expert. Not the full-grown fowls are his victims, but the youngest
and most tender. At night Mother Hen receives under her maternal
wings a dozen newly hatched chickens, and with much pride and
satisfaction feels them all safely tucked away in her feathers. In
the morning she is walking about disconsolately, attended by only
two or three of all that pretty brood. What has happened? Where are
they gone? That pickpocket, Sir Mephitis, could solve the mystery.
Quietly has he approached, under cover of darkness, and one by one
relieved her of her precious charge. Look closely and you will see
their little yellow legs and beaks, or part of a mangled form, lying
about on the ground. Or, before the hen has hatched, he may find her
out, and, by the same sleight of hand, remove every egg, leaving
only the empty blood-stained shells to witness against him. The
birds, especially the ground-builders, suffer in like manner from
his plundering propensities.

The secretion upon which he relies for defense, and which is the
chief source of his unpopularity, while it affords good reasons
against cultivating him as a pet, and mars his attractiveness as
game, is by no means the greatest indignity that can be offered to a
nose. It is a rank, living smell, and has none of the sickening
qualities of disease or putrefaction. Indeed, I think a good smeller
will enjoy its most refined intensity. It approaches the sublime,
and makes the nose tingle. It is tonic and bracing, and, I can
readily believe, has rare medicinal qualities. I do not recommend
its use as eyewater, though an old farmer assures me it has
undoubted virtues when thus applied. Hearing, one night, a
disturbance among his hens, he rushed suddenly out to catch the
thief, when Sir Mephitis, taken by surprise, and no doubt much
annoyed at being interrupted, discharged the vials of his wrath full