Part 2 (2/2)
By this time the other little duck had been hauled out of the heap of feathers by Ann and Rudolf, and stood coughing and sneezing and gasping in the middle of the floor. As soon as he had breath enough he began calling pitifully for some one to brush the down off his Sunday trousers. The Gray Goose came good-naturedly to his a.s.sistance, but as she brushed him all the wrong way, the children couldn't see that she improved him very much. Squawker seemed quite pleased, however, and turned himself round and round for their approval.
”What kind of birds are these new ones?” he asked the Lady Goose when she had finished with him.
”Why just three more of us, Squawker, dear,” she answered.
This remark made all three children open their eyes very wide.
”Nonsense,” began Rudolf angrily, ”_we_ aren't geese!”
From the other end of the room came the voice of the Gentleman Goose, who spoke without turning round. ”What makes you think that?” he asked.
”Because we aren't--we--”
--”You're molting pretty badly, of course, now you mention it,”
interrupted the Lady Goose, ”you and the little one. But this one's feathers seem in nice condition.” As she spoke she laid a long claw lovingly on Ann's head. ”How much would you say a pound, father?”
”Can't say till I get 'em in the scales, of course,” and, smoothing down his ap.r.o.n, the Gentleman Goose advanced toward Ann in a businesslike fas.h.i.+on. The two little apprentices, carrying bags, followed at his heels.
Ann clung to Rudolf. ”I haven't any feathers,” she screamed. ”They're curls. I'm not a nasty bird--I'm a little girl with hair!”
”She doesn't want to be plucked!” exclaimed the Gray Goose who had returned to the stove to stir the contents of the iron pot. ”Well, now, did you ever! Maybe it goes in her family. I had a great-aunt once on my father's side who--”
”They're feathers, all right,” chuckled Squawker. ”You're a perfect little duck, that's what I think.”
”Me, too,” chimed in Squealer.
The Gentleman Goose reached over the Lady Goose's shoulder, s.n.a.t.c.hed the spectacles off her nose without so much as by your leave, set them crookedly on his own, and looked over them long and earnestly at Ann.
”So you want to call 'em hair, do you?” he snapped. ”I suppose you think you belong in a hair mattress!”
Ann was ready to cry, and Rudolf had drawn his sword with the intention of doing his best to protect her, when at that moment a new voice was heard. Looking in at the little window over the top of the red geranium the children saw a good-humored furry face with long bristly whiskers and bright twinkly eyes.
”Anybody mention my name?” said the voice, and a large Belgian Hare leaped lightly into the room. He was handsomely dressed in a light overcoat and checked trousers, and wore gaiters over his patent-leather boots. He had a thick gold watch-chain, gold studs and cuff b.u.t.tons besides other jewelry, and in one hand he carried a high hat, in the other a small dress-suit case and a tightly rolled umbrella.
”What's the matter here?” he inquired cheerfully.
”Why, this bird,” explained the Gentleman Goose, pointing his claw disdainfully at Ann, ”says it has no feathers, which you can see for yourself is not the case. It has feathers, therefore it is a bird.
Birds of a feather flock together. That settles it, I think! Come along, boys. To work!”
At his command the two duck apprentices, who were standing one on either side of Ann, made feeble dashes at the two long curls nearest them. Rudolf stepped forward but the Hare was before him. He only needed to stare at the two ducks through a single eye-gla.s.s he had screwed into one of his eyes to make them turn pale and drop their claws to their sides.
”Now once more,” said the Hare to Ann. ”What did you say you call those unpleasantly long whiskers of yours?”
”Hair,” Ann answered meekly, for she was too frightened to be offended.
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