Читать книгу The White Drake and Other Tales - Ann Scott-Moncrieff - Страница 3

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In a dark corner of a barn on a Perthshire farm, a stout broodie hen sat fidgeting on her nest. There were fifteen eggs to hatch out, three more than usual, and these three so much larger than the other twelve that she could in nowise settle herself comfortably.

'Cluck-cluck-cluck-CLUCK!' she complained. 'Not at all what I've been accustomed to. The mistress has been most inconsiderate.'

An old white hen, sunk in her feathers on the earthy floor, looked round crossly at the noise. But the broodie hen went on clucking aggrievedly, 'Duck eggs, indeed! What do we want with ducks on this farm? We've never had them before, and why I should be picked on to begin them, dear only knows. I should never lay anything so vulgar as these great green things, and I don't see why I should be called upon to sit on them. Drat them, how nobbly they are!'

The old white hen raised herself from her shallow bed and hirpled over to the broodie's nest.

'Is a poor body never to get a wink of sleep?' she grumbled. 'Many's the time I've had to sit on duck eggs, and not just twa-three but a whole nestful. Let me set them for you, and then maybe we'll get peace and quiet.'

She poked under the warm feathery breast until the three duck eggs lay neat and unobtrusive.

'That's better,' agreed the broodie hen, settling herself plumply. But she still wanted to air her wrongs. 'What am I to do with them when they do hatch out? I don't know the first thing about ducks, and I don't want to either.'

'If you don't haud your tongue, they'll come to nought,' said the old white hen crossly.

The broodie shrilled with indignation. 'Indeed, indeed, you moth-eaten hag, let me tell you I've never had a failure yet!' The old white hen spryly eluded the sharp peck aimed at her, and, cackling sarcastically, made off to her bed. All night long the broodie hen kept up such a clucking and clacking and complaining that none of the inmates of the barn got a wink of sleep. That is the way of broodie hens.

In due course, the family of chickens began to appear. By twos and by threes, the white and the brown and the speckled egg-shells broke, but there was never a sign of life from the large pale-green ones. Half mortified and half relieved, the broodie hen was just about to give them up when there was a chip and then a crack in one of them, and out staggered the baldest, scraggiest, most unattractive child she had ever seen. She nearly killed the little monster on the spot, but fear of the farmer's wife restrained her.

Later she wailed to the old white hen who came to inquire after her health, 'Oh, I am not at all well. I would as soon be harbouring a viper as the thing that came out of the duck egg. I was struck all of a heap when it broke—the thirteenth egg, mind you, and a nasty big green one it was too. Out stepped the thing as bold as brass, most forward and most unnatural. Goodness knows who the parents could have been, but if you ask me,'—the broodie hen lowered her voice—'the thing is not quite right in the head.'

'Let me have a look at it,' said the old white hen; and then when the duckling had been produced, 'Nonsense, a fine strong boy it is, a very fair specimen, if you care for that kind of bird.'

'I don't,' said the broodie hen firmly, pushing the duckling into a draughty corner.

And as the days passed, she found herself caring less and less.

When she paraded her brood in the yard for the first time, it was the duckling who spoilt the triumphant occasion. All the other hens were gathered to envy and congratulate: the little chickens bobbed about her like yellow puffballs, timid and joyous, squealing tinily, behaving in the most becoming manner: she herself was twice as stout, twice as red, and twice as fussy as she usually was. She had left the duckling in the barn, but he came to join them on his own—somewhat unsteadily, heeling first to one side, then to the other. His beak was cocked absurdly high to sniff the strange new spring air, and at every step he threatened to turn turtle. The farmyard began to giggle, then to roar. He seemed to mock the fat fussy hen with his independence. In a moment what should have been a royal procession became a circus turn with the duckling for clown.

The next day the duckling returned home plastered and smelling from his first paddle in a miry pool. He was excluded for ever from the nest, and after that the mother hen was concerned only with protecting her own little ones from his bad influence, snubbing and pecking him when she got the chance. 'Nasty dirty thing that you are!' she would shrill at mealtimes. 'You eat more than all the rest put together. No table manners to speak of! Stop your greedy gobbling at once!'

The duckling led a lonely, comfortless life. At night he slept on the hard cold floor of the barn: sometimes the old white hen would allow him to creep in beside her, but she did not do it often for fear of his foster-mother's anger. During the day, he spent most of his time on the shell-sand heap at the back of the barn, where there was a trickle of a burn to bathe in, comparative solitude, and a grey-white background against which he was almost indistinguishable. There he escaped from the scoldings and peckings, the laughter of the other hens, and the taunts of the young chickens. 'Sandy, sandy, dirty old shell-sandy,' they used to chorus when he came back to the barn. And so he got the name of Sandy.

Sandy acquired a puzzled, unhappy look. He could not understand why he was born different from the rest, nor why they laughed and were cruel to him because of this; why they spent so much time in merely gossiping, and never went outside the farmyard, and hated the sweet rain, and thought there was nothing so important as laying eggs. He wondered miserably if he must grow up like that too, and live always as they did. The answer to this question very soon came his way.

One day at dinner-time, the mother hen was in noticeable good humour. She preened herself often, chuckling into her ruff of feathers. The reason was that the farmer's wife had spared the life of her one male child; more than that—had decreed that he should be bred up to be the king cock of the farmyard. It was a great honour—very gratifying.

'Eat up, Sandy,' crowed the mother hen when she saw the duckling's eyes hungry upon a second helping. 'Eat as much as you can, my boy, and grow big and fat and strong.'

Sandy gobbled at the food eagerly, and then he was suddenly still, suspicious and surprised by her kindness. But before he could say anything, she had moved off, chuckling to herself.

One of his foster-sisters hopped close to him, and whispered maliciously, 'Haven't you heard? Brother Percy is to be king, and your neck is to be thrawn instead of his. Mother says we must let you eat and eat and eat until you can hardly waddle at all. Then snick, sneck and you'll swing till your dead!' The chicken tee-heed.

Sandy's eyes started from his head with horror: the fatal food stuck in his thrapple: without a word he turned and fled for the sand pit, there to rage and weep at the unfairness of his fate.

It was true that he seemed out of place among the hens and of not much use to anybody; he could never lay eggs in return for his keep; and he was not even ornamental. Yet he felt himself to be a kinder, worthier, more intelligent kind of bird than the chickens, and so he ought to live and die less senselessly than they did. Not just end in the pot when he was big and fat enough.

Well then, he would never get big and fat enough. That would show them! The idea came to him suddenly and brilliantly. His sobs subsided to sniffs as he considered it; and soon he was quite happy and absorbed in making plans. Carrying them out was not such a happy business.

In the warm June sunlight, Sandy raced round and round the steading—twice, six times, ten times—until the sweat poured off him and his young whitening feathers began to moult. By the end of the afternoon, he felt he had lost ounces of superfluous flesh. He bathed, resisting the temptation to fish, for fishing meant eating; and when the time for the evening meal came round, Sandy was not in the farmyard. He was lying on the shell-sand heap, exhausted and hungry, but hopeful for his life.

Sandy's plan was drastically successful. After a fortnight of over-exercising and under-eating, he was as lean as a rake, bald and scabbit, weak as water. He sometimes thought triumphantly yet mournfully that not even a chicken would deign to eat him if it got the chance; he was such a poor thing that they got no fun out of teasing him, and even his foster-mother let him alone. He had certainly managed to save his life, but now it seemed hardly worth saving.

His early miseries seemed petty by comparison. How well off he had been! Eating twice a day until he felt as round and solid as an indiarubber ball; then bouncing off in pursuit of other more delicate and exciting food—fat worms and slimy swimming things; in between times racing and diving and fighting the chickens. Now there was nothing but lying on the shell-sand heap, feeling always hungry and always weary.

One evening as he was making his way slowly across the yard to his bed in the barn, the farmer's wife and her daughter came to stand at the back door, knitting and chatting in the evening sunlight. They noticed Sandy.

'T'chk-t'chk,' said the farmer's wife. 'What's come over the bird? It was promising fine a few weeks ago; now it's hardly worth the plucking!'

Sandy smiled wanly to himself; the plan had worked all right. But the daughter replied, 'There must be something wrong with it, poor thing. It's likely got some ducks' disease. It's a shame to let it go on living like that.'

Sandy's heart stood still with horror. The farmer's wife said reflectively, 'Aye, it is that, and even yet the skin and bones of it might make a sup o' broth. It would be a pity to let it die on me.' She made a movement towards Sandy, but already he was up and away. Fear gave him strength and he scudded out of the yard, beating his ragged wings and squawking. It was a warm evening; the farmer's wife did not bother to give chase.

Back on the shell-sand heap, Sandy lay despairing. He was to die in spite of all that he had endured. His plan had been a silly one. He wished now that he had not run away but had let his neck be thrawn quickly and at once. He would be far better dead. To-morrow he would give himself up without a struggle.

When he had decided thus, Sandy realized that he was free to eat and to drink and to enjoy what little life there was left to him. So he grubbed about the burnside, appeasing the awful hollowness inside him with many worms and minnows and a puddock. Feeling much better, he stretched out on the sand and watched with a sort of melancholy pleasure the night—his last night on earth—creep down.

The wind died, the birds stopped singing, the trees grew still. Even the burn seemed to flow more sleepily and quietly. Sandy stared minutely at all the familiar things around his retreat—the willow tree and the stones in the dyke and the heathery field climbing up behind the farm. There was so much he hadn't noticed about them before. But gradually they became shadowy and indistinct in the darkness.

Sandy had never felt so wide awake. He contemplated the vast milky blue pond of the sky. The crescent moon, he thought, writhed in it like a little silver fish. How he would like to pin it down with his strong beak! Perhaps the sky was a heavenly pond for ducks; and the moon and all the stars celestial fish for their enjoyment; perhaps after to-morrow that was where he would swim for ever and ever.

Even as he thought of this there was a strange hard whistling of the air and three duck-like forms appeared in the sky, winging in pursuit of the moon. They flew like arrows, necks as straight as shafts and feet streaming. Free and lovely birds, exalted in death! Splendid ducks of a dream!

Thrilling, Sandy waited for the vision of the phantom birds pouncing upon the phantom fish moon. But they did not. Something had gone wrong. They were miles from the moon; they had cut right across it, paying no attention; they were coming nearer. Above the whiz of wings words floated down to him. It was a softer, more liquid speech than he had ever heard before.

'Farm down below.'

'Ach, and there's bad luck on us. I said we should have been bearing farther west.'

'No harm, all asleep, even our good little tame brothers.'

'Brothers indeed! I claim no kinship. Big eggs and small souls and a pickle o' dirt for the world. What have they to do with us?'

'On a night like this one feels sorry for them—space is so small, and places so many.'

'They feel sorry for you maybe in the hardness of winter. Ach, and they are well content...'

Sandy was bolt upright on the top of the shell-sand heap, straining and stretched to catch the words. But they floated away; the whine of wings became faint; and the flying ducks disappeared into space.

Tears of longing fell from Sandy's eyes. They had been so beautiful and free and swift, far too swift. He could not decide whether they had been real or a vision, but it did not matter. For a long time he stood in a dwaum remembering their grace and strength.

It was the recollection of their words that brought him to himself again. Why, they had been talking about him—almost to him. He was 'their good little tame brother'; they had been sorry for him having to stay in a farmyard; 'space was small and places many' for him even as for them. They perhaps had escaped even as he might escape. He had wings too. He flapped them tentatively. Before he had never thought about them much; now his whole life depended upon them. Sandy completely forgot how resigned he had been to dying at dawn.

The next morning he was among the rest of the poultry at feeding-time. He kept a cautious eye cocked on the farmer's wife, but, as he had hoped, she gave up the idea of thrawing his neck when she saw him once more eating heartily. She thought he might yet fatten enough to warrant a wreath of new potatoes and green peas. Sandy had other plans for his future. If the farmer's wife had watched carefully she would have seen that, though he did a great deal of loud gobbling and smacking of lips, the amount of food that he ate was comparatively small. Sandy did not intend to get fat, only well and strong once again. As soon as he had fed, he rushed off to practise flying.

He began modestly with wing-limbering exercises and easy runs from the top of the shell-sand heap. But when, after a few days of rest and regular food, he began to find himself in better trim with wing feathers grown and muscles flexible, he set to the business seriously. It was harder than he had imagined. He felt himself the very cut of the flying ducks, yet he could not even rise off the ground. Try as he might, running and running and beating his wings hard, he could never achieve more than the ungainly scutter of any old hen. A desperate jump in the air, a few wing flaps, and he was back to earth again. It seemed to be no use at all; yet he persevered, hoping that he might master the trick—if there was one—by accident.

Somehow the rest of the farmyard got to know how he spent his time, and Sandy had to endure a snickering or sarcastic audience of chickens and old hens. His foster-mother came to view the sport often, more to protect her young ones, she used to say, than out of any ill-feeling towards a poor idiot bird. 'If you ask me,' she would cluck loudly, 'this duck thing was addled afore ever he came out of the egg. I said so at the time and I've lived to see the proof of my words. He ought to be cooped up. This fleering and flighting is a menace to the community, the bird is not right witty!' And whenever she could, she made vicious pecks at his wing and tail feathers. Sometimes Sandy almost believed that she was right and that he was mad; but usually her persecution only made him all the more desperate to fly.

'If only I was in the air to start with,' thought Sandy, 'I'm sure I could do it.' So one morning he decided to take off from one of the dykes. There were stepping-stones in the side of it, but it was a laborious and difficult climb for a duckling: he had to start again a dozen times. At last he reached the top and was amazed at the view to be had from there. Never before had he seen beyond the immediate surroundings of the farm, a few fields tilting into the sky, a fringe of wood, the garden, and the burnside. Now the whole world seemed spread before him. Fields sloped away and down, lined with dykes and hawthorn hedges, dotted with trees. In the bottom of the valley a river ran like a silver thread, and on the other side a dark hill rose up, bristly with pine woods. Beyond it more hills banked against the sky.

When he had recovered from the vastness of this view, Sandy stuck out his chest, stretched his wings, fixed his eyes on the hilltops, and pushed off from the dyke. Flapping frantically and paddling with his feet, he sailed in a steadily downward curve for about ten yards; then crashed mightily among the stones of the field.

He was almost stunned, but staggered to his feet in exultation. 'I felt the feel of it,' he cried. 'I felt the feel of it! How glorious to fly!'

And after a little he tried the experiment again, this time landing on his beak and almost biting through his tongue. But he had flown a yard farther. He thought maybe he ought to have a higher jumping-off place, and spent the rest of the day looking for one. He picked on the byre roof; from there he thought he could land in the yard.

The next morning was wet and windy. Sandy almost decided that it was no weather for flying, and that he would go swimming instead. But when he saw all the hens retreating to the barn away from the rain, he thought it the very best time to try the byre roof. There would be nobody about to snigger at him if he did break his neck.

So off he went to the back of the byre where a midden was piled right up to the eaves. The thatched roof rose steeply after that, offering fairly easy footholds. The wind, blowing stronger as he mounted, flattened him against the roof and helped him to keep his balance. To the left, over the gable end, the valley he had seen yesterday began to appear. He was getting high, much higher than he had thought. Perhaps at the top he would be able to see right over these barrier hills. He hoped he would not be afraid to take off. But Sandy was not given time to be afraid.

Just as his beak reached the level of the ridge, a mighty gust of wind swept up the roof, lifted him by the tail, and tossed him to the sky as if he had been no bigger than a gnat. For a few seconds he somersaulted helplessly, feeling his lungs bursting, his brain upside down, his stomach inside out. He tried to remember how to fly, but when he remembered he was always the wrong way up. At last he succeeded in spreading his wings when the earth was below and the sky above. He felt himself steady and begin to plane down the wind. It was a lovely sensation. The farm buildings wheeled away below him—the yard, the stable, the neep-shed, the house. And before him spread the wide green valley. A quiver of triumph ran through him, which in a moment was turned to anguish as he began to rock, to keel over, to fall. He gave a feeble flap of his wings, and miraculously felt himself righting again. He flapped again, and the air seemed more solid. He began to flap steadily and cautiously. He was flying, yes, at last he was flying! Strong, swift, and powerful like the ducks across the moon! Looking down, he became giddy at the speed with which dykes and paths and fields flowed away. He had known all along how easy it would be once he discovered the knack. What a flier he was!

And just as he thought that, the wind dropped suddenly from beneath his tail. Sandy began to sink like a stone. Nearer and nearer he fell towards a belt of trees. He had not strength enough in his half-grown wings to check himself. In a sudden panic he struggled and flapped and fell faster. Then mercifully the wind blew strong again, seaming his tail feathers, and lifted him clear of the trees.

He was canny now and not so elated. He realized how much he depended on the power of the wind. His wings only served to steady him as yet. Where then was the wind bearing him? Straight into the hills it seemed; it would dash him flat against their great black sides. He decided that he must get down while he was still in the valley. So when the wind died away a second time, Sandy clapped shut his wings and his eyes, and fell, trusting to Providence.

Providence was kind. Sandy hit the river with such a smash that for a long time afterwards he did not know quite what had happened to him. He came to, to find himself swimming backwards and half-full of water. He got rid of the water, turned about, and realized that he was being borne away by the river almost as swiftly as he had flown. All he had to do was to sit still and steer clear of shoals.

How stupid of him not to have thought of the river before as a means of escape! He could easily have walked from the farm and got on to it. But then he would not have been at all the pains and bother of learning to fly. That had been worth everything. What was freedom without flying? How lovely it had been, how fearful, how exciting! Sandy closed his eyes in ecstasy of remembrance, and let his tired sore body be carried where the water willed.

All day he journeyed down the river. He satisfied his hunger—and amused himself too—by catching minnows and small eels. Sometimes he landed on the bank to rest and to nibble at grass and among the juicy roots of plants: but never for long. The wide world enticed him and the thought of the farmyard drove him on. As he progressed, the river grew broader and less rapid, and he decided that when night fell he would keep on floating. Ashore he might fall in with such wild beasts as foxes and weasels.

It grew dark and for a time Sandy kept on the alert for the sound of breaking water: but as the river remained deep and slow and smooth he dropped into a sort of waking doze. He never entirely lost the sense of the chill water at his breast and the blackly shadowing banks; but his mind grew swollen and heavy with nightmarish dreams.

Now he was back in the farmyard. He was surrounded by chickens; shooed on to him by the farmer's wife who danced in the background. Their stale smell smothered him; their multitudinous squealing deafened him; and all the time their little wiry legs prodded and tore at his body. The chickens receded. He found himself lying on the ground naked, plucked to the last shred of fluff. It was very cold. His foster-mother was standing over him, looking kind because she was so satisfied. 'Now try to fly, my boy,' she said. 'Let us see what you can do.' Sandy struggled obediently, sweating to get up. To his horror he found that he was trussed! The air became terrible with the noise of the chickens again, cheering at the sport, and with the cackling of his foster-mother, and with the farmer's wife banging a bunch of skewers against a roasting-pan.

But suddenly the bad dream had fallen from him like a skin, and Sandy was wide awake in a world that was blessedly empty and silent except for the lapping of water. What had startled him? All was as before except for the late-rising moon which now lay in the sky like a bit of orange-peel carelessly discarded. Sandy looked anxiously for bright hungry eyes pursuing him along the bank or for the feel of some monster pike beneath his legs. He was very wide awake, intensely aware of each silhouetted branch and moonlit ripple. Nothing was wrong. Yet he felt sure that something was going to happen to him. He turned and twisted in an agony of suspense.

Then came that wonderful sound that had roused him from dreaming once before, back on the shell-sand heap; a sound as of the rapid whipping of ice beneath a curling-stone. With whistling wings a brace of wild duck flew over the river. Mounting rapidly, they swished over the trees on the far side and were gone in an instant. Sandy thrilled and trembled and shook. He hardly knew what he was doing as he steered himself into an eddy which twirled towards the shore.

On the bank, stretched on a warm bed of moss, he gave himself up to remembering the incident. First how he had been awakened by some instinct that surely proved his kinship with these splendid beings. Then the mighty music, beaten out of the empty air by the power of their wings. Then the glimpse of their straight streaming bodies, rock-solid, shooting into the sky. He would never forget them, just as he had never forgotten the first three he had seen.

They had taken off not far from the river bank, Sandy supposed; what power they had to rise; no dyke stones or byre roofs for them. He wondered dismally when he would have a chance to fly again; a tree perhaps would serve him, but how would he be getting to the top of a tree? To-morrow he would try, anyway.

He got up and wandered inland with the idea of finding the spot from where the wild duck had risen. Before long he saw the gleam of water ahead; a long narrow pool, shallow and silted up with marshes, lay in the shade of some willow trees. It seemed a charming place to Sandy. He approached it as some people might approach a shrine.

Standing on the brink, he thought again for a little while of the two ducks who had lately rested there. Then, greatly daring, he slipped into the hallowed water. Twice and thrice he circled round and felt happier. He was just going to raise his voice in a humble song of praise, when—scitter, scatter, splash, splosh—the marshes and the water were alive with beating wings and noisy duck laughter. Spray blinded Sandy and a dozen wings slapped him heartily. He dived instinctively to escape, ploughing along the bottom of the pond. At last he was forced to the surface. All was quiet and as it had been before except for the muddied and agitated water. Sandy was frightened and prepared to retreat. Then a dark form appeared from behind a clump of reeds, followed by another and another and another. Sandy saw with beating, fearful heart that they were wild duck, six of them, and prepared for their displeasure.

But the first one addressed him quite timorously. 'We beg your pardon. It was a joke we were playing, thinking you were a friend of ours from over the river. We did not mean to startle you.'

'I was not expecting any one here,' Sandy excused himself. Unconsciously his voice softened in imitation of the wild duck's soft, singsong tones. 'I was just passing and stopped to—stopped to—' But he could not explain why he was there.

'How you gleam in the moonlight!' said another of the birds. She swam up and touched his white feathers with her beak. 'Like a ghost! We've never seen any one like you before. Father says it is very rare to meet a white duck.'

Sandy had never thought much of his pale colour before; now he was acutely conscious how wrong it was. He did not want to be different from them, nor that they should guess he was tame, but lately escaped from a farm, hardly able to fly at all. He did not know what to say or how to leave them without giving away his shameful origin. But they did not want him to go.

'Father and mother will be back soon. They will want to meet you. Father says a white visitor keeps away a white winter.'

'Please stay and play with us till they come.' 'Teach us to fly.'

'Yes, yes. How far have you flown to-day?'

Sandy realized now that these were young birds, probably about his own age. He did not feel shy or afraid of them any longer. He began to enjoy himself.

'Yes, I've flown quite a bit to-day,' he said importantly. 'Right from the far hills.'

'In this wind?' breathed the young ducks.

'Yes,' said Sandy. 'As a matter of fact I feel rather tired after it. I don't feel like doing any more flying just at the moment. But if you get up, I might be able to give you a few tips.'

'Well, you see,' said one of the ducks, 'we've only just begun. We're not very good. In fact to tell the truth we haven't learned to get up at all yet.'

Sandy nearly laughed with joy. So he himself wasn't so bad after all! So he was as near the glorious attainment as they! Nearer, for he had indeed been up. But he kept his secret.

It was decided that they should play instead. First it was tig, then ducks and drakes, then various diving games. Sandy excelled at these. But gradually he became so tired that even under water he could hardly keep his eyes open. The young ducks, knowing of his long journey, showed him where the nest was and saw that he was comfortable. He had barely touched the great bed of grasses and mud and feathers before he was asleep.

Sandy was awakened by a subdued chattering. It was barely dawn, a strange blue light cloaked the familiar world. He peeped through the fringe of rushes that surrounded the nest and saw the wild duck family clustered on the pond. At first he could do nothing but stare at the returned parents. They had been beautiful when he had seen them in flight; how much more so they were close at hand and at rest upon the water! The drake wore so bright and varied a plumage that Sandy could hardly believe in it. Magenta and white, green-gold, orange, deep brown and black—all these combined for his glory; his strong beak was satiny, straw-coloured, and his eyes fiery. Sandy was reminded of another splendid male, the cock of the farmyard; but how swashbuckling and gaudy he had been compared with this king of wild fowl! Each feather lay neat and oiled in its place, and he bore himself with an uncaring dignity. The mother bird was modest in comparison with pale-brown, beautifully marked feathers. She looked gentle and graceful, but there was about her also the same power and strength as her lord.

Round these two the young ducks circled. They were telling their parents about the visitor with great enthusiasm for his white appearance and his powers of flight. They exaggerated Sandy's own exaggerations.

In the nest Sandy grew hot and cold with embarrassment, and at last, being able to stand it no longer, he stood up and intimated that he was awake.

'Good morning,' said the drake, and, 'Good morning,' chorused his family.

'I hope you have rested well,' said the mother.

'Yes, thank you,' Sandy replied. 'Nobody could help resting in such a lovely nest.'

Everybody looked pleased, except the drake, who suddenly began to frown. He said, 'Run away to your breakfast, children. I want to have a talk with the white stranger.'

The young ducks stuttered off to the other end of the pond. Sandy felt slightly apprehensive. He tried to make himself look larger. He preened his feathers nervously, not caring to meet the drake's inquiring eye. It was not really a surprise to him when he heard the words, 'Well, my tame friend, I was not expecting to see the like of you here. Where do you come from?'

'From up the river,' replied Sandy. 'But how did you know I'd just come from a farm?'

'Our kind are not often white. But in any case'—the drake became coldly contemptuous—I would never be mistaken in your breed, a breed of miserable, kowtowing, belly-filling, midden-grubbing, lily-livered slaves! Understand, I don't like my tame, so-called relatives, and I won't have one within a mile of me, much less filing my nest, stuffing my children with lies, and setting us all an example of milksoppery and guttsiness. Get away back to your dung-heap before I peck your eyes out!'

Sandy was mute before this sudden storm.

'Hush, hush,' said the mother bird to her husband. 'It's only a bairn. It doesn't know any better.'

'I do, I do,' cried Sandy piteously. 'I want to be like you. I must be like you. I hate farms and hens' food and puddling about on the ground. So I flew away to be a wild duck. I really did fly, not all the way as I made out but a great part of the way. The wind helped me. And I will never be happy till I fly again.'

'You fly!' scoffed the drake. 'You haven't the wing-span of a good-sized grasshopper and you're fat as butter besides!'

'He's not so fat,' said the mother, looking Sandy over compassionately.

'I took off from a roof,' explained Sandy.

'Did you indeed?' commented the drake. 'You foolhardy young gowk, you might have been smashed to pieces. Where were your precious parents that they didn't stop you?'

Sandy said that he didn't have any parents; he had been hatched out by a hen.

'A hen!' roared the drake. 'A hen! Did you ever hear the beat of that? Hatched by a hen, and he wants to be a wild duck! What preposterous impudence! You must have been a trial to the hen-body, I'm sure.'

'Tell us about it,' said the mother wild duck.

So Sandy told them about the farm and how miserable he had been and how his neck was to have been thrawn and how he had been inspired by the sight of flying duck to escape.

The drake laughed often, not rudely, but out of sheer amusement. But Sandy was almost sure of the sympathy of the mother duck. He ended up, 'Please help me to be a real wild duck. I am sure you could teach me. Please let me stay with you.'

The drake laughed so immoderately at this absurd appeal that he had to disappear below water. When he came up again he was perfectly grave, even stern.

'Look here, you white young drake,' he said, 'I like you well enough. You're a cut above most of your breed. But the Good Lord made you tame, and tame you must ever be. It is sheer extravagant cheek for you to aspire to be like us. It is true you might flop tolerably in time from one dyke-top to another, but fly—. fight—migrate—starve—no! I wouldn't even have you for a nursemaid for a batch of babies. Pampered by a tame white drake! How would they turn out?'

Tears of rage and disappointment blinded Sandy. Headlong he rushed from the nest, tearing up water and mud, and drove with all his force into the breast of the wild drake. He barely grazed the skin, dislodging one handsome magenta feather; and with an easy sweep of his wing, the drake had tossed him high and dry on the bank.

'You beast, you beast!' sobbed Sandy. 'You talk just like my old hen!'

The expression on the drake's face was so comical that his wife burst out laughing. Be-.wilderment struggled with outraged dignity, and admiration with anger. 'Old hen, old hen?' he muttered. 'I never did see a tame duck with so much smeddum yet. Turning on me! Showing fight at his age!'

'I think it would be as well to let him bide,' suggested his wife softly. 'He will never go back to the farm.'

Sandy sat up on the bank hopefully, his angry tears gone. The drake drew a deep breath and picked up his lost magenta feather in his beak. He chewed it thoughtfully.

'It is my considered opinion,' he said at last, 'that the old hen didn't know what she was sitting on. It couldn't have been a tame duck egg. However, if I am proved wrong in this surmise, you, my dear wife, must take the responsibility.'

With that he turned, and scudding over the water, lifting himself clear of the willows, beating into the sky, he disappeared.

And that was how Sandy achieved his ambition and was received into the noble company of wild duck. In the weeks that followed he was educated along with the other young ones to their way of life. None were so ardent as he in learning to fly and to hunt and to build and to swim even against the strongest current. And none were wilder and shyer, none eschewed the haunts of men, the trodden path, and the cultivated field, so positively as he did. His adopted parents grew to love him like their own children.

It was in the second spring of his freedom that Sandy once more saw the old farmyard. He was on his way back from Norway, flying very high with three of his brothers. Something possessed him to drop away from them. He circled the buildings and saw the hens feeding. Then like a thunderbolt he shot down on them, scattering them. He heard a scream of recognition, 'Sandy!' before he winged away, gained on his fellows, and took his rightful place at their head.

Back in the farmyard, a dirty old diabetic hen scraiked from her place of refuge under a tin bath, 'Yes, yes, that was the little varmint. Sandy we used to call him. I always said he would come to a bad end, and there you are—thief, and pirate, and godless vagabond! Oh, if only I had run my beak through him while he was yet damp from his nasty great green egg!'