“It’s never safe to blow directly down upon a full flame in any lamp,” said mamma. “The wick should always be turned down first and the flame gently blown.”
“Accident the third;” said August ruefully. “Mamma, do you feel like trusting me any farther?”
His mother smiled. “The usual experience of inventors, my son.”
Sunday passed quietly. Monday with its school duties was well over. Tuesday morning—“Three weeks to-day!” said August, and half fearfully opened his incubator.
“Peep! Peep! Peep!”
The lad trembled with excitement, and a flush of joy spread over his face. He could hardly believe his ears. “One, two, three,” he hurriedly counted, “four, five, six.” On he counted, up to twenty eggs chipped or cracked. One chicken was half out of its shell, and one, quite independent, was scrambling over the rest of the eggs.
August held his breath and looked at them as long as he dared to keep the incubator open. Then softly closing the lid, he rushed down stairs.
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” he shouted at the door of his mother’s room. “They’re hatching, mamma! They’re hatching!”
“Are they, really?” asked mamma, pleased enough, and she hurried up the stairs, closely followed by the children, whom August’s joyful cry had aroused from their sleep. In great excitement they clustered around the barrel.
“Oh! what a cunning, fluffy one!” cried little Katie, as she spied the oldest chick.