“They are lively enough!” he said. “See, mamma, this one moves, and this!”
Then came one that was dark and shaky. “Addled,” pronounced August. After this a number more appeared as promising as the former ones.
Finally all were tested. They were pleased enough with the result. Three were clear—that meant there were no chickens within the shells; one was addled; and thirty-two contained live chicks.
August was so wild over this discovery that his hands grew unsteady, and he unfortunately dropped two of the eggs and broke them. This left him but thirty likely to hatch; but these were all very promising.
“I am sure we will succeed now, mamma,” cried August gaily.
“It looks like it, certainly,” said mamma.
But alas for poor August’s bright hopes! and alas for the expected chickens! Whether August was too confident and grew careless, or whether it was one of those unforeseen accidents that will happen, will never be known; but this is certain, that the next morning when August went, later than usual, to look at his incubator, he found the thermometer had gone up to 110 and must have been at that temperature some time, for in egg after egg, which he opened in despair, was a poor little dead chick.
Even if a boy is fourteen years old, he cannot help crying sometimes over a great disappointment.
Poor August put out his lamp with sorrowful breath and some of his tears fell upon the hot chimney which hissed as if in mockery.
Then he locked himself in his own room, threw himself on the bed, refused his breakfast and gave way to his grief.