he 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 the

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 of celebration and rejoicing) 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, phoebee!"

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 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 goslings 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

(uneasiness of conscience, remorse), 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. Zuckerman 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!