THE DUCKLING 
What young bird is braver 
Than a little Duck, 
Plunging into w^ater 
While, quite terror-struck. 
Stands the Hen that hatched me, 
Calling, Cluck — cluck — cluck ! 
Why I hate a dry life. 
And so love a damp, 
Why I start a-swimming — 
Fear no cold or cramp — 
She is wondering wildly 
On her brookside tramp. 
About April, earlier or later according to the 
weather, one may be lucky enough to find a Wild 
Duck’s nest. 
Perhaps it may be stumbled upon, unawares, 
among some reeds by the river-side. Whirr — whirr 
— whirr ! There will be the sound of wings, and 
a loud quack, as Mrs. Duck flies out, much 
frightened, leaving about eleven greenish-white eggs, 
snug and warm, in a large, deep nest of twigs and 
grass. 
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