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“This here thing looks like a mule with his ribs druv in an’ stan’in’ on his haunches. What d’ye call it?” In a cage of wire netting bearing the legend, “The Roc—The Egg,” the uncomfortable gander swayed and craned his neck; and all but his voice was satisfactory. In the bottom of the cage a whitewashed stone the size of a small pumpkin did duty as the egg. What matter if the telegraph poles that were to be just twelve feet—that is, twelve inches—fell short or long sometimes. The loose-jointed one at last regained his feet and turning in the direction of the witnesses of his ignominy gave them a resentful glare. Moses was leaning against a fence and laughing till it seemed as though his eyes must remain indefinitely imbedded in their sockets..