The door was cautiously set ajar by a determined
policeman; the strangers slipped in,
and the official instantly bolted the door after
them. Despite the policeman's strongest
precautions, however, your reporter slipped in
with the last member of this secret society;
whose secretary, the moment they entered,
delivered to each a small purple-covered
manuscript, inscribed with the words, "Judges'
List." This was filled principally with
numbers and dates up and down the pages. Each
then drew his pocket-pencil and a loose piece
of paper, and all walked, attended by the
secretary, to the compartment where a number
of large black fowls were ranged in
pens, each pen having a neat wire netting in
front,

"Now for the Spanish," said the brownest
of the judges; "let us make an end of them."
This harsh determination was almost literally
fulfilled; for the whole party kept walking
up and down before the terrified black fowls
—sometimes separately, sometimes in twos
and threes, sometimes altogether—making
marks upon paper, looking into their little
books, poking the fowls with their pencils,
making them start by thumps on the netting,
and teasing the poor things to such an extent
that the Animals' Friend Society might have
asked what they meant by it. After a while,
they seemed to make up their minds to some
conclusion. Each entered a note or two in
his own little book; the secretary took it
down in his big book; and they all turned
their backs at once on the specimens with
which they had just been so completely
absorbed.

"Here are the next, gentlemen; we've no
time to lose. A thousand and fifty-six lots to
pass judgment on." More walking before
cases; more "marking off;" more poking with
fingers and pencils; more pinching of backs
and peering at feathers; more fluttering of
birds; constant retiring of judges into small
groups, and mysterious whisperings about red,
blue, and white ribbons, medals, and "honourable
mentions;" the mysterious gentlemen
passing from class to class, from pen to pen,
from bird to bird, until their eyes were so
bleared, and their ears so pierced with the
barn-door chromatics of one thousand nine
hundred and seventy-one hens, besides countless
cocks, that it is only wonderful how they
could distinguish ducks from geese, or fowls
from feathers. As a diversion, for variety's
sake, they now and then called for a man with
a weighing machine, ordered a triumphant
cock to be taken from his pen, and to be laid,
with his legs tied, in the scale. Huge geese
were precipitated into a pillow-case, and
suspended from steelyards: select parties, of a
drake and three ducks, were huddled without
apology into one sack, and, after remaining
there a few minutes, as unceremoniously
turned out again. All day long these varied
sports were continued; at the end of about
eleven hours, the judges simultaneously shut
up their little books, and the secretary ran
away with his big book, exclaiming, "To
press!" The mysterious conclave then turned
to each other, raised their hats, bowed, as if
they had accomplished some great feat, and
departed.

They were not, however, allowed to depart
in peace. Although the evening had far
advanced, a crowd of eager inquirers besieged
the door of Bingley Hall. These were
Exhibitors, whose anxiety would not keep until the
next morning. Their chorus was nearly as
loud and quite as varied as that of their own
poultry.

"Would you be so kind to tell me what
Number Nine hundred and ninety-nine, Class
X., has got?" The good-natured arbiter turns
over the leaves of his book, and is obliged to
answer, "Nothing!" "And what Five
hundred and one?" "A blank." "Then, Number
Eighty two?" "Again a blank." "And, if
you please," (in despair) "Number Thousand
and four?" "I am sorry to tell you, still
blank." The querist nearly takes the skin off
the nose of the judge with the sharpness of
the tone in which he says "Thank'ee, sir!"

Another catechist comes into play. "May
I take the liberty to ask about Number Fifty-
seven, Class D.?" "First prize, and extra
medal." Catechist bolts away instanter. A
faint cry of "hooray!" is wafted over the
heads of the crowd.

Another still succeeds. "Anything for
Three hundred, Class V.?" "Blank." "And
Number Eleven hundred and twenty?" "Extra
third prize. Are you content?" "Y-e-s!
yes! I think I ought to be content; but
still—" Objection drowned in the clamour
of a hundred voices, asking twice five hundred
questions.

On Tuesday the aspect of affairs was different:
no need, then, to tap at a locked door,
and slip past the policeman sidewise. Open,
Sesame! The feathered recluses visitable on
the small payment of half-a-crown, this being
the "private view," consisting of a select
private party of a few thousands.

The mammalia have their attractions; but
the tide of the throng decidedly sets in
towards the oviparous department. Admiration
of various degrees is expressed in every
variety of exclamation. "Exquisite!" "Slap-
up!" "Wonderful!" "Stunning!" "Be-a-u-
tiful!" But the most intelligible
commendation was that in the Report of the
"Midland Counties Herald:"—"The game
fowls, as heretofore, were in wonderful
variety. Every one knows how handsome
are the males of these breeds; but the
excellent arrangements of the Exhibition
Committee permitted a close inspection of the
peculiar elegance of the hen-birds. There
they stood ranged, in many-tinted plumage,
a troop of lovely vixens, petulant and furious,
not merely looking as if each one would eat
up a rival, but in not a few cases actually
beginning to do so, to the annoyance of the