s covered with leaves
to hide them from your enemies sixty smooth white eggs. And in a few
weeks out of these will scamper sixty little wiggly Crocodiles, your
dear, homely, scaly, hungry-mouthed children. Yes, we all lay eggs, my
silly friend, and so in a sense we are all brothers, as the Hen has
said."

"Sh!" whispered the Crocodile, nervously. "Don't mention those eggs of
mine, I beg of you. Some one might overhear. What you say is undoubtedly
true," he added pensively, after thinking a few moments. "Then I suppose
I must give up my tempting dinner of Hen. I cannot eat my Sister, can
I?"

"Of course you cannot," said the Mbambi, as he rustled away through the
jungle. "We can't have everything we want in this world."

"No, I see we cannot," sighed the Crocodile, as he waddled back towards
the banks of the Congo. Now in the same old spot he found the Hen, who
had been improving his absence by greedily stuffing herself on
beetle-bugs, flies, and mosquitoes until she was so fat that she could
not run away at the Crocodile's approach. She could only stand and
squawk feebly, fluttering her ridiculous wings.

But the Crocodile only said, "Good evening, Sister," very politely, and
passing her by with a wag of his enormous tail sank with a plop into the
waters of the Congo.

And ever since that time the Hen has eaten her dinner in tranquil peace,
undisturbed by the sight of floating log or basking shape of knobby
green. For she knows that old Hungry-Mouth will not eat his Sister, the
Hen.

THE THRUSH AND THE CUCKOO

In the wonderful days of old it is said that Christ and Saint Peter went
together upon a journey. It was a beautiful day in March, and the earth
was just beginning to put on her summer gorgeousness. As the two
travelers were passing near a great forest they spied a Thrush sitting
on a tree singing and singing as hard as he could. And he cocked his
head as if he was very proud of something.

Saint Peter stopped at the foot of the tree and said, "I wish you a good
day, Thrush!"

"I have no time to thank you," chirped the Thrush pertly.

"Why not, pretty Thrush?" asked Saint Peter in surprise. "You have all
the time in the world and nothing to do but sing."

"You mistake," cried the Thrush. "I am making the summer! It is I, I, I
who make the green grass grow and the flowers bud. Look, how even now
the world is growing beautiful in answer to my song." And the conceited
little bird continued to w