I
The other day a chick fell into the duck-pond and drowned. He was a strange little chick indeed. He never cared to play with the other little chicks, but always could be seen running about after the beautiful ducklings.
“I can’t understand it,” thought the Woman of the House. “Chicks should play with chicks, and ducklings should play with ducklings.”
The chick grew terribly thin and weak.
“The poor thing!” cried the Woman. “I wonder if it’s sick?” And she took him gently in her hands and looked him over. “But how does one treat a sick chick?” she asked herself after a pause. “It is hard enough to treat a sick human being.”
She fed him some castor oil and pricked both his wings with a needle, but there was nothing she could do to cure him of his mysterious illness.
The chick grew weaker and weaker. Sometimes, when he leaned his head to one side, he looked like he was thinking.
“How does a chick think?” thought the Woman as she watched him. “It’s hard enough to think as a human being.” And for a time she was silent. “Oh, I should have known better,” she murmured at last. “Besides, didn’t I say before that chicks should play with chicks, and ducklings should play with ducklings?”
II
One day the little Chick was out playing with the Ducklings. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was setting in the west.
“What is it you love most in the world?” said the Chick to the Ducklings.
“We love water,” answered the Ducklings.
“Have you ever been in love?”
“No, we have not. But we have been in water.”
“I see—And did you like it?”
“Yes, quite.”
The sun was setting. The little Chick leaned his head to one side.
“What is it you think about when you swim in the pond?” he asked.
“We think about fish,” answered the Ducklings.
“Yes, that is all.”
“And what is it you think about when you play in the yard?”
“We think about swimming.”
“Always?”
“Yes, always.”
The sun had now set. The little Chick leaned his head farther to one side, until it drooped.
“Do you ever dream about chickens?” he asked.
“Never,” answered the Ducklings. “But we dream about fish—big fish. In our dreams, they are bigger than the loaches that the Woman feeds us.”
“I see,” said the Chick, thoughtfully. “But who is it that you look for when first you wake up in the morning?”
“The woman who feeds us, of course,” answered the Ducklings. “Don’t you?”
“Well, actually . . .”
It was now evening-time. But the little Chick with the drooping head had not noticed.
“How I wish I could swim in the pond!” he sighed.
“In the pond!” cried the Ducklings. “But you don’t even eat fish.”
“Must I eat fish to swim in the pond?”
The Ducklings all looked at each other and shrugged.
As it was dark, the Woman of the House came out and called everyone in for the night, so the Ducklings and the Chicks left the yard.
Only the strange little Chick stayed behind, his head drooping before him.
“I can’t understand it,” said the Woman of the House as she watched him.
III
Early the next morning the little Chick was found dead in the duck-pond.
When the Ducklings saw this, they stuck their heads in the air and kicked their feet in the water. “How foolish!” they all said, and they nodded to each other knowingly. “He didn’t know how to swim! And he doesn’t eat fish, either.”
Then the Woman of the House lifted the Chick out of the pond, and stared at his soaking-wet body. “The poor thing!” she said to herself at last. “If only he had known that chicks should play with chicks, and ducklings should play with ducklings . . .” And she continued to stare at the body of the little Chick for a long, long time.
And the sun began to set in the west.