Grown too big for his skin, and it grown heard, without a sea and atmosphere- he's drunk it all up- his strength's inside him now, but there's no room to stretch. He pecks at the top but his beak's too soft; though instinct or ambition shoves, he can't get through. Barely old enough to bleed and already bruised! In a case this tough what's the use if you break your head instead of the lid? Despair tempts him to just go limp; maybe the cell's already a tomd, and beginning end in this round room. Still, stupidly he pecks and pecks, as if from under his own skull- yet makes no crack... And kicks and stomps. What a thrill and shock to feel his little gaff poke through the floor! A way he hand't known or meant rage works if reason won't when locked up, bear down
