house to cry. I was a duck, alas ! and 

 different from all about me. No wonder 

 I was lonely. 



My mother asked the cause of my 

 trouble, and when I told her she looked 

 sad and puzzled. "I don't know what a 

 duck is," she sighed, "things have been 

 strangely mixed. But cheer up. What- 

 ever comes you are still my child." 



That was indeed a comfort to me. For 

 never had chicken or duck a better 

 mother. 



There was consolation also, in what the 

 kind old Buff Cochin told me. 



I had nothing to be ashamed of, she 

 said, for ducks were much esteemed by 

 those who knew them. 



From her this had more weight, for we 

 all regarded the Buff Cochin as very su- 

 perior. They were well born, and well 

 bred, and had seen life in many places. 

 Their husband, too, was a thorough gen- 

 tleman. 



However, he also was having his 

 troubles now. He was losing his old 

 feathers, and his new ones were long in 

 coming. Consequently, his appearance 

 was shabby, and he staid away from the 

 hens. 



Poor fellow, he looked quite forlorn, 

 leaning up against a sunny corner of the 

 barn, trying to keep warm. I believe he 

 felt the loss of his tail feathers most for 

 the young roosters who strutted by in 

 their fine new coats, made sneering re- 

 marks about it. 



I was very sorry for him, but my own 

 troubles were getting to be as much as I 

 could bear ; for just when I needed a sym- 

 pathetic mother she was taken from me 

 and her place filled by a big, bare-headed 

 hen as high tempered as she was homely. 



"Raising a duck," she said with a con- 

 temptuous sniff at me. "I never sup- 

 posed I'd come to that. Well, I'll keep 

 you, but understand one thing, don't go 

 quacking around me, and don't bring 

 your wet and mud into the house. I'm 

 not your other mother. My children don't 

 rule me. I won't have that Mrs. Red- 

 breast saying my house is dirty. There's 

 no standing that hen anyhow. I'll give 

 her my opinion if she puts on her airs 

 around me. There's too much mixture 

 here. One can't tell where breed begins 

 or ends." 



It was not many days later, before my 

 mother and Mrs. Redbreast came to 

 words and then blows. The cause was 

 only a worm, but it was enough. Mrs. 

 Redbreast insisted that it was hers. My 

 mother thought otherwise, and with a 

 screech of defiance rushed upon her 

 enemy. Dust and feathers flew. We chil- 

 dren withdrew to a safe distance, and 

 with necks stretched watched in fear and 

 trembling. 



The fight, though fierce, was short. 

 Our mother was victorious, but she had 

 lost the tail feathers of which she had 

 been so proud, and I am sure she never 

 forgave Mrs. Redbreast. 



Like children, chickens and ducks grow 

 older and bigger with the passing days. 



In time we were taken from our 

 mothers and put to roost with the older 

 hens and cocks. I was not made to roost 

 so I spent my nights alone in a corner of 

 the chicken house. 



It was quieter down there — for up 

 above the chickens all fought for best 

 place, and their cackling and fluttering 

 was disturbing. 



The old gentleman was very heavy. 

 Not only was it hard for him to fly up to 

 the roost, but equally hard for him to hold 

 on when once there. Yet I could never 

 persuade him to rest on the floor with me. 

 Like his kind, he preferred the discomfort 

 of sleeping on a pole — a taste I cannot un- 

 derstand. 



I was four months old before I saw 

 one of my own kind. Then, one day 

 three ducks were brought into the yard. 

 They did not seem to mind being stared 

 at, but fell to eating corn and talking 

 among themselves. 



"Horribly greedy," said Mrs. Red- 

 breast. "I for one don't care to associate 

 with them." 



"Now you know what you look like, old 

 quacker," snapped the cross hen, with a 

 peck at me. "My poor nerves will suffer 

 sadly now." 



These unkind remarks scarcely dis- 

 turbed me, however. There was a new 

 feeling stirring in my heart. I am afraid 

 you will have to be a duck, and live a long 

 time without other ducks, to understand 

 it. Here were companions, whose na- 

 tures and tastes were like mine, and I was 

 content. 



Louise Jamison. 



139 



