were no end to it all, as indeed there wasn’t, and as soon as Bulka caught sight of it he became very excited.
“Some one,” he thought, “has left the spigot running!” And he began at once to slide down the little path as fast as he could go, on his behind legs.
In the pool under the bridge a number of ducks were swimming about; big ducks and middle-size ducks, and some little furry baby ducks, with flat yellow feet and eyea like drops of ink. They swam about in circles, dabbling under the water with their bills, while a little way off, all by himself, an old drake with green feathers was asleep on the water, with his head tucked under his wing.
At first the ducks took no notice of Bulka, and for a long time he amused himself by poking about on the shore by the water’s edge, getting his feet very muddy, and looking under all the stones. For if treasure really grew under stones, as Poor Cecco had said, here might be a very good place to find it. But nothing grew under these stones except fat pink worms, and one horrid black thing with pincers, which behaved very rudely and which Bulka did not like the look of at all.
So after a time he gave up the hunt, as the things he found under the stones seemed to be getting worse and worse, and instead he sat down on a tuft of grass to watch the ducks.
They were having a wonderful time, dabbling here and poking there, and every little while one of them would
