he loved them as he had never loved anyone. He didn’t envy them. How could it occur to him to wish for such beauty? He would have been happy if only the ducks would have accepted him amongst them—the poor ugly animal!
And the winter was cold, so cold. The duckling had to swim around in the water to keep it from freezing solid, but every night the hole where he was swimming got smaller and smaller. The ice froze so it cracked. The duckling had to keep moving his legs to keep the ice from closing in. Finally he weakened, lay quite still, and froze into the ice.
Early in the morning a farmer came by, saw him, went out and kicked the ice in pieces with his wooden shoe, and carried him home to his wife where the duckling revived.
The children wanted to play with him, but the duckling thought they wanted to hurt him and flew in fright right up into the milk bowl so the milk splashed out into the room. The woman screamed and threw up her arms, and then he flew into the trough where the butter was and then down into the flour barrel and up again. What a sight he was! And the woman screamed and hit at him with the bellows, and the children ran here and there trying to catch the duckling, laughing and shrieking! Luckily the door stood open; out he flew through the bushes to the newly fallen snow, and there he lay in a swoon.
But it would be far too sad to tell all the suffering and misery he had to endure during that hard winter. When the sun started to warm up again, he was lying in the rushes between the reeds. The larks were singing, and it was spring, lovely springtime.
Then he lifted his wings all at once. They were stronger than before and carried him powerfully away, and before he knew it, he was in a big garden where apple trees were blooming, and where the lilacs smelled sweet and hung on long green branches right down towards the meandering canals. Oh, it was lovely there, so fresh and newly green, and right in front of him out of the thicket came three lovely white swans. They ruffled up their feathers and floated so lightly on the water. The duckling recognized the magnificent animals and was filled with a strange melancholy.
“I’ll fly over to them, those regal animals, and they’ll peck me to death because I who am so ugly dare approach them. But it doesn’t matter. Better to be killed by them than to be nipped by the ducks, pecked by the hens, kicked by the girl who watches the hen yard, and suffer in the winter.” So he flew onto the water and swam towards the splendid swans. They saw him and plunged towards him with ruffled feathers. ”Just kill me,” said the poor bird, and he bent his head down towards the surface of the water and waited for death—but what did he see in the clear water? He saw his own reflection, and he was no longer a clumsy dark grey bird, ugly and nasty. He was himself a swan.
You see, it doesn’t matter whether you’re born in a duck yard as long as you’ve lain in a swan’s egg!
He felt truly glad about all the distress and tribulations he had suffered. He understood his happiness now, and all the beauty that greeted him. And the big swans swam around him and stroked him with their beaks.
Some small children came into the garden. They threw bread and grain out into the water, and the smallest one cried:
“There’s a new one!”
And the other children chimed in, “yes, there’s a new one!” They clapped their hands and danced around, ran after their father and mother, and bread and cakes were thrown in the water, and they all said, “The newest one is the prettiest! So young and so lovely.” And the old swans bowed to him.
Then he felt quite bashful and stuck his head behind his wings. He didn’t himself quite know why. He was too happy, but not at all proud because a good heart is never proud. He thought about how he had been pursued and persecuted and now heard everyone say that he was the most lovely of all the beautiful birds, and the lilacs bowed down their branches right down to the water to him, and the sun shone so warm and good. He ruffled his feathers, lifted his slender neck, and from his heart he rejoiced, “I never dreamed of this much happiness when I was the ugly duckling.”
IN THE DUCKYARD
THERE WAS A DUCK who came from Portugal. Some said she came from Spain, but it doesn’t matter because she was called the Portuguese. She laid eggs, was butchered and eaten—that was her life. All those who came from her eggs were called the Portuguese, and that really means something. Now there was only one remaining member of the family left in the duckyard, a yard where the hens also had access, and where the rooster strutted around with immense arrogance.
“He offends me with his violent crowing!” said the Portuguese. “But he is handsome—you can’t deny that, notwithstanding that he’s not a drake. He should learn to modulate himself, but modulation is an art. It shows higher culture, which the little songbirds in the neighbor’s linden tree have. How delightfully they sing! There is something so touching in their song. I call it Portugal! If I had a little songbird like that, I would be such a good and loving mother to him. It’s in my blood, my Portuguese blood.”
Just as she was talking a little songbird fell headfirst from the roof. The cat was after it, but the bird escaped with a broken wing and fell into the duckyard.
“That’s just like the cat, that scoundrel!” said the Portuguese. “I know him from when I had ducklings myself. That such a creature is allowed to live and walk around on roofs! I’m sure something like this would never be allowed in Portugal!”
And she felt sorry for the little songbird, and the other ducks, who weren’t Portuguese, felt sorry for him too.
“Poor little thing!” they said, and one after another came. “It’s true we don’t sing ourselves,” they said, “but we have some kind of inner sensitivity to it or something. We feel it even if we never talk about it.”
“Well, I will talk about it!” said the Portuguese, “and I’m going to do something for the little thing, because that’s one’s duty.” Then she went into the watering trough and splashed in the water so that she almost drowned the little songbird with the drenching he received, but she meant well. “That was a good deed,” she said. “The others can take an example from it.”
“Peep!” said the little bird. Since his one wing was broken, it was hard for him to shake himself dry, but he understood very well that the shower was well meant. “You have a kind heart, m’am,” he said, but did not ask for more.
