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Part of Iowa, May 1890

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never liked thet word clutch; such a ravenous grasp would surely
break ‘em. Clutch sounds as morbidly acquisitive as grab; which is no
way to handle eggs.

Descending, I indulged in deep meditation. One bluish egg, without
merks « . about the size of a small hen's egg... 1 mean a smell
egg of ahen...Hm-m-m... With unaccustomed promptness my
meditetion arrived at a decision; @ perfect decision which set my legs
into rapid motion toward home, a mere three miles away.

Arriving, and finding no one there, I feverishly raided Mother's
provisions. . . . A small egg of a hen; e small— Yep, this one would
do. Now let's sees the bluing; where on earth does Nother— I knew,
firstly with @ boy's instinct, end secondly from comtless forays,
where every edible thing, cooked or rew, open or under cover, was kept;
but - fer gosh sake - bluing!

Finally I found it; end I shook a lusty measure into a tumbler half
full of cold water. . . . Yep, it's blue all right. I ducked the small
egg of a hen; ten seconds should do, I thought. For this was e hurry
matter.

A watched pot, sey the seers, never boils. And @ small egg of a Hen,



sey I from experience, tekes an unconscionable time to get blui
even light bluish, But et long last it was achieved.

I carefully dried it, end placed it in cotton in a tin cans then
away went my legs, with me along, for the nest in the wildwood, three

miles distant. Most earnestly I hoped thet no other Scientific Cologist