Summer Days
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 al-
most 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 morn-
ing 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 bam in the high hay wagon, with Fern and Avery rid-
ing at the top of the load. Then the hay would be
hoisted, sweet and warm, into the big loft, until the
whole bam seemed like a wonderful bed of timothy
and clover. It was fine to jump in, and perfect to hide
in. And sometimes A very 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 apan, 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 po-
sition 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, Char-
lotte 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 unremit-
ting effon and patience on the pan of our friend the
goose, she now has something to show for it. The gos-
lings have arrived. May I offer my sincere congratula-
tions!"
"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, T ernpleton showed his nose from his
hiding place under Wilbur's trough. He glant:ed 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 hap-
pened 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 T em-
pleton, 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." (Temple-
ton had a habit of picking up unusual objects around
the farm and storing them in his horne. He saved every-
thing.)
"Certainly-enainly-ertainly," said the gander. "You
may have the egg. But I'll tell you one thing, Temple-
ton, if I ever catch you poking-oking-oking your ugly
nose around our goslings, I'll give you the worst pound-
ing 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 con-
science, 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 suc-
ceeded 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 Wil-
bur'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! "