called talking; but they have certain ways of
communicating one with the other, as anyone who has taken notice of
domestic fowls can see. What is more familiar than the old hen's cry to
her chickens when she has found something eatable? and then there is the
curious call uttered by all fowls when any large bird that they think is
a bird of prey flies over them."

"Oh! yes, I've heard that, uncle," I said.

"I remember an old hen uttering that peculiar warning note one day in a
field, Nat, and immediately every chicken feeding near hurried off under
the hedges and trees, or thrust their heads into tufts of grass to hide
themselves from the hawk."

"That seems to show, uncle, that they do understand."

"Yes, they certainly comprehend a certain number of cries, and it is a
sort of natural language that they have learned for their preservation."

"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