Egg-shell she o'er.
Ye Fynde.
At break of shell, as chickenward
(For aught she knew) her spoon she stirred,
A something stubborn claimed a stare.
"My brooch!" cried with a startled air,
Egg-shell she o'er.
Ye Ende.
There in the middle—so they say—
Hard, but albuminous it lay.