The Wonderful Bed | Page 8

very small pair of
scales, and at his elbow stood a little duck apprentice with the tears

running down his cheeks. He was doing sums in a greasy sort of
butcher's book that seemed quite full already of funny scratchy figures.
"That must be Squealer, the one who got his ears boxed," whispered
Ann to Rudolf, "but what do you suppose is the matter with the other
duck, the one in the heap? He will be smothered, I know he will!"
Rudolf thought so, too, yet it didn't seem polite to mention it. The Lady
Goose had been busily helping the children to brush off the feathers
that were sticking to them, and patting Peter on the back with her bill
because he said he was sure he had swallowed at least a pound. She
now brought forward chairs for them all. As the children looked around
more closely they saw that the room they were in was a very cozy sort
of place, long and low and neatly furnished with a white deal table, a
shiny black cook-stove, a great many bright copper saucepans, and a
red geranium in the window. A large iron pot was boiling merrily on
the stove and from time to time the Gray Goose stirred its contents with
a wooden spoon. It smelled rather good, and Peter, sniffing, began to
put on his hungry expression.
"No, not even a family resemblance," went on the Gray Goose, waving
her spoon, "although, as is generally known, a Roman nose is
characteristic in our family, having developed in fact at the time of that
little affair when we repelled the Gauls in the year--"
But Rudolf felt he could not stand much more of this. "I beg your
pardon," he interrupted, "but would you mind if we helped the little one
out of the heap, the--the--duck who is getting so thoroughly
smothered?"
"Not at all, if you care about it," said the Gray Goose kindly.
"Squawker'll be good now, won't he, Father?"
"Oh, I'm sure he'll be good," Ann cried, and she ran ahead of Rudolf to
catch hold of one of the thin yellow legs and give it a mighty pull.
"He'll be good," said the Gentleman Goose gravely, speaking for the
first time, "when he's roasted. Very good indeed'll Squawker be--with

apple sauce!" And he smacked his lips and winked at Peter who was
standing close beside him, looking up earnestly into his face.
Peter thought a moment. Then he said: "I likes currant jelly on my duck.
I eats apple sauce on goose."
The Gentleman Goose appeared suddenly uncomfortable. He began
nervously stuffing little parcels of the feathers he had been weighing
into small blue and white striped bags, which he threw one after the
other to Squealer, who never by any chance caught them as he turned
his back at every throw. "I suppose," said the Gentleman Goose to
Peter in a hesitating, anxious sort of voice, "you believe along with all
the rest, what's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, don't you? I
suppose there's nothing sauce-y about yourself now, is there?" And
apparently comforted by his miserable little joke he went on with his
weighing.
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 assistance, 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 apron, the Gentleman Goose advanced toward Ann in a businesslike
fashion. The two little apprentices, carrying bags, followed at his heels.
Ann clung to Rudolf. "I haven't any feathers," she screamed. "They're