I knew where one of our gray geese had a nest, and if she'd cook any goose egg, it would be a gray one.

Of course I had sense enough not to take a blue one.

So I slipped from the east door, crossed the yard and orchard corner, climbed the fence and went down the lane.

There was the creek up and tearing.

It was half over the meadow, and the floodgate between the pasture and the lane rocked with the rush of water; still, I believed I could make it.