immer, as they are called,
carefully selects from his squadron of _palmipedes_, the strongest, the
most intelligent duck or goose of the party; his choice made, he
immediately sets to work to give him the education befitting a bird
destined for so honourable and diplomatic an employment.

After very many trials, lessons, and lectures, more or less difficult
and tedious, the bird is taught to swim to a distance right ahead--to
turn to one side when his master sings, and return to him when he
whistles. These two primary and elementary movements, which appear so
very natural, demand, nevertheless, wonderful patience, and no little
cleverness and tact in the professor to instil--for his pupils, be it
remembered, are ducks and geese--and furnishes an example of how the
hope and love of gain has its effect on mankind. These very peasants,
who never would take the trouble to learn their letters--only
twenty-four--who would not many of them go two miles to learn how to
sign their own names, pass whole days in the gray waters of these
marshes, more often than not up to their waists in mud, whistling and
singing and twitching the legs of their unfortunate birds, and nearly
pulling them off with a string, when they either do not comprehend, or
obey as quickly as they might, the orders they receive.

Dozens of ducks and geese that would in London or Paris be considered
highly curious and infinitely wiser than any of their species--even
those of the Capitol--are thus trained every year in Le Morvan, without
any one giving them a thought, and may be purchased, education included,
for two shillings a piece. When these winged students are so thoroughly
qualified for their duties, that they can go through their exercise
without a mistake, and are considered worthy of taking the field, the
peasant puts them into his bag, and setting off very early in the
morning to one of the great ponds I have mentioned, conceals himself
behind a thick tufty curtain of flags, from whence he can see without
being seen.

Here, opening his bag, he takes out the half suffocated ducks or geese,
which are glad enough to find themselves once more on their favourite
element; and the intelligent birds have scarcely regained their liberty
when the peasant commences his ballad, and immediately the anchor is
apeak and they are off; he sings, he whistles, and they turn, like two
well-manned frigates, and come back to him without a moment's delay. The
act is so na