“I don’t care if it does,” answered Ducky Waddles, paddling off from the shore like a green-feathered ferryboat.
“I don’t mind the gentle rain,
It helps the flowers and the grain,
It makes the Bubbling Brook run free
Across the meadow to the sea.”
“Well, well, well,” cried Granddaddy Bullfrog. “What have we here? A duck poet?”
But Ducky Waddles was out of hearing by this time. Well, I should say yes, twice over. He was standing on his head, trying to catch a little fish that shimmered in the water.
“What did you say?” asked Mrs. Oriole from her stocking-like nest in the Weeping Willow Tree.
“I just remarked that we had a poet in Ducky Waddles,” answered Granddaddy Bullfrog. “Did you hear him answer me in rime?”
“No, I didn’t,” replied Mrs. Oriole. “I was busy with the children. But I heard you say something about a duck poet. I should say he was an acrobat. Look at him now,” and Mrs. Oriole pointed to Ducky Waddles still standing on his head in the water.