THE DOMESTIC DUCK. 241 



is not unattended with danger. A sportsman, who had dressed 

 himself up in this disguise, happened inadvertently to find his way 

 among a herd of cattle, which, detecting the imposture, immediately 

 ran at him and chased him about the meadow. He thought himself 

 fortunate in escaping with the loss of his disguise, which he aban- 

 doned to the fury of his horned assailants. 



Large numbers of Ducks are taken by means of nets and various 

 snares, which want of space prevents us from here enumerating. 



The Domestic Duck, Anas domestica, is a descendant of the Wild 

 Duck, or, as some think, of the Shoveller. The first tame Duck, 

 the ancestor of a family since so prodigiously multiplied, probably 

 proceeded from an egg which had been taken from some reedy 

 marsh, and hatched under a Hen. 



The Duck, however, has been reduced to a state of domesticity 

 from a very remote period, and has been of incalculable utility to 

 mankind, filling in our poultry-yards no unworthy place. Ducks' 

 eggs are a wholesome and agreeable article of food, and the flesh 

 of the bird itself is most savoury. Epicures highly prized, and 

 rightly so, ihepdtes defoie de canard of Toulouse, Strasbourg, Nerac, 

 and Amiens (we arrange them here in their order of merit, not 

 according to Baron Brisse's dictum, but following our own poor 

 gastronomic capabilities). Their feathers, although not so valuable 

 as those of the Goose, are articles of considerable importance in 

 commerce. 



Ducks produce large profits to those who rear them. They are 

 by no means choice in their food. Nothing comes amiss to their 

 palate ; the corn scattered about the yard which is disdained by other 

 fowls, and the meanest remnants of the leavings of the table and 

 kitchen, they do not reject. All that they require as an essential is 

 to have a little water within reach in which they can paddle at will. 



Ducks' eggs are often put under a Hen to be hatched. When 

 seeking her food, the Hen sometimes leads her little flock to the 

 edge of water, and gives them a glimpse of its dangers. But 

 the ducklings, impelled by instinct, rush into the element they are 

 most partial to. The poor mother, anxious for the fate of the 

 young giddy-pates, which she loves as her own offspring, utters 

 cries of terror. She would resolutely throw herself into the stream, 

 and perhaps get drowned, were she not soothed by seeing them 



