Jemima?”
#x201C;I've got a chicken that wants to be a duck!”
Chapter Three
Chapter Three
“Tea's ready,” called Jemima's mother. “Either of you fancy one of my fruit scones?” she asked, just as her husband and his brother came into the kitchen.
“Yes please, Carrie,” said Ted.
“Me too,” said his brother Tom, andthen,“What's up, then, Ted? I never called you.”
“No, but Jemima did,” said the vet. “Seems she's got a problem with one of her chicks.”
“I expect you'll sort it out,” said the farmer. “Mind he doesn't charge you too much, Jemima.”
When a lot of tea had been drunk and the plate of fruit scones was empty, Jemima's father went off to start the afternoon milking.
“Right,” said her uncle. “Let's have a look at this creature of yours.”
Jemima went outside and took Frank out of the rabbit hutch. “He's healthy enough, I think, Uncle Ted, isn't he?” she said.
The vet examined the young chicken. “Looks okay to me,” he said, “and you're right—by the look of his comb and the set of his tail, he's a cockerel chick.”
“I thought so,” said Jemima. “I've named him Frank.”
“Well then, Frank,” said Ted, “let's go down to the duck pond and see what happens.” He went to his car and put on a pair of wellies—his Wellington boots, that is—to keep his feet dry.
As soon as Frank was put down at the edge of the pond and saw the brood of ducklings come swimming past, squeaking at him, and saw the big ducks dabbling and splashing and preening and heard them quacking happily to each other, he made up his mind. He would learn to swim.
Now! It was now or never. I'll give it a go, he said to himself, and he ran straight into the water.
Once out of his depth, he began to flap his little wings wildly, trying to fly (which he couldn't), and kicked madly with his legs, trying to swim (which he couldn't). Already his feathers were soaked, and now he began to sink until only his head was sticking out. From his gaping beak came one last despairing cry. “Frank!” he squawked.
“Oh, Uncle Ted, he's going to drown!” cried Jemima just as the little fleet of ducklings sailed by, crying, “We told you so!”
“No he isn't,” said her uncle, and he waded out into the pond and picked up the waterlogged bird. “Looks like you were right, Jemima,” he said. “Frank does want to be a duck, but he's not exactly equipped for it.”
“No, I know. He needs waterproof feathers and webbed feet.”
“Let's get him dried out,” said the vet, “and stick him back in the rabbit hutch, and I'll have a good think about you, funny Frank. In the meantime, don't let him near that duck pond!”
The very next day Jemima's Uncle Ted turned up at the farm again. “I've had an idea,” he said.“About Frank.”
“What is it?” Jemima asked.
“Well, there can only be one reason for him going into the duck pond, and that is that he wants to swim. Now then, supposewe could help him to do that—make it safe for him to go in the water? He'd be as happy as a pig in muck, Frank would, paddling round with the ducks, wouldn't he now?”
“Oh yes!” said Jemima. “But how? I mean, his feathers … his feet…”
“Tell me this, Jemima,” said Ted Tabb. “When people go surfing at the seaside, no matter how warm the sea is, what do they wear?”
“Wet suits, you mean?” said Jemima.
“Yes,” said her uncle.“Go and ask your mum if she's got an old hot-water bottle she could spare.…”
Chapter Four
Frank's mother, Gertie, was extremely worried. She was a very conventional hen who, in her time, had hatched a great many broods of chicks, all of whom had—she liked to think—been properly brought up. That is to say, they were well mannered and did as they were told and behaved in every way as chicks should.
Now she had somehow managed to produce this funny son, Frank, who was acting in such a very odd fashion. She had seen him with her own eyes walk
#x201C;I've got a chicken that wants to be a duck!”
Chapter Three
Chapter Three
“Tea's ready,” called Jemima's mother. “Either of you fancy one of my fruit scones?” she asked, just as her husband and his brother came into the kitchen.
“Yes please, Carrie,” said Ted.
“Me too,” said his brother Tom, andthen,“What's up, then, Ted? I never called you.”
“No, but Jemima did,” said the vet. “Seems she's got a problem with one of her chicks.”
“I expect you'll sort it out,” said the farmer. “Mind he doesn't charge you too much, Jemima.”
When a lot of tea had been drunk and the plate of fruit scones was empty, Jemima's father went off to start the afternoon milking.
“Right,” said her uncle. “Let's have a look at this creature of yours.”
Jemima went outside and took Frank out of the rabbit hutch. “He's healthy enough, I think, Uncle Ted, isn't he?” she said.
The vet examined the young chicken. “Looks okay to me,” he said, “and you're right—by the look of his comb and the set of his tail, he's a cockerel chick.”
“I thought so,” said Jemima. “I've named him Frank.”
“Well then, Frank,” said Ted, “let's go down to the duck pond and see what happens.” He went to his car and put on a pair of wellies—his Wellington boots, that is—to keep his feet dry.
As soon as Frank was put down at the edge of the pond and saw the brood of ducklings come swimming past, squeaking at him, and saw the big ducks dabbling and splashing and preening and heard them quacking happily to each other, he made up his mind. He would learn to swim.
Now! It was now or never. I'll give it a go, he said to himself, and he ran straight into the water.
Once out of his depth, he began to flap his little wings wildly, trying to fly (which he couldn't), and kicked madly with his legs, trying to swim (which he couldn't). Already his feathers were soaked, and now he began to sink until only his head was sticking out. From his gaping beak came one last despairing cry. “Frank!” he squawked.
“Oh, Uncle Ted, he's going to drown!” cried Jemima just as the little fleet of ducklings sailed by, crying, “We told you so!”
“No he isn't,” said her uncle, and he waded out into the pond and picked up the waterlogged bird. “Looks like you were right, Jemima,” he said. “Frank does want to be a duck, but he's not exactly equipped for it.”
“No, I know. He needs waterproof feathers and webbed feet.”
“Let's get him dried out,” said the vet, “and stick him back in the rabbit hutch, and I'll have a good think about you, funny Frank. In the meantime, don't let him near that duck pond!”
The very next day Jemima's Uncle Ted turned up at the farm again. “I've had an idea,” he said.“About Frank.”
“What is it?” Jemima asked.
“Well, there can only be one reason for him going into the duck pond, and that is that he wants to swim. Now then, supposewe could help him to do that—make it safe for him to go in the water? He'd be as happy as a pig in muck, Frank would, paddling round with the ducks, wouldn't he now?”
“Oh yes!” said Jemima. “But how? I mean, his feathers … his feet…”
“Tell me this, Jemima,” said Ted Tabb. “When people go surfing at the seaside, no matter how warm the sea is, what do they wear?”
“Wet suits, you mean?” said Jemima.
“Yes,” said her uncle.“Go and ask your mum if she's got an old hot-water bottle she could spare.…”
Chapter Four
Frank's mother, Gertie, was extremely worried. She was a very conventional hen who, in her time, had hatched a great many broods of chicks, all of whom had—she liked to think—been properly brought up. That is to say, they were well mannered and did as they were told and behaved in every way as chicks should.
Now she had somehow managed to produce this funny son, Frank, who was acting in such a very odd fashion. She had seen him with her own eyes walk
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