JOHNNIE GREENHEAD 49 



and some corn meal mixed with sand and enough water to 

 form a stiff crumbly dough. 



Those babies of the wood were exceedingly shy. In fact, 

 there is nothing more surprizing than to see how different 

 are the actions of newly hatched domestic fowls from those 

 of wild birds of the same kind. Whereas newly hatched 

 domestic ducklings would have been content with this 

 chicken mother and would have remained with her as 

 readily as with their own mother, this was not true with 

 these baby mallards. It was only with difficulty they were 

 persuaded to accept her care. In time they became tame 

 enough to allow themselves to be fed by the members of the 

 family, but they were always shy when strangers came about 

 and were continually running away from their foster 

 mother. When they grew older, one after another dis- 

 appeared. Whether they died or ran away or were stolen, 

 the boy was never quite sure, but when fall came, only 

 Johnnie Greenhead remained. His companions gone, he 

 gradually accepted the company of the domestic ducks ; and 

 as they were greenhead ducks themselves, probably descend- 

 ants of mallard ancestors of less than a hundred years 

 before, he came in time to feel quite at home with them. 

 Having been fed the best of everything from babyhood, he 

 grew to be a giant of his race. Not only was he larger than 

 a wild mallard, but larger than the largest of the domestic 

 drakes in the farmyard. 



The boy's mother was a provident soul and believed that 

 ducks and geese should be picked several times a year, 

 for were not feathers necessary if one desired a warm, com- 

 fortable bed or good soft pillows? When picking time 

 came, all of the victims resented the operation more or less, 

 but to Johnnie Greenhead it was a tragedy, the more so 



