WHEN our grass was being cut the mowers came upon a wild duck's nest
containing eight eggs; they were carried whilst still warm and placed
under a sitting hen; in a week's time she brought out eight fluffy
little ducklings, which were placed with her under a coop in the
farmyard. I paid them a visit the next day, but, alas! I saw four little
corpses lying about in the grass, the remaining four were chirping
piteously, and the hen was in despair at being unable to comfort her
uncanny children. Evidently their diet was in fault; I thought I would
take them in hand, and therefore had the coop brought round to the
garden, and placed under the drooping boughs of a deodar near the
drawing-room window, where I could watch over them.
I gave the wee birdies a pan of water, and placed in it some
finely-shred lettuce, with grits and brown bread crumbs, not forgetting
suitable food for the poor distracted hen. It was charming to hear the
little happy twitterings of the downy babes, how they gobbled and
sputtered and talked to each other over their repast, swimming to and
fro as if they had been ducks of mature age and experience, instead of
mere yellow fluffs of a day old; and, finally, they seemed to remember
they had a warm, comfortable mother somewhere, and sought refuge under
her kindly wings, where I left them exchanging confidences in little
drowsy chirps.
I found it needful to guard my little brood with fine wire-work, for
some carrion crows kept hovering near, and a weasel was constantly on
the watch to carry them off; but these enemies were successfully
baffled, and three of the ducks survived all dangers and grew to
beautiful maturity, the fourth having died in infancy from an accidental
peck from the hen. In rearing all wild creatures the great thing is to
study and imitate, as nearly as possible, their natural surroundings,
and especially their diet. Chopped lettuce and worms made a fair
substitute for their natural food, but the jubilation that went on when
a mass of water-weed, full of insects, water snails, &c., was brought
them, showed that they knew by instinct what suited them best. With
constant care and attention they grew very tame, and would eat out of
one's hand, and when let out of the coop would follow me to a certain
heap of dead leaves where worms abounded, and there, with the most
amusing eagerness, they pounced upon their wriggling prey, snatching the
worms out of each other's beak, and tumbling over one another in their
excitement, all the while making a special chirp of exceeding happiness.
They were named Tiny, Sir Francis Drake, and Luther--I fear the last
name had a covert allusion to the "Diet of Worms."
When the purple feathers began to show in their wings, and they
considered themselves quite too old to pay any allegiance to their
hen-mother, they began to absent themselves for some hours each
afternoon, and this, too, in a most secret fashion, for I could never
tell how they disappeared, but they returned in due time, walking
quietly in Indian file, and lay down in their coop. At last I traced
them to a pond a long distance off--it really seemed as if they had
scented the water, for they had to traverse a lawn and wood, go across a
drive, and through a hedge and field, and then the pond was in a hollow
where they could not possibly have seen it; but there I found my little
friends in high glee, darting over the surface of the water, splashing,
diving, sending up showers of spray from their wings, and going on as if
they were possessed. I called to them, and in a moment they quieted
down, and behaved exactly as children would have done when caught
tripping--they came out of the water and followed me, in the meekest and
most penitent manner, back to their home under the deodar.
These birds would stay the whole morning with me in perfect content if
they were allowed to nestle into a wool mat placed at the doorstep of
the French window leading out upon the lawn; there they would plume
themselves and sometimes preen each other, and I could watch the way in
which the feathers were drawn through the apparently awkward bill, yet I
suppose so suited for its various uses; anyway the feathers came out
from its manipulations as smooth and sleek as velvet, and when the
toilet was over the head found its rest behind the wing, and profound
sleep followed. Sometimes my friends would make a spring upon the sofa
by my side, I fear with a view to forthcoming worms, of which they well
knew I was the purveyor; and nothing could exceed the slyness of their
eyes as they looked up at me and mutely suggested an expedition to that
heap of leaves!
I must say I derived an immense amount of amusement from those ducks;
they had such innate character of their own, quite unlike any other bird
I ever came across.
I had often looked forward to the time when they would take to their
wings and come down upon the lawn from aerial heights with a grand fuss
and fluttering of wings, but that desire they never gratified. The day
came at last when I saw them circling high up in the air, so high that
they were mere specks in the sky, but where they alighted I never could
find out. They always re-appeared, walking solemnly (the little
hypocrites!) one after the other, as if they had been doing nothing in
particular, and were now coming in exemplary fashion to be fed. I
believe it is very rarely the case that wild ducks, however they may
appear domesticated, will remain all the year through with those who
have reared them, and really take their place in the poultry-yard with
the other inmates. Still it has been known, and I will subjoin an
account given me by a friend, which goes to prove that such a state of
things is possible. My friend gave me in substance the following account
of her wild ducks:--
"There are different kinds of wild ducks; these are mallards. The first
we had were hatched by hens. They feed with the other ducks, but show a
decided preference for Indian corn. They are very troublesome about
laying, often leaving their eggs exposed, where the crows find them and
carry them off. We gather most of them we find, to take care of them
(though the ducks lay in different places each time their nest is
robbed) until there are preparations for sitting, when, if we have been
fortunate enough to discover the fact, we add a number of the previously
gathered eggs.
"The sitting duck comes for food every two or three days, and that is
all we see of her for some time, until at length she may be seen coming
through the meadow, the half-grown mowing grass behind her trembling and
waving in an unusual manner: by-and-by, the road or shorter grass is
reached, when it is found the proud mother is bringing home her little
fluffy family of perhaps eight to eleven darkie ducklings--quick,
active, tiny things that refuse at first all friendly advances, but
becoming accustomed to their surroundings soon behave much in the manner
of their elders. There are dreadful fights on the pond when two or more
little families arrive about the same time, the mother of one flock
tyrannizing over the members of another, and thus causing many deaths.
They often fly away, but they always come back again. All through the
winter they go under cover with the other ducks, but when spring comes
they are not to be found at night; nevertheless they are sure to be
ready for breakfast next morning."
I confess I always had a faint hope that my ducks might stay with me, or
at any rate return from time to time, but their wild nature prevailed,
and they finally left; only Luther reappeared alone one day and took his
last "diet" from my hand; but there was a look in his pretty blue eye
which said plainly, "You will never see me again," and he had his final
caress and departed "to fresh woods and pastures new."
[Illustration: _TINY, SIR FRANCIS DRAKE AND LUTHER_]
[Illustration]