But you should see the others; they are the prettiest little ducklings I
have seen in all my days; they are all like their father,--the
good-for-nothing fellow! he has not been to visit me once.’
‘Let me see the egg that will not break,’ said the old duck; ‘depend
upon it, it is a turkey’s egg. I was cheated in the same way once
myself, and I had such trouble with the young ones; for they were afraid
of the water, and I could not get them there. I called and scolded, but
it was all of no use. But let me see the egg--ah yes! to be sure, that
is a turkey’s egg. Leave it, and teach the other little ones to swim.’
‘I will sit on it a little longer,’ said the duck. ‘I have been sitting
so long, that I may as well spend the harvest here.’
‘It is no business of mine,’ said the old duck, and away she waddled.
The great egg burst at last, ‘Tchick, tchick,’ said the little one, and
out it tumbled--but oh, how large and ugly it was! The duck looked at
it, ‘That is a great, strong creature,’ said she, ‘none of the others
are at all like it; can it be a young turkey-cock? Well, we shall soon
find out, it must go into the water, though I push it in myself!
The next day there was delightful weather, and the sun shone warmly upon
all the green leaves when mother-duck with all her family went down to
the canal; plump she went into the water, ‘Quack, quack,’ cried she, and
one duckling after another jumped in. The water closed over their heads,
but all came up again, and swam together in the pleasantest manner;
their legs moved without effort. All were there, even the ugly grey one.
‘No! it is not a turkey,’ said the old duck; ‘only see how prettily it
moves its legs, how upright it holds itself; it is my own child! it is
also really very pretty when one looks more closely at it; quack, quack,
now come with me, I will take you into the world, introduce you in the
duck-yard; but keep close to me, or some one may tread on you, and
beware of the cat.’
So they came into the duck-yard. There was a horrid noise; two families
were quarrelling about the remains of an eel, which in the end was
secured by the cat.
‘See, my children, such is the way of the world,’ said the mother-duck,
wiping her beak, for she too was fond of roasted eels. ‘Now use your
legs,’ said she, ‘keep together, and bow to the old duck you see yonder.
She is the most distinguished of all the fowls present, and is of
Spanish blood, which accounts for her dignified appearance and manners.
And look, she has a red rag on her leg; that is considered extremely
handsome, and is the greatest distinction a duck can have. Don’t turn
your feet inwards; a well-educated duckling always keeps his legs far
apart, like his father and mother, just so--look, now bow your necks,
and say “quack.”’
And they did as they were told. But the other ducks who were in the yard
looked at them and said aloud, ‘Only see, now we have another brood, as
if there were not enough of us already. And fie! how ugly that one is!
We will not endure it’; and immediately one of the ducks flew at him,
and bit him in the neck.
‘Leave him alone,’ said the mother, ‘he is doing no one any harm.’
‘Yes, but he is so large, and so strange-looking, and therefore he shall
be teased.’
‘Those are fine children that our good mother has,’ said the old duck
with the red rag on her leg. ‘All are pretty except one, and that has
not turned out well; I almost wish it could be hatched over again.’
‘That cannot be, please your highness,’ said the mother. ‘Certainly he
is not handsome, but he is a very good child, and swims as well as the
others, indeed rather better. I think he will grow like the others all
in good time, and perhaps will look smaller. He stayed so long in the
egg-shell, that is the cause of the difference,’ and she scratched the
duckling’s neck, and stroked his whole body. ‘Besides,’ added she, ‘he
is a drake; I think he will be very strong, therefore it does not matter
so much; he will fight his way through.’
‘The other ducks are very pretty,’ said the old duck, ‘pray make
yourselves at home, and if you find an eel’s head you can bring it to
me.’
And accordingly they made themselves at home.
But the poor little duckling, who had come last out of its egg-shell,
and who was so ugly, was bitten, pecked, and teased by both ducks and
hens. ‘It is so large,’ said they all. And the turkey-cock, who had come
into the world with spurs on, and therefore fancied he was an emperor,
puffed himself up like a ship in full sail, and marched up to the
duckling quite red with passion. The poor little thing scarcely knew
what to do; he was quite distressed, because he was so ugly, and because
he was the jest of the poultry-yard.
[Illustration: HE CAME TO A WIDE MOOR]
So passed the first day, and afterwards matters grew worse and worse;
the poor duckling was scorned by all. Even his brothers and sisters
behaved unkindly, and were constantly saying, ‘The cat fetch thee, thou
nasty creature!’ The mother said, ‘Ah, if thou wert only far away!’ The
ducks bit him, the hens pecked him, and the girl who fed the poultry
kicked him. He ran over the hedge; the little birds in the bushes were
terrified. ‘That is because I am so ugly,’ thought the duckling,
shutting his eyes, but he ran on. At last he came to a wide moor, where
lived some wild ducks; here he lay the whole night, so tired and so
comfortless. In the morning the wild ducks flew up, and perceived their
new companion. ‘Pray, who are you?’ asked they; and our little duckling
turned himself in all directions, and greeted them as politely as
possible.
‘You are really uncommonly ugly,’ said the wild ducks; ‘however that
does not matter to us, provided you do not marry into our families.’
Poor thing! he had never thought of marrying; he only begged permission
to lie among the reeds, and drink the water of the moor.
There he lay for two whole days--on the third day there came two wild
geese, or rather ganders, who had not been long out of their egg-shells,
which accounts for their impertinence.
‘Hark ye,’ said they, ‘you are so ugly that we like you infinitely well;
will you come with us, and be a bird of passage? On another moor, not
far from this, are some dear, sweet, wild geese, as lovely creatures as
have ever said “hiss, hiss.” You are truly in the way to make your
fortune, ugly as you are.’
Bang! a gun went off all at once, and both wild geese were stretched
dead among the reeds; the water became red with blood;--bang! a gun went
off again, whole flocks of wild geese flew up from among the reeds, and
another report followed.
There was a grand hunting party: the hunters lay in ambush all around;
some were even sitting in the trees, whose huge branches stretched far
over the moor. The blue smoke rose through the thick trees like a mist,
and was dispersed as it fell over the water; the hounds splashed about
in the mud, the reeds and rushes bent in all directions. How frightened
the poor little duck was! He turned his head, thinking to hide it under
his wings, and in a moment a most formidable-looking dog stood close to
him, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, his eyes sparkling fearfully.
He opened wide his jaws at the sight of our duckling, showed him his
sharp white teeth, and, splash, splash! he was gone, gone without
hurting him.
‘Well! let me be thankful,’ sighed he, ‘I am so ugly, that even the dog
will not eat me.’
And now he lay still, though the shooting continued among the reeds,
shot following shot.
The noise did not cease till late in the day, and even then the poor
little thing dared not stir; he waited several hours before he looked
around him, and then hastened away from the moor as fast as he could. He
ran over fields and meadows, though the wind was so high that he had
some difficulty in proceeding.
Towards evening he reached a wretched little hut, so wretched that it
knew not on which side to fall, and therefore remained standing. The
wind blew violently, so that our poor little duckling was obliged to
support himself on his tail, in order to stand against it; but it became
worse and worse. He then remarked that the door had lost one of its
hinges, and hung so much awry that he could creep through the crevice
into the room, which he did.
In this room lived an old woman, with her tom-cat and her hen; and the
cat, whom she called her little son, knew how to set up his back and
purr; indeed he could even emit sparks when stroked the wrong way. The
hen had very short legs, and was therefore called ‘Cuckoo Shortlegs’;
she laid very good eggs, and the old woman loved her as her own child.
The next morning the new guest was perceived; the cat began to mew, and
the hen to cackle.
‘What is the matter?’ asked the old woman, looking round; however, her
eyes were not good, so she took the young duckling to be a fat duck who
had lost her way. ‘This is a capital catch,’ said she, ‘I shall now have
duck’s eggs, if it be not a drake: we must try.’
And so the duckling was put to the proof for three weeks, but no eggs
made their appearance.
Now the cat was the master of the house, and the hen was the mistress,
and they used always to say, ‘We and the World,’ for they imagined
themselves to be not only the half of the world, but also by far the
better half. The duckling thought it was possible to be of a different
opinion, but that the hen would not allow.
‘Can you lay eggs?’ asked she.
‘No.’
‘Well, then, hold your tongue.’
And the cat said, ‘Can you set up your back? can you purr?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then, you should have no opinion when reasonable persons are
speaking.’
So the duckling sat alone in a corner, and was in a very bad humour;
however, he happened to think of the fresh air and bright sunshine, and
these thoughts gave him such a strong desire to swim again that he could
not help telling it to the hen.
‘What ails you?’ said the hen. ‘You have nothing to do, and, therefore,
brood over these fancies; either lay eggs, or purr, then you will forget
them.’
‘But it is so delicious to swim,’ said the duckling, ‘so delicious when
the waters close over your head, and you plunge to the bottom.’
‘Well, that is a queer sort of a pleasure,’ said the hen; ‘I think you
must be crazy. Not to speak of myself, ask the cat--he is the most
sensible animal I know--whether he would like to swim or to plunge to
the bottom of the water. Ask our mistress, the old woman--there is no
one in the world wiser than she--do you think she would take pleasure in
swimming, and in the waters closing over her head?’
‘You do not understand me,’ said the duckling.
‘What, we do not understand you! so you think yourself wiser than the
cat, and the old woman, not to speak of myself. Do not fancy any such
thing, child, but be thankful for all the kindness that has been shown
you. Are you not lodged in a warm room, and have you not the advantage
of society from which you can learn something? But you are a simpleton,
and it is wearisome to have anything to do with you. Believe me, I wish
you well. I tell you unpleasant truths, but it is thus that real
friendship is shown. Come, for once give yourself the trouble to learn
to purr, or to lay eggs.’
‘I think I will go out into the wide world again,’ said the duckling.
‘Well, go,’ answered the hen.
So the duckling went. He swam on the surface of the water, he plunged
beneath, but all animals passed him by, on account of his ugliness. And
the autumn came, the leaves turned yellow and brown, the wind caught
them and danced them about, the air was very cold, the clouds were heavy
with hail or snow, and the raven sat on the hedge and croaked:--the poor
duckling was certainly not very comfortable!
One evening, just as the sun was setting with unusual brilliancy, a
flock of large beautiful birds rose from out of the brushwood; the
duckling had never seen anything so beautiful before; their plumage was
of a dazzling white, and they had long, slender necks. They were swans;
they uttered a singular cry, spread out their long, splendid wings, and
flew away from these cold regions to warmer countries, across the open
sea. They flew so high, so very high! and the little ugly duckling’s
feelings were so strange; he turned round and round in the water like a
mill-wheel, strained his neck to look after them, and sent forth such a
loud and strange cry, that it almost frightened himself.--Ah! he could
not forget them, those noble
[Illustration: AND THE CAT SAID, ‘CAN YOU PURR?’]
birds! those happy birds! When he could see them no longer, he plunged
to the bottom of the water, and when he rose again was almost beside
himself. The duckling knew not what the birds were called, knew not
whither they were flying, yet he loved them as he had never before loved
anything; he envied them not, it would never have occurred to him to
wish such beauty for himself; he would have been quite contented if the
duck in the duck-yard had but endured his company--the poor ugly animal!
And the winter was so cold, so cold! The duckling was obliged to swim
round and round in the water, to keep it from freezing; but every night
the opening in which he swam became smaller and smaller; it froze so
that the crust of ice crackled; the duckling was obliged to make good
use of his legs to prevent the water from freezing entirely; at last,
wearied out, he lay stiff and cold in the ice.
Early in the morning there passed by a peasant, who saw him, broke the
ice in pieces with his wooden shoe, and brought him home to his wife.
He now revived; the children would have played with him, but our
duckling thought they wished to tease him, and in his terror jumped into
the milk-pail, so that the milk was spilled about the room: the good
woman screamed and clapped her hands; he flew thence into the pan where
the butter was kept, and thence into the meal-barrel, and out again, and
then how strange he looked!
The woman screamed, and struck at him with the tongs; the children ran
races with each other trying to catch him, and laughed and screamed
likewise. It was well for him that the door stood open; he jumped out
among the bushes into the new-fallen snow--he lay there as in a dream.
But it would be too melancholy to relate all the trouble and misery
that he was obliged to suffer during the severity of the winter--he was
lying on a moor among the reeds, when the sun began to shine warmly
again, the larks sang, and beautiful spring had returned.
And once more he shook his wings. They were stronger than formerly, and
bore him forwards quickly, and before he was well aware of it, he was in
a large garden where the apple-trees stood in full bloom, where the
syringas sent forth their fragrance and hung their long green branches
down into the winding canal. Oh, everything was so lovely, so full of
the freshness of spring! And out of the thicket came three beautiful
white swans. They displayed their feathers so proudly, and swam so
lightly, so lightly! The duckling knew the glorious creatures, and was
seized with a strange melancholy.
‘I will fly to them, those kingly birds!’ said he. ‘They will kill me,
because I, ugly as I am, have presumed to approach them; but it matters
not, better to be killed by them than to be bitten by the ducks, pecked
by the hens, kicked by the girl who feeds the poultry, and to have so
much to suffer during the winter!’ He flew into the water, and swam
towards the beautiful creatures--they saw him and shot forward to meet
him. ‘Only kill me,’ said the poor animal, and he bowed his head low,
expecting death,--but what did he see in the water?--he saw beneath him
his own form, no longer that of a plump, ugly, grey bird--it was that of
a swan.
It matters not to have been born in a duck-yard, if one has been hatched
from a swan’s egg.
The good creature felt himself really elevated by all the troubles and
adversities he had experienced. He could now rightly estimate his own
happiness, and the larger swans swam round him, and stroked him with
their beaks.
Some little children were running about in the garden;
[Illustration: AND EVERY ONE SAID, ‘THE NEW ONE IS THE BEST’]
they threw grain and bread into the water, and the youngest exclaimed,
‘There is a new one!’--the others also cried out, ‘Yes, there is a new
swan come!’ and they clapped their hands, and danced around. They ran to
their father and mother, bread and cake were thrown into the water, and
every one said, ‘The new one is the best, so young, and so beautiful!’
and the old swans bowed before him. The young swan felt quite ashamed,
and hid his head under his wings; he scarcely knew what to do, he was
all too happy, but still not proud, for a good heart is never proud.
He remembered how he had been persecuted and derided, and he now heard
every one say he was the most beautiful of all beautiful birds. The
syringas bent down their branches towards him low into the water, and
the sun shone so warmly and brightly--he shook his feathers, stretched
his slender neck, and in the joy of his heart said, ‘How little did I
dream of so much happiness when I was the ugly, despised duckling!’
[Illustration]
THE NAUGHTY BOY
There was once an old poet, such a good, honest old poet! He was sitting
alone in his own little room on a very stormy evening; the wind was
roaring without, and the rain poured down in torrents. But the old man
sat cosily by his warm stove, the fire was blazing brightly, and some
apples were roasting in front of it.
‘Those poor people who have no roof to shelter them to-night will, most
assuredly, not have a dry thread left on their skin,’ said the
kind-hearted old man.
‘Oh, open the door! open the door! I am so cold, and quite wet through
besides--open the door!’ cried a voice from without. The voice was like
a child’s, and seemed half-choked with sobs. ‘Rap, rap, rap!’ it went on
knocking at the door, whilst the rain still kept streaming down from the
clouds, and the wind rattled among the window-panes.
‘Poor thing!’ said the old poet; and he arose and opened the door. There
stood a little boy, almost naked; the water trickled down from his long
flaxen hair; he was shivering with cold, and had he been left much
longer out in the street, he must certainly have perished in the storm.
‘Poor boy!’ said the old poet again, taking him by the hand, and leading
him into his room. ‘Come to me, and we’ll soon make thee warm again, and
I will give thee some wine, and some roasted apples for thy supper, my
pretty child!’
And, of a truth, the boy was exceedingly pretty. His eyes
[Illustration]
shone as bright as stars, and his hair, although dripping with water,
curled in beautiful ringlets. He looked quite like a little cherub, but
he was very pale, and trembled in every limb with cold. In his hand he
held a pretty little cross-bow, but it seemed entirely spoilt by the
rain, and the colours painted on the arrows all ran one into another.
The old poet sat down again beside the stove, and took the little boy in
his lap; he wrung the water out of his streaming hair, warmed the
child’s hands within his own, and gave him mulled wine to drink. The boy
soon became himself again, the rosy colour returned to his cheeks, he
jumped down from the old man’s lap, and danced around him on the floor.
‘Thou art a merry fellow!’ said the poet. ‘Thou must tell me thy name.’
‘They call me Cupid,’ replied the boy. ‘Don’t you know me? There lies my
bow; ah, you can’t think how capitally I can shoot! See, the weather is
fine again now; the moon is shining bright.’
‘But thy bow is spoilt,’ said the old man.
‘That would be a sad disaster, indeed,’ remarked the boy, as he took the
bow in his hand and examined it closely. ‘Oh, it is quite dry by this
time, and it is not a bit damaged; the string, too, is quite strong
enough, I think. However, I may as well try it!’ He then drew his bow,
placed an arrow before the string, took his aim, and shot direct into
the old poet’s heart. ‘Now you may be sure that my cross-bow is not
spoilt!’ cried he, as, with a loud laugh, he ran away.
The naughty boy! This was, indeed, ungrateful of him, to shoot to the
heart the good old man who had so kindly taken him in, warmed him, and
dried his clothes, given him sweet wine, and nice roasted apples for
supper!
The poor poet lay groaning on the ground, for the arrow had wounded him
sorely. ‘Fie, for shame, Cupid!’ cried he, ‘thou art a wicked boy! I
will tell all good children how thou hast treated me, and bid them take
heed and never play with thee, for thou wilt assuredly do them a
mischief, as thou hast done to me.’
All the good boys and girls to whom he related this story were on their
guard against the wicked boy, Cupid; but, notwithstanding, he made fools
of them again and again, he is so terribly cunning! When the students
are returning home from lecture, he walks by their side, dressed in a
black gown, and with a book under his arm. They take him to be a
fellow-student, and so they suffer him to walk arm-in-arm with them,
just as if he were one of their intimate friends. But whilst they are
thus familiar with him, all of a sudden he thrusts his arrows into their
bosoms. Even when young girls are going to church, he will follow and
watch for his opportunity: he is always waylaying people. In the
theatre, he sits in the great chandelier, and kindles such a bright, hot
flame, men fancy it a lamp, but they are soon undeceived. He wanders
about in the royal gardens and all the public walks, making mischief
everywhere; nay, once he even shot thy father and mother to the heart!
Only ask them, dear child, and they will certainly tell thee all about
it. In fine, this fellow, this Cupid, is a very wicked boy! Do not play
with him! He waylays everybody, boys and girls, youths and maidens, men
and women, rich and poor, old and young. Only think of this: he once
shot an arrow into thy good old grandmother’s heart! It happened a long
time ago, and she has recovered from the wound, but she will never
forget him, depend upon it.
Fie, for shame! wicked Cupid! Is he not a mischievous boy?
Beware of him, beware of him, dear child!
[Illustration: THE END]
Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press