A grassy bank towered behind, and on either side of the
opening, tall bushes made a miniature forest where the romantic mother
could brood her treasures while her two guardians enjoyed the water close
by her retreat.
All this happened before my coming to Thornycroft Farm, but it was I who
named the hero and heroines of the romance when Phoebe had told me all
the particulars. Yesterday morning I was sitting by my open window. It
was warm, sunny, and still, but in the country sounds travel far, and I
could hear fowl conversation in various parts of the poultry-yard as well
as in all the outlying bits of territory occupied by our feathered
friends. Hens have only three words and a scream in their language, but
ducks, having more thoughts to express, converse quite fluently, so
fluently, in fact, that it reminds me of dinner at the Hydropathic Hotel.
I fancy I have learned to distinguish seven separate sounds, each varied
by degrees of intensity, and with upward or downward inflections like the
Chinese tongue.
In the distance, then, I heard the faint voice of a duck calling as if
breathless and excited. While I wondered what was happening, I saw Miss
Crippletoes struggling up the steep bank above the duck-pond. It was the
quickest way from the water to the house, but difficult for the little
lame webbed feet. When she reached the level grass sward she sank down a
moment, exhausted; but when she could speak again she cried out, a sharp
staccato call, and ran forward.
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