Polly's eyes; and she began to softly scratch the feathers on the
back of the head.

"Taxi-dermy," said my uncle, "and--and, my dear, I wouldn't scratch
Polly's head if I were you; the skins are preserved with poison."

"Bless my heart!" exclaimed my aunt, snatching back her hand; and then
holding out a finger to me: "Wipe that, Nat."

I took out my handkerchief, dipped a corner in the watering-pot, and
carefully wiped the finger clear of anything that might be sticking to
it, though, as my own hands were so lately in contact with Polly's skin,
I don't believe that I did much good; but it satisfied my aunt, who
turned once more to Uncle Joe.

"Now then, Joseph; what did you say?"

"Taxi-dermy, my dear," he said again importantly; "the art of preserving
and mounting the skins of dead animals."

"And a nice mess you'll both make, I dare say," cried my aunt.

"But not indoors, my dear. We shall be very careful. You see Polly had
been a good deal knocked about. Your large black box had fallen right
upon her, and her head was off, my dear. The glass shade was in
shivers."

"Poor Polly, yes," said my aunt, "I had her put there because of the
moths in her feathers. Well, mind this, I shall expect Natty to repair
her