off to look for frogs across the stream. But the younger ones all stayed round, watching.
“Come out into the water!” they cried. And the smallest and most impudent duckling of all called out suddenly: “I believe he’s afraid!”
“I’m not afraid!” returned Bulka, very red in the face, but still going on with his somersaults.
“If you aren’t afraid why don’t you come out?” asked the ducks. “Coward!”
This was more than Bulka could stand. He couldn’t endure being called a coward, so he took a flying jump then and there and landed right in the water where the ducks were paddling about. The water wasn’t deep, but it was quite cold, and tasted very slimy and muddy; a great deal of it went up Bulka’s nose and down his throat, for he had forgotten to keep his mouth shut when he jumped, and as soon as he poked his head above water to breathe one of the ducklings would catch him by his long ears and pull him under again. “Down you go!” they shouted. “Now stick your feet in the air!”
It was a fine game for them, but poor Bulka, tangled up in the pondweed with his head under water, was very close to being drowned, and drowned he would surely have been had not Poor Cecco, who at that very moment was looking about for him on the bridge, heard one smothered squeal and poked his head hastily through the parapet.
“There’s Bulka in trouble again!” he exclaimed, and
