it, Nat, and have a run."

Then when the time came for another try at Polly we used to laugh and
say that we would have another turn at Humpty Dumpty.

At last--and I don't know how long it took--the time had come when
Polly's head was to cease from staring down in a ghastly one-eyed way at
her body, and it was to come down and crown the edifice.

I remember it so well. It was a bright, sunny half-holiday, when I was
longing to be off fishing, but with Humpty Dumpty incomplete there was
no fishing for me, especially as Aunt Sophia had been asking how soon
her pet was to be finished.

"Come along, Nat," said Uncle Joseph, "and we'll soon finish it."

I smiled rather sadly, for I did not feel at all sanguine. I made the
glue-pot hot, however, and set to work, rearranging a patch or two of
feathers that looked very bad, and then I stared at uncle and he gazed
at me.

I believe we both had some kind of an idea that the sort of feather
tippet that hung from Polly's head would act as a cloak to hide all the
imperfections that were so plain. Certainly some such hopeful idea was
in my brain, though I did not feel sanguine.

"Now then, my boy, now then," cried my uncle, as at last I took Polly's
head from the nail, and he rubbed his hands with excitement. "We shall
do it at last."

I fancy I can smell the hot steaming glue now as I went about that day's
work, for I kept on stirring it up and thinking how much I ought to put
in the bird's neck and upon its skull to keep from soiling and making
sticky all its feathers. It took some consideration, and all the while
dear Uncle Joe watched me as attentively as if I were going to perform
some wonderful operation. He even held his breath as I began to glue
the head, and uttered a low sigh of relief as I replaced the brush in
the pot.

Then as carefully as I could I fixed the head in its place, securing it
the more tightly by driving a long thin stocking-needle right through
the skull into the wood.

And there it was, the result of a month's spare time and labour, and I
drew back to contemplate this effort of genius.

I can laugh now as I picture the whole scene. The rough bench on which
stood the bird, the wall on which hung the garden tools, Uncle Joe with
his pipe in one hand, his other resting upon his knee as he sat upon an
upturned tub gazing straight at me, and I seem to see my own boyish self
gazing at my task till I utterly broke down with the misery and vex