This inexplicable impulse terrified their mama. She was, in fact,
"as mad as a wet hen."

She ran up and down, her feathers on end, her face swollen, her
crest red, clucking away, trying to persuade her babies not to
venture into the water. For hens, like cats, hate the water. It
was unspeakable torture to her. The children would not listen;
deaf to her prayers, her cries, these rascally babies ventured
farther and farther out. They were at last and for the first time
in their favourite element, lighter than little corks, they
floated, dived, plunged, raced, fought, playing all sorts of
tricks.

Meanwhile, Yollande was eating her heart out. She rushed to and
fro, keeping her eyes glued on the disobedient ones. Suddenly she
saw a mother-duck chasing her darlings. This was more than she
could bear,--driven by her maternal instinct she leapt like a fury
to the aid of her family.

A flap or two of her wings and she was above the water into which
she fell at the deepest part.

Splashing,--struggling madly in the midst of her frightened
brood,--she was soon exhausted and succumbing to syncope, she sank
to the bottom.

The surface of the water closed above her. The little ones did not
realize what had happened--very quickly recovering from their
momentary fright, they went on with their games--splashing the
water with their beaks and amusing themselves as though nothing