Pip, the Duckling Who Was Different

At the soft edge of Willowbend Pond, where the reeds whisper all day long, Mama Duck sat on a nest of five little eggs.

Four of the eggs were smooth and cream, like tiny moons. But one egg was speckled grey and blue, like a pebble that had been kissed by rain.

Mama Duck did not mind one bit. She tucked her warm wing around all five and hummed the same soft song to each of them, over and over, while the sun climbed slowly out of the water.

Sleep, little eggs, in the reeds and the dew,whatever you are, I already love you.

One morning the nest began to wobble. Crack, crack, crack! Out tumbled four fluffy yellow ducklings, round and bright as little buttercups.

Then the speckled egg opened last of all, and out came a duckling who was not yellow at all. He was soft silver grey, with tiny dark spots, and one small wing that curled the wrong way.

"His name is Pip," said Mama Duck, and she kissed the top of his head. "And he is exactly, perfectly here."

Welcome, welcome, one, two, three,four and five, you're home with me.

Pip leaned over the still water and met a little grey face looking up at him.

He turned his head one way. The face turned too. He wiggled his crooked wing, and the water wiggled back.

"Why am I not yellow like my brothers?" he wondered aloud. "Why does my wing curl like a question mark?"

The pond had no answer. It only rippled, and carried his question all the way to the reeds.

That afternoon the yellow ducklings raced across the pond in a shining line, and Pip could not keep up. His crooked wing splashed instead of gliding.

"You paddle funny," one of them giggled, not meaning to be unkind.

Pip climbed onto a mossy log all by himself. He tucked his head down small. His chest felt heavy, the way the sky feels heavy just before rain.

"Maybe," he whispered, "I am the wrong sort of duck."

Mama Duck found him there as the light turned gold. She did not tell him to stop being sad. She sat down beside him and opened her wing like a warm little door.

Pip crept inside and cried the small, shaky cry of someone who has been brave for too long.

"You are not wrong," Mama said. "You were never wrong. Your feathers are the colour of morning mist. Your wing curls like a question, and questions are how the world grows. I would not trade one speckle of you."

Hush now, my speckled one, close up your eyes,you are not a mistake, you're a soft grey surprise.The pond holds you gently, the reeds know your name,no two little ducklings were ever the same.

That night the pond turned deep blue and the stars came out one by one, like little lamps being lit for Pip alone.

Mama Duck taught him a song to keep for whenever his heart felt too small, and Pip sang it back in his funny, husky voice.

Somewhere in the middle of the second verse, his shoulders came unknotted, and the heavy feeling floated away across the water.

Star on the water, star in the sky,I am enough, and I don't know why.But the moon doesn't ask why it shines as it does,so I'll shine like me, just because, just because.

Then came a day when the sky went dark and rain hammered the pond into silver waves. The yellow ducklings huddled in the reeds, too frightened to swim.

But Pip's strong grey feathers shed the rain like a raincoat, and his curly wing pushed the choppy water aside beautifully.

His heart thumped hard. "I am scared," he told himself, "and I am going anyway."

"Follow me!" he called. "Stay behind my wing!"

One by one the yellow ducklings tucked in behind him, and Pip led them home through the waves, calling out steadily so nobody felt alone.

When the rain thinned and a rainbow leaned over the meadow, five wet, happy ducklings tumbled onto the bank.

"Pip," said his brothers, "your wing is the best wing on this whole pond."

Pip stood up very straight. Something warm unfolded inside him, and it was not pride in being like them. It was pride in being himself.

After that, Pip stopped waiting to turn yellow.

He climbed the big smooth rock, spread his silver wings wide in the sunshine, and let everyone see every single speckle.

"I am Pip," he announced to the pond, the reeds and the sky. "My feathers are misty grey. My wing curls like a question. I am different, and I am just right."

And Mama Duck, watching from the water, said the truest thing of all: "Yes, my love. You always were."

That evening the whole family curled together in the nest of reeds, five ducklings breathing slow, the moon resting on the water like a big soft coin.

Mama Duck tucked her wing around them all and hummed the old, old song, the one she had sung to five little eggs.

And little Pip, silver and speckled and sound asleep, dreamed of being exactly who he was.

Goodnight, little different one, goodnight, goodnight,the pond keeps you softly, the stars keep you bright.You don't have to change, you don't have to try,you are loved as you are. Goodnight, goodnight, goodbye.