“Yes,” she went on still watching me critically, “I have raised many families, but never a chick like you. Well! well! don’t cry about it. Your yellow dress is very pretty. It doesn’t pay to be too sensitive, as you will find, I am afraid, when you have lived with these chickens. Some of them are dreadfully trying. Dear! dear! how stiff I am! This setting is tiresome work.” “I wonder what sort of home we are going to have.” Our home, into which we moved a few hours later, proved to be an upturned soap box. Seven little chickens were there before us. “The same old story,” said my mother with a knowing air. “People imagine we hens have no sense. I did not hatch those chickens, but I am expected to care for them, as though I did. Some mothers would peck them so they would be glad to stay away.” She had too good a heart for this, however, and I was very glad to have these brothers and sisters. They were different from me, though, in many ways, principally, in their dislike for water. They hated even to get their feet wet, while I dearly loved to get in the pond, and swim around on its surface, or even dive down to the bottom, where such nice fat worms lived. My poor mother never could understand my tastes. The first time she saw me on the water, she came rushing towards me, screaming and beating her wings. “Oh, my child! my child!” she cried, with tears in her eyes. “You will drown! You will drown!” I loved her, and so could not bear to see her distress. It was hard to be different from all the others. I had a little yellow sister who was a great comfort to me at these times. I could never persuade her to try the water,—but she always sat upon the edge of the pond while I had my swim. We shared everything with each other; even our troubles. About this time, my voice began to change. It had been a soft little “peep,” but now it grew so harsh, that some of the old hens made unpleasant remarks about it, and my mother was worried. “It isn’t talking. It’s quacking,” said an old, brown-headed hen who was always complaining of her nerves. She was very cross and spent most of her time standing on one leg in a corner and pecking any poor chicken that came in her reach. “Don’t you know why it’s quacking?” asked a stately Buff Cochin who was a stranger in the yard; having arrived only that morning. “That child isn’t a chicken. She’s a duck.” “What you giving us?” said a dandified Cock, who was busy pluming his feathers. “Whoever heard of a duck?” “Not you, I daresay,” answered the Buff with a contemptuous sniff. “It’s easy to see you have never been away from this yard. I have traveled, I would have you understand, and I know a duck, too.” “Well, I don’t care what you call her,” snapped the cross one. “I only hope she’ll keep her voice out of my hearing. The sound of it gives me nervous prostration.”