The Ugly Duckling

The Ugly Duckling

It was summer. Warm sunshine lay over the fields, the wheat was golden, and the oats were green. Beside an old manor house, among water and tall burdock leaves, a duck sat on her eggs. She had been waiting a long time. At last, one shell cracked softly. “Peep!” came a tiny voice. Then another shell opened. “Peep, peep!” Soon a whole brood of yellow ducklings wriggled around their mother. “What a big world!” they exclaimed, peering out from beneath the leaves. “And you have hardly seen any of it,” said Mother Duck. “Soon we'll go to the water.” But one egg remained unbroken. It was the largest of all. An elderly duck from next door peered into the nest. “Perhaps it's a turkey egg,” she suggested. “I once hatched turkey chicks. They were terribly afraid of water.” “We'll see,” said Mother Duck, and settled down to wait. Another day passed. At last the big egg split open. Out tumbled a chick. He was large, awkward, gray, and quite unlike the others. Mother Duck tilted her head. “What an odd little fellow you are,” she said. “But come to the water. That will soon tell us who you are.” The next day, the whole family went to the canal. Mother Duck splashed in. “Follow me!” One after another, the ducklings jumped after her. The gray chick slipped into the water too, and swam easily and calmly, as though he had always known how. “He's no turkey,” Mother Duck said with satisfaction. “He swims beautifully.” She led her children into the poultry yard. What a noisy place it was! Ducks argued, hens clucked, and geese strode about importantly, as though they had affairs of state to attend to. Mother Duck told her children to behave. “No pushing. Greet your elders politely. And keep out from under everyone's feet.” The yellow ducklings were admired. But when the others saw the big gray chick, someone snorted. “What's that supposed to be?” “How clumsy!” “Far too big for a duckling.” One duck even tried to chase him away from the feeding trough. “Leave him alone,” Mother Duck said angrily. “He's not bothering anyone.” “But he's so ugly.” “Perhaps,” she replied, “but he's a good swimmer, and he's gentle.” At first the duckling tried not to listen. Yet it grew harder to bear the teasing day after day. Even his brothers and sisters sometimes repeated what the grown-ups said. “If only you looked a little more like us.” The duckling spent more and more time alone. There must really be something wrong with me, he thought. One morning, when the yard erupted in noise again, he could bear it no longer. He slipped through the fence and ran wherever his feet would take him. Beyond the fields lay marshland. Wild ducks lived there. “Who are you?” they asked. “I don't know,” he answered honestly. They walked all around him. “Well, no one could call you handsome. But if you don't get in our way, you can rest here for a while.” To the duckling, even that felt like a welcome. He stayed near the marsh for several days. Then came distant noise, barking dogs, and birds rushing into the air. The duckling hid among the reeds and held very still. He did not know what was happening. All he could hear was the snap of branches around him. A great hunting dog bounded up. It sniffed the gray chick, looked at him, and ran on. The duckling remained motionless for a long time. Then he whispered: “I must be so unremarkable that even the dog isn't interested.” He did not know whether to feel sad or glad. On he went. Toward evening, the wind rose. At the edge of a field he found an old cottage. Its door hung crookedly, leaving just enough room for him to squeeze inside. An old woman lived there with a cat and a hen. The cat could arch his back and purr. The hen could lay eggs. Both were very proud of their talents. “What can you do?” asked the hen. “I love swimming,” said the duckling. “Especially in cool water, when I can duck my head right under.” The hen blinked. “Put your head under? Whatever for?” The cat yawned. “Can you purr?” “No.” “Can you arch your back and make sparks when someone strokes your fur the wrong way?” “No.” “Then you have a great deal to learn,” said the cat. The duckling stayed for a while. The old woman fed him, and the cottage was generally safe. But he missed the water terribly. “You don't understand how wonderful it is to float, with the water holding you up,” he told them. “Don't be silly,” said the hen. “Think about something useful instead.” Then he realized that a place could be warm without being the right place for him. So he left again. Autumn came. Leaves turned gold and red, and the air grew clear. One evening he saw great white birds in the sky. They flew in a V, their long necks stretched forward and their wings bright in the last rays of sunlight. The duckling had never seen anything so beautiful. The birds gave a strange, lingering cry and flew south. He watched until they were only white specks. His heart beat faster. He did not know what those birds were. He did not know why he longed to fly with them. He simply felt an ache for something familiar that he had never had. Then winter came. It was the hardest time of all. The water froze. The duckling had to keep moving to preserve a little patch of open water around him. One morning, his strength was almost gone. Luckily, a farmer spotted him. He gently carried the little bird home and warmed him. There were children in the house. Delighted by their visitor, they wanted to play. But the unfamiliar noise frightened the duckling. He fluttered, knocked over a bowl, slid across the floor, and caused such confusion that he frightened himself even more. The moment the door opened, he darted outside. For the rest of the winter he managed as best he could. He hid in the reeds, found streams that had not frozen, and sheltered beneath bushes through the snowstorms. And still, spring came. The sun warmed the earth. Birds began to sing. One day the duckling spread his wings and stared in surprise. They had grown large and strong. He rose into the air. He was not merely hopping above the ground. He was truly flying. The wind held him, and suddenly the world beneath him seemed wide and beautiful. He landed in a garden of blossoming apple trees. Through the branches he saw a lake. Three white birds floated on it. They were the same kind he had seen in autumn. I'll swim over to them, he thought. If they chase me away, so be it. I don't want to hide anymore. He slipped into the water and paddled toward them. The white birds approached. He lowered his head, expecting the familiar remarks about his awkwardness. And then he saw his reflection. No large gray chick looked back. A young white swan gazed up from the water. He lifted his head. The other swans circled peacefully beside him, welcoming their new companion. Children ran into the garden. “Look! A new swan!” “How beautiful!” “The youngest and prettiest of all!” The swan tucked his head beneath a wing, shy and embarrassed. It felt good to hear kind words. But the strangest thing was that he no longer needed those words to prove he mattered. For suddenly he understood something he had not known as a little duckling. He had not become important on the day his feathers turned white. He had not become worthy of love because someone called him beautiful. He had been himself all along—in the poultry yard, in the marsh, and in that cold little circle of water. It had simply taken a long journey to find those among whom he did not have to explain his appearance or prove his right to be himself. The swan spread his wings. Young leaves rustled over the garden. White clouds shone in the water. His new flock floated around him. And for the first time in his life, he was not wondering whether he looked like everyone else. He was simply home.

May this story leave a little light in your heart ✨