“Suppose we wait till he tells us,” said mamma, smiling.
“He’s only trying some of his ’speriments,” said wise little Robbie, aged five.
After the children went out, mamma took up her work and sat down by the window, watching the three outside, and waiting for her oldest boy, August, who presently came to take her into his confidence.
“Mamma, I am trying an experiment.”
“And is that something new, August?” with an encouraging smile.
“But the kind is new, mamma. Did you ever hear of Réaumur?”
“Who wrote that curious old book on the art of hatching fowls by artificial incubation? Yes, August.”
“Then will you come and see, mamma, what I have begun to do?”
He led the way, two steps at a time, to the attic. When they reached the door, August drew from his pocket a key, and unlocked it and led his mother in.
A flour-barrel stood in the centre of the floor, closely covered. August removed the cover, and lifted up a piece of carpet. His mother looked in.