It was warm, sunny, and still, but in the country sounds travel far, and I could hear fowl conversation in various parts of the poultry-yard as well as in all the outlying bits of territory occupied by our feathered friends.

Hens have only three words and a scream in their language, but ducks, having more thoughts to express, converse quite fluently, so fluently, in fact, that it reminds me of dinner at the Hydropathic Hotel.
I fancy I have learned to distinguish seven separate sounds, each varied by degrees of intensity, and with upward or downward inflections like the Chinese tongue.
In the distance, then, I heard the faint voice of a duck calling as if breathless and excited.

While I wondered what was happening, I saw Miss Crippletoes struggling up the steep bank above the duck-pond.

It was the quickest way from the water to the house, but difficult for the little lame webbed feet.

When she reached the level grass sward she sank down a moment, exhausted; but when she could speak again she cried out, a sharp staccato call, and ran forward.
Instantly she was answered from a distant knoll, where for some reason Sir Muscovy loved to retire for meditation.