Alice's Farm

by Maryrose Wood

  “Okay. Okay! Call off your dog, please!”

  Carl obliged. “Foxy, sit.”

  Foxy sat.

  Enrique rubbed his leg, though the dog hadn’t touched him. Chuck looked stern. “Carl, I don’t think you realize how serious this is. Maybe we should talk to your parents.”

  “We’re on the eagles’ side, remember?” Enrique said, still flushed with adrenaline. “We’re the good guys. You get that, right?”

  Carl gazed at them both kindly. “I understand. Just like you understand that this farm is my family’s property, and I’m in charge of the garden. No one else. My parents will tell you it’s true. I can’t let you harm an animal out here. It’s against the rules.”

  Tik tik tik tik tik, said John Glenn, from above.

  The two men looked at Carl, flabbergasted.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” Carl went on. “That eagle likes to hang out here. You can visit whenever you like, to watch him. You can even take pictures. You’ll have to help out with the garden, though. It’s really busy right now and everybody has to pitch in. All hands on deck, that’s what my dad says.” Carl crossed his arms, meaning business. “Just don’t mess with the bird. Or try to shoot him with one of those darts.”

  Foxy stared at Enrique’s leg with a fierce, drooling longing. Red in the face, the man spluttered, “This eagle is the property—I mean, he’s a participant—in a government-funded research program—”

  “He was a participant. Now he’s a wild animal.” Carl blinked, an innocent child. “Hey, aren’t wild eagles protected or something? By law? I think you just said so. Or maybe I read it on your website. Homeschooling, you know. Anyway,” he went on, “it’s just a feeling I have, but I don’t think that eagle wants to get shot with a dart. I mean, I wouldn’t. Would you?”

  The scientists looked up at the bird.

  Tik tik tik tik tik! John Glenn spread his wings all the way. Tik tik tik tik tik!

  “Okay,” said Chuck, full of wonder. “It’s a deal.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Lester makes a request.

  Some rabbits considered fall-born kits unlucky, as they have cold and snow and lack of fresh greens to contend with soon after they leave the nest.

  Not Lester. He insisted all rabbitfolk were lucky, cottontails doubly so, and he worked just as hard to train the fall-born kits in the ways of rabbithood as he did for the others.

  “Zigzag, you rascals, that’s it! Put a little speed in those legs!” He flattened his ears in frustration and turned to Alice. “I must be getting old. Each litter seems lazier than the last. Where’s that old-fashioned cottontail verve?”

  “You said the same thing when we were fresh out of the nest,” she replied, amused. She and Thistle were enjoying an evening graze near Burrow for a change. The garden was in its glory as autumn neared; the boy filled basket after basket, and now he had two assistant farmers who came to help him every other day or so. They were two man-people in short pants with big pockets on the side.

  No doubt about it: Foxy’s boy Carl had gotten pretty dang good at this farming business. Alice trusted him to handle things, and the rabbits were finally able to relax a bit.

  “It was true then, too. Now it’s worse.” Lester tipped his nose upward and sniffed. “The whole place smells like canine, that’s the problem. These young ’uns are so used to that predator smell, they don’t have the sense to bolt when they should.”

  Alice was used to Lester’s complaints by now, but this one struck her as unfair. “Maybe not everything that smells canine is worth bolting over,” she began. “Not all dogs are alike, you know.”

  Lester silenced her with a look. “I’m not arguing with you, sweet Alice; I’m merely making an observation. The old are supposed to be befuddled by the ways of the young. It’s the natural order of things. Come on, you foolish babies, this isn’t nap time! Show me some survival instinct!” The kits were understandably confused by Lester’s instruction and had frozen in place. Each baby bunny was no bigger than a pine cone, and they were as cute as you could possibly imagine.

  Lester exhorted the infants once more. “Hop, you short-whiskered blaggards! You nub-tailed scoundrels! Hop, hop for your lives!” To Alice he continued, “Cute, aren’t they? I’ll teach ’em how to get by, don’t worry. At least a few of these layabouts will see springtime, if I have anything to say about it. It’s more than I can promise for myself.”

  Thistle’s ears popped up. “I don’t believe you, Lester. You’re good for another few seasons in the meadow, at least.”

  “Oh, no, I’m not,” the old rabbit replied, perfectly cheerful. “I’m older than I should be, and there’s not much zig nor zag left in these worn-out legs. I’ve had a good life, and a long one. I’ve no complaints and nothing left to wish for. Except for one thing.”

  Alice pretended not to hear that last remark, and nudged Thistle to do the same. They knew how to tease the old flop-ears!

  Lester waited a moment, and sighed. “Yes, indeedy. My cottontail heart has only one ambition left; just one small, final dream…”

  Alice yawned. Thistle scratched his flank.

  “… and I’ve already made my peace that it can never, ever come to pass.”

  “All right, what is it?” Thistle asked, unable to control himself.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” Lester said modestly. “It’s just that … well, I’d like to see this vegetable garden of yours for myself. Set foot in it, if I may. A vegetable garden, my, my! Wouldn’t it be fine to outwit the farmer, dodge the dog, slip under the fence, and feel like a clever, crafty young rabbit once more!”

  He closed his eyes in bliss at the thought.

  Alice and Thistle pawed at the ground. It was no small request Lester was making. The old fellow seemed to anticipate their objections.

  “I know you’ve brought me scraps of this and a taste of that. It’s been dang nice of you both. But where’s the cottontail pride in being fed by farmers? No, sir! I’m no tame rabbit! I’m no farmer’s pet!”

  “All right, Lester, that’s enough.” Alice still felt guilty about the treats that Carl continued to give them, and of course they never, ever nibbled on the crops that were growing. That would be a foolish transgression. But she hardly thought of herself as a tame rabbit!

  Thistle also took offense. “Farmer’s pet! That’s low, Lester. We’re farmers, too, you know. We work hard. It’s not what you think.”

  “Sure, I know you work hard. Apologies! I’m getting too old, Thorny—Bristle? Thistle!—and my thoughts are zigzagging one way and then another.” A heartbeat later Lester went glassy-eyed and utterly blank. The two younger rabbits held their respective breaths, for they thought he might have gone dark right there in front of them. But it was only a momentary lapse, or maybe Lester was just playing with them the way he used to, telling old rabbits’ tales to make them shiver.

  Sly as a snake, he blinked his eyes open as if nothing at all had happened. “Do me a favor, young ’uns,” he said in a weary voice. “Tell that litter of fall-borns it’s time to go in. The days are so short now, the darkness comes quick. Sneaks right up on you, like an owl. I wouldn’t want to lose one before the frost, if it can be helped.”

  He hobbled off, singsonging to himself. “No fence can stop a one of us, and no trap can catch us all. Ah, to be clever and crafty, as a cottontail should! Ah, to sneak under the fence once more!”

  * * *

  Just when they were enjoying a day off! Now Alice and Thistle had something to think about. In his current condition, it would be a few hours’ work for Lester to shamble all the way across the meadow to the farm. Once there, he’d be vulnerable as a newborn mouse, and there was no chance of getting him back to Burrow again. The return trip was all uphill.

  It was certainly too much to ask of Foxy or Doggo to escort him, even if Lester would accept help from a dog—or a fox! “Which he certainly wouldn’t,” Alice said, as close to angry as she ever got. “The old shouldn�
��t be so foolish! What does he imagine we can do?”

  “I don’t know, sister,” Thistle said thoughtfully. “It would be nice to give him what he wants. I’d want the same thing, in his place. Personally, I don’t mind riding on a dog’s back, but I’m rather small and Foxy’s my friend. So’s Doggo.”

  “Don’t let Lester hear you say that,” she retorted. “Stubborn old rabbit! Well, we may not be able to do it. Some dreams are only for sleeping time. He’s had a long, full life. I wish him a peaceful end.”

  “Longer and fuller than most, that’s for sure. May a hawk take him, in good time,” Thistle said kindly, offering the traditional cottontail blessing.

  “Yes; may a hawk take him…,” Alice began in answer. Then she stopped. Her eyes went half-glazed, just for a second.

  Thistle’s whiskers twitched in curiosity. “Alice! You’re having an idea, aren’t you?”

  Alice nuzzled her brother, who knew her so well. “Possibly. Thistle, do as Lester said. Go mind that litter of fall-borns and get them back to Burrow, would you? They’re dozing off in the grass, and the sun’s already sunk past the treetops!”

  * * *

  Alice had come up with many a rabbit-brained idea in her young life, but this new notion of hers was surely the most unlikely of them all. She knew she couldn’t say a word about it to anyone, not even Thistle, until she’d had time to gnaw on it a bit herself and see if it was worth the attempt.

  Alas, her planned evening of quiet rumination beneath the great tree near Burrow was soon interrupted. It was the chipmunks, overfed and overanxious, as they always were in autumn.

  They arrayed themselves before her, along the ridge of an exposed tree root. There were more of them, nearly twenty, and they were plumper than the last time she’d seen them, thanks to a whole season of good eating.

  “Good evening, friends,” she said, although she had a bad feeling already. “You’re looking so well. Soon you’ll be too plump for your own stripes, ha ha!”

  Her tail practically shook itself off with hilarity, to let them know she was joking. The chipmunks did not seem amused.

  “We are well, but not as well as we might be,” their leader intoned.

  “And we’re not as plump as we intend to be, either!” another exclaimed. “Winter is on its way. Can’t you feel it? Can’t you hear it in the cricket’s song, and smell it in the evening breeze?”

  All of the chipmunks shouted seasonal poetry of their own devising, about falling leaves and long cold nights, and the need for seeds, seeds, and more seeds to keep them full-bellied once the snow fell. To Alice it was a bit much, but that was the chipmunk way. She expected they would get to the point eventually.

  Finally, the leader spoke again. “Rabbit Alice! We have something to say to you.” His buckteeth pushed forward over his lip, a very serious expression indeed. “We have heard rumors we do not like. We hope they are not true, but we fear that they are. We are very, very, very, very upset!”

  “About what?” she asked.

  The little fellow drew himself up to his full height, perhaps six inches tall. “We were told you’ve been nibbling vegetables from the garden, after making us promise not to!”

  “Did a blue jay tell you that?” It was Thistle, furious. He’d seen the chipmunks arrive and had the sense to follow them.

  “What if one did?” a chipmunk threw back at him. “Is it true or not true?”

  Thistle towered over the rodent. “They were crudités! From the bottom drawer of the refrigerator!”

  Alice’s ears drooped with shame. “No, don’t argue, Thistle. It’s true. It’s part of a farmer’s job to make sure the vegetables are suitable for eating. We hadn’t known that at first, but the boy-farmer insisted…” She gave up. There was no real way to make an excuse. They’d been caught, and that was that.

  The chipmunks lined up before the two cottontails like a well-dressed firing squad.

  “The jays told us something else, too.” The chipmunk folded his tiny paws, praying-mantis-style, which made him look exceedingly stern. “You promised us a share of the harvest, if we kept our end of the bargain.”

  “Which you have,” Alice said quickly. “And you’ll get your share, too.”

  “And did you promise all the other animals a share of the harvest, too?”

  “Not all of them,” she said, thinking of Worm. “But most.”

  “Will there be enough to go around?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said quickly. Was that what they were worried about? “The garden is overflowing with vegetables. There will be so many seeds for you!”

  This got a positive response, at least, with many satisfied chip-chuck, chip-chucks.

  “And when do we get our share?” the leader asked.

  “After the Harvest Festival,” Alice declared. “After that, the people-farmers will be done taking what they need, and we can share what’s left with all of you.”

  “It’s the second Saturday of October,” Thistle said knowingly. They’d heard Foxy say it a dozen times.

  “When’s that?” one of the chipmunks demanded.

  It was not an easy question to answer. Animals understood the passage of the year by the length of the days, the wheeling of the stars, the cooling of the nights, and the phases of the moon.

  Alice had learned to think in farmer time. She counted the days to winter by the bushels of tomatoes left to pick, the number of autumn squash fattening on the vine, the amount of work left to do and the decreasing hours of daylight left to do it.

  But she honestly had no idea when the second Saturday of October was, or how long to tell the chipmunks to wait.

  “Harvest Festival is soon,” she answered, full of hope. “Very soon.”

  * * *

  “How about a haunted hayride?” Carl suggested. “We’d need a hay wagon, and a horse to pull it, and hay…”

  Team Harvey had assembled for a brainstorming session about how to make the most of the Harvest Festival. Brad was running it like a work meeting, and he was serious about it. There were sticky notes and markers on the table. Everyone had a yellow pad. Marie was chewing on the package of index cards.

  “How about a haunted something that we already have?” Sally suggested. “A haunted sheep paddock? A haunted apple orchard?”

  “Haunted applesauce?” Carl suggested, chucking Marie under the chin.

  “Boooooo,” the baby crooned, and went back to chewing.

  Carl was full of ideas. “A corn maze would be fun, if we had a cornfield,” he said.

  “Let’s think inside the box, people. Inside, not outside.” Brad tapped his pencil to his forehead. “What can we actually get done with the resources we have? In two weeks?”

  “I had a crazy idea,” Sally confessed. “Not for now, but for spring: What if we offered farm-themed weddings?”

  “Weddings?” Carl made a sick face. “Gross!”

  “Destination weddings on a farm? Hmm.” Brad closed his eyes, imagining. “‘The bride wore overalls in pale blush denim; the groom carried a rake. After the ceremony, the guests spent the afternoon shelling peas and churning butter before sitting down to a wedding feast they’d picked and prepared themselves…’ I like it. Work that idea up. In spring. Not now.”

  Sally, pleased, scribbled notes on her yellow pad.

  “How about a rock concert?” Carl suggested. “Like Woodstock. That was on a farm, wasn’t it?”

  Brad looked up. “It was, and how did you know that?”

  “You’ve told me a million times, Dad. On Yazgoo’s farm or something, right?”

  “Yasgur.”

  Brad and Sally starting singing a song together that Carl didn’t know.

  “Gurrrrr,” Foxy added from beneath the table. “Gurrrrrr!”

  Marie burst out laughing at what the dog had said about Brad and Sally’s singing, and tossed her a piece of the cut-up GlitterTooth Chew-Bone that Sally had reluctantly given her to get the cellophane package out of her mouth.
r />   “What about glamping?” Sally asked, when the song was over. The others looked at her like she was speaking gibberish. “It’s like camping, but comfortable. Farm glamping could be a thing.”

  Brad frowned. “Where would the people glamp?”

  “In that meadow, out back?” Her enthusiasm waned. “But we’d have to feed them and let them come inside to use the bathroom, I suppose.”

  To Carl’s relief, Brad nixed all of that; no strange glampers traipsing around the house. “Back to the Harvest Festival, guys. Time is short, the budget is tight. Let’s work with what we have. The sheep are okay being petted, right? How about a ‘pet a sheep’ corner?”

  “I’m writing it down,” Sally said.

  There was a tapping at the door, and an energetic scraping of shoes on the mat. “Halloo!” sang a voice. “It’s me? Ruth Shirley? Anybody home? Must be, I just heard you all singing a song!”

  There was no choice but to let her in. “Door’s open,” Brad called.

  Ruth Shirley entered, chirping away. “Looks like everybody’s home, how nice. So sorry for stopping by uninvited, but I was in the neighborhood…”

  “We’ve invited you many times, Ruth,” Sally said, pushing her chair back. “Can I get you some coffee?”

  “I might as well.” Ruth slung her purse over the back of a chair and sat right down. “What are you all doing around the table? Playing cards, I bet! Go Fish, that’s a good one.”

  “We’re having a planning session,” Brad said brusquely.

  “Planning what?” Ruth Shirley asked, all charm. “Or is it a secret?”

  “No secret. We’re planning for the Harvest Festival, just like everybody else around here.” Sally placed a mug of coffee on the table. “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Black’s fine for me. Well, I bet you’ve come up with something new and fresh! That’s what our community needs. New ideas!” Ruth Shirley made a funny face at Marie.