“I know too about the chickens, uncle,” I said. “Sometimes they go about uttering a little soft twittering noise as if they were happy and contented; but if they lose sight of their mother they pipe and cry and stand on their toes, staring about them as if they were in the greatest of trouble.”
“I think I can tell you another curious little thing about fowls too, and their way of communicating one with the other. Many years ago, Nat, I had a fancy for keeping some very large fine Dorking fowls, and very interesting I found it letting the hens sit and then taking care of their chickens.”
“But how is it, uncle,” I said, interrupting him, “that a tiny, tender chicken can so easily chip a hole in an egg-shell, as they do when they are nearly ready to come out?”
“Because, for one reason, the egg-shell has become very brittle, and all the glutinous, adhesive matter has dried away from the lime; the other reason is, that the pressure of the bird’s beak alone is sufficient to do it, because the pressure comes from within. There is a wonderful strength in an egg, Nat, if the pressure is from without; it will bear enormous weight from without, for one particle supports another, and in reason the pressure adds to the strength. The slightest touch, however, is sufficient to break a way out from within. I’ll be bound to say you have often hammered an egg with a spoon and been surprised to find how hard it is.”
“Yes, uncle, often,” I said.
“Well, but to go on with my story, Nat. One day a favourite hen had eleven beautiful little yellow downy chickens, and for the fun of the thing I took one soft little thing out of the nest and carried it into the yard, where the great cock was strutting about with his sickle-feathered green tail glistening in the sun, and, putting down the tiny yellow ball of down, I drew back, calling the old cock the while.
“He ran up, thinking it was something to eat; but as soon as he reached the helpless little chick he stopped short, bent his head down, looked at it first with one eye, then with the other, and seemed lost in meditation.
“‘Come, papa,’ I said, ‘what do you think of your little one?’
“Still he kept on staring intently at the little thing till it began to cry ‘Peek, peek, peek’ in a most dismal tone, for it was very cold, and then the old cock, who had been looking very important and big, suddenly began to cry ‘Took, took, took’, just like a hen, and softly crouched down, spreading his wings a little for the chick to creep under him and get warm, and no doubt he would have taken care of that chicken and brought it up if I had not taken it back to the hen.
“But look! we are talking about barn-door fowls and losing chances to get lovely specimens of foreign birds and—what’s that?”