At first we decided to make a little coffin and bury him. But, suddenly, I remembered that my uncle, the doctor, sometimes stuffed birds and animals; so I proposed that we should go to him, tell the story, and ask him to stuff our blackbird. Uncle was a kind-hearted man, and, after listening to the story, which he said was a very singular one, he promised to stuff the bird.
In about ten days he gave it back to us, looking almost alive. We took it, fixed its little feet on the kite, just as they had been, and persuaded our teacher to put it up on the top of his mineral cabinet; and there it stood all the rest of the time I went to that school.
It was a stormy November night, many years ago, in an old town in old England. Without, the wind howled and the rain poured, but within the happy and comfortable home of Doctor Annesley, all was quiet, warmth, and brightness. A cheerful circle was gathered round the hearth. There was Doctor Annesley himself, a tall, handsome man, standing in the ruddy firelight, tossing the baby in his arms, while two young children, a boy and a girl, stood before him, one affectionately clasping his knee, yet both, with their father, listening respectfully to their Grandpapa, old Sir Hugh Annesley, who was relating a story of his boyhood. By a table sat Mrs. Annesley, the Doctor's good and beautiful wife, busy with her sewing, yet not too busy to attend to the low-voiced talk of her eldest son, a noble boy of about ten years.
"It seems so strange, mamma," he said, "to think of Grandpapa ever having been a little boy like me! 'tis harder a great deal, than to think of my tall papa as small, like brother Harry, because _he_ has such long beautiful hair, and such a full, rosy face, and can laugh and play as merrily as any boy. So could Uncle Philip. But Grandpapa has thin, white hair, and such dim, deep eyes--he stoops and trembles, and looks very sad sometimes. He scarcely ever plays with us, and never laughs in the merry way he used to, when Uncle Philip told him funny stories. I wish Uncle Philip would come home! Why don't he, mamma?"
"Hush, Herbert!" said Mrs. Annesley in a low tone, "remember, I have told you to be very careful not to speak of _him_ before your Grandpapa. Your Uncle Philip was a wild, passionate, self-willed boy, and though we all loved him dearly, he has caused us much sorrow by his misconduct. He was Grandpapa's youngest, darling son, yet gave him a great deal of trouble by refusing to do as he wished to have him; and finally, almost broke his heart, by running away from college, and going to sea. Several years have passed since we heard from him, and it is sorrow and anxiety about him, more than old age, that has whitened dear Grandpapa's hair, dimmed his eyes, and bowed him toward the grave. This, my love, is the reason that you must not speak of your Uncle Philip."