“The duck,” says a writer in the _Spectator_, “is a person who seldom
gets his deserts.” As regards myself I cannot but admit the truth of this
assertion. I mean, not that I am a duck, but that I have returned that
bird evil for good. He has given me much pleasure, and I have either
eaten or shot him as a _quid pro quo_.
One of the greatest delights of my early youth was to feed the ducks that
lived on the Serpentine. How vividly do I remember the joy that the
operation gave me! In the first place, I was allowed to enter the
kitchen—that Forbidden Land of childhood’s days, presided over by a
fearsome tyrant, yclept the cook—and witness dry bread being cut up into
pieces of a size supposed to be suited to the mastication of ducks. The
bread thus cut up would be placed in a paper bag and borne off by me in
triumph to the upper regions. Then my sister and I, accompanied by the
governess, would toddle up Sloane Street, through Lowndes Square, past
the great French Embassy, into Hyde Park, along Rotten Row, and thus up
to that corner of the Serpentine where the ducks were wont to congregate.
There, amid a chorus of quacks, the bread would be thrown, piece by
piece, to the ever-hungry ducks. The writer in the _Spectator_ states
that “the domestic duck, unlike his wild brother, is a materialist, and
where dinner is concerned is decidedly greedy.” The avidity with which
the ducks used to make for those pieces of dry bread certainly bears out
this statement. Every time a crust was thrown on to the water there would
be a wild scramble for it. One individual, more fortunate than the
others, would secure it, and, sprinting away from his comrades, would
endeavour to swallow it whole. I have said that the pieces of bread were
cut up into portions of a size supposed to be convenient for the
mastication of a duck; but, if the truth must be told, the cook
invariably overestimated the size of the bird’s gullet; hence the frantic
muscular efforts to induce them to descend “red lane.” It is a miracle
that not one of those ducks shared the sad fate of Earl Godwin.
Some of them must certainly have lost the epithelial lining of the
œsophagus in their desperate efforts to dispose of those pieces of dry
bread. An exceptionally unmanageable morsel would be dropped again into
the water, and there would be a second scramble for it. By this time,
however, it would have become so much softened as to be comparatively
easy to swallow. How we used to enjoy watching the efforts of those ducks
to negotiate the pieces of bread! We were, of course, blissfully ignorant
of the unnaturalness of the process. Our governess used to read, in
preference to natural history, fiction of the class in which the
fortunate scullery-maid always marries a Duke. Thus it was that my sister
and I knew nothing of the wonderful structure of the duck’s beak. We were
not aware that the mandibles were lamellated or toothed to form a most
efficient sieve. We were not acquainted with the fact that the natural
food of the duck is composed of small, soft substances, that as the bird
puts its head under water it catches up its breath to suck in the soft
substances that may be floating by, that these become broken up as they
pass through the duck’s patent filter, only those that are approved being
retained and swallowed. But the want of this knowledge did not diminish
by one jot or tittle our enjoyment. When all the bread was disposed of,
we would inflate and “pop” the paper bag—a performance which gave us
nearly as much pleasure as feeding the ducks.
As I grew older I came to regard the feeding of ducks as a childish
amusement, and in no way suited to one who had attained the dignity of
stand-up collars. So, for some years, I took but little interest in the
birds, except on the occasions when one confronted me at table.
It has again become a pleasure to feed ducks, but I fear that, in spite
of this, I shoot them more often than I feed them. I must confess that,
when I see a great company of the quacking community, the sportsman in me
gets the upper hand of the naturalist, the lust of killing prevails over
the love of observation. I know of few greater pleasures than to spend a
morning at a well-stocked _jhil_ on a superb winter’s day in Northern
India, accompanied, of course, by a number of fellow-sportsmen; for duck
shooting is poor sport for a single gun. With but one man after them it
is the ducks rather than the human being who enjoy the sport. But, given
three or four companions, what better sport is there than that afforded
by a day on a well-stocked _jhil_? At a preconcerted signal the various
shooters, each in his boat, put off from different parts of the bank of
the lake and make for the middle, which is black with a great company of
quack-quacks, composed chiefly of white-eyed pochards, gadwalls, and
spotted-bills. Suddenly a number of duck take alarm and get up; then the
fun begins. For half an hour or more one enjoys a succession of good
sporting shots; the firing is so constant that one’s gun grows almost too
hot to hold. Soon, however, all the duck that are not shot down betake
themselves to some other _jhil_, and only the coots remain.
Excellent sport though duck shooting be, I am thankful to say that in
these latter days my acquaintance with the duck tribe is not confined to
shooting and eating members of it. I occasionally have the opportunity of
coming into more friendly relations with it.
The duck is a bird worth knowing. He is a fowl of character, a creature
that commands not only our respect, but our affection. He makes an
excellent pet, as any one may find out by purchasing some bazaar ducks.
Some years ago the cook of the Superintendent of Police of a certain
district in the United Provinces purchased a couple of these birds. When
bought they were in an emaciated condition, and it was the intention of
the cook to fatten them up and then set them before his master. But
before the fattening process was completed the small sons of the
policeman took a great fancy to the birds, and the birds reciprocated the
fancy. The result was that their lives were spared, and they became
friends of the family. They went everywhere with the children, and used
even to accompany them when on tour with their father. They were allowed
to enter the tents as though they were dogs, and in return used to permit
the children to do anything they pleased with them. They even submitted
to being carried about like dolls. Most amusing was it to see the
good-natured boredom on a duck’s face as a small boy staggered along with
it tightly clasped in his arms. Its expression would say more plainly
than words, “I don’t altogether relish this, but I know the child means
well.”
Nor was this behaviour in any way exceptional. A better-disposed creature
than the duck does not exist. “I have kept and closely watched hundreds
of ducks,” writes Mr. S. M. Hawkes, “but I never saw them fight with each
other, nor ever knew a duck the aggressor in a dispute with some other
kind of fowl.” Yet the duck is no coward. The drake is a warrior every
inch of him, constant in affection, and violent in love and wrath. If the
adult duck is so lovable, how much more so is the duckling! What a source
of delight are those golden fluff balls to a child. On seeing them for
the first time nine out of ten children will cry—
But I want one to play with—Oh I want
A little yellow duck to take to bed with me!