THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A DUCK. 



FOUNDED UPON FACT. 



"How queer, my child! what a long, 

 broad mouth you have, and what peculiar 

 feet V 



It was my mother, a big brown hen, 

 who spoke. I had stepped from my egg, 

 only a short while before, and as I was 

 the only one hatched out of the whole 

 thirteen, my poor mother was greatly dis- 

 appointed. 



Now, to add to her troubles, there 

 seemed to be something very peculiar 

 about my appearance. 



"Yes," she went on still watching me 

 critically, "I have raised many families, 

 but never a chick like you. Well ! well ! 

 don't cry about it. Your yellow dress is 

 very pretty. It doesn't pay to be too sen- 

 sitive, as you will find, I am afraid, when 

 you have lived with these chickens. Some 

 of them are dreadfully trying. Dear! 

 dear ! how stiff I am ! This setting is 

 tiresome work." 



"I wonder what sort of home we are 

 going to have." 



Our home, into which we moved a few 

 hours later, proved to be an upturned 

 soap box. Seven little chickens were 

 there before us. > 



"The same old story," said my mother 

 with a knowing air. "People imagine we 

 hens have no sense. I did not hatch those 

 chickens, but I am expected to care for 

 them, as though I did. Some mothers 

 would peck them so they would be glad to 

 stay away." 



She had too good a heart for this, 

 however, and I was very glad to have 

 these brothers and sisters. 



They were different from me, though, 

 in many ways, principally, in their dislike 

 for water. They hated even to get their 

 feet wet, while I dearly loved to get in the 

 pond, and swim around on its surface, or 

 even dive down to the bottom, where such 

 nice fat worms lived. 



My poor mother never could under- 

 stand my tastes. The first time she saw 



me on the water, she came rushing to- 

 wards me, screaming and beating her 

 wings. 



"Oh, my child ! my child !" she cried, 

 with tears in her eyes. "You will drown ! 

 You will drown!" 



I loved her, and so could not bear to see 

 her distress. It was hard to be different 

 from all the others. 



I had a little yellow sister who was a 

 great comfort to me at these times. I 

 could never persuade her to try the 

 water, — but she always sat upon the edge 

 of the pond while I had my swim. We 

 shared everything with each other; even 

 our troubles. 



About this time, my voice began to 

 change. It had been a soft little "peep," 

 but now it grew so harsh, that some of 

 the old hens made unpleasant remarks 

 about it, and my mother was worried. 



"It isn't talking. It's quacking," said an 

 old, brown-headed hen who was always 

 complaining of her nerves. 



She was very cross and spent most of 

 her time standing on one leg in a corner 

 and pecking any poor chicken that came 

 in her reach. 



"Don't you know why it's quacking?" 

 asked a stately Buff Cochin who was a 

 stranger in the yard ; having arrived only 

 that morning. "That child isn't a chicken. 

 She's a duck." 



"What you giving us ?" said a dandified 

 Cock, who was busy pluming his feath- 

 ers. "Whoever heard of a duck?' 



"Not you, I daresay," answered the 

 Buff with a contemptuous sniff. "It's easy 

 to see you have never been away from this 

 yard. I have traveled, I would have you 

 understand, and I know a duck, too." 



"Well, I don't care what you call her," 

 snapped the cross one. "I only hope she'll 

 keep her voice out of my hearing. The 

 sound of it gives me nervous prostration." 



As for poor me, — I stole quietly away, 

 and went up into a corner of the chicken 



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