"We may as well tell you," they said to Henrietta Hen, "that that chap
out there is a duckling. The water won't hurt him."

Henrietta Hen gasped and gaped. She was astonished. But she soon pulled
herself together. And it was just like her to begin to boast.

"See!" she cried to her friends, and waved a wing toward the water with
an air of pride. "There isn't one of you that has a child that can beat
him swimming."

"I should hope not!" said Polly Plymouth Rock with a shrug of her fine
shoulders. And all the others agreed that they wanted no swimmers in
their families.

Henrietta Hen announced that she was sorry for them. "Every brood," she
declared, "should have at least one swimmer in it." She began to strut up
and down the edge of the duck-pond, clucking in a most overbearing
fashion. Really, she had never felt quite so important before--not even
when her first brood pecked their way out of their shells.

"There's nothing quite like swimming," Henrietta Hen remarked with a
silly smirk. "If it weren't for getting my feet wet I'd be tempted to
learn myself. No doubt my son could teach me."

"Your son!" the old white hen sniffed. "He's not your son, Henrietta Hen.
Somebody played a joke on you. Somebody put a duck's egg under you while
you were hatching your eggs. And I think I can guess who it was that did
it."