In the
Duckyard
There was this duck from Portugal,
some said from Spain, no matter which, she was called ‘The Portuguese Bird’,
she laid eggs, was slaughtered and made a meal of – that’s the course of her
life. All those that crawled out of her eggs were called the Portuguese and
that meant something; now there was only one left of her entire line in the
duckyard, a yard the hens also had admittance to and where the cock paraded
with endless arrogance.
‘He
insults me with his clamorous crowing!’ the one remaining Portuguese said. ‘But
he’s a handsome sight, you can’t deny him that, even though he isn’t a drake. He
ought to learn how to restrain himself, that is a sign of better breeding,
something the small songbirds up in the linden tree in the next-door garden
possess! how delightfully they sing! there is something so moving about their
song – I call it Portugal! If I had such a little songbird, I would be a mother
to him, loving and kind, it’s in my blood, in my Portuguese blood!’
And just
as she said this, a small songbird appeared; it tumbled down headlong from the
roof. A cat was after it, but the bird escaped with a broken wing and fell down
into the duckyard.
‘It looks
like the cat, that scum of the earth!’ the Portuguese said; ‘I know him from
the time I had ducklings myself! That such a creature is allowed to live and roam
around on the rooftops! I don’t think that occurs in Portugal!
And she commiserated
with the little songbird, and the other ducks, which weren’t Portuguese, also did
likewise.
‘Poor
little dear!’ they said, and did so one after the other. ‘We are admittedly no
songsters,’ they said, ‘but we have an inner sounding board or something
similar; we feel this, even though we don’t talk about it!’
Then I
will talk about it!’ the Portuguese duck said, ‘and I will do something for it,
for that is one’s duty!’ and she climbed up into the water trough and flapped
around in the water, almost drowning the little songbird in the sudden shower
it got, though the intention was good. ‘That is a good deed,’ she said, ‘one that
the others can observe and take example by!’
‘Cheep!’
the little bird said, its one wing was broken; it was difficult for it to shake
itself, but it perfectly understood the well-meant splashing. ‘You are so
good-hearted, Madam!’ it said, but refrained from asking for more.
‘I have
never considered the kindness of my heart!’ the Portuguese duck said, ‘but I
know that I love all my fellow-creatures except the cat, but that no one can
expect of me! it has eaten two of my offspring; but one can well do as if at
home here; I myself am from a foreign region, as you can see from my bearing
and plumage! my drake is a native, does not have my blood, but I am not haughty
on account of that! – if you are understood by anyone here, I dare assert that
it is by me!’
‘She’s got
portulaca (purslane) in her crop! a
little common duckling said that was witty, and the other common bird found ‘portulaca’
quite excellent, for it sounded a bit like ‘Portugal’, and they nudged each
other and said quack! the duckling was so exceptionally witty! and then they
struck up a conversation with the little songbird.
‘The
Portuguese bird really has a way with words!’ they said. ‘We’re not birds with
big words in our beaks, but our concern is just as great even so; if we don’t
do anything for you, we’re discreet about it; and that we feel is the best way
to do things!’
‘You have
a delightful voice!’ one of the oldest ones said. ‘It must be lovely to know
one brings pleasure to as many as you do! I really don’t understand it at all!
so I keep my mouth shut, and that is always better than saying something stupid,
as so many others do to you!’
‘Don’t pester
it!’ the Portuguese duck said, ‘it needs rest and care. Little songbird, shall
I give you another splashing?’
‘Oh no,
let me stay dry!’ it begged.
‘The water
cure is the only thing that helps me,’ the Portuguese duck said; ‘diversion is
also excellent! now the neighbouring hens will soon be paying a visit, there
are two Chinese hens, they wear bloomers, have much breeding, and have been
imported, which raises them in my estimation!’
And the
hens came and the cock came, today he was so polite that he wasn’t coarse at
all.
‘You are
truly a songbird!’ he said, ‘and you make the most of your little voice that
can possibly be made of such a little voice. But one needs a bit more locomotion,
more driving force, if anyone is to hear that one is a male bird!’
The two
Chinese hens stood entranced at the sight of the songbird, it looked so ruffled
from the splashing it had been subjected to that they felt it resembled a
Chinese chicken. ‘It’s quite delightful!’ and they began to converse with it,
speaking in whispers and P-sounds in refined Chinese.
‘We happen
to belong to your species. The ducks, even the Portuguese one, belong to the web-footed
birds, as you have probably noticed. They do not know us yet, but how many do
know us or take the trouble, no one, no even among the hens, despite the fact
that we were born to sit on a higher perch than most of the others. But that is
no matter, we mingle unobtrusively among the others, whose principles are not
the same as ours, but we only look on the positive side, only speak of what is
good, although it’s difficult to find something where there is nothing. With
the exception of us two and the cock there are none in the henhouse who are intelligent
but seemly! that cannot be said about those who live in the duckyard. We warn
you, little songbird! do not believe her with the stumpy tail, she is
treacherous! the speckled one there, with the diagonal wing-bays, she is cantankerous
and never lets anyone have the last word, and what’s more she is always in the wrong!
– the fat duck says bad things about everyone, and that is against our nature,
if one cannot say something good, they one should keep one’s beak shut. The
Portuguese bird is the only one with a smidgen of breeding and possible to associate
with, but she is passionate and talks too much about Portugal!’
‘What a
lot the two Chinese have to whisper about!’ a couple of the ducks said, ‘I find
them boring; I’ve never spoken to them!’
Now the
drake came! he thought that the songbird was a house sparrow. ‘Well, I don’t
make any difference! he said, ‘and it’s the same either way! It belongs to the music-making
machines, and if one’s one of those, that’s the way it is!’
‘Don’t
take any notice of what he says!’ the Portuguese duck whispered. ‘He’s a
respected businessman and business is doing far too well. But now I’m going to have
a rest! one owes it to oneself if one’s to become nice and plump, for the time
when one’s to be embalmed with apples and prunes!’
And she
lay down in the sun, blinked with one eye; she lay so well, she was so
well-meaning, and so she slept well too. The little songbird pecked at its
broken wing, lay down close to its protector, the sun shone warmly and
delightfully, it was a good place to be.
The
neighbouring hens went around scratching, they basically only came because of
the food; the Chinese were the first to leave, followed by the others; the
witty duckling said about the Portuguese that the old bird would soon be in its
‘duckage’, and the other ducks laughed, ‘duckage’, it sound like ‘dotage’ he’s
so exceptionally witty!’ and then they repeated the previous joke ‘portulaca!’
that was very funny; and then they lay down.
They lay
there for a while, when suddenly some old leavings were thrown into the
duckyard, it landed with a smack that woke up all the birds, who leapt up and
flapped their wings, the Portuguese duck woke up too, rolled over and squashed
the little songbird terribly.
‘Cheep!’
it said, ‘you came down very hard on me, Madam!’
‘Why were
you lying in the way!’ she said, ‘you mustn’t be so touchy! I have nerves too,
but I’ve never said cheep!’
‘Don’t be
angry,!’ the little bird said, ‘the cheep just slipped out of my beak!’
The
Portuguese bird didn’t listen to this, but dived into the leavings and had
herself a good meal, and when that was over and she had lain down, the little
songbird came up and wanted to be amiable:
‘Tweety-tweet-tweet!
Of your heart
so sweet
I’ll sing as
a treat
At every
wing-beat!’
‘I’m
resting after my meal!’ she said, ‘you must learn house manners in there! I’m having
a sleep!’
The little
songbird was quite surprised, for it had only meant well. When Madam woke up
later, it was standing in front of her with a small grain it had found; it
placed it in front of her; but she hadn’t slept well, so naturally she was surly.
‘That you
can give to a chicken!’ she said; ‘don’t stand there hanging over me!’
‘But
you’re angry with me!’ it said. ‘What have I done?’
‘Done!’
the Portuguese said, ‘that expression is hardly comme il faut, I would draw your attention to!’
‘Yesterday
there was sunshine,’ the little bird said, ‘today it is dark and grey! I feel
so terribly sad!’
‘You’re no
good at telling the time!’ the Portuguese said, ‘the day isn’t over yet, don’t just
stand there in their ignorance!’
‘You’re
looking at me just as angrily as the two horrid eyes did when I fell down into
the yard!’
‘What
impertinence!’ the Portuguese said, ‘are you comparing me to the cat, that predator!
there is not a drop of evil blood in my veins; I have taken care of you, and now
I shall teach you some manners!’
And she
bit off the songbird’s head – it lay there dead.
‘What’s
all this!’ she said, ‘couldn’t it even stand that? in that case it was no good
for this world! I’ve been like a mother to it, that I know! for I am tender-hearted!’
And the
neighbour’s cock stuck its head into the yard and crowed at full blast.
‘You’ll be
the death of one with that crowing of yours!’ she said, ‘the whole thing’s your
fault; it lost its head and I almost lost mine.’
‘He
doesn’t take up much space lying there!’ the cock said.
‘Speak of
the little bird with respect!’ the Portuguese said, ‘it had tone, it had melody
and it had breeding! it was loving and gentle and that suits animals, just as
it does so-called human beings.’
And all
the ducks gathered around the dead little songbird; the ducks have strong
passions, they either feel envy or compassion, and since there was nothing to
be envious of here, they were compassionate – as were the two Chinese hens.
‘We will
never have such a songbird again! he was almost Chinese,’ and they wept till
they clucked, and all the hens clucked, but the ducks were the ones whose eyes
were more red-rimmed than all the rest.
‘We have a
heart!’ they said, that nobody can deny!’
‘A heart!’
the Portuguese said, ‘yes, indeed – almost as much as in Portugal!’
‘Let’s
concentrate now on having a good feed!’ the drake said, ‘that’s more important!
If one of the music-making machines stops working, we’ve plenty left even so!’
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