The Story My Doggie Told to Me

by Ralph Henry Barbour

“I can’t get out!” I howled. “I’m stuck in this mud. Help me!”

But Freya looked at the duck, who was still “quacking” at a great rate, and shook her head.

“I—I’m afraid of her,” said Freya.

“Afraid of a duck!” I said. “Well, I’d be ashamed to own it!” But I kept a watch on the duck because I was afraid she might understand what I said. She didn’t though. “Bark at her and scare her away,” I told Freya. “She—she won’t hurt you. Ducks are great cowards.”

But Freya shook her head again. “I—I don’t like her looks,” she said. “Couldn’t you—couldn’t you pull yourself out if you tried very hard?”

“No, I couldn’t,” I snapped. “If I could I wouldn’t be here now. If you can’t help me out of here you’d better run home and tell Mother. You’re an awful scare-baby!”

So Freya walked two or three steps toward the duck and said “Bow-wow!” just as if she was frightened to death, which she was, and the duck paid no attention to her at all. Then Freya went a little nearer and barked again. That time Mrs. Duck heard her and turned around and made straight for her. Freya gave one awful yelp, tucked her tail between her legs and flew. And the duck went after her, flapping her wings and “quacking!” And somehow just then I managed to get a front paw on a stone at the side of the brook and dragged myself out. And when I got to the top of the bank Freya was half-way across the meadow, still yelping, and Mrs. Duck was waddling back again.

I didn’t stay there long, I can tell you. Not that I was afraid of that stupid old duck, but I wanted to get the mud off me before it dried on. So I hurried back to the pond. But when I got there it was full of other ducks and they looked at me so queerly that I thought I’d better not go into the pond after all. So I sneaked back to the stable, thinking I’d get behind the flower-pots before any one could see me. But just as I came to the door who should come out but William!

“Well!” he said, just like that; “Well!” I made a dash for the corner where the flower-pots were and got there, but he hauled me right out by my neck and held me at arm’s length and looked at me. “I never see a dirtier pup,” he said. “Where have you been?” Of course I didn’t tell him and he said: “Well, wherever you’ve been I know where you’re going. You’re going into the tub!”