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IV THE WIT OF A DUCK THE homing instinct
in birds and animals is one of their most remarkable traits: their strong local
attachments and their skill in finding their way back when removed to a
distance. It seems at times as if they possessed some extra sense — the home
sense — which operates unerringly. I saw this illustrated one spring in the
case of a mallard drake. My son had two ducks, and to mate with them he procured a drake of a neighbor who lived two miles south of us. He brought the drake home in a bag. The bird had no opportunity to see the road along which it was carried, or to get the general direction, except at the time of starting, when the boy carried him a few rods openly. He was placed with
the ducks in a spring run, under a tree in a secluded place on the river slope,
about a hundred yards from the highway. The two ducks treated him very
contemptuously. It was easy to see that the drake was homesick from the first
hour, and he soon left the presence of the scornful ducks. Then we shut the
three in the barn together, and kept them there a day and a night. Still the
friendship did not ripen; the ducks and the drake separated the moment we let
them out. Left to himself, the drake at once turned his head homeward, and
started up the hill for the highway. Then we shut the
trio up together again for a couple of days, but with the same results as
before. There seemed to be but one thought in the mind of the drake, and that
was home. Several times we
headed him off and brought him back, till finally on the third or fourth day I
said to my son, “If that drake is really bound to go home, he shall have an
opportunity to make the trial, and I will go with him to see that he has fair
play.” We withdrew, and the homesick mallard started up through the currant
patch, then through the vineyard toward the highway which he had never seen. When he reached the
fence, he followed it south till he came to the open gate, where he took to the
road as confidently as if he knew for a certainty that it would lead him
straight to his mate. How eagerly he paddled along, glancing right and left,
and increasing his speed at every step! I kept about fifty yards behind him.
Presently he met a dog; he paused and eyed the animal for a moment, and then
turned to the right along a road which diverged just at that point, and which
led to the railroad station. I followed, thinking the drake would soon lose his
bearings, and get hopelessly confused in the tangle of roads that converged at
the station. But he seemed to
have an exact map of the country in his mind; he soon left the station road,
went around a house, through a vineyard, till he struck a stone fence that
crossed his course at right angles; this he followed eastward till it was
joined by a barbed wire fence, under which he passed and again entered the
highway he had first taken. Then down the road he paddled with renewed
confidence: under the trees, down a hill, through a grove, over a bridge, up
the hill again toward home. Presently he found
his clue cut in two by the railroad track; this was something he had never
before seen; he paused, glanced up it, then down it, then at the highway across
it, and quickly concluded this last was his course. On he went again, faster
and faster. He had now gone
half the distance, and was getting tired. A little pool of water by the
roadside caught his eye. Into it he plunged, bathed, drank, preened his plumage
for a few moments, and then started homeward again. He knew his home was on the
upper side of the road, for he kept his eye bent in that direction, scanning
the fields. Twice he stopped, stretched himself up, and scanned the landscape
intently; then on again. It seemed as if an invisible cord was attached to him,
and he was being pulled down the road. Just opposite a
farm lane which led up to a group of farm buildings, and which did indeed look
like his home lane, he paused and seemed to be debating with himself. Two women
just then came along; they lifted and flirted their skirts, for it was raining,
and this disturbed him again and decided him to take to the farm lane. Up the
lane he went, rather doubtingly, I thought. In a few moments it
brought him into a barnyard, where a group of hens caught his eye. Evidently
he was on good terms with hens at home, for he made up to these eagerly as if
to tell them his troubles; but the hens knew not ducks; they withdrew
suspiciously, then assumed a threatening attitude, till one old “dominic” put
up her feathers and charged upon him viciously. Again he tried to
make up to them, quacking softly, and again he was repulsed. Then the cattle in
the yard spied this strange creature and came sniffing toward it, full of
curiosity. The drake quickly
concluded he had got into the wrong place, and turned his face southward again.
Through the fence he went into a plowed field. Presently another stone fence
crossed his path; along this he again turned toward the highway. In a few
minutes he found himself in a corner formed by the meeting of two stone fences.
Then he turned appealingly to me, uttering the soft note of the mallard. To
use his wings never seemed to cross his mind. Well, I am bound to
confess that I helped the drake over the wall, but I sat him down in the road
as impartially as I could. How well his pink feet knew the course! How they
flew up the road! His green head and white throat fairly twinkled under the
long avenue of oaks and chestnuts. At last we came in
sight of the home lane, which led up to the farmhouse one hundred or more yards
from the road. I was curious to see if he would recognize the place. At the
gate leading into the lane he paused. He had just gone up a lane that looked
like that and had been disappointed. What should he do now? Truth compels me to
say that he overshot the mark: he kept on hesitatingly along the highway. It was now nearly
night. I felt sure the duck would soon discover his mistake, but I had not time
to watch the experiment further. I went around the drake and turned him back.
As he neared the lane this time he seemed suddenly to see some familiar
landmark, and he rushed up it at the top of his speed. His joy and eagerness
were almost pathetic. I followed close. Into the house yard he rushed with uplifted wings, and fell down almost exhausted by the side of his mate. A half hour later the two were nipping the grass together in the pasture, and he, I have no doubt, was eagerly telling her the story of his adventures. |