The
early summer days on a farm are the happiest and fairest days of the year.
Lilacs bloom and make the air sweet, and then fade. Apple blossoms come with
the lilacs, and the bees visit around among the apple trees. The days grow warm
and soft. School ends, and children have time to play and to fish for trouts in
the brook. Avery often brought a trout home in his pocket, warm and stiff and
ready to be fried for supper.
Now that school was
over, Fern visited the barn almost every day, to sit quietly on her stool. The
animals treated her as an equal. The sheep lay calmly at her feet.
Around the first of
July, the work horses were hitched to the mowing machine, and Mr. Zuckerman
climbed into the seat and drove into the field. All morning you could hear the
rattle of the machine as it went round and round, while the tall grass fell
down behind the cutter bar in long green swathes. Next day, if there was no
thunder shower, all hands would help rake and pitch and load, and the hay would
be hauled to barn in the high hay wagon, with Fern and Avery riding at the top
of the load. Then the hay would be hoisted, sweet and warm, into the big loft,
until the whole barn seemed like a wonderful bed of timothy and clover. It was
fine to jump in, and perfect to hide in. And sometimes Avery would find a little
grass snake in the hay, and would add it to the other things in his pocket.
Early summer days are
a jubilee time for birds. In the fields, around the house, in the barn, in the
woods, in the swamp--everywhere love and songs and nests and eggs. From the
edge of the woods, the white-throated sparrow(which must come all the way from
Boston) calls, "Oh, Peabody, Peabody, Peabody!" On an apple bough,
the phoebe teeters and wags its tail and says, "Phoebe, phoe-bee!"
The song sparrow, who knows how brief and lovely life is, says, "Sweet,
sweet, sweet interlude; sweet, sweet, sweet interlude." If you enter the
barn, the swallows swoop down from their nests and scold. "Cheeky,
cheeky!" they say.
In early summer there
are plenty of things for a child to eat and drink and suck and chew. Dandelion
stems are full of milk, clover heads are loaded with nectar, the Frigidaire is
full of ice-cold drinks. Everywhere you look is life; even the little ball of
spit on the weed stalk, if you poke it apart, has a green worm inside it. And
on the under side of the leaf of the potato vine are the bright orange eggs of
the potato bug.
It was on a day in
early summer that the goose eggs hatched. This was an important event in the
barn cellar. Fern was there, sitting on her stool, when it happened.
Except for the goose
herself, Charlotte was the first to know that the goslings had at last arrived.
The goose knew a day in advance that they were coming--she could hear their
weak voices calling from inside the egg. She knew that they were coming. She
knew that they were in a desperately cramped position inside the shell and were
most anxious to break through and get out. So she sat quite still, and talked
less than usual.
When the first
gosling poked its grey-green head through the goose's feathers and looked
around, Charlotte spied it and made the announcement.
"I am
sure," she said," that every one of us here will be gratified to
learn that after four weeks of unremitting effort and patience on the part of
our friend the goose, she now has something to show for it. The goslings have
arrived. May I offer my sincere congratulations!""Thank you, thank
you, thank you!" said the goose, nodding and bowing shamelessly.
"Thank
you," said the gander.
"Congratulations!"
shouted Wilbur. "How many gosling s are there?" I can only see
one.""There are seven," said the goose.
"Fine!"
said Charlotte. "Seven is a lucky number.""Luck had nothing to
do with this," said the goose. "It was good management and hard
work."At this point, Templeton showed his nose from his hiding place under
Wilbur's trough. He glanced at Fern, then crept cautiously toward the goose,
keeping close to the wall. Everyone watched him, for he was not well liked, not
trusted.
"Look," he
began in his sharp voice, "you say you have seven goslings. There were
eight eggs. What happened to the other egg? Why didn't it
hatch?""It's a dud, I guess," said the goose.
"What are you
going to do with it?" continued Templeton, his little round beady eyes
fixed on the goose.
"You can have
it," replied the goose. "Roll it away and add it to that nasty
collection of yours." (Templeton had a habit of picking up unusual objects
around the farm and storing them in his home. He saved
everything.)"Certainly-ertainly-ertainly," said the gander. "You
may have the egg. But I'll tell you one thing, Templeton, if I ever catch you
poking-oking-oking your ugly nose around our goslings, I'll give you the worst
pounding a rat ever took." And the gander opened his strong wings and beat
the air with them to show his power. He was strong and brave, but the truth is,
both the goose and the gander were worried about Templeton. And with good
reason. The rat had no morals, no conscience, no scruples, no consideration, no
decency, no milk of rodent kindness, no compunctions, no higher feeling, no
friendliness, no anything. He would kill a gosling if he could get away with
it--the goose knew that. Everybody knew it.
With her broad bill
the goose pushed the unhatched egg out of the nest, and the entire company
watched in disgust while the rat rolled it away. Even Wilbur, who could eat
almost anything, was appalled. "Imagine wanting a junky old rotten
egg!" he muttered.
"A rat is a
rat," said Charlotte. She laughed a tinkling little laugh. "But, my
friends, if that ancient egg ever breaks, this barn will be
untenable.""What's that mean?" asked Wilbur.
"It means nobody
will be able to live here on account of the smell. A rotten egg is a regular
stink bomb.""I won't break it," snarled Templeton. "I know
what I'm doing. I handle stuff like this all the time."He disappeared into
his tunnel, pushing the goose egg in front of him. He pushed and nudged till he
succeeded in rolling it to his lair under the trough.
That afternoon, when
the wind had died down and the barnyard was quiet and warm, the grey goose led
her seven goslings off the nest and out into the world. Mr. Zucherman spied
them when he came with Wilbur's supper.
"Well, hello
there!" he said, smiling all over. "Let's see...one, two, three, four,
five, six, seven. Seven baby geese. Now isn't that lovely!"