One day it happened that the two ducks—­Sir Muscovy and Lady Blanche—­had come up from the water before the others, and having taken their repast were sitting together under the shade of a flowering currant-bush, when they chanced to see poor Miss Crippletoes very badly used and crowded away from the dish.  Sir Muscovy rose to his feet; a few rapid words seemed to pass between him and his mate, and then he fell upon the other drake and the heartless minions who had persecuted the helpless one, drove them far away out of sight, and, returning, went to the corner where the victim was cowering, her face to the wall.  He seemed to whisper to her, or in some way to convey to her a sense of protection; for after a few moments she tremblingly went with him to the dish, and hurriedly ate her dinner while he stood by, repulsing the advances of the few brown ducks who remained near and seemed inclined to attack her.

When she had eaten enough Lady Blanche joined them, and they went down the hill together to their favourite swimming-place.  After that Miss Crippletoes always followed a little behind her protectors, and thus shielded and fed she grew stronger and well-feathered, though she was always smaller than she should have been and had a lowly manner, keeping a few steps in the rear of her superiors and sitting at some distance from their noon resting-place.

Phoebe noticed after a while that Lady Blanche was seldom to be seen, and Sir Muscovy and Miss Crippletoes often came to their meals without her.  The would-be mother refused to inhabit the house Phoebe had given her, and for a long time the place she had chosen for her sitting could not be found.  At length the Square Baby discovered her in a most ideal spot.  A large boulder had dropped years ago into the brook that fills our duck-pond; dropped and split in halves with the two smooth walls leaning away from each other.  A grassy bank towered behind, and on either side of the opening, tall bushes made a miniature forest where the romantic mother could brood her treasures while her two guardians enjoyed the water close by her retreat.

All this happened before my coming to Thornycroft Farm, but it was I who named the hero and heroines of the romance when Phoebe had told me all the particulars.  Yesterday morning I was sitting by my open window.  It was warm, sunny, and still, but in the country sounds travel far, and I could hear fowl conversation in various parts of the poultry-yard as well as in all the outlying bits of territory occupied by our feathered friends.  Hens have only three words and a scream in their language, but ducks, having more thoughts to express, converse quite fluently, so fluently, in fact, that it reminds me of dinner at the Hydropathic Hotel.  I fancy I have learned to distinguish seven separate sounds, each varied by degrees of intensity, and with upward or downward inflections like the Chinese tongue.

In the distance, then, I heard the faint voice of a duck calling as if breathless and excited.  While I wondered what was happening, I saw Miss Crippletoes struggling up the steep bank above the duck-pond.  It was the quickest way from the water to the house, but difficult for the little lame webbed feet.  When she reached the level grass sward she sank down a moment, exhausted; but when she could speak again she cried out, a sharp staccato call, and ran forward.