"Well, Paul," I said, with spurious cheerfulness, "giving them a ride? Are these some--ha, ha!--you want to keep for pets?" Paul has a quick ear for a false note. He studied my face with grave wonderment, his earnest gaze piercing my jocose mask. "Why, father," he exclaimed, "your voice sounds so queer--and what a funny question! They're all pets,--of course, I want to keep every one." "Come and sit on the bench beside me," I said ingratiatingly, "and we'll have a talk.... Do you know that--that people sometimes have to--that is, that people don't usually raise chickens for pets?" "Oh, yes, I know," he replied, nodding his little head with philosophic certainty. "Most boys would rather keep dogs and rabbits, and ponies and other animals; but I don't want anything for pets except hens and chickens, and perhaps--well, I think I would like a pair of white pigeons. I heard you saying to mother that I wasn't a bit like other boys. Is that one way I'm different?" "It is," I answered with curt emphasis. Paul snuggled closer to me and leaned his head on my shoulder. "You say that as if"--he hesitated shyly--"as if you wished I was like other boys. Am I not as good?" "You're better, my boy, far better!" I exclaimed, in quick remorse. This remark may appear injudicious, but Paul is like me in many ways, and there is not a shadow of vanity or self-consciousness in his character; no amount of praise, or even flattery, could disturb the natural equipoise of his self-esteem, but he is quick to feel the hurt of unjust depreciation. When Marion forgets my imperfections and tells me I am the best man in the world, I am aware that she is drawing it a little strong; at the same time, I am strengthened and uplifted by her opinion, and I feel the yearning to do noble things, to be more worthy of my pedestal, to attain that serenity of temper which mortals name angelic. Paul's face brightened, and I knew that I had made amends for my previous abrupt and jarring tone. I began again cautiously, taking care to speak with soothing mellowness. "I don't think I ever heard of anyone keeping twenty-seven chickens and five hens for _pets_." A merry light danced in Paul's eyes. "That's what you said about farming with a spade, a rake and a hoe," he reminded me, "and mother said we must do what was right without thinking about other people." Chance, instinct, or his inherited nimble mind had enabled him to checkmate me as neatly as Marion could have done it; I moved back. Passing lightly over the objectionable features, I briefly sketched the magnitude of the chicken-raising industry for supplying city markets, pointing out the necessity for poor farmers selling their fowls to buy food and clothing. Despite my care he was visibly shocked. "No matter how poor _we_ were, you would never send _our_ chickens to market?" he inquired, breathing hard.