Funny Frank

by Dick King-Smith

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  OTHER YEARLING FAVORITES

  BY DICK KING-SMITH

  Ace: The Very Important Pig

  Babe: The Gallant Pig

  Harriet's Hare

  Harry's Mad

  The Invisible Dog

  Martin's Mice

  The Merman

  A Mouse Called Wolf

  Mr. Ape

  Mysterious Miss Slade

  The Roundhill

  Spider Sparrow

  The Stray

  Three Terrible Trins

  Titus Rules!

  The Water Horse

  Chapter One

  Jemima Tabb was a farmer's daughter. She was eight years old, she had dark hair worn in a pigtail, and she particularly liked chickens, especially baby chicks.

  Whenever one of her father's hens went broody, Jemima would put a clutch of eggs under the hen—eggs that, with luck, would in twenty-one days' time hatch out into fluffy little chicks.

  Out in the orchard was a duck pond that was fed by a small stream, and not far from the edge of this pond was where Jemima chose to put her broody coop with its wire run attached. Sitting on eggs must be very boring, she thought, which is why she selected this spot.

  “Just you listen to the chuckle of the water as it falls into the pond, and the sounds of the ducks quacking and splashing about, and you'll find the time will pass quite quickly,” she would say to each broody hen as she settled it upon the eggs.

  Three weeks after she had said all this to a hen called Gertie, eight little chicks duly hatched out.

  When the chicks first came out of the coop into the wire run, seven of them scuttled excitedly about on the grass, but the eighth one walked to the end of the run that was nearest to the duck pond and stood there, quite still, listening to the chuckle of the water and the sounds of the ducks quacking and splashing. From then on, he would do this every day, standing and gazing and listening, so that by the time the chicks were a month old, Gertie—the chicks' mother—was worried and felt she needed to share her worry.

  One fine morning when she and her best friend, Mildred, were scratching about together in the orchard, pecking at worms and beetles and the seeds of flowering grasses, Gertie said to Mildred, “You know, I think that one of my chicks is funny.”

  “Funny, Gertie?” clucked Mildred. “Do you mean funny ‘ha! ha!’ or funny ‘peculiar’?”

  “Peculiar,” replied Gertie.“I've suspected it for some time now. The other seven chicks behave quite normally, but this one is different. To begin with, he keeps himself to himself. Look at him now.”

  Mildred looked at Gertie's chicks as they scuttled about in the grass, pecking at anything and everything, and she saw that there were only seven of them doing this. The eighth chick was standing at the edge of the duck pond, looking at the ducks swimming about in it.

  “Is that him?” she asked.

  “Yes,” replied Gertie.

  “Well, he's only looking at the ducks.”

  “Yes, I know, Mildred. But why is he looking at the ducks?”

  “Better ask him,” said Mildred.

  “You!” squawked Gertie at the chick. “Come here!”

  At the sound of her voice, the eighth chick turned and came toward them. Usually little chicks run to their mother when she calls them—run very fast— flapping their stubby little wings. But this one was in no hurry.

  He came slowly, looking back over his shoulder once or twice at the ducks in the pond, and when he reached the two hens, he did not cheep and peep as an ordinary chick would have done. Had Gertie called any one of his brothers and sisters, they would have rushed up to her, saying,“Yes, Mummy?” and probably adding politely, “Good morning, Auntie Mildred.”

  This chick, though, simply stood there and said, “What?” He did not say it in a rude way, but rather in the tone of someone who has been interrupted in the middle of something important.

  “Now,” clucked Gertie. “What were you doing?”

  “Looking at the ducks,” her eighth chick replied.

  “Yes, but why were you looking at the ducks?”

  “I like ducks,” he said.“They're cleverer than you are, Mum.”

  “Cleverer?” squawked Gertie. “Whatever d'you mean, boy? Compared to hens, ducks are stupid. They can't run about in the grass like we can. They can only waddle.”

  “Yes,” said the chick, “but they can swim. I wish I could. It looks nice.”

  “Don't be silly, dear,” his mother said. “Chickens can't swim. Run along now.”

  This time he did run, straight back to the duck pond, and stood once more at the edge.

  Gertie shook her head in amazement. “I told you, Mildred,” she said. “That chick is funny.”

  Chapter Two

  Gertie and Mildred moved away down the orchard, shaking their heads in a bewildered fashion. On the pond the ducks dabbled happily, while Gertie's eighth little chick watched, wishing and wishing that he could dabble too.

  What fun it looked to be playing about in all that lovely water that sparkled in the summer sunshine! How much they were enjoying ducking their heads under, and letting the glistening stuff slide down their backs, and flapping their wings to spatter themselves with dancing drops, and wagging their rumps with pleasure! Lucky ducks, he thought. He moved forward a step or two into the shallows at the edge of the pond. How cool the water felt!

  Just then a brood of little yellow ducklings came swimming past.

  “Excuse me!” the chick called. “Can I ask you something?”

  The fleet of ducklings turned as one and paddled toward him. “Ask away, chick!” they cried.

  “Well,” he said, “how did you all learn to swim?”

  “Learn?” they cried, and they gave a chorus of shrill squeaks that sounded like laughter.

  “We didn't learn,” one said.

  “We didn't have to, man!”

  “We just did it.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Like ducklings do.”

  “Well,” said the chick, “the thing is— I want to learn to swim.”

  “Tough luck, chick,” they said.

  “Chickens can't swim,” one added.

  “Your feathers aren't waterproof.”

  “And your feet aren't webbed.”

  “So, forget it, chick.”

  “But I can't forget it,” said the chick, and in his eagerness to do as the ducklings did, he took another couple of steps forward till the water was up to his knees. “Don't go!” he called to his new friends. “Just tell me, what do I do next?”

  And with one voice, they called back one word: “Drown!” And they paddled away, making their laughing noises.

  The chick took another couple of steps until he felt the water against his breast— and very cold it felt too. At that moment he heard the noise of pounding footsteps, and turned to see Jemima—the farmer's daughter—running toward him. Then hands grasped him and scooped him up.

  “You silly boy!” said a voice in his ear. “Whatever d'you think you're doing? Anyone would suppose you were trying to swim. Chickens can't, you know. Waterproof feathers and webbed feet— that's what you need for swimming.”

  Jemima carried the chick into the kitchen of the farmhouse and was drying his wet b
its when her mother came in.

  “What have you got there, Jemima?” she asked.

  “One of those eight chicks that are out in the orchard, Mum. He was wading into the duck pond, silly boy. Perhaps he thinks he's a duck. I told him chickens aren't cut out for swimming.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He made a funny noise, almost as though he was angry at being picked up.”

  She held the chick out before her face. “Didn't you, Frank?”

  “Frank? Is that what you are going to call him?” her mother asked.

  “Well, that was what the funny noise sounded like.‘Frank! Frank!’ he squawked. I can't put him back in the orchard, Mum—he'll drown himself, I'm sure he will. Won't you, funny Frank?”

  “Where are you going to keep him, then?”

  “I'll put him in that big empty rabbit hutch till I decide what to do. I'll ask Uncle Ted, he might know.”

  Uncle Ted was Jemima's father's brother. He was a vet, which was very useful whenever Jemima's father had a sick animal.

  Jemima called her uncle at his office. “Uncle Ted,” she said. “It's Jemima. I want to ask you about something. Are you coming anywhere near us today?” “Yes,” said Ted Tabb, “as a matter of fact, I am. My last call is only a couple of miles from you. I'll look in if you like. About teatime. Just in case your mum has got any of those fruit scones about.”

  “Oh, thank you!”

  “What's the trouble, Jemima?”

  #x201C;I've got a chicken that wants to be a duck!”

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Three

  “Tea's ready,” called Jemima's mother. “Either of you fancy one of my fruit scones?” she asked, just as her husband and his brother came into the kitchen.

  “Yes please, Carrie,” said Ted.

  “Me too,” said his brother Tom, and then,“What's up, then, Ted? I never called you.”

  “No, but Jemima did,” said the vet. “Seems she's got a problem with one of her chicks.”

  “I expect you'll sort it out,” said the farmer. “Mind he doesn't charge you too much, Jemima.”

  When a lot of tea had been drunk and the plate of fruit scones was empty, Jemima's father went off to start the afternoon milking.

  “Right,” said her uncle. “Let's have a look at this creature of yours.”

  Jemima went outside and took Frank out of the rabbit hutch. “He's healthy enough, I think, Uncle Ted, isn't he?” she said.

  The vet examined the young chicken. “Looks okay to me,” he said, “and you're right—by the look of his comb and the set of his tail, he's a cockerel chick.”

  “I thought so,” said Jemima. “I've named him Frank.”

  “Well then, Frank,” said Ted, “let's go down to the duck pond and see what happens.” He went to his car and put on a pair of wellies—his Wellington boots, that is—to keep his feet dry.

  As soon as Frank was put down at the edge of the pond and saw the brood of ducklings come swimming past, squeaking at him, and saw the big ducks dabbling and splashing and preening and heard them quacking happily to each other, he made up his mind. He would learn to swim.

  Now! It was now or never. I'll give it a go, he said to himself, and he ran straight into the water.

  Once out of his depth, he began to flap his little wings wildly, trying to fly (which he couldn't), and kicked madly with his legs, trying to swim (which he couldn't). Already his feathers were soaked, and now he began to sink until only his head was sticking out. From his gaping beak came one last despairing cry. “Frank!” he squawked.

  “Oh, Uncle Ted, he's going to drown!” cried Jemima just as the little fleet of ducklings sailed by, crying, “We told you so!”

  “No he isn't,” said her uncle, and he waded out into the pond and picked up the waterlogged bird. “Looks like you were right, Jemima,” he said. “Frank does want to be a duck, but he's not exactly equipped for it.”

  “No, I know. He needs waterproof feathers and webbed feet.”

  “Let's get him dried out,” said the vet, “and stick him back in the rabbit hutch, and I'll have a good think about you, funny Frank. In the meantime, don't let him near that duck pond!”

  The very next day Jemima's Uncle Ted turned up at the farm again. “I've had an idea,” he said.“About Frank.”

  “What is it?” Jemima asked.

  “Well, there can only be one reason for him going into the duck pond, and that is that he wants to swim. Now then, suppose we could help him to do that—make it safe for him to go in the water? He'd be as happy as a pig in muck, Frank would, paddling round with the ducks, wouldn't he now?”

  “Oh yes!” said Jemima. “But how? I mean, his feathers … his feet…”

  “Tell me this, Jemima,” said Ted Tabb. “When people go surfing at the seaside, no matter how warm the sea is, what do they wear?”

  “Wet suits, you mean?” said Jemima.

  “Yes,” said her uncle.“Go and ask your mum if she's got an old hot-water bottle she could spare.…”

  Chapter Four

  Frank's mother, Gertie, was extremely worried. She was a very conventional hen who, in her time, had hatched a great many broods of chicks, all of whom had—she liked to think—been properly brought up. That is to say, they were well mannered and did as they were told and behaved in every way as chicks should.

  Now she had somehow managed to produce this funny son, Frank, who was acting in such a very odd fashion. She had seen him with her own eyes walk into the duck pond right up to his chest before the girl had come running to save him.

  “Let's hope that will teach him a lesson,” she had said to her friend Mildred.“I don't think he'll do that again in a hurry.”

  But she had been wrong. He had done it again, the same day, and Mildred had seen him do it.

  Mildred was by nature a pokenose who liked to stick her beak into everyone else's business. She was also a gossip, and she had made sure that the rest of the flock had heard the news before she had run to the bottom of the orchard to tell Gertie about Frank's latest exploit.

  “You'll never guess what's happened to Frank!” she panted.“Oh dear, oh dear, it's the end! Poor Gertie, I thought. There was just his little head sticking out of the water, and him calling for help, oh dear, oh dear!”

  “He's drowned!” screeched Gertie. “My little Frank, he's drowned!”

  “I don't think so, dear,” said Mildred. “The girl was there with a man who waded into the pond, rescued your little lad, and took him away. But oh my, what a worry it must be for you, having a son like that.”

  “Like what?” said Gertie.

  “Well,” said Mildred, “sort of, you know, not quite …”

  “Not quite what?” said Gertie rather sharply.

  “Well, not quite, er, right in the head,” replied Mildred with an embarrassed cackle.

  “Mildred,” said Gertie slowly and deliberately, “we have been friends for many years, you and I. After your last remark, we are friends no longer.”And she stalked off.

  The next morning Gertie was sitting in one of the nest boxes in the henhouse when Mildred appeared.

  “Good morning, Gertie dear,” she said.

  “It is not a good morning,” replied Gertie, “and I am about to lay an egg. Kindly go away.”

  “But I have something important to tell you, dear,” said Mildred.

  “And I have something important to do, Mildred. Something private and personal. A well-bred hen expects some privacy when she is sitting in her nest box for a purpose. I don't wish to do it with someone looking on.”

  “Oh, sorry, dear,” said Mildred.“I'll tell you later on.” And she went away.

  As soon as she was gone, Gertie raised herself a little and, with a slightly strained expression on her face, laid an egg. She stood up and turned to inspect it. It was, she saw with satisfaction, of a good size and a good color—a handsome shade of brown. Gertie, something of a snob, rather despised hens that laid white e
ggs.

  Now she stepped from the nest box, gave that shout of triumph that all hens make after laying, and made her way out of the henhouse. Mildred was waiting by the pophole.

  “Well?” said Gertie.“What is this important thing you wish to tell me?”

  “It's about Frank, Gertie,” said Mildred. “I was having a little look around the place and happened to see him.”

  “Where?”

  “In the rabbit hutch.”

  Oh no! thought Gertie. First he wants to be a duck. Now he wants to be a rabbit.“A rabbit hutch!” she said. “Poor boy! No room to move about.”

  “No,” said Mildred, “but at least you can't drown in a rabbit hutch!”

  Chapter Five

  Jemima's mother did have an old hot-water bottle that no one ever used. “But why d'you want it?” she asked Jemima.

  “Uncle Ted wants it.”

  “Whatever for?”

  Just then the vet came in.

  “Whatever do you want a hot-water bottle for, Ted?” asked his sister-in-law. “Is it to keep a lamb warm?”

  “No, Carrie,” said Ted Tabb. “It's to keep a chicken dry. Can I borrow your tape measure? We must make it fit properly.”

  “Make what fit?”

  “A wet suit, Mum,” said Jemima. “For Frank. So that he can swim.”

  “Actually, we'd be glad of your help, Carrie,” said the vet. “I know you're a good dressmaker.”

  “You're crazy, the pair of you,” Jemima's mother said. But to herself she said, If it's worth doing, it's worth doing well.