MOLE. What! To let them kill you?

DUCKLING. I would rather be killed by those beautiful birds than pecked by
the hens, beaten by the geese, or starved with hunger in the winter.

MOLE. Perhaps you are not so ugly now as you were then.

DUCKLING. I have not looked at myself in the water since spring came and
took the ice away. But I know well enough how dark and badly formed I am.
The swans will kill me if I dare to approach them.

[_A noise is heard in the distance._]

MOLE. They are coming! Go, while there is yet time.

DUCKLING. There is no place to go to. All winter long I was driven from
moor to moor. I could not make a friend--I no longer wish to live.

[_The_ SWANS _are seen swimming down the brook._]

MOLE. They are here! Do not go to them, I pray you!

DUCKLING (_shaking head_). Farewell!

[_He flies to the water and swims toward the Swans. They see him and rush
to meet him with outstretched wings._]

DUCKLING. Kill me! Kill me!

FIRST SWAN. Kill you! Why, we have come to welcome you, beautiful stranger.