By this time Peter's eyes looked as if they would fall out of his head. “What is his name?” whispered Peter.
“It's Old Ally the 'Gator,” replied Mrs. Quack. “Some folks call him Alligator and some just 'Gator, but we call him Old Ally. He's a very interesting old fellow. Some time perhaps I'll tell you more about him. Mr. Quack and I kept out of his reach, you may be sure. We lived quietly and tried to get in as good condition as possible for the long journey back to our home in the North. When it was time to start, a lot of us got together, just as we did when we came down from the North, only this time the young Ducks felt themselves quite grown up. In fact, before we started there was a great deal of love-making, and each one chose a mate. That was a very happy time, a very happy time indeed, but it was a sad time too for us older Ducks, because we knew what dreadful things were likely to happen on the long journey. It is hard enough to lose father or mother or brother or sister, but it is worse to lose a dear mate.”
Mrs. Quack's eyes suddenly filled with tears again. “Oh, dear,” she sobbed, “I wish I knew what became of Mr. Quack.”
Peter said nothing, but looked the sympathy he felt. Presently Mrs. Quack went on with her story. “We had a splendid big flock when we started, made up wholly of pairs, each pair dreaming of the home they would build when they reached the far North. Mr. Quack was the leader as usual, and I flew right behind him. We hadn't gone far before we began to hear the terrible guns, and the farther we went, the worse they got. Mr. Quack led us to the safest feeding and resting grounds he knew of, and for a time our flock escaped the terrible guns. But the farther we went, the more guns there were.” Mrs. Quack paused and Peter waited.
XI. THE TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE GUNS
“Bang! Bang! Bang! Not a feather spare! Kill! Kill! Kill! Wound and rip and tear!”
That is what the terrible guns roar from morning to night at Mrs. Quack and her friends as they fly on their long journey to their home in the far North. I don't wonder that she was terribly uneasy and nervous as she sat in the Smiling Pool talking to Peter Rabbit; do you?
“Yes,” said she, continuing her story of her long journey from the sunny Southland where she had spent the winter, “the farther we got, the more there were of those terrible guns. It grew so bad that as well as Mr. Quack knew the places where we could find food, and no Duck that ever flew knew them better, he couldn't find one where we could feel perfectly sure that we were safe. The very safest-looking places sometimes were the most dangerous. If you saw a lot of Rabbits playing together on the Green Meadows, you would feel perfectly safe in joining them, wouldn't you?”