“Death strode away, stopped, and came back. He pointed a skeletal finger at The Duck Man.WHY, he said, ARE YOU WALKING AROUND WITH THAT DUCK?"What duck?"AH. SORRY.”

“Give him a good ducking, anyhow.-But he'd crawl back.Duck him again; and keep ducking him.-Suppose he should take it into his head to duck you, though—yes, and drown you—what then?”

“You point your feet out too much when you walk,” Will went on. He was busy polishing an apple on his shirtfront, and appeared not to notice Tessa glaring at him. “Camille walks delicately. Like a faun in the woods. Not like a duck.” “I do not walk like a duck.” “I like ducks,” Jem observed diplomatically. “Especially the ones in Hyde Park.” He glanced sideways at Will; both boys were sitting on the edge of the high table, their legs dangling over the side. “Remember when you tried to convince me to feed poultry pie to the mallards in the park to see if you could breed a race of cannibal ducks?” “They ate it too,” Will reminisced. “Bloodthirsty little beasts. Never trust a duck.”

“He is being nibbled to death by ducks.--More Later, Less the Same”

“They would all be sorry... particularly the duck.”

“It's all very well to run around saying regulation is bad, get the government off our backs, etc. Of course our lives are regulated. When you come to a stop sign, you stop; if you want to go fishing, you get a license; if you want to shoot ducks, you can shoot only three ducks. The alternative is dead bodies at the intersection, no fish, and no ducks. OK?(Getting Control of the Frontier, Gainsville Sun, March 22, 1995)”