Hattie Calls the Geese Home
In Hattie’s valley, spring came back with the geese.
All winter the snow lay thick on the roofs and the fences and the pond. It stayed and stayed. Then one evening every year, the geese flew home over the hills. They landed on Top Hill and shook out their wings, and spring fell out of them like crumbs off a tablecloth.
Every year, Grandad climbed Top Hill at sunset and lit the welcome lantern. That was how the geese knew where to come down. And every year, the big goose at the front bowed to Grandad and said the only thing that goose could say.
“Thank you,” said the goose.
But this spring, Grandad had a stiff knee.
“Listen,” said Grandad. He bent his knee. It went creak.
Hattie was sitting at the kitchen table with her tin lunchbox. It was old and dented, and the biggest dent was shaped like a rabbit. Whenever Hattie was thinking, she polished the lid with her sleeve. She polished it now, round and round.
“I could go,” said Hattie.
Hattie had never been up Top Hill without Grandad. She polished a bit harder.
“Barley could come with me,” said Hattie.
Barley was Grandad’s old woolly dog. He thumped his tail on the floor.
Grandad smiled. He took the matches down from the shelf and put them in Hattie’s coat pocket. He did up her top button.
“Over the stile, past the frozen stream, and straight up to the top,” said Grandad. “Light the lantern when the sun is low. I’ll be at the gate when you come home.”
Hattie put a biscuit in her lunchbox, for Barley, just in case. Then off they went.
Up and up and up went Hattie.
The path was steep and the snow was deep. At the stile there was a snowdrift. Barley sat down in it, as if it were a chair.
“Barley,” said Hattie. “That is not a chair.”
Barley thought it was. Hattie had to push him over the stile from behind.
Up and up and up went Hattie.
At the frozen stream there was another snowdrift. Barley sat down in that one too. Hattie opened her lunchbox and showed him the biscuit. Barley got up at once, and the biscuit was gone in one bite.
Up and up and up went Hattie. The hill got steeper. The sky went gold.
Near the top was the biggest snowdrift of all. Barley sat down in it. Flump! He sank right in, all but his nose. Hattie grabbed his collar to pull him out. Her boots slipped, and in she tumbled after him. Flump!
There they sat. Barley looked very pleased with his chair. Hattie had snow in her hat and snow in her mittens and snow down the back of her neck.
And snow in her pocket.
She took out the matches. The box was soggy. She struck one. Nothing. She struck another. Nothing at all.
Hattie climbed out of the snowdrift. She pulled Barley out too. They went the last little way to the top, where the welcome lantern stood on its post.
The sun was sitting on the edge of the hills like a big gold egg yolk. Soon the geese would come. Hattie had a lantern and a box of soggy matches and a dog full of snow.
She sat down on the stone beside the post. She took out her lunchbox. She polished the lid with her sleeve, round and round, and she thought.
The lid got shinier. And shinier. Then the sun caught it, and a bright gold flash jumped right into Hattie’s eyes. She blinked. There was the rabbit dent, shining like a little gold rabbit.
Hattie stood up on the stone. She held the lid up high. She tipped it this way and that way, and the gold light went skipping out across the sky. Flash. Flash. Flash.
Far away, over the hills, there was a long line of little dots. The dots turned. The dots got bigger. The dots were geese!
“Honk!” said the geese. “Honk! Honk!”
Down they came, a whole sky full of them, onto Top Hill. They landed all around Hattie with a great flapping and a great honking. Then they shook out their wings.
Spring fell out like crumbs off a tablecloth. Wherever a crumb landed, the snow melted in a ring. Every ring was perfectly round and perfectly green. And in every ring, while Hattie watched, a crocus came up, purple or yellow or white.
The big goose at the front waddled up to Hattie and bowed, long neck and all.
“Thank you, lantern girl,” said the goose.
Hattie bowed back, as low as she could go.
Down and down and down went Hattie.
All the way down, the hill was turning green in rings. The sky went soft and blue, and the first star came out. Down in the valley, a lamp was glowing at the gate.
Down and down and down went Hattie, through the first warm puddles of the year.
Barley looked for a snowdrift to sit in. There wasn’t one anywhere. So he sat in a puddle instead.
Grandad was waiting at the gate with the lamp in one hand and a mug of cocoa in the other.
“I saw your light all the way from here,” said Grandad. “But how did you do it?”
Hattie held up her lunchbox. The rabbit dent shone in the lamplight.
“The matches got wet,” said Hattie. “Next year I’m keeping them in here.”
Grandad laughed so hard that his knee went creak.
“I’m proud of you,” said Grandad. “And I’m glad you’re home.”
Hattie drank her cocoa by the stove. Barley steamed beside her, smelling of puddle. Then Grandad tucked her into bed and set the lunchbox on the table, with the rabbit facing the window.
“Goodnight, lantern girl,” said Grandad.
Out on the pond, the geese were settling down. One goose said honk, very softly. Another goose said honk, softer still. Then they tucked their heads under their wings.
Hattie tucked her nose under the blanket. She had climbed Top Hill without Grandad, and she had called the geese home. And down and down and down she went, warm and proud, into sleep.