The Ugly Duckling

It was lovely out in the country that summer. The wheat stood golden, the oats grew green, and the hay lay stacked in soft heaps across the meadows. A stork walked about on his long red legs, chattering away in the strange language his mother had taught him. All around, forests rose up dark and deep, and deep in the forests lay quiet lakes. Yes, it was truly lovely out in the country.

By an old manor house, ringed with canals, great burdock leaves grew so tall that a small child could stand upright beneath the biggest of them. It was as wild there as in the heart of the woods, and there, on her nest among the leaves, sat a mother duck, waiting for her eggs to hatch. She was growing tired of the waiting, for the little ones were slow to come, and hardly anyone came to visit her — the other ducks would rather swim in the canals than climb up to sit and chat under a leaf.

At last, one shell cracked, then another. “Peep, peep,” said each small voice, and out popped the little heads.

“Quack, quack,” said the mother, and up scrambled her ducklings, blinking at the wide green world around them.

“How big it is!” they said, for they had far more room now than they’d had inside their eggs.

“This isn’t even all of it,” said their mother. “It goes on and on, past the garden, all the way to the parson’s field — though even I have never been that far. Are you all here?” She stood and looked them over. “No — not all. That big egg still hasn’t opened. I am so tired of sitting.”

An old duck came by to see how things were going.

“This one egg simply won’t crack,” said the mother. “But look at the others — aren’t they handsome? Just like their father, though the rascal never comes to see me.”

“Let me look at that egg,” said the old duck, and she peered at it closely. “That’s a turkey egg, mark my words. I was fooled the same way once — such trouble I had, for turkey chicks won’t go near water. Leave it be, and teach the others to swim.”

“I’ve sat this long,” said the mother. “I may as well sit a little longer.”

So she did, and at last the big egg cracked open. Out tumbled a duckling — large, and gray, and not at all pretty.

“That is a very big duckling,” said the mother, turning him over with her beak. “None of the others look like him. Could he really be a turkey after all? Well — into the water he goes, and we shall see.”

The next day was bright and fine, and the mother led her whole family down to the canal. Splash! In she went, and one by one the ducklings followed, their little legs paddling as if they’d always known how. Even the big gray one swam along just as nicely as the rest.

“No, he’s no turkey,” said the mother, pleased. “Look how straight he holds himself, how well he swims! He’s my own, right enough — and handsome too, once you look properly. Come along now, children. I’ll take you to meet the others in the duck yard. Stay close, and mind the cats.”

In the duck yard there was a great commotion — two families squabbling over an eel’s head, which the cat carried off in the end anyway.

“That’s the way of the world,” sighed the mother, licking her beak, for she’d have liked that eel’s head herself. “Now — necks up, and bow to that old duck over there. She has a red ribbon on her leg, which is the grandest honor a duck can have. Feet turned out, not in — like this. There. Now say quack.”

They did as they were told, but the other ducks looked them over and grumbled. “As if there weren’t enough of us already — and just look at that one! We won’t have him.” And one duck flew at him and bit his neck.

“Leave him be,” said the mother. “He isn’t hurting anyone.”

“He’s too big, and he looks odd,” said the biter. “So he must be pushed about.”

“Pretty children, all but that one,” said the old duck with the ribbon. “Pity you can’t start him over.”

“He’s not handsome,” the mother admitted, “but he has a kind heart, and he swims better than any of the others. I think he’ll grow into himself. He only stayed too long in the egg. Besides — he’s a drake. It won’t matter so much.”

“Well, make yourselves at home,” said the old duck, and that was that.

But the poor duckling who had hatched last, and looked so different, was pushed and pecked at from every side. The hens jeered, the ducks nipped him, and even his own brothers and sisters said unkind things. “I wish the cat would get you,” they told him. His own mother sighed, “I do wish you were somewhere else.” So he ran off, and flew over the fence in fright, scattering the small birds in the hedge.

“It’s because I’m so ugly,” he thought, and he kept running until he came to a wide marsh where wild ducks lived. There he lay all night, tired and sad.

In the morning the wild ducks looked him over. “What sort of a bird are you?” they asked. “You’re terribly ugly — but that’s no concern of ours, so long as you don’t try to marry into our family.” Marrying was the last thing on his mind. All he wanted was to be left in peace among the reeds.

He stayed there two days. Then two young wild ganders came along, full of themselves as young things often are.

“Listen, friend,” they said. “You’re so ugly we rather like you. Come along with us — there’s a marsh nearby with some fine young geese who’d take a liking to you, odd as you are.”

Just then, shots cracked out across the marsh — bang, bang! — and the two ganders fell still among the reeds. It was a hunt. Dogs came splashing through the water, and guns sounded on every side, and the poor duckling tucked his head down in terror. A great dog came right up beside him, its breath hot, its eyes fierce — but it only sniffed at him once and splashed away again without touching him.

“I must be too ugly even for the dog to bother with,” thought the duckling, and he stayed hidden until the shooting stopped and the marsh grew quiet again. Then he ran, as fast and far as he could, until a storm caught him out in the open fields.

Toward evening he found a small, tumbledown cottage, its door hanging loose on one hinge, and he slipped inside to get out of the wind.

An old woman lived there with her cat and her hen. The cat could purr and arch his back; the hen laid fine eggs and was much loved for it. In the morning they spotted the stranger at once, and the old woman — whose eyes were not sharp — took him for a fat duck that had wandered off.

“What a find!” she said. “Now perhaps I’ll have duck eggs too — unless he turns out to be a drake. We shall see.”

So the duckling was allowed to stay, on trial. But no eggs came, and the cat and the hen, who thought a good deal of themselves, made it plain he had no place among them.

“Can you lay eggs?” asked the hen.

“No.”

“Then keep quiet.”

“Can you arch your back and purr?” asked the cat.

“No.”

“Then don’t offer your opinion.”

So the duckling sat alone in the corner, and when the sunlight came through the window, such a longing came over him to swim again that he couldn’t help mentioning it.

“Whatever has gotten into you?” said the hen. “Lay an egg or learn to purr, and such foolish notions will pass.”

“But it’s wonderful to swim,” said the duckling, “to feel the water close over your head as you dive.”

“What nonsense,” said the hen. “Ask the cat if he’d like that. Ask our mistress — no one is wiser than she, and she has no wish to swim, I promise you. You ought to be grateful for the shelter you’ve been given, instead of filling your head with strange ideas.”

“I don’t think you understand me,” said the duckling.

“Then no one will, I’m sure,” said the hen. “Just settle down, child, and be sensible.”

“I think I’ll go out into the world instead,” said the duckling.

“Suit yourself,” said the hen.

So out he went, and swam and dived as he pleased, though every creature he met still turned away from him because he was so ugly.

Autumn came, the leaves turning gold and brown, the wind scattering them, and the air growing bitter. It was a hard, lonely season for the duckling. One evening, as the sun went down in a blaze of color, a flock of great white birds rose from the reeds — swans, with long, graceful necks, more beautiful than anything he had ever seen. They cried out strangely and beautifully as they spread their wide wings and flew off toward warmer lands. The duckling watched them go, turning round and round in the water, stretching his neck after them, and letting out a cry so loud it startled even himself. He didn’t know what those birds were called, or where they were going — only that he loved them, without knowing why, more than he had loved anything.

Then came the true cold. The duckling had to swim in circles just to keep a little patch of water from freezing shut, until one bitter night his strength gave out, and he froze fast in the ice.

In the morning a farmer found him, broke the ice free with his wooden shoe, and carried him home, where the warmth brought him back to life. The farmer’s children wanted to play with him, but the duckling, frightened, blundered into the milk pan, then the butter tub, then the flour barrel, until the kitchen was in an uproar and the woman chased him out with the fire tongs. He slipped through the open door and out into the snow, exhausted, and hid there through the rest of that hard winter — a season better not dwelt on, for it held little but cold and hunger and fear.

But winter always ends. The sun came back, warm and golden, and the larks began to sing. One day the duckling found that his wings, grown strong at last, could carry him swiftly and far, and before he quite knew how, he came to a great garden where blossoming trees leaned over a quiet canal. And there, gliding out from among the reeds, came three magnificent white swans.

The duckling knew them at once, and a strange ache filled his heart.

“I’ll go to them,” he thought, “even if they strike me down for daring to come near. Better that than another day of scorn.” And he swam out to meet them, bowing his head, ready for whatever might come.

But looking down into the clear water, he saw not the reflection of a clumsy gray bird — but a swan, as fine as any of them.

For it does not matter at all where a bird is hatched, if only it has lain in a swan’s egg.

The great swans swam around him and stroked him gently with their beaks, welcoming him. And just then some children came running into the garden with bread to throw to the birds.

“There’s a new one!” cried the smallest, clapping. “Yes — a new swan, and the loveliest of all!” said the others, and their parents smiled and threw more bread, and the old swans bowed their heads to him.

He felt so happy he hardly knew where to look, and tucked his head shyly beneath his wing. He thought of all he had suffered — the mockery, the cold, the loneliness — and how none of it mattered now, for he had found his way home at last. And from the joy in his heart, he lifted his slender neck and said softly, "I never dreamed of such happiness — not when I was only the ugly duckling."