"I hesitate," I said, "to disturb a suffering creature, but--"
"Call to-morrow, Miss Reporter," he muttered wearily, "call to-morrow."
"But," I persisted, "you may not be alive to-morrow, and I only desire
to know why you roosters invariably crow at midnight?"
"Midnight!" he echoed faintly, catching but the last word. "Is that
the reason it has grown so dark? Ah, that Shanghai over there will get
ahead of me; that'll never do," and the dying old boaster, drawing
himself up stiffly, a feeble "_cock-a-doodle_" rang out on the air,
but the final "_doo_" stuck in his throat, a gasp, a shiver, a swaying
to and fro, and the long, slender toes of Mr. Rooster were presently
turned toward the sky.
[Illustration: BROOK TROUT.
CHICAGO:
A. W. MUMFORD, PUBLISHER.]