came galloping—clop—clop—down the little path to the stream. In a moment he was out among the ducks and had dragged Bulka away from them, not an instant too soon, and even then it was a hard tussle, for one of the ducklings had hold of Bulka firmly by the ear and wouldn’t let go. But Poor Cecco was a good swimmer, being made of wood; he dealt blows about him right and left with his feet, and moreover it was no good trying to bite him, he was far too hard, and one of the ducks who did try it had toothache for a week after. So they let Bulka go, and Poor Cecco towed him back to shore and set him up in the sunshine to dry. He was covered with slime and pondweed, one ear had come unsewn in the tussle, and altogether he looked a miserable object, but he was glad enough to be back on dry land. And I’m ashamed to say that the first thing he did, when he had his breath back and had got rid of the water he swallowed, was to turn round and make a very rude and ugly face at the ducklings, who only laughed at him for his pains.
While Bulka sat there drying off, and picking the pondweed out of his ears, Poor Cecco set about looking for a boat. He wandered up and down the shore, and at last discovered a piece of plank big enough to hold the two of them safely, and with a hole at one end in which he stuck a branch of willow, with the green leaves still on it, for a mast. It looked quite elegant, and when he had dragged it down to the water and launched it there was a
