Domestic water birds on our north-country farm were a happy presence in the barnyard society. Their comical characters, beauty, and daily actions brought us laughter and delight.
One fall, our mallard duck family was sadly reduced by a concentrated fox attack, leaving only five drakes who spent a lonely winter as bachelors until very early spring when we were given two mallard females. We thought they would be shy and timid in new surroundings. Not so. They waddled directly up to the five fellows sleeping peacefully in the barn, awakened them by bumping their chests against them, then grasped the drakes by their necks and shook them thoroughly. The clear message was: “We are here now, and let there be no mistake about who is in charge!”
The drakes were aghast at this strange attack and scuttled for the corral. Later, when ruffled feathers were restored, all seven ducks were peacefully floating in the pond, creating a silver latticework on its surface as they paddled.
When spring approached, the barn came alive with the bleating of newborn lambs and the uproarious mating battles of the mallard drakes. With only two wives for five drakes, there were many days of combat. The problem was settled by one female having three husbands and two husbands for the other one. There were two well-defined “marriages.” Even after this resolution, the drakes within each “marriage” spent more time fighting over the one wife than paying attention to her.
The courting scenes among the mallards were entertaining. There were verbal messages on several sound levels, and an intricate, oriental kind of dance that required up-and-down movements of their necks. Nests were made and eggs deposited, unless there were mishaps in the corral before the nest could be reached.
The white Emden goose couple, not inclined to the clownishness of the ducks, sailed the pond like regal swans. Most of their morning was taken up with the serious business of the goose wife adding another large chalk-white egg to their elaborate nest in the hay. The gander would stand over her while this was accomplished. They were devoted mates and were seldom seen more than a few feet apart during the many years they were on the farm.
When it was time for the goose to “set” on her eggs, the gander remained on guard beside her, his intelligent china-blue eyes aware of all that went on in the barnyard. He would reach under her occasionally to turn the eggs with his big yellow beak, then he would use his beak to gently smooth her feathers back into place. Afternoons they covered the eggs with loose hay for warmth and disguise, and had a quick meal, then a hasty splash and drink in the pond before returning to the nest. If the goose was reluctant to leave the joy of a short swim, the gander firmly guided her back to the nest and their combined duty.
The two female mallard ducks — known as “hens” in the duck world — laid abundant eggs in and also out of their nests. One day while we were working in the barn, we witnessed a comical scene. A hen duck couldn’t get to her own nest on time and since the geese were having their “pond break” and she was passing their lovely big nest, she climbed in, laid her egg among the big goose eggs, and sat there awhile to rest. She was still in the nest when the geese returned from the pond.
There was no fussy ceremony of gestures or verbal scolding; “mother” goose swiftly waddled up to her nest, clamped her big beak on the duck’s neck and, swinging her own long neck sideways, flung the duck off into the hay pile. The duck spiraled in a big arc before she landed head first, then gathering her wings and head out of the hay, she flew into the corral quacking in outrage.
We happened to be in the barn the day the big pale-yellow goslings hatched. Among them was a single little golden duckling. The goose parents were loudly heralding the occasion as they poked at each hatchling. They listened to the whistling sound of their offspring, but were obviously puzzled by the small quacking duck. Being the fine parents they were, they accepted it without further inquiry. Unlike the duck family, both goose parents take equal responsibility in caring for their young. During a thunderstorm we had seen the gander hurrying awkwardly to the barn with little fluffy goslings tumbling out from under his wings. He would quickly stop to scoop them up again. That year, they raised the duckling as their own and we would see it in the pond swimming in single file with a goose parent at each end of the line. The geese were an exemplary couple and mated for life, as many breeds of geese do. It was a beautiful relationship to observe.
This adoption reminded us of a year when a Bantam hen had hatched a hastily dropped duck egg in her nest; she also accepted it into her brood. As the duckling grew older, it was fun to see it rushing to the pond and enjoying a swim, while the Bantam hen stood at the edge frantically clucking at it to return from the environment forbidden to chickens!
The ducks slept among the sheep — or on top of their woolly backs — in cold weather, sinking their orange feet into the warm fleece. Nights when the pond was not frozen, the goose family knew that floating on the pond kept them safe from foxes. After twilight, they looked like white marble figurines on a black mirror.