“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.

“I have never given a thought to being kind-hearted,” said the Portuguese, “but I do know that I love all my fellow creatures except the cat. But no one can expect me to love the cat. He has eaten two of my own. But make yourself at home here. I myself am from a foreign country, as you can probably tell by my bearing and my plumage. My drake is a native and doesn’t have my bloodlines, but I’m not at all arrogant because of that. If anyone here can understand you, then I dare say it’s me.”

“She has porta-gall stones in her gullet!” said a little ordinary duckling, who was witty, and the other ordinary ducks thought the “porta-gall stones” were hilarious. It sounded like “Portugal.” They nudged and quacked at each other. He was so extremely witty! And then they gathered in and started talking to the little songbird.

“The Portuguese is a gifted speaker,” they said. “We don’t use such great big words, though our sympathy for you is as great. But if we don’t do anything for you, we’ll be quiet about it. We find that the noblest.”

“You have a lovely voice,” said one of the oldest. “It must be wonderful to know that you bring joy to so many. I don’t know anything about it at all, and so I keep my mouth shut. That’s always better than saying something dumb, as so many others do.”

“Don’t pester him,” said the Portuguese. “He needs rest and care. Shall I give you another shower, little songbird?”

“Oh no, let me stay dry,” he begged.

“Hydrotherapy is the only thing that ever helps me,” said the Portuguese. “But diversion is also good. Soon the neighbor hens will come visiting. There are two Chinese chickens that wear pantalettes. They are very cultured and were imported, which raises my respect for them.”

And the hens came, and the rooster came too. Today he was very polite in that he wasn’t as crude as usual.

“You are a real songbird,” he said, “and you make the most of your little voice. But you have to have more power in your voice to be recognized as a member of the male sex.”

The two Chinese hens went into raptures over the sight of the songbird. He looked so disheveled from the shower he had had that they thought he looked like a Chinese chick. “He’s lovely!” they said, and started talking to him. They spoke in whispers and with the “P” sound of aristocratic Chinese.

“We are of your kind. The ducks, even the Portuguese, are web-footed, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. You don’t know us yet, but who does know us, or has taken the trouble to? No one, even among the hens, although we were born to a higher perch than most of the others. But it doesn’t matter. We mind our own business amongst the others, who don’t have the same principles we have. But we always look for the good in everyone and talk about the good things, although it’s hard to find where there isn’t any. But with the exception of us two and the rooster, there is no one in the henhouse who is intelligent. But they are respectable. That’s more than you can say for the residents of the duckyard. Here’s a warning, little songbird. Don’t trust the one over there with the short tail! She is treacherous. That speckled one there with the crooked wing pattern is crazy about debating and never lets anyone else get the last word, and she’s always wrong. That fat duck talks ill of everyone, and that’s contrary to our nature. If you can’t say something nice, you shouldn’t say anything at all. The Portuguese is the only one who has a little breeding, and with whom you can associate, but she’s pretty passionate and talks too much about Portugal !”

“The two Chinese sure have a lot to whisper about,” said a couple of the ducks. “But they bore me, so I’ve never talked to them.”

Then the drake came over! He thought that the songbird was a grey sparrow. “Well, I can’t tell the difference,” he said, “and it’s all the same to me. He’s a musician, and if you’ve heard one, you’ve heard them all.”

“Don’t bother about what he says,” whispered the Portuguese. “He’s great in business matters, and that’s all that matters to him. But now I’m going to take a little nap. I owe it to myself to be nice and fat when I’m embalmed with apples and prunes.”

And she lay down in the sun and blinked with one eye. She was a good duck, and she lay well and slept well. The little songbird plucked at his broken wing and cuddled up close to his protector. The sun was shining so good and warm, and it was a good place to be.

The neighbor hens went about scratching the ground. They had actually only come over looking for food. The Chinese left first, and then the others. The witty duckling said of the Portuguese that the old thing would soon be in her second chickhood, and the other ducks roared with laughter, “Chickhood! Chickhood! How wonderfully witty he is!” and then they repeated the former joke, “porta-gall stones!” They had a lot of fun, and then they went to bed.

They had been resting for a while when suddenly someone threw some slop into the duckyard. It splashed so that all the sleeping ducks jumped up and flapped their wings. The Portuguese woke up too, shifted about, and squeezed the little songbird terribly.

“Peep!” it said. “You squeezed me so hard, m’am!”

“Why are you lying in the way?” she said. “You shouldn’t be so touchy! I have nerves too, but you never hear me saying ‘Peep’.”

“Don’t be mad at me,” said the little bird. “That ‘peep’ just popped from my beak.”

The Portuguese wasn’t listening, but had run off to the slops and made a good meal out of it. When she had finished and lay down again, the little songbird wanted to be kind and sang:

“I have to rest after my meal,” said the duck. “You have to learn the customs here. I’m going to sleep now.”

The little songbird was quite taken aback, for he had hoped to please her. Later when the Portuguese woke up, he was standing in front of her with a little grain of wheat he had found. He laid it in front of her, but she hadn’t slept well so naturally she was grumpy.

“You can give that to a chicken!” she said. “And don’t hang over me all the time!”

“But you’re mad at me,” he said. “What did I do?”

“Du?”¹ said the Portuguese. “You can’t speak to me like that!”

“Yesterday the sun was shining here,” said the little bird. “Today it’s dark and grey. I’m so terribly sad.”

“You must not be able to tell time,” said the Portuguese. “The day isn’t over yet. Don’t stand there and make a fool out of yourself.”

“You’re looking at me as angrily as those two bad eyes did when I fell down here into the yard.”

“The impertinence!” said the Portuguese. “Comparing me with a cat—that carnivore! I who don’t have a mean bone in my body! I’ve taken good care of you, and now I’m going to teach you a lesson.”

And then she bit the head off the songbird, and he lay there dead.

“What’s this?” she said, “Couldn’t he take that? Well, then he really wasn’t meant for this world. I know I’ve been like a mother to him. It’s because of my good heart!”

The neighbor’s rooster stuck his head into the duckyard and crowed powerfully.

“You’ll be the death of someone with that crowing,” said the duck. “It’s all your fault. He lost his head, and I am close to losing mine.

“He doesn’t look very impressive lying there,” said the rooster.

“Speak of him with respect!” said the Portuguese. “He had a beautiful tone and song and was highly cultured. He was loving and sensitive, as is fitting for all animals as well as for so-called human beings.”

And all the ducks gathered around the little dead songbird. Ducks have strong feelings, either with envy or with pity, and since they didn’t envy the songbird, they pitied him. So did the two Chinese hens.

“There’ll never be another songbird like him! He was almost Chinese,” and they cried so they gurgled, and all the hens clucked, but the ducks had the reddest eyes.

“We have heart,” they said. “Nobody can deny that.”

“Heart!” said the Portuguese. “Indeed, we have! We have nearly as much as they have in Portugal!”

“Now let’s think about getting something to eat,” said the drake. “That’s more important. If one musician’s voice is stilled, there are still plenty more, after all.”