Anger is like a storm rising up from the bottom of your consciousness. When you feel it coming, turn your focus to your breath.
Thích Nhất Hạnh
ePub
A4Chapter 6: Summer Days
T
he early summer days on a farmare 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!
