Ann clung to Rudolf. "I haven't any feathers," she screamed. "They're
curls. I'm not a nasty bird--I'm a little girl with hair!"

"She doesn't want to be plucked!" exclaimed the Gray Goose who had
returned to the stove to stir the contents of the iron pot. "Well,
now, did you ever! Maybe it goes in her family. I had a great-aunt
once on my father's side who--"

"They're feathers, all right," chuckled Squawker. "You're a perfect
little duck, that's what I think."

"Me, too," chimed in Squealer.

The Gentleman Goose reached over the Lady Goose's shoulder, snatched
the spectacles off her nose without so much as by your leave, set them
crookedly on his own, and looked over them long and earnestly at Ann.
"So you want to call 'em hair, do you?" he snapped. "I suppose you
think you belong in a hair mattress!"

Ann was ready to cry, and Rudolf had drawn his sword with the
intention of doing his best to protect her, when at that moment a new
voice was heard. Looking in at the little window over the top of the
red geranium the children saw a good-humored furry face with long
bristly whiskers and bright twinkly eyes.

"Anybody mention my name?" said the voice, and a large Belgian Hare
leaped lightly into the room. He was handsomely dressed in a light
overcoat and checked trousers, and wore gaiters over his
patent-leather boots. He had a thick gold watch-chain, gold studs and