JOHNNIE GREENHEAD 67 



every inch of the ground, even tho other ducks were 

 there. 



Soon this little family were joined by a flock of ten 

 youngsters whose parents had been caught by the old 

 hawk at the head of the lake. Autumn was here and the 

 wild rice was ripening everywhere. Then for hours they 

 would swim among the wild rice, securely hidden from 

 their enemies, and reaching up they would let the ripe 

 grain literally run down their throats until they could hold 

 no more; or if fancy directed, they would suddenly poke 

 their sensitive bills deep into the mud, turn their tails 

 straight up, and feel about for small animal life or sweet 

 roots. Tho these ducks are practically vegetarians, they 

 sometimes vary their diet by eating some of the small life 

 that crawls on the bottom of shallow ponds. When fed 

 to the full they became happy and spent much time in 

 noisy clamor or in half running, half flying, diving and 

 splashing about in high glee, for mallards are the most 

 playful of ducks; but always one of the parents stood 

 guard against possible danger. 



Finally winter came and froze the lake and covered the 

 wild rice with snow. The teals, among other birds, had 

 long since departed for the Southland. But not until grim 

 necessity required did Mrs. Johnnie announce the time of 

 departure for the South. When they passed over the old 

 home Johnnie wanted to stop. In fact, they did settle in 

 the brook by the old grape arbor, the only ducks I ever 

 knew to alight on the farm. The boy was in the grove 

 and slipped up behind the wild gooseberry bush to watch. 

 There was Johnnie, easily recognized by his large size, 

 with his family. All seemed perfectly at home save 

 one old duck, doubtless the mother. She could not share 



