Make Way for Ducklings: Boston’s Most Beloved (and Frequently Kidnapped) Family

If you’ve ever wandered through the Boston Public Garden, you’ve probably met the city’s most famous residents: Mrs. Mallard and her eight ducklings, immortalized in bronze and endlessly climbed on by children, tourists, and the occasional overly enthusiastic adult who should know better.

They’re based on the classic 1941 children’s book Make Way for Ducklings by Robert McCloskey — which, in a very Massachusetts move, has been officially declared the Commonwealth’s children’s book. Because of course it has. If we love something, we legislate it (remember the chowder?).

A Duck Family Cast in Bronze

The bronze duck family was created by sculptor Nancy Schön and installed in 1987. They’re lined up in a neat little row — Mrs. Mallard in front, followed by Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Ouack, Pack, and Quack — and they are:

• rubbed shiny by millions of tiny hands
• photographed more than the average Kardashian
• climbed on daily
• and beloved in a way that borders on civic obsession

If you stand there long enough, you’ll see at least one toddler attempt to ride Mrs. Mallard like a Kentucky Derby contender. 

Years of tiny hands have polished them so shiny they practically glow — and honestly, that tracks. New Englanders love to touch bronze animals for good luck. It’s right up there with eating chowder on a hot day and pretending we don’t mind the weather.

Dressed for Every Occasion

People dress these ducks up more often than most folks I know change their own outfits. Depending on the season, you might find them wearing:

• Easter bonnets
• Patriots jerseys
• Red Sox gear
• Scarves in winter
• Pride flags in June
• Pumpkin hats in October
• Graduation caps (because Boston has more colleges than Dunkin’ locations, and that’s saying something)

There’s no official “duck stylist,” but somehow the outfits appear like magic. It’s very Boston: no one admits to doing it, but everyone approves.

Honestly, they get dressed up more often than the average Bostonian heading to a Patriots game in January — and we’ll wear anything as long as it’s warm and vaguely team‑colored.

The Great Ducknappings of Boston

Here’s the part that always makes people blink:
The ducklings get stolen. Frequently.

Not all eight at once — that would require a level of planning usually reserved for heists — but one or two at a time. Usually it’s:

• a prank
• a drunken college student
• or someone who thought, “You know what my dorm room needs? A 40‑pound bronze duck.”

They almost always get returned, sometimes anonymously, sometimes by a sheepish parent dragging a guilty teenager by the elbow. The city keeps replacement molds on standby because Boston has accepted that this is simply part of life now.

It’s practically a local sport, right behind candlepin bowling and arguing about which place has the “real” clam chowder.

Why We Love Them

There’s something about these statues that hits people right in the heart. Maybe it’s nostalgia for the book. Maybe it’s the charm of a duck family marching through the Garden like they own the place. Or maybe it’s that deep New England instinct to adopt anything small, cute, and slightly chaotic — see also: our weather.

Whatever it is, the ducks are woven into Boston’s identity. They’re whimsical, sturdy, slightly chaotic, and beloved — which, come to think of it, describes the city pretty well too.