Number 76. The ugly duckling.
The summer in Denmark that year was a golden, lazy thing. If you walked along the countryside, you would find yourself waiting through fields of yellow corn and green oats, while down in the meadows, the hay was gathered in great fragrant stacks that smelled of sun-warmed earth and sweet dried clover.
It is here, in this quiet corner of Northern Europe, that our story begins. It is a story that has been told in many ways, by many voices, since a kind-hearted Danish writer named Hans Christian Anderson first set it down on paper in the winter of 1843.
He knew what it was like to feel out of place, and so he wrote a tale for anyone who has ever looked around and wondered if they belonged to a different world altogether.
Near a grand old country house with deep canals surrounding its stone walls, there grew a veritable forest of burdock leaves. These leaves were so tall that a small child could stand upright beneath them without touching the green canopy above.
It was a wild, secret, shadowed place, and deep within this jungle of stems and giant leaves, a mother duck had built her nest.
She had been sitting on her eggs for what felt like an eternity. Sitting on a nest is a lonely business for a duck. Her friends preferred swimming in the cool canals to sitting under the hot leaves chatting with her. So she was left alone with her thoughts and the silent, patient warmth of her own feathery body.
But at last, the shells began to crack. Peep, peep, went one tiny voice, then another. Peep, peep.
The little yellow heads poked out into the green light of the burdock forest. They looked about them in absolute wonder, their dark, bead-like eyes taking in the vastness of the leaves.
"How large the world is," said the little ones, stretching their necks. Their mother smiled, rustling her wings. "Do you think this is the whole world? Oh no, it stretches far beyond the garden, right into the parson's field. Though, I have never been so far myself.
Are you all here?" She stood up, her webbed feet shifting carefully. "No, they were not all here. The largest egg of all still lay in the center of the nest, smooth and stubborn.
Oh dear," sighed the mother duck, settling herself back down. "How much longer must this go on?"
An old duck, who was highly respected in the neighborhood for her wisdom and her very grand manners, came waddling down the path to pay a visit. She stopped under the burdock leaves and peered into the nest.
"Well, how are we getting on?" the old duck asked, her voice raspy and slow. "This one egg is taking a terribly long time," the mother duck replied, nudging the large grayish shell with her bill. "It simply will not break. But look at the others. Are they not the prettiest ducklings you have ever seen? They look exactly like their father, the scamp. He hasn't come to visit me once."
The old duck waddled closer and squinted at the unhatched egg. "Let me see it."
"Ah, yes, that is a turkey's egg. You mark my words. I was cheated that way once myself, and let me tell you, it was nothing but trouble. Turkeys are afraid of the water. I couldn't get the creature into the canal no matter how much I quacked and scolded.
Leave it where it is. Go and teach your other children how to swim."
The mother duck looked at the large egg. It looked cold and lonely sitting there, while its siblings huddled together, warm and fluffy.
"I think I've sat on it for this long," the mother said softly. "I can sit on it a little longer. A few more days won't hurt."
"Please yourself," said the old duck, turning her tail. "But don't say I didn't warn you." And with a stiff shake of her feathers, she waddled away.
At last, the great egg cracked. "Peep," said the newcomer. But it was not a bright, sharp peep. It was a low, hollow sound.
The chick tumbled out of the shell. The mother duck stared at him, her heart sinking just a little. He was dreadfully big. He was not yellow like the others, but a dull, smoky gray. His legs were long and thick, his neck was thin and awkward, and his feathers looked like wet, tangled wool.
"What an enormous creature," the mother duck whispered to herself, trying to find something beautiful in him. "None of the others look like that. Could he really be a turkey chick? Well, we shall find out tomorrow. Into the water he goes, even if I have to kick him in myself."
The next day rose so beautiful and bright that the sun seemed to turn the green burdock leaves into sheets of stained glass.
The mother duck led her new family down to the edge of the canal. The water was clear and cool, rippling gently against the grassy bank.
"Splash!" In jumped the mother. "Quack, quack," she called. "Come in, my darlings."
One after another, the little yellow ducklings plunged into the water. They bobbed like corks, their little legs paddling away instinctively. They swam beautifully, their tiny heads held high.
But then, the large gray one plunged in too. He went right under, the water closing over his head, and the mother's heart leaped into her throat.
But a moment later, his gray head popped up, shaking off the droplets. He began to paddle with great strength, his long legs moving in perfect rhythm. He was not afraid of the water at all. In fact, he swam more gracefully and swiftly than any of his brothers and sisters.
"He is no turkey," the mother duck said, a feeling of pride warming her chest. "Look how beautifully he uses his legs, and how erect he holds himself. He is my own child after all. And if you look at him closely, he really is quite handsome in his own way, if you get used to the size of him."
She swam closer to him, guiding her brood back to the bank. "Come along, children, I must introduce you to the world. We are going to the farmyard. But mind you stay close to me so that no one steps on you, and keep a sharp lookout for the cat."
The farmyard was a noisy, bustling place. It was filled with different families of birds, all shouting and arguing over a single herring's head that the farmer's cook had thrown out.
The ducks were quacking, the chickens were scratching, and a great turkey cock, who had been born with spurs on his heels, and therefore believed himself to be an emperor, puffed himself out like a ship under full sail. His face turned bright red, and he stared at the ducklings with fierce, round eyes.
The mother duck gathered her children close. "Now, bow your heads to that old duck over there," she whispered, pointing to a very grand duck with a red rag tied around her leg. "That rag is the highest honor a duck can receive. It means the humans do not want to lose her. Bow your heads, keep your legs far apart, and say quack."
The yellow ducklings did as they were told, but the other ducks in the yard stared at them with cold, critical eyes.
"Oh look," one duck snorted, loud enough for everyone to hear. "As if we didn't have enough mouths to feed. Now we have to let this lot in. And just look at that big one. We won't stand for him here."
Before the mother duck could stop it, a large duck flew across the yard and bit the gray duckling hard on the back of his neck.
"Leave him alone!" cried the mother, rushing forward to shield him. "He isn't doing any harm to anyone?"
"Yes, but he is too big, and he looks so strange," said the duck who had bitten him, narrowing her eyes. "He needs a good shaking."
The grand duck with the red rag on her leg waddled over, inspecting the family. "Those are very pretty children," she said. "All except that large one. He is a bit of a failure. I wish you could make him over again."
"That is impossible, your grace," said the mother duck, her voice trembling slightly. "He may not be pretty, but he has a good disposition, and he swims as well as any of them. Better even. I think he will grow up to be strong, and he can take care of himself.
He stayed in the egg too long, and that is why he is not quite the right shape." She patted the gray duckling's neck with her bill and smoothed his ruffled feathers. "Besides, he is a drake, and so beauty does not matter quite so much. He will make his way."
But the farmyard was not a place for mercy.
As the days went by, things grew worse for the poor duckling. Because he looked different, he was mocked by everyone. The ducks bit him, the hens pecked him, and even the girl who brought the chicken feed kicked him aside with her foot.
His brothers and sisters, who had been so sweet when they first hatched, quickly learned the ways of the yard. They began to whisper mean things when they passed him. "If only the cat would catch you, you ugly thing," they would hiss.
The mother duck tried to defend him for a long time, but as the constant teasing and fighting wore her down, she too began to look at him with tired, sad eyes.
One evening, after a particularly loud argument in the yard, she sighed and whispered, "I wish you were miles away."
The duckling felt a cold, heavy ache in his chest, a feeling so deep and hollow that it made his bones hurt. He did not understand why his gray feathers, his long neck, and his large feet made him such a monster in their eyes. He had not asked to be born in that nest. He had not chosen his shape.
That night, as the rest of the farmyard slept in warm, feathered heaps, the ugly duckling stood alone in the dark, looking at the stars through the gaps in the wooden fence. He realized that there was no room for him here. He was a shadow in their bright world, a mistake that everyone wished would disappear.
So, with a heavy heart and trembling legs, he ran. He scrambled under the fence, feeling the rough wood scrape his back, and fled into the wide, dark night.
He ran until his legs could carry him no further, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. When the sun rose, he found himself in the great, wild moor, where the wild ducks lived. The air here smelled of damp earth, peat, and the sharp, clean scent of water mint.
He hid himself in the thick rushes, tired, hungry, and deeply ashamed of his own body. He lay there for a whole day, listening to the wind whistle through the reeds.
In the morning, a flock of wild ducks flew up from the water to inspect the newcomer. They circled him, their bright eyes curious. "What sort of creature are you?" they asked, landing in the water with soft splashes.
The duckling bowed in every direction, trying to be as polite as possible, though he knew he looked clumsy.
"You are remarkably ugly," said one of the wild ducks, shaking his head. "But that does not matter to us, as long as you do not marry into our family."
The duckling sighed with relief. He had no thoughts of marriage. He only wanted permission to lie quietly among the reeds, and drink a little of the marsh water when he was thirsty.
He stayed there for two whole days, enjoying the quiet safety of the wilderness.
On the third day, two young wild geese flew down from the sky. They were young, bold, and full of mischief. They had not been out of their shells very long themselves, and they loved adventure.
"Hey, friend!" one of them called out, landing near the duckling. "You are so ugly that we actually quite like you. Will you come with us and be a bird of passage? Not far from here, in another marsh, there are some very nice young wild geese who can sing. You are so wonderfully strange that you might just be a hit."
For the first time in his life, the duckling felt a spark of hope. Perhaps in the wild places of the world, being different was not a crime. Perhaps these wild, free birds would accept him.
But before he could answer, a terrible sound shattered the morning peace. Bang, bang! The sky seemed to explode. The two young geese fell lifeless into the water, the ripples turning a sudden, tragic red.
Bang, bang! came the noise again. A great cloud of blue smoke drifted over the reeds, and the air was filled with the scent of gunpowder. A grand hunting party was sweeping through the marsh. The hunters lay hidden in the overhanging branches of the trees, and some of them had even climbed up into the boughs to get a better view.
The duckling was terrified. He tried to hide his head under his wing, but just at that moment, a massive hunting dog crashed through the reeds. The dog's tongue hung out of its mouth, and its eyes shone with a wild, hungry light.
The dog splashed through the water, closer and closer, until it was standing right over the duckling. It bared its sharp, white teeth. The duckling closed his eyes, bracing himself for the end. He could feel the dog's hot breath on his feathers.
The dog stood there for a long, agonizing second. Then, with a splash, it turned away and ran off to find another bird.
The duckling lay perfectly still in the mud, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Oh, thank heaven," he whispered, tears stinging his eyes. "I am so ugly that even the hunting dog will not bite me."
He lay there in the reeds for hours, not daring to move, even as the sun climbed high into the sky, and the sounds of the guns died away into the distance. It was late in the afternoon before he finally dared to look up.
The marsh was quiet again, but it was a lonely, haunted quiet. The wild geese were gone. The sky was turning a cold, bruised purple as autumn began to whisper through the reeds.
The duckling scrambled out of the water and ran as fast as he could across the country. He did not care where he was going. He only knew he had to escape the terror of the guns and the terrible, biting cold of the rising wind.
As the night fell, the wind grew into a howling gale. It whipped through the trees, tearing away the last of the golden autumn leaves and scattering them across the dark ground. The duckling could scarcely make head against it. He was cold, hungry, and his wings felt as heavy as lead.
Just when he thought he could go no further, he saw a light shining through the darkness. It came from a tiny, dilapidated cottage. The cottage was so old and miserable that it seemed to stand only because it could not decide which way to fall. The door had slipped from one of its hinges, leaving a narrow crack just wide enough for a small, desperate bird to squeeze through.
The duckling slipped inside, shivering, and curled up in a dark corner near the door.
In this cottage, lived an old woman with her cat and her hen. The cat, whom she called Sunny, was a handsome creature who knew how to arch his back, purr, and even give off sparks if you stroked his fur the wrong way in the dark. The old woman loved him like a son.
The hen, who had very short legs and was therefore named Short Legs, was an excellent layer of eggs. The old woman treated her like her own daughter.
In the morning, the cat began to purr and the hen began to cluck. Their keen eyes quickly spotted the wet, shivering guest in the corner.
"What is that?" asked the old woman, squinting. Her eyesight was very poor, and when she saw the gray shape, she thought it was a fat duck that had lost its way. "Oh, what a find! Now I shall have duck's eggs, if only it isn't a drake. We must wait and see."
So, the duckling was allowed to stay on trial for three weeks. But three weeks passed, and no eggs appeared. The duckling spent his days sitting quietly, while the cat and the hen watched him with disapproving eyes. They considered themselves to be the smartest, most important creatures in the world. They believed they represented not just the cottage, but half of the entire universe, and the better half at that.
"Can you lay eggs?" the hen asked one afternoon, her voice sharp and demanding.
"No," said the duckling softly.
"Then have the goodness to hold your tongue."
"Can you arch your back?" asked the cat, twitching his whiskers. "Can you purr or make sparks?"
"No," the duckling admitted.
"Then you have no right to express an opinion when sensible people are talking."
The duckling sat in his corner, feeling very melancholy. He looked out the open window at the autumn sunshine filtering through the trees. He thought of the fresh air, the open sky, and the wonderful feeling of floating on the water. A great longing seized him, a longing so strong that he could not keep it to himself.
"I want so much to float on the water again," he said to the hen. "You cannot imagine how wonderful it is to dive down to the very bottom and feel the cool water close over your head."
The hen stared at him in utter disbelief. "What a ridiculous idea! You have nothing to do, and that is why you get these foolish fancies. If you would only lay eggs or learn to purr, you would get over it."
"But it is so beautiful," the duckling insisted, his voice trembling. "To feel the wind in your feathers, to let the water carry you."
"Beautiful?" the hen scoffed. "You must be mad. Ask the cat. He is the wisest creature I know. Ask him if he likes swimming or diving under the water. I won't even speak of myself. Ask our mistress, the old woman. There is no one cleverer in the world. Do you think she wants to swim and have the water close over her head?"
"You do not understand me," the duckling said, hanging his head.
"We don't understand you? Then who on earth would?" the hen snapped. "Do you think you are wiser than the cat and our mistress? Not to mention myself? Don't be so conceited, child. You ought to be thankful for all the kindness that has been shown to you. Have you not found a warm room and company from which you might learn something? But you are a chatterbox, and it is not pleasant to associate with you. Believe me, I speak for your own good. I tell you unpleasant truths, which is the only way to know a true friend.
Now, see to it that you lay some eggs or learn to purr."
The duckling looked at the hen, and then at the cat, who was watching him with a smug, cold stare. He realized that in their eyes, his worth was measured only by how much he could be like them. They had no room in their hearts for the things that made him alive, the water, the wind, the wild sky.
"I think I must go out into the wide world again," the duckling said.
"Well, go then," said the hen, turning her back on him.
So the duckling left the cottage. He found a quiet lake where he could swim and dive, but he was still utterly alone. The other water birds kept their distance from him, and the autumn wind grew colder and colder.
One evening, just as the sun was setting in a blaze of red and gold, a flock of large, magnificent birds rose from the rushes. The duckling had never seen anything so beautiful. They were dazzlingly white, with long, slender, graceful necks. They were swans.
They uttered a strange cry that sounded like a silver trumpet, and spread their splendid, broad wings. They were flying south, away from the creeping ice of the northern winter, to warmer lands and open lakes.
As they rose higher and higher into the sky, the ugly duckling felt a strange, wild sensation in his chest. He spun round and round in the water like a wheel, stretching his neck up toward them, and let out a cry so loud and shrill that it frightened even himself.
He did not know what these birds were called. He did not know where they were going. But he knew with a sudden, aching certainty that he loved them more than he had ever loved anything before.
He did not envy them their beauty. He only wished with a desperate, quiet longing that he might be allowed to look at them from afar, or to share a tiny corner of their sky.
But the swans disappeared into the clouds, and the winter came on with bitter, merciless force.
The winter was cold, so cold that the duckling had to swim in circles constantly to keep the water from freezing solid around him. But every night, the ice closed in, making the pool of open water smaller and smaller. The stars shone with a hard, icy brilliance, and the frost cracked the branches of the trees.
One night, the duckling was too tired to paddle any longer. His legs grew heavy, his eyes fluttered shut, and he lay still. The ice crept in, silent and cold, and froze him fast in the lake.
In the early morning, a peasant came walking by. He saw the gray shape frozen in the ice, and being a kind-hearted man, he walked out onto the frozen surface, broke the ice with his wooden shoe, and carried the stiff, half-frozen bird home to his wife.
In the warmth of the peasant's cottage, the duckling soon revived. But as soon as he opened his eyes, the peasant's children wanted to play with him. The duckling, remembering the cruelty of the farmyard and the terror of the hunters, thought they meant to hurt him.
In his panic, he fluttered up from the floor. Flap! He flew right into the milk pan, splashing milk all over the clean kitchen. The peasant's wife screamed and clapped her hands, which frightened him even more. He flew out of the milk pan and landed headlong in the butter tub, and then bounced out of that into the flour barrel, before finally scrambling back onto the floor.
You can imagine what he looked like. He was covered in milk, yellow butter, and white flour, his feathers stuck together in a wild, sticky mess.
The wife screamed and tried to hit him with the tongs. The children laughed and shouted, falling over each other as they tried to catch him. The door was luckily open, and the duckling slipped out into the fresh snow, hiding himself under some bushes where the cold wind could not reach him.
It would be too sad to tell of all the misery and hardship the poor duckling suffered during that long, bitter winter. He lay in the reeds of a frozen marsh, shivering, hungry, and terrified, while the snow piled up around him. He survived on frozen seeds and the tiny patches of water that did not freeze, always alone, always believing that his own ugliness was the cause of all his sorrow.
But at last, the sun began to grow warm. The larks began to sing, and the air smelled of wet earth and green, growing things. Spring had arrived.
One morning, the duckling shook his wings. He found that they were much larger and stronger than they had been before. They whirred with a powerful, deep sound when he stretched them. Before he knew what was happening, he flew up into the air.
He did not have to struggle. His wings carried him easily, high above the fields and the forests. He flew until he found himself in a beautiful, grand garden. The apple trees were in full blossom, and the sweet-scented elder bushes hung their long, green branches over a winding canal. Everything was fresh and beautiful with the joy of spring.
And there, emerging from the thicket, came three magnificent white swans. They rustled their feathers and floated lightly on the water, their movements so graceful and proud.
The duckling recognized them instantly. A strange sadness, mixed with a deep, powerful love swept over him.
"I will fly down to them, those royal birds," he whispered to himself. "They will peck me to death, because I, who am so ugly, dare to approach them. But it does not matter. It is better to be killed by them than to be bitten by the ducks, pecked by the hens, kicked by the girl who feeds the poultry, and to starve in the cold of winter."
He flew down into the water and swam toward the beautiful swans. As they saw him coming, they rustled their feathers and began to swim swiftly toward him, their wings half spread.
"Kill me," said the poor bird, and he bowed his head down to the surface of the water, waiting for the blows that would end his lonely life. But what did he see in the clear, glassy water beneath him?
He did not see the clumsy, dark gray, ugly bird that he had believed himself to be for so long. He saw his own reflection. And it was not the image of a duckling at all. He was a swan. His feathers were as white as fresh snow. His neck was long, slender, and curved with an exquisite grace. His wings were broad and powerful.
He was no longer the outcast of the farmyard, the mistake of the nest, or the victim of the cold. He was one of them.
The three great swans swam around him, stroke by stroke, welcoming him with gentle nudges of their bills. They smoothed his neck feathers and made soft, whistling sounds of greeting. He was not a stranger to them. He was a brother.
Just then, some little children came running into the garden. They carried pieces of bread and corn, which they threw into the water.
"There is a new one!" cried the youngest child, clapping his hands. "Look, a new swan has come!"
The other children ran to tell their parents. "Yes, the new one is the most beautiful of all! He is so young and so handsome!"
The old swans bowed their heads before him, acknowledging his beauty. The young swan felt quite shy. He hid his head under his wing, not knowing what to do with so much kindness. He remembered how he had been hunted, mocked, and despised. And now he heard everyone say that he was the loveliest of all lovely birds.
The elder bushes bent their branches down to the water to greet him, and the sun shone warm and bright. He rustled his wings, raised his slender neck, and cried from the very depths of his happy heart.
"I never dreamed of such happiness as this, when I was only an ugly duckling."
The farmyard, the cottage, the cold ice, and the lonely marshes were all behind him now. He had not changed his heart. He had only found his true home. He was finally in the place where he belonged.
And so, we leave our young swan floating on the quiet, clear waters of the garden, surrounded by those who understand his song.
But as you close your eyes tonight, let his story stay with you. Think of the long journey he took through the cold and the dark, believing that something was wrong with him, simply because he did not look like the ducks or live like the cat.
When you feel out of place, when you feel like you do not fit into the world around you, remember the gray chick in the nest. Is it possible that there is nothing wrong with you at all? Is it possible that you are simply in the wrong nest, and that your own sky is waiting for you somewhere ahead?
Think of that question as you drift off to sleep, and dream of the wide, open sky.