der what those two Chinese are whispering about," whispered one
duck to another. "They are always doing it, and it annoys me. We never
speak to them."

Now the drake came up, and he thought the little singing bird was a
sparrow. "Well, I don't understand the difference," he said; "it appears
to me all the same. He's only a plaything, and if people will have
playthings, why let them, I say."

"Don't take any notice of what he says," whispered the Portuguese; "he
is very well in matters of business, and with him business is first. Now
I shall lie down and have a little rest. It is a duty we owe to
ourselves, so that we shall be nice and fat when we come to be embalmed
with sage and onions and apples."

So she laid herself down in the sun and winked with one eye. She had a
very comfortable place and felt so at ease that she fell asleep. The
little singing bird busied himself for some time with his broken wing,
and at last he too lay down, quite close to his protectress. The sun
shone warm and bright, and he found it a very good place. But the fowls
of the neighborhood were all awake, and, to tell the truth, they had
paid a visit to the duck yard solely to find food for themselves. The
Chinese were the first to leave, and the other fowls soon followed them.

The witty little duck said of the Portuguese that "the old lady" was
getting to be quite a "doting ducky." All the other ducks laughed at
this. "'Doting ducky,'" they whispered; "oh, that's too witty!" Then
they repeated the joke about "portulak" and declared it was most
amusing. After that they all lay down to have a nap.

They had been lying asleep for quite a while, when suddenly something
was thrown into the yard for them to eat. It came down with such a bang
that the whole company started up and clapped their wings. The
Portuguese awoke, too, and rushed over to the other side of the yard. In
doing this she trod upon the little singing bird.

"Tweet," he cried; "you trod very hard upon me, madam."

"Well, then, why do you lie in my way?" she retorted. "You must not be
so touchy. I have nerves of my own, but I do not cry 'Tweet.'"

"Don't be angry," said the little bird; "the 'Tweet' slipped out of my
beak before I knew it."

The Portuguese did not listen to him, but began eating as fast as she
could, and made a good meal. When she had finished she lay down again,
and the little bird, who wished to be amiable, began to sing:

"Chirp and twitte