n years old, like many of his fellow-workmen, Stephenson
had not yet learnt to read. All that he could do was to get some one to
read for him by his engine fire, out of any book or stray newspaper which
found its way into the neighbourhood. Buonaparte was then overrunning
Italy, and astounding Europe by his brilliant succession of victories;
and there was no more eager auditor of his exploits, as read from the
newspaper accounts, than the young engineman at the Water-row Pit.

There were also numerous stray bits of information and intelligence
contained in these papers, which excited Stephenson's interest. One of
these related to the Egyptian method of hatching birds' eggs by means of
artificial heat. Curious about everything relating to birds, he
determined to test it by experiment. It was spring time, and he
forthwith went a birdnesting in the adjoining woods and hedges. He
gathered a collection of eggs of various sorts, set them in flour in a
warm place in the engine-house, covering the whole with wool, and then
waited the issue. The heat was kept as steady as possible, and the eggs
were carefully turned every twelve hours, but though they chipped, and
some of them exhibited well-grown chicks, they never hatched. The
experiment failed, but the incident shows that the inquiring mind of the
youth was fairly at work.

Modelling of engines in clay continued to be another of his favourite
occupations. He made models of engines which he had seen, and of others
which were described to him. These attempts were an improvement upon his
first trials at Dewley Burn bog, when occupied there as a herd-boy. He
was, however, anxious to know something of the wonderful engines of
Boulton and Watt, and was told that they were to be found fully described
in books, which he must search for information as to their construction,
action and uses. But, alas! Stephenson could not read; he had not yet
learnt even his letters.

Thus he shortly found, when gazing wistfully in the direction of
knowledge, that to advance further as a skilled workman, he must master
this wonderful art of reading--the key to so many other arts. Only thus
could he gain an access to books, the depositories of the wisdom and
experience of the past. Although a grown man, and doing the work of a
man, he was not ashamed to confess his ignorance, and go to school, big
as he was, to learn his letters. Perhaps, too, he foresaw that, in
laying out a little of