ARCHIBALD’S IMITATION OF a hen laying an egg was conceived on broad and sympathetic lines. Less violent than Salvini’s “Othello,” it had in it something of the poignant wistfulness of Mrs. Siddons in the sleep-walking scene of Macbeth. The rendition started quietly, almost inaudibly, with a sort of soft, liquid crooning—the joyful yet half-incredulous murmur of a mother who can scarcely believe as yet that her union has really been blessed, and that it is indeed she who is responsible for the oval mixture of chalk and albumen which she sees lying beside her in the straw.
Then, gradually, conviction comes.
“It looks like an egg,” one seems to hear her say. “It feels like an egg. It’s shaped like an egg. Damme, it is an egg!”
And at that, all doubting resolved, the crooning changes; takes on a firmer note; soars into the upper register; and finally swells into a maternal pæan of joy—a “Charawk-chawk-chawk-chawk-chawk” of such a calibre that few have ever been able to listen to it dry-eyed. Following which, it was Archibald’s custom to run round the room, flapping the sides of his coat, and then, leaping onto a sofa or some convenient chair, to stand there with his arms at right angles, crowing himself purple in the face.
Mr. Mulliner Speaking.