THE DUCK
“I will begin with the wild duck, parent stock of our domestic duck. It
is a splendid bird, at least the male, for the costume of the female is
less rich, as may be remarked in all the other species. The head and
upper part of the neck are emerald green, with glints as of polished
metal, while beneath is a white collar, its dull coloring contrasting
with the brilliance of the adjacent tints. A brownish purple extends
from the base of the neck down over the breast, where it gradually
fades into gray on the sides and stomach. Changeable green, mixed with
black, colors the region of the tail, whence rise four small feathers
curling in the shape of a crook. In the middle of each wing a spot of
magnificent azure is encircled, first, with velvety blue, then with
white. The back, sides, and stomach are speckled with black spots on a
gray ground. Finally, the beak is yellowish green, and the feet are
orange. Such is the duck in its wild state, and such it often is under
domestication, notwithstanding the numerous variations of plumage that
captivity has caused it to undergo.”
“The head superbly clothed in green,” observed Emile, “the little curly
tail-feathers, and the spot of blue in the middle of the wing—I have
noticed all these lots of times in tame ducks.”
“The wild duck is strong of wing and a passionate lover of travel.
Consequently it is found nearly everywhere; but it does not stay long
anywhere, unless it be in the most northerly regions, Lapland,
Spitzbergen, and Siberia, where it delights in the solitude so
favorable for nesting undisturbed and passing the summer. Twice a year
it visits us: in the spring on its way to the North, and in the autumn
on its return from the Pole, when it goes as far as Africa to take up
its winter quarters in warmer countries. On a gray November day when it
threatens snow you can see, passing from north to south, at a great
height, migrating birds arranged one behind another in two files which
meet in a point, like the two arms of a V. It is a flock of ducks
emigrating. They are fleeing the approach of cold weather and seeking a
milder climate, perhaps beyond the sea, where they may find assured
nourishment in waters that do not freeze. The better to cleave the air
and husband their strength on such a long journey, the flying squadron
arranges itself in the form of a wedge, the point of which opens the
way through the resisting air. The post at the tip is the hardest,
since the leader of the file, being the first, has to overcome the
resistance of the atmosphere. Each one takes it in turn for a certain
time, and when it is tired falls back to the rear to rest while another
takes its place.”
“To come from countries near the Pole to this one, and still more to
Africa,” said Jules, “is a very long journey, at least a thousand
miles. I can understand how, in order to accomplish it, the ducks must
save their strength by arranging themselves in the form of a wedge,
point foremost. But tell me, Uncle, what makes these birds prefer the
countries of the extreme north, where they go to pass the summer and
build their nests? Wouldn’t they be better off with us than in those
wild countries, so cold and covered with snow and ice a great part of
the year?”
“Such is not the opinion of the duck, which prefers the gloomy
solitudes of the most desolate islands to countries disturbed by the
presence of man. In those peaceful spots it can raise its family in
complete security; and, besides, provisions abound in the neighboring
waters, which are thawed out for several weeks by the summer sun.
Neither is it the opinion of the teal, goose, plover, lapwing, and many
others, which all, as soon as spring comes, leave us and return to the
North, journeying by long stages. Then it is that, from his ambush in a
hut of foliage in the middle of a swampy field or in the dried bed of a
wide torrent, the hunter imitates with a reed whistle the plaintive
note of the plover, to call the migrating bird to his nets. The flock
arrives, circles about a moment undecided, suspects danger, and flies
off again into the distant blue, where it is soon lost to sight.
Whither is it going? It is going where its instinct calls it, to the
solitudes of the North. At the first thawing of the ice, when the
ground, still wet from the melting snows, begins to be clothed with
flowers, in fact in May or June, it will reach perhaps the Faroe
Islands, perhaps the Orkneys or Iceland, or maybe Lapland. It is never
without a lively interest that I watch the flight of one of these
migrating flocks, better guided on its audacious journey than the
navigator with the aid of the compass. I picture to myself the joys of
arrival, the common delight when the long flight finally ends on the
home island, the friendly land where, in a mossy hollow, the
red-marbled eggs will presently be laid.
“For a great many birds, and among them the duck, the archipelagoes of
the North are a promised land, an earthly paradise. The most varied
species meet here from all parts of the world. What a lively scene,
therefore, what a festival, when nesting time comes! Nowhere else is
there such a reunion of birds. Let me tell you the strange scene that
takes place then, according to travelers who have witnessed it.
“We are at Spitzbergen, facing some towering cliffs that overlook the
sea and extend back in the form of receding shelves, one above another,
like the rows of seats in a theater. These shelves are all covered with
myriads of female birds sitting on their eggs, with heads turned
seaward, as numerous and as crowded as the spectators in a theater at a
first-night performance. They cackle to each other from neighbor to
neighbor and seem to be engaged in an animated conversation, as a
diversion from the tedium of prolonged incubation. All around the
cliff, on the bosom of the waters, swimmers of all kinds dive and
dabble, chasing, pecking, and beating one another. Others fill the air
with their hoarse or shrill cries, going unceasingly from sea to nests
and from nests to sea, calling to their mates, wheeling around above
them, caressing their little ones, playing with their brothers, and
showing in a noisy and innocent way their fears and wants, their joy
and happiness. To describe the agitation, confusion, noise, cries,
croakings, and whistlings of these countless birds of all shapes and
colors and styles, is quite impossible. The hunter, dizzy and stunned,
knows not where to fire in this living whirlpool; he is incapable of
distinguishing and still more of following the bird he wishes to aim
at. Wearied by vain effort, he directs his fire at the very midst of
the cloud. The shot is sped. Immediately confusion is at its height;
clouds of birds, perched on the rocks or swimming on the water, take
flight in their turn and mingle with the others; a deafening discordant
clamor rises to the skies. Far from dissipating, the cloud grows
thicker and whirls about still more. Cormorants, at first motionless on
the rocks betwixt wind and water, become noisily excited; sea-gulls fly
in circles about the hunter’s head and strike him in the face with
their wings. All these different species, peacefully assembled on an
isolated rock in the midst of the glacial ocean waves, seem to reproach
man for coming to the very end of the world to trouble the joys of the
brooding mother. The females, still motionless on their eggs in the
midst of this disorder, content themselves with joining their protests
to those of the indignant males.”
“I have never heard anything like that before, Uncle,” said Jules.
“Under the roof-tiles we sometimes find a dozen nests of sparrows
living as neighbors; but how far these little gatherings are from the
Spitzbergen throngs! Those rocks on the borders of the sea are populous
towns, with nests for houses and birds for inhabitants.”
“Are there ducks on those rocks, too?” asked Louis.
“No, my friend,” replied Uncle Paul; “there are only sea-birds. Wild
ducks and geese flock by themselves and make their nests inland, far
from the waters of the sea, which do not suit them. They prefer the
borders of a lake or swamp. Their nests are built on the ground among
tufts of grass. Sometimes they are so numerous one could not take a
step without treading on eggs.”
“Oh, what a fine harvest of eggs I should have if I were there!”
“You forget, my child, that Uncle Paul expressly forbids you to touch
birds’ nests. However, as once is not a habit, and as, moreover, the
temptation would be irresistible, I would shut my eyes and would leave
you to your own devices if we were on those famous bird-rocks of
Spitzbergen, Greenland, or Lapland. Basket, hat, handkerchief, all
would soon be full; you would simply be perplexed what to take and what
to leave. All shapes are there together. There are some eggs as round
as balls, some oval and like those of our own poultry, some equally
pointed at both ends, and some very much enlarged at one end and small
at the other, almost like pears. All these sea-birds’ eggs are large,
because the young, on leaving the shell, must be strong enough to
follow their parents on the water and begin to earn their own living.
And then, what variety of color and design! There are white eggs,
yellowish eggs, and red eggs. Some are dark green, imitating the color
of the waves that roar at the base of the rock; others seem to borrow
their pale blue from the azure itself. These are diversified with areas
of different colors, like the maps in your geography; those are painted
with large spots and remind one of the leopard’s skin.”
“Oh, if I were only there!” sighed Emile.
“As we are not there, let us leave the beautiful rock-eggs to the birds
and return to the duck.
“It is in order to get back to these northern countries, their
paradise, that wild ducks pass over us at the end of winter. The
journey is chiefly made at night, the day being reserved for rest among
the rushes. While the flock sleeps, each bird’s head under its wing,
some members station themselves at favorable points and, vigilant
scouts, watch over the common welfare. At the first appearance of
danger the cry of alarm is sounded, a sort of hoarse clarion call.
Immediately the flock takes wing or dives under the water. In
descending from the upper air and alighting on a suitable spot, the
cautious bird is equally prudent. The flock comes and goes several
times, and circles about repeatedly to give the place a thorough
examination. If nothing disquieting appears, it descends in an oblique
flight, grazes the surface of the water with the tips of its wings, and
then swims to the middle of the pond, far from the shore where the
danger would be greatest. Nothing, then, is more difficult than to
catch a flock of wild ducks off their guard. The hunter has recourse to
a ruse and turns to his own account the friendly relations that always
exist between the tame duck and its brother, the wild duck. Hidden on
the edge of the pond in a reed hut, he releases two or three tame
ducks, whose cries call the strangers and bring them within gunshot.
“Although the laying of eggs generally takes place in the northern
regions, there are always a few pairs of ducks that linger and make
their nests with us, either from being tired with too long a journey or
because they have strayed away from the migrating flocks. For her
nesting place, the mother chooses some cluster of reeds in the middle
of the swamp. She beats down and flattens the central rushes; then,
using her beak to intertwine the outer ones, she succeeds in weaving a
kind of coarse basket, which she lines with warm down, plucked from her
breast and stomach. More rarely she establishes herself in some large
tree where she makes use of a nest abandoned by the magpie. The rude
structure of dry sticks is restored, and especially is it well lined
with fine feathers plucked from her own body. The eggs are laid in
March and number about fifteen. Incubation takes thirty-one days.
Whenever the need of food makes her leave the nest for a few minutes,
the mother takes care to cover the eggs with a thick layer of down, so
that they shall not become cold. When she comes back it is never in a
straight line or uninterrupted flight. She alights at some distance
from the nest, then cautiously approaches by tortuous windings, varied
every time and calculated to baffle whoever may be watching her.
“The young ones are born clothed with a delicate fur of yellow down,
which they keep for some time. As soon as hatched, the brood is led to
the water and abandons the nest, never to return to it. If the pond is
too far away for such young legs, or if the nest is at the top of some
tall oak, the father and mother take the little ones tenderly by the
nape of the neck and carry them one by one to the shore. The removal
accomplished, the mother goes into the water, the boldest one of her
brood follows her, and the others imitate its example. Their aquatic
education immediately begins. In order to swim you must do so and so,
are the parents’ instructions; and to dive and tack about you must do
like this. The tadpole, that dainty morsel, is caught in this manner,
but if you don’t catch it with the first snap of the beak, you get it
by diving. The little shell-fish hides under the leaves, and that’s
where you must hunt if you want to find it. The larva frequents warm
mud; seek, my children, near the shore and you will find it. The lively
frog calls for nimble tactics: a quick snap of the beak will fetch him.
All that is so soon and so well understood by the ducklings, that the
mother does not have to look after their food; her part is simply to
gather them under her wing to keep them warm when the family retires to
the shore to rest or to pass the night.
“Apart from the love of traveling, which many centuries of
domestication have caused to be forgotten, the habits of the tame duck
do not differ from those of the wild. The female duck begins to lay in
February or March, and lays from forty to fifty eggs a year, if one is
careful to remove them as they are laid. These eggs are slightly larger
than the hen’s, smoother, rounder, sometimes dull white, sometimes a
little greenish. The duck is impelled by instinct to lay them among the
neighboring reeds and rushes, and it is therefore necessary to watch
her if one does not wish to run the risk of losing the eggs.
“Domestication does not by any means always improve the qualities of
animals subjected to our care. If there is gain in corpulence, in
quantity of alimentary matter, there is frequently loss on the side of
what might be called the moral qualities. So it is that the tame duck
is not so good a brooder nor so devoted a mother as the wild one. The
hen, on the contrary, has forgotten none of her maternal duties; she
even carries them to excess in the hen-house, until she lets herself
die of starvation on her nest, a thing she would not do in her wild
state. Hence, it is to the hen, a better mother than the duck, that the
latter’s eggs are usually entrusted.
“The period of incubation is thirty-one days, the same as with the wild
duck. If the brood is hatched at a time of year when the weather is
still cold, it would be dangerous for the ducklings to go immediately
into the water, whither their instinct calls them, and whither the
mother duck that had brooded them would not fail to lead them. Hence
the little ones and their mother, hen or duck, are put under a coop in
a place apart, where there is no danger of trampling or other rough
treatment from the rest of the poultry. During this sequestration the
food consists of a mixture of barley flour, boiled potatoes, bran, and
chopped nettles, all made into a mush with greasy dish-water. Ducklings
have a strong stomach and active digestion; they need from six to eight
meals a day, so quickly does their food pass. Let us not forget to put
a large plate of water under the coop. It will serve them as a swimming
basin in which their wide beaks will practise dabbling and their webbed
feet will learn their destined use. Daily sport on this little sheet of
water will help them to have patience until the great day when larger
evolutions on the broad pond will be allowed.
“A week, two weeks, pass in this way. At last the longed-for moment
arrives. The mother duck leads her family to the neighboring pond, or
the ducklings find their way thither unaided if they have a hen for a
nurse. I have told you of the fright of that adoptive mother when she
sees her little ones throw themselves joyously into the water, deaf to
her supplications. If the pond is not too deep, the hen wades in till
the water reaches half-way up her legs, and runs along the edge,
calling her dear brood. In vain her courageous devotion, to no purpose
her anxiety and grief: the ducklings gain the deep water whither she
cannot follow them, and, heedless of the mother admonishing them from
the shore, they wag their little pointed tails with joy.
“Like the pig, the duck will eat anything and everything. In still
waters, in which it delights, it snaps up tadpoles and little frogs,
worms of all kinds and soft shell-fish, water insects and little
minnows. In the field it eats the tender herbage and makes prey of the
slimy slug and even the snail, no whit abashed by the latter’s shell.
In the poultry-yard offer it the kitchen leavings, parings of all
kinds, garden refuse, dish-water, and garbage, and the glutton will
feast royally.
“Thus because of its voracity the duck is easy to fatten; provided it
has abundant food and a chance to play in the water, you may be sure it
will take on fat without any other care. Nevertheless, in order to
obtain certain results it is necessary to go beyond the bird’s natural
gluttony and have recourse to forcible feeding. For a couple of weeks
ducks are shut up in a dark place. Morning and evening, a servant takes
them on her knees, crosses their wings, and opens their beak with one
hand while with the other she stuffs their crop with boiled maize. Thus
gorged to excess with food, the miserable ducks pass their captivity
resting on their stomachs, always panting, almost breathless, half
stifled. Some die of surfeit. Finally the rump, distended with fat,
spreads the tail-feathers out fan-wise so that they cannot be closed
again. This is a sign that the fattening process has reached its
extreme limit. Haste is then made to behead the poor creature, which
otherwise would soon die of suffocation.”
“And why, if you please,” asked Jules, “these horrible tortures if the
duck fattens so easily by itself?”
“Alas, my friend, the satisfaction of the stomach makes us cruelly
ingenious. In the state of continual suffocation that overtakes the
bird when it is gorged with boiled maize, a mortal disease sets in, the
disease of the glutton, among men as among ducks. The liver becomes
tremendously enlarged and changes to a soft, shapeless mass, oozing
grease. Well, this liver, decomposed by disease, furnishes to the
palate of connoisseurs an incomparable delicacy. I take their word for
it, not being able to speak from experience, as I have none; for,
between you and me, my friend, I own that such delicacies would be
repugnant to your Uncle Paul. In my humble opinion, it is paying too
much for a greasy mouthful to subject the duck to those frightful
tortures. I will add that the pasties of Amiens and the celebrated
ragouts of Nérac and Toulouse are made of these livers.
“To bring this subject to a close, a few words on a second kind of
duck, less common in our poultry-yards than the first. It is the
Barbary duck, called also the musk duck on account of its odor of musk,
and likewise known as the silent duck, because it utters no cry. It is
much larger than the common duck, its plumage is darker, of a
variegated black and green, and the head of the male is adorned with
scales and with fleshy growths of a bright red color.”