she had wanted to
shelter the fairy chalet under her cloak, but had feared that the
yellow bill, forever thrusting itself through the small casement, would
gasp for air. Air! That is the least of a chicken's wants. With all his
baby energy, Microbe, as we promptly christened him, had called for
heat, heat, heat, and had not been understood. Those thin pasteboard
walls and that shred of cotton-wool had left him practically naked to
the blast, and he was chilled--poor innocent--to the bone.

And still, in our big, human obtuseness, we did not comprehend. We
brought him meal mixed with cold water--an atrocious diet from which he
angrily turned away. All at cross purposes, we flattered him foolishly
in our alien tongue, while he remonstrated passionately in his. At last
the warmth of the room and very weariness quieted that incorrigible
cheep a little, and he was put downstairs out of invalid hearing, with
a strip of batting cast, like a snowdrift, over his jaunty dwelling.

The family went snugly to bed, while the furnace fire burned lower and
lower and the chill of the small hours stole through the house. A less
mettlesome chicken, overwhelmed with the loneliness and cruel cold,
would have yielded up its accusing little ghost then and there, but
this mite had a marvelous spirit of his own and struggled against fate
like a De Wet.

In that heavy hour before the dawn, Joy-of-Life was roused from sleep
by such desperate chicken shrieks, "Yep, yep, yep! Help, help, help!"
that no doors could shut them out. Shivering in her dressing-gown she
went down to our unhappy fosterling, who lay stiff and straight, with
head thrust forward and legs stretched back, apparently _in articulo
mortis_. The rigid bit of body was cold to her touch, and the only
hopeful sign was that shrill, protesting chirp, into which all
remaining vitality seemed to be forced. Holding the downy ball
compassionately between her palms, this ineffectual giantess--from
Microbe's point of view--reflected on the possibilities of the
situation only to be baffled. The kitchen fire was out, the oven had
not a hint of warmth in it, there was no hot water for the rubber bag.
Besides, the chicken seemed too far gone for restoration, and she
guiltily smothered him away under the fold of cotton batting and
retreated to her chamber. But Microbe had by no means surrendered his
sacred little claims to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. The
persistent prick of his