The Real Ugly Duckling

One day years ago, when I was homeschooling my children, I read the story of the Ugly Duckling aloud, and the kids used water colors to make illustrations.

Little Wesley proudly showed us his picture. "This is the pond. And these are some ducks." Then he pointed to a dark blob. "And this is an oil slick." Yes, homeschooling gave me quite an education.

Anyway, I love the story of The Ugly Duckling--and also the story of the man behind the story.

Once upon a time, in the far away land of Denmark, there lived a man.

He was poor. He was tall and gangly. He had a sad childhood. He wasn’t a great student. He was unlucky in love. His teachers advised him NOT to pursue a career in writing.

But this “ugly duckling” — Hans Christian Andersen — became one of the most famous writers of all time. In addition to novels, plays, and poetry, he wrote many of the fairy tales we all know and love. Stories like...

• "The Little Match Girl"
• "Thumbelina"
• "The Ugly Duckling"
• "The Princess and the Pea"
• "The Little Mermaid"
• "The Emperor’s New Clothes"
• "The Snow Queen"

Which only goes to demonstrate that we should ignore the nay-sayers in our lives and follow our hearts.

Hans was born in the town of Odense, in 1805. His father was a cobbler, and his mother was a washerwoman. He was a child who loved stories, and his father told him Danish folk tales and stories from The Arabian Nights. 

Childhood home in Odense

After his father died, Hans was sent (more like banished) to a school for poor children, where he was forced to make his own living. He worked first as a weaver’s apprentice and then as a tailor. He always looked back on those school years as the darkest, most dreadful time of his life. Small wonder. One schoolmaster often mistreated him just “to improve his character.”

The Little Mermaid's Sisters

After a couple of failed careers, Hans took up writing, against the advice of his teachers. At first, he retold stories he had heard as a child. Then he branched out to writing new and original stories. Many writers today also get their start by writing “fan fiction” based on popular stories in books, movies, or tv shows.

At first the stories Hans wrote were not well received (more nay-sayers), but he was persistent, and he kept writing them anyway.

Then in 1845, things changed. In that one year, four different translations of his tales were published. One reviewer of his book Wonderful Stories wrote, “This is a book full of life and fancy; a book for grandfathers no less than grandchildren, not a word of which will be skipped by those who have it once in hand." This reviewer understood that fairy tales aren’t written just for children but for people of all ages and all times.

The Little Match Girl

Some of Andersen’s stories came from sad experiences in his life. He wrote “The Little Match Girl,” remembering that his mother had been forced to beg as a child. He wrote “The Nightengale” about his love for the famous opera singer, Jenny Lind. Alas, Jenny did not return his love, but because of the story, she was given the nickname “The Swedish Nightengale.”

Hans Christian Andersen had much in common with the Ugly Duckling of his famous story. But that story has a happy ending, and so did the life of this writer who finally found recognition for his work. 

On April 2nd, we commemorate Andersen’s birthday, now known as International Children’s Book Day. Why not celebrate by reading one of his stories out loud to your family or friends?

Hans lived for seventy years, but the characters he created and the stories he wrote—they will live on, happily ever after.

Aflack!

Squeaky

“There’s a bad egg in every nest.”


That’s what Grandma Beakie always said. And she oughta  know. 


After all, one of her eggs is my Uncle Darwin, and he's always been an odd duck. Cow lick over his left eye. Walks without a waddle.  A duck without a waddle? Need I say more?

“There’s a bad egg in every nest.”

My mom said it too. I used to think she meant me, but that was before my sister Gloriana became a vegetarian and took up the cello. If you ask me, she’s no duck--she’s a turkey. 

So with my family history, maybe you can see how my heart filled with dread when I found myself sitting on a nest, and one egg just a wee bit peculiar. Was it the shape or the color? I wasn't sure, but I had a funny feeling in my gizzard. 


Rodney, my mate, said not to worry. It was just my imagination.  No bad eggs on his side of the family, clear back to Peking Duck. 

Yeah, right.


So maybe my family has the occasional odd duck,  but  for many generations, we have taken great pride in being purebreds. White feathers. Orange beaks. Waddle when we walk. Pointy tails that swish. 

Still. . ."there’s a bad egg in every nest." And when the ducklings hatched, Grandma’s words came back to haunt me. 


At first I made excuses, but eventually I had to admit it--one of my duckies was an odd duck.


He didn’t walk like a duck. In fact, he didn’t walk at all.


He didn’t talk like a duck. He spoke only one word: "Squeak." So we called him Squeaky.


He was adorable. He just wasn’t very. . .ducky.

The other ducklings used him for water polo. “Push Squeaky through the hoop. Five points!" And sometimes they liked to sneak up behind their Great Uncle Darwin and squeeze Squeaky really hard. “Sque-e-eak!” 


“Here comes Freaky!” Uncle Darwin would always say. “You're not a real duck. You're a rotten egg.”


What’s a mother to do? Just love my son and try to keep him safe. I thought that would be enough. I hoped that would be enough.

Then one day, out of nowhere, it came. Eyes like flame. Jaws like a bear trap. Miles and miles of teeth. We had heard stories, but we had never seen one in the flesh until his great bulk darkened the light of the sun. 


An alligator!

His eyes flashed. His jaws opened. His fowl breath hung in the air. Then, like the stroke of doom, the jaws snapped and took all my babies. All gone in one bite. All except Squeaky, who never quite got the hang of ducks-in-a-row.

Then Squeaky did a brave thing. Stupid maybe, but brave nonetheless.  Before the beast could swallow, Squeaky swam right up to the gator’s ear and did what he did best. 


“SQUE-E-E-EAK! “


The gator’s eyes popped. His mouth flew open. And in a cloud of fluff, out flew my ducklings. I couldn't believe my eyes.


And then, before I could shout, “Run, Squeaky," my brave little duckie swam right up to the jaws of doom and looked the leviathan in the eye. I watched in horror as the gleaming teeth descended once more and the fearsome jaws devoured Squeaky. 


This time, the gator did swallow. Or at least he tried. But I guess Squeaky stuck in that gator’s throat. The gator coughed and sputtered and gasped. He thrashed about, eyes bugging out of his head, churning the water furiously--until with one final gasp he quit thrashing and sank like a rock.


We stared at the bubbles on the water until the bubbles stopped.


"Squeaky!" I cried, tears running down my beak. 


“Squeaky!” cried all the ducklings.


"Children," I said at last, "we need to make haste. This pond is no longer safe. We have to find a new home.”


"But Mom, what about Squeaky?”


I bowed my head in grief.

I tried to steady my voice. "We’ll always remember how brave he was."


Fluffy spoke up. "We’ll always remember how he made us laugh."


Then Swishtail: "We'll always remember what a good sport he was."


Then Quacker: "We’ll always remember the way he used to. . . ."


“Sque-e-eak!” 

I knew that voice! We all turned and there came Squeaky. He had battled the beast and won! All the ducklings cheered. All the pond creatures squawked, flapped, and croaked. Gloriana played her cello.


We made a nice home in a new pond. Uncle Darwin, of course, came with us. But the next time he made wisecracks about “Freaky,” all the ducklings gathered around him and cried, “Squeak, squeak, squeak.” Then they pecked at him until he begged for mercy.

Squeaky has made us all think about what it really means to be a duck.  Orange beak? Walk with a waddle? Shaking our tail feathers?  It turns out that being a duck is something that’s in your heart, not just your gene pool.    


And as for Uncle Darwin, I guess he can’t help being pond scum. After all, there’s a bad egg in every nest.

For a more dignified version of this classic tale, read "The Ugly Duckling," by Hans Christian Andersen.

But if you like your fairy tales fractured, you might also enjoy. . .

Confessions of an Ugly, Wicked Step-sister

Little Dread Riding Hood