You remember that little, old, withered man who used to bring us eggs; the boys, you know, called him Egg Pop. When the thrifty housewife complained of the small size of his ware, he always said,-- "Yes, Marm, they be small; but they be monstrous full." Yes, the packing of the nest is close; but closer is the packing of the egg. "As full as an egg of meat" is a wise proverb. Let us look at these first-fruits which the bountiful Spring hangs on our trees. "To break the eggshell after the meat is out we are taught in our childhood, and practise it all our lives; which, nevertheless, is but a superstitious relict, according to the judgment of Pliny, and the intent hereof was to prevent witch-craft [to keep the fairies out]; for lest witches should draw or prick their names therein, and veneficiously mischief their persons, they broke the shell, as Dalecampius hath observed." This is what Sir Thomas Browne tells us about eggshells. And Dr. Wren adds, "Least they [the witches] perchance might use them for boates to sayle in by night." But I, who have no fear of witches, would not break them,--rather use them, try what an untold variety of forms we may make out of this delicate oval. By a little skilful turning and reversing, putting on a handle, a lip here, a foot there, always following the sacred oval, we shall get a countless array of pitchers and vases, of perfect finished form, handsome enough to be the oval for a king's name. Should they attempt to copy our rare vases in finest Parian, alabaster, or jasper, their art would fail to hit the delicate tints and smoothness of this fine shell; and then those dots and dashes, careless as put on by a master's hand! Are not these rare lines? They look to me as wise as hieroglyphics. Who knows what rhyme and reason are written there,--what subtile wisdom rounded into this small curve,--repeated on the breasts and backs of the birds,--their own notes, it may be, photographed on their swelling breasts like the musical notes on the harp-shell,--written in bright, almost audible colors on the petals of flowers,--harmonies, melodies, for ear and eye? Has this language, older than Erse, older than Sanscrit, ever got translated? I am afraid, dear, the key has been turned in the lock, and thrown into the well. The ornithologists tell us that some birds build nicer nests, sing sweeter songs, than their companions of the same species. Can experience add wisdom to instinct? or is it the right of the elder-born,--the birthright of the young robin who first breaks the shell? Who has rightly looked into these things?