“Not in any one spot they aren’t. They’re [pg 064] like coiled wire—when they stretch out to get through a crack they have no dimension except length, their bodies are mere imaginary points to hang feathers on. You don’t know little turkeys.”
It might be said that, having undertaken to raise turkeys, we had to expect them to act like turkeys. But there were other interruptions in our evenings where our share of responsibility was not so plain. For example, one wet evening in early June we had kindled a little fire and I had brought the lamp forward. The pump was quiescent, the little turkeys were all tucked up in the turkey equivalent for bed, the farm seemed to be cuddling down into itself for the night. We sat for a moment luxuriously regarding the flames, listening to the sighing of the wind, feeling the sweet damp air as it blew in through the open windows. I was considering which book it should be and at last rose to possess myself of two or three.
“Sh—h—h!” said Jonathan, a warning finger raised.
I stood listening.
“I don’t hear anything,” I said.
“Sh—h!” he repeated. “There!”
This time, indeed, I heard faint bird-notes.
“Young robins!” He sprang up and made for the back door with long strides.
I peered out through the window of the orchard room, but saw only the reflection of the firelight and the lamp. Suddenly I heard Jonathan whistle and I ran to the back porch. Blackness pressed against my eyes.
“Where are you?” I called into it.