deal table, a shiny black cook-stove, a great many bright copper
saucepans, and a red geranium in the window. A large iron pot was
boiling merrily on the stove and from time to time the Gray Goose
stirred its contents with a wooden spoon. It smelled rather good, and
Peter, sniffing, began to put on his hungry expression.

"No, not even a family resemblance," went on the Gray Goose, waving
her spoon, "although, as is generally known, a Roman nose is
characteristic in our family, having developed in fact at the time of
that little affair when we repelled the Gauls in the year--"

But Rudolf felt he could not stand much more of this. "I beg your
pardon," he interrupted, "but would you mind if we helped the little
one out of the heap, the--the--duck who is getting so thoroughly
smothered?"

"Not at all, if you care about it," said the Gray Goose kindly.
"Squawker'll be good now, won't he, Father?"

"Oh, I'm sure he'll be good," Ann cried, and she ran ahead of Rudolf
to catch hold of one of the thin yellow legs and give it a mighty
pull.

"He'll be good," said the Gentleman Goose gravely, speaking for the
first time, "when he's roasted. Very good indeed'll Squawker be--with
apple sauce!" And he smacked his lips and winked at Peter who was
standing close beside him, looking up earnestly into his face.

Peter thought a moment. Then he said: "_I_ likes currant jelly on my
duck. I eats apple sauce on goose."

The Gentleman Goose appeared suddenly uncomfortable. He began
nervously stuffing little parcels of the feathers he had been weighing
into small blue and white striped bags, which he threw one after the
other to Squealer, who never by any chance caught them as he turned
his back at every throw. "I suppose," said the Gentleman Goose to
Peter in a hesitating, anxious sort of voice, "you believe along with
all the rest, what's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,
don't you? I suppose there's nothing sauce-y about yourself now, is
there?" And apparently comforted by his miserable little joke he went
on with his weighing.

By this time the other little duck had been hauled out of the heap of
feathers by Ann and Rudolf, and stood coughing and sneezing and
gasping in the middle of the floor. As soon as he had breath enough he
began calling pitifully for some one to brush the down off his Sunday
trousers. The Gray Goose came good-naturedly to his assistance, but as
she brushed him all the wrong way, the children co