As often happens with nurses, Yollande loved
the ducklings as her own children, and without worrying about
their shape or plumage, so different from her own, she showered
upon them proofs of the tenderest affection. Did a fly pass within
their reach, all these little ones jumped at it--tumbling in their
efforts to catch it. The little yellow balls with their wide-awake
air never took a second's rest.
Well cared for and well fed, they grew so rapidly that soon they
had to have more space. Mother Etienne housed them then on the
edge of the pond in a latticed coop opening onto a sloping board
which led down to the water. It was, as it were, a big swimming
bath, which grew gradually deeper and deeper. The ducks and geese
loved to plunge in and hardly left the water except to take their
meals.
Yollande felt very out of place in this new dwelling. The
ducklings on the contrary, urged on by their instinct, madly
enjoyed it and rushed pell-mell into the water.
This inexplicable impulse terrified their mama. She was, in fact,
"as mad as a wet hen."
She ran up and down, her feathers on end, her face swollen, her
crest red, clucking away, trying to persuade her babies not to
venture into the water. For hens, like cats, hate the water. It
was unspeakable torture to her. The children would not listen;
deaf to her prayers, her cries, these rascally babies ventured
farther and farther out. They were at last and for the first time
in their favourite element, lighter than little corks, they
floated, dived, plunged, raced, fought, playing all sorts of
tricks.
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