A duck once arrived from Portugal, but there were some who said she came from Spain, which is almost the same thing. At all events, she was called the “Portuguese,” and she laid eggs, was killed, and cooked, and there was an end of her. But the ducklings which crept forth from the eggs were also called “Portuguese,” and about
that there may be some question. But of all the family one only remained in the
duckyard, which may be called a farmyard, as the chickens were admitted, and the
cock strutted about in a very hostile manner. “He annoys me with his loud crowing,”
said the Portuguese duck; “but, still, he’s a handsome bird, there’s no denying
that, although he’s not a drake. He ought to moderate his voice, like those little
birds who are singing in the lime-trees over there in our neighbor’s garden, but
that is an art only acquired in polite society. How sweetly they sing there; it
is quite a pleasure to listen to them! I call it Portuguese singing. If I had
only such a little singing-bird, I’d be kind and good as a mother to him, for
it’s in my nature, in my Portuguese blood.”
While she was speaking, one of the little singing-birds came tumbling head
over heels from the roof into the yard. The cat was after him, but he had escaped
from her with a broken wing, and so came tumbling into the yard. “That’s just
like the cat, she’s a villain,” said the Portuguese duck. “I remember her ways
when I had children of my own. How can such a creature be allowed to live, and
wander about upon the roofs. I don’t think they allow such things in Portugal.”
She pitied the little singing-bird, and so did all the other ducks who were
not Portuguese.
“Poor little creature!” they said, one after another, as they came up. “We
can’t sing, certainly; but we have a sounding-board, or something of the kind,
within us; we can feel that, though we don’t talk about it.”
“But I can talk,” said the Portuguese duck; “and I’ll do something for the
little fellow; it’s my duty;” and she stepped into the water-trough, and beat
her wings upon the water so strongly that the bird was nearly drowned by a shower-bath;
but the duck meant it kindly. “That is a good deed,” she said; “I hope the others
will take example by it.”
“Tweet, tweet!” said the little bird, for one of his wings being broken, he
found it difficult to shake himself; but he quite understood that the bath was
meant kindly, and he said, “You are very kind-hearted, madam;” but he did not
wish for a second bath.
“I have never thought about my heart,” replied the Portuguese duck, “but I
know that I love all my fellow-creatures, except the cat, and nobody can expect
me to love her, for she ate up two of my ducklings. But pray make yourself at
home; it is easy to make one’s self comfortable. I am myself from a foreign
country, as you may see by my feathery dress. My drake is a native of these
parts; he’s not of my race; but I am not proud on that account. If any one here
can understand you, I may say positively I am that person.”
“She’s quite full of ‘Portulak,’” said a little common duck, who was witty.
All the common ducks considered the word “Portulak” a good joke, for it sounded
like Portugal. They nudged each other, and said, “Quack! that was witty!”
Then the other ducks began to notice the little bird. “The Portuguese had certainly
a great flow of language,” they said to the little bird. “For our part we don’t
care to fill our beaks with such long words, but we sympathize with you quite
as much. If we don’t do anything else, we can walk about with you everywhere,
and we think that is the best thing we can do.”
“You have a lovely voice,” said one of the eldest ducks; “it must be great
satisfaction to you to be able to give so much pleasure as you do. I am certainly
no judge of your singing so I keep my beak shut, which is better than talking
nonsense, as others do.”
“Don’t plague him so,” interposed the Portuguese duck; “he requires rest and
nursing. My little singing-bird do you wish me to prepare another bath for you?”
“Oh, no! no! pray let me dry,” implored the little bird.
“The water-cure is the only remedy for me, when I am not well,” said the Portuguese.
“Amusement, too, is very beneficial. The fowls from the neighborhood will soon
be here to pay you a visit. There are two Cochin Chinese amongst them; they
wear feathers on their legs, and are well educated. They have been brought from
a great distance, and consequently I treat them with greater respect than I
do the others.”
Then the fowls arrived, and the cock was polite enough to-day to keep from
being rude. “You are a real songster,” he said, “you do as much with your little
voice as it is possible to do; but there requires more noise and shrillness
in any one who wishes it to be known who he is.”
The two Chinese were quite enchanted with the appearance of the singing-bird.
His feathers had been much ruffled by his bath, so that he seemed to them quite
like a tiny Chinese fowl. “He’s charming,” they said to each other, and began
a conversation with him in whispers, using the most aristocratic Chinese dialect:
“We are of the same race as yourself,” they said. “The ducks, even the Portuguese,
are all aquatic birds, as you must have noticed. You do not know us yet,—very
few know us, or give themselves the trouble to make our acquaintance, not even
any of the fowls, though we are born to occupy a higher grade in society than
most of them. But that does not disturb us, we quietly go on in our own way
among the rest, whose ideas are certainly not ours; for we look at the bright
side of things, and only speak what is good, although that is sometimes very
difficult to find where none exists. Except ourselves and the cock there is
not one in the yard who can be called talented or polite. It cannot even be
said of the ducks, and we warn you, little bird, not to trust that one yonder,
with the short tail feathers, for she is cunning; that curiously marked one,
with the crooked stripes on her wings, is a mischief-maker, and never lets any
one have the last word, though she is always in the wrong. That fat duck yonder
speaks evil of every one, and that is against our principles. If we have nothing
good to tell, we close our beaks. The Portuguese is the only one who has had
any education, and with whom we can associate, but she is passionate, and talks
too much about ‘Portugal.’”
“I wonder what those two Chinese are whispering about,” whispered one duck
to another; “they are always doing it, and it annoys me. We never speak to them.”
Now the drake came up, and he thought the little singing-bird was a sparrow.
“Well, I don’t understand the difference,” he said; “it appears to me all the
same. He’s only a plaything, and if people will have playthings, why let them,
I say.”
“Don’t take any notice of what he says,” whispered the Portuguese; “he’s very
well in matters of business, and with him business is placed before everything.
But now I shall lie down and have a little rest. It is a duty we owe to ourselves
that we may be nice and fat when we come to be embalmed with sage and onions
and apples.” So she laid herself down in the sun and winked with one eye; she
had a very comfortable place, and felt so comfortable that she fell asleep.
The little singing-bird busied himself for some time with his broken wing, and
at last he lay down, too, quite close to his protectress. The sun shone warm
and bright, and he found out that it was a very good place. But the fowls of
the neighborhood were all awake, and, to tell the truth, they had paid a visit
to the duckyard, simply and solely to find food for themselves. The Chinese
were the first to leave, and the other fowls soon followed them.
The witty little duck said of the Portuguese, that the old lady was getting
quite a “doting ducky,” All the other ducks laughed at this. “Doting ducky,”
they whispered. “Oh, that’s too ‘witty!’” And then they repeated the former
joke about “Portulak,” and declared it was most amusing. Then they all lay down
to have a nap.
They had been lying asleep for some time, when suddenly something was thrown
into the yard for them to eat. It came down with such a bang, that the whole
company started up and clapped their wings. The Portuguese awoke too, and rushed
over to the other side: in so doing she trod upon the little singing-bird.
“Tweet,” he cried; “you trod very hard upon me, madam.”
“Well, then, why do you lie in my way?” she retorted, “you must not be so touchy.
I have nerves of my own, but I do not cry ‘tweet.’”
“Don’t be angry,” said the little bird; “the ‘tweet’ slipped out of my beak
unawares.”
The Portuguese did not listen to him, but began eating as fast as she could,
and made a good meal. When she had finished, she lay down again, and the little
bird, who wished to be amiable, began to sing,—
“Chirp and twitter,
The dew-drops glitter,
In the hours of sunny spring,
I’ll sing my best,
Till I go to rest,
With my head behind my wing.”
“Now I want rest after my dinner,” said the Portuguese; “you must conform to
the rules of the house while you are here. I want to sleep now.”
The little bird was quite taken aback, for he meant it kindly. When madam awoke
afterwards, there he stood before her with a little corn he had found, and laid
it at her feet; but as she had not slept well, she was naturally in a bad temper.
“Give that to a chicken,” she said, “and don’t be always standing in my way.”
“Why are you angry with me?” replied the little singing-bird, “what have I
done?”
“Done!” repeated the Portuguese duck, “your mode of expressing yourself is
not very polite. I must call your attention to that fact.”
“It was sunshine here yesterday,” said the little bird, “but to-day it is cloudy
and the air is close.”
“You know very little about the weather, I fancy,” she retorted, “the day is
not over yet. Don’t stand there, looking so stupid.”
“But you are looking at me just as the wicked eyes looked when I fell into
the yard yesterday.”
“Impertinent creature!” exclaimed the Portuguese duck: “would you compare me
with the cat—that beast of prey? There’s not a drop of malicious blood in me.
I’ve taken your part, and now I’ll teach you better manners.” So saying, she
made a bite at the little singing-bird’s head, and he fell dead on the ground.
“Now whatever is the meaning of this?” she said; “could he not bear even such
a little peck as I gave him? Then certainly he was not made for this world.
I’ve been like a mother to him, I know that, for I’ve a good heart.”
Then the cock from the neighboring yard stuck his head in, and crowed with
steam-engine power.
“You’ll kill me with your crowing,” she cried, “it’s all your fault. He’s lost
his life, and I’m very near losing mine.”
“There’s not much of him lying there,” observed the cock.
“Speak of him with respect,” said the Portuguese duck, “for he had manners
and education, and he could sing. He was affectionate and gentle, and that is
as rare a quality in animals as in those who call themselves human beings.”
Then all the ducks came crowding round the little dead bird. Ducks have strong
passions, whether they feel envy or pity. There was nothing to envy here, so
they all showed a great deal of pity, even the two Chinese. “We shall never
have another singing-bird again amongst us; he was almost a Chinese,” they whispered,
and then they wept with such a noisy, clucking sound, that all the other fowls
clucked too, but the ducks went about with redder eyes afterwards. “We have
hearts of our own,” they said, “nobody can deny that.”
“Hearts!” repeated the Portuguese, “indeed you have, almost as tender as the
ducks in Portugal.”
“Let us think of getting something to satisfy our hunger,” said the drake,
“that’s the most important business. If one of our toys is broken, why we have
plenty more.”