"Your chicken will not live," said my

aunt.

"Oh, why not?"

"See, there is yet a little yolk in the shell."

My heart beat harder than in the morning. If my little Zizi died, it would be my fault, because I had forced him out of his shell before he was ready to go out of it himself.

I had now to go down to dinner, but I could not go until I had put my chicken on the bottom of an old cage, so that, if he had a fancy to walk about, he need not run the risk of falling, which would surely kill him.

The dinner that day seemed to me unusually long. I hardly listened to a word that was said, and as soon as I could get away, I ran up to my room. The sun was setting; Zizi slept in his cage, his head under his wing. I set myself to work to repair lost time, but the attempt (as every thing of that kind is) was useless, and when I went down, at the hour of recitation, I knew nothing of what was given me to learn.

My aunt found excuses for me, she was so much pleased to see me take an interest in what wholly occupied herself!

"I see," said my cousin, "that to please Caroline this evening, I must talk of the chickens, or of the poultry yard, for she has asked me two or three questions that show that her thoughts are full of Zizi."

CHAPTER VII.

OBSERVATIONS.

"My little cousin," said Augustus, "let us hear about what you have seen that is remarkable in the life of your

chicken."

Caroline.

"There are many things I should like to know about. And first, cousin, I noticed that in going out of the egg, Zizi had no feathers, but in a little while he was covered. Do they grow so soon?"

Augustus. "At first, my little cousin, the chicken is covered with down, which is shut up in tubes, formed of moist membranes when first hatched. When dried in the air those membranes break, and the beards of the down, freed from their envelope, spread a soft, warm and dry covering over the little chicken. The larger feathers come more slowly."

Aunt. "The poor little things get very tired when we pick them, and the

geese are so much ashamed of their bare bodies, that, on this account, too, they are not without suffering."

Augustus. "And yet three times a year we pluck the poor geese! and thus turn the nourishing juices from their natural course, that the outer skin may be able to form other feathers."

Aunt. "You are always talking about that, and still you love to use soft pillows, and a feather bed which has not its equal many miles round."

Augustus. "What makes my pillow so soft and so sweet is the thought that I owe it to the care of my excellent mother."

Aunt. "And to what you call her 'barbarity!'"

Augustus began to laugh, and so did I. "Cousin," said I, "is it the same with all eggs as it is with hen's eggs?"

Augustus. "We have every reason to think so."

Caroline. "But when the little Canary birds are hatched, it is a very long time before they are covered with feathers."

Augustus. "This last reflection, my dear Caroline, might lead you to conclude that in some minute details there are differences in birds, just as there are varieties in their species. Thus the chicken, scarcely hatched, seeks its food and eats of itself: ducks do the same and still more-they go to the water; and geese also, and unless some one should feed them, their gluttony might injure them. The pigeons and turkeys do not know how to eat of themselves. Their mothers have to teach them."

Caroline. "The turkeys must look very ridiculous doing a thing which is so genteelly done by the little Canary birds."

Augustus. "The most foolish, or homely animal in the world, becomes interesting the moment it fulfils, towards its young family, the duties of parental love."

My cousin's answer made me blush for my frivolity.

"That which is the prettiest," added Augustus, "is not always the most amiable; that is to say, not the most worthy