There could be but one answer to that question, and after I had fervently disclaimed the possibility of poverty ever making me so heartless, each of us remained buried in his own thoughts for a brief time. The chickens gathered around, and I fancied they regarded me with intuitive dread in their glistening eyes, as if they waited to hear my next attempt to seal their doom. An overgrown bully suddenly pecked a weaker brother, pulling out a bunch of feathers viciously as he spurned the victim with his feet. Paul darted to the rescue and brought the brutal assailant back to the bench a prisoner. "What is that villain's name, Paul?" I asked with eager interest. "Why, this is Angelica," he answered. "Don't you remember you named him yourself when he was first hatched?" I did remember. He was then a beautiful yellowish ball of fluff, with large, soft, wide-open eyes, the prettiest one of the brood; now he was grown into a greedy, swaggering, insolent swashbuckler, proud of his stature and fine plumage. "He's a dangerous criminal," I said, feeling his plump breast appreciatively, "and it might be better to--to"--somehow the word stuck in my throat; I hesitated. "I know, father," cried Paul joyfully. "I'm the policeman and you're the judge--he must be tried and then sentenced to wear a muzzle." Angelica was tried and sentenced, then muzzled with a small rubber band that fitted tightly over his bill. His antics amused us so much that for a few minutes I forgot my fatal errand. "He looks wicked enough to kill some of the others," I remarked, after a pause. "Do you know, Paul, how a person who kills another is punished?" He looked up with sudden, awed interest. "They put a rope around--him, and--and"---- "And _what_?" "----fine him a dollar and costs." "Oh!" he gasped, "I'm so glad that's all. And do they take the rope off afterwards?" "I believe they do," I replied, in deep dejection. "Father, I just love chickens. Don't you?" "I do, indeed," I affirmed, with sudden reckless, despairing intention; "but I love them in two different ways. If they're nice, well-mannered birds I love to see them running about with their feathers _on_; but if they're naughty I love to see them not running about with their feathers _off_." Paul laughed in glee. "Your mother and Aunt Sophy like them too," I went on warily, my heart thumping; "and I think if chickens are cruel and bad they deserve to be stuffed"--his expression changed suddenly, but he still looked bravely into my eyes--"with bread-crumbs, and roasted, with thick--brown--rich--gravy." Paul jerked his little hand from mine and stood up in front of me, his face twitching and his eyes brimming. "You greedy--_greedy_--GREEDY!" he gasped. "Paul,--my boy,--listen," I implored; "your aunt Sophy is coming, and she's awfully fond"----