Just any old place wouldn't do for raising a family of ducklings. Father Mallard thought the pond in the Boston Public Garden would be very nice, particularly because endless relays of people threw endless quantities of peanuts, but Mrs. Mallard could see in a minute that with all those horrid swan boats rushing about, it was no place for babies.

She found fault, too, with several other places that he suggested. There were sure to be foxes in the woods or turtles in the water, and she was not going to raise a family where there might be foxes or turtles.

Finally, however, they found a nice quiet island in the Charles River, and they chose a cozy spot among the bushes near the water and built a nest.

First eight eggs, and then eight fuzzy ducklings arrived, and the ducklings were taught how to swim and dive, and to walk in a line, and to come when called.

Then Mr and Mrs Mallard remembered the peanuts in the Public Garden. The ducklings were old enough now to look out for themselves, but they couldn't yet fly. How to move them across the highway, down Mt. Vernon Street, along Charles Street, and across Beacon Street? Mrs. Mallard made no difficulties about it. She just set off at a proud waddle and the ducklings filed after her.

From the dust jacket