—Wayne Whistler, in the Record-Herald.
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A DUCK.
FOUNDED UPON FACT.
“How queer, my child! what a long, broad mouth you have, and what peculiar feet!”
It was my mother, a big brown hen, who spoke. I had stepped from my egg, only a short while before, and as I was the only one hatched out of the whole thirteen, my poor mother was greatly disappointed.
Now, to add to her troubles, there seemed to be something very peculiar about my appearance.
“Yes,” she went on still watching me critically, “I have raised many families, but never a chick like you. Well! well! don’t cry about it. Your yellow dress is very pretty. It doesn’t pay to be too sensitive, as you will find, I am afraid, when you have lived with these chickens. Some of them are dreadfully trying. Dear! dear! how stiff I am! This setting is tiresome work.”
“I wonder what sort of home we are going to have.”
Our home, into which we moved a few hours later, proved to be an upturned soap box. Seven little chickens were there before us.
“The same old story,” said my mother with a knowing air. “People imagine we hens have no sense. I did not hatch those chickens, but I am expected to care for them, as though I did. Some mothers would peck them so they would be glad to stay away.”
She had too good a heart for this, however, and I was very glad to have these brothers and sisters.