TITLE: Duncan and the Barn Swallows By D Elizabeth Robinson 12/07/07 |
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Farmer Johnson had a lovely spread. Hundreds of acres were planted in corn, wheat, soybeans, and barley, with a grand strawberry patch and a good planting of watermelons. The house and barn stood among leafy trees, with a fishing pond just down the hill. There were also wild wooded patches where squirrels, raccoons, chipmunks, and the occasional deer could play and graze peacefully.
For the main tasks of plowing, planting, nurturing, and harvesting, Farmer Johnson used the latest in big mechanical equipment. But for clearing the undergrowth in the wild woody areas, he used a draft horse. This horse, Duncan by name, was smaller and more agile than the tractor or even the big four-wheel drive truck. Duncan lived in the barn with the few cows and sheep Farmer Johnson kept mainly for atmosphere.
Early every morning Farmer Johnson would go to the barn to feed and commune with the livestock. He loved saying, “Move over there, Bessie,” as he entered the stall to milk a cow. The fact that none of the cows was named Bessie didn’t matter to him at all. He would stroke the woolly back of a sheep and dream of Arran sweaters and warm winter scarves. Then he would go to Duncan’s stall and groom the big horse, talking or singing all the while.
One spring morning, Farmer Johnson entered the barn and noticed that everything was unusually quiet. The cows weren’t lowing; the sheep were standing silently still. All the animals were staring in Duncan’s direction. The horse was quivering slightly, but was otherwise still and silent.
“What’s going on here?” asked Farmer Johnson. Duncan moved his eye to gaze beseechingly at the farmer. Farmer Johnson approached the horse.
“What is it, big fella?” At the roughly kind voice, a stirring arose from the horse’s mane, and a pair of barn swallows took flight. The farmer examined Duncan’s mane and discovered that the birds had been constructing a nest of the hairs in the mane.
“Well, I’ll be switched!” he exclaimed. “I’ve heard of birds using horsehair in their nests, sometimes even pulling the hairs right out of the horse,” Duncan shuddered gently at the thought. “But I’ve never seen ‘em building the nest right there in the mane!”
The farmer gently untangled the hairs, combed out the feathers and other bits the birds had left, and continued to groom the horse as usual, speaking soothingly to the horse all the while.
The next day was a repetition of the first. The strangely silent barn, the beseeching look in Duncan’s eye, the barn swallows flying away at the approach of the big man, the combing of the mane.
This continued for more than a week. Farmer Johnson went from astonishment to concern to annoyance to outright rage.
“What are those dad-blamed swallows up to?” he finally asked the County Extension Agent at their next meeting. “My poor horse is scared to death. It doesn’t matter if I put him in the stall or leave him in the pasture at night. Come morning, there they are, weaving his mane into their nest.”
“Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing!” said the Extension Agent.
“What am I going to do about this?” asked the farmer.
The Extension Agent thought for a moment. “Well,” he finally said, “have you tried braiding the mane so the hairs are harder for the birds to get at?”
“I’ll try that.” said Farmer Johnson. And after the meeting he went right home and braided Duncan’s mane. The horse was not enthusiastic about this procedure, but Farmer Johnson talked to him as he braided.
“I know you don’t like this, big guy. You probably think it looks silly.” Duncan nodded his head energetically at this, pulling a strand of hair from the farmer’s hand. “But it’s a darned sight less silly than a bird nest.” Duncan suddenly stood very still and let the farmer continue his task.
Farmer Johnson was whistling as he entered the barn the next morning, but he stopped when he noticed the silence of the animals. Duncan looked at him morosely, a partially-finished bird nest sitting prominently atop his braided mane.
“Well, dang!” said the farmer. He combed the mane and re-braided it more tightly, much to Duncan’s discomfort. “Sorry, Duncan. But them birds can’t pull the hairs out of that.”
But they could. For weeks Farmer Johnson battled those barn swallows. He asked all his fellow farmers down at the Feed and Seed, he asked the mayor and the town council, he asked Polly the waitress at The Coffee Cup Café. He tried all their suggestions – tying ribbons in the mane (Duncan shook them out immediately), convincing the big horse to spend the night in the wild woody area (Duncan acquired some foxtail burrs as well as the nest), sitting in the barn at night and shouting at the birds (they didn’t build a nest that night, but they did it after he fell asleep on a hay bale the next morning).
April slid into May, and May was marching on toward June when Farmer Johnson, pale and shaky, drove to the University to see the famous professor of animal husbandry. Duncan was also a shadow of his former self, and the farmer was afraid for the horse’s health.
“Ah, yes.” The professor said, folding his hands on his desk. “You have a classic case here.”
“Case of what?” asked Farmer Johnson.
“Bird-in-mane,” replied the professor. “It’s a rare phenomenon, but when it happens, it is all but impossible to convince the birds to go elsewhere.”
“But what can I do?” cried Farmer Johnson. “I’m at my wits’ end, and my poor horse is going crazy!”
“Ah, I said ALL BUT impossible,” the professor said soothingly. “There is one cure, but I have never been able to talk anyone into trying it. It’s only theoretical at the moment, but I’m sure it will work. It has to.”
“What is it? I’ll try anything, as long as it doesn’t hurt the horse,” said the farmer eagerly. “Or the birds,” he added reluctantly.
“Go to the warehouse grocery store, get a big jar of yeast, and sprinkle that through the mane.”
“That’s it? Yeast? Why yeast?”
“Yes, yeast,” said the professor calmly. “And I’ll tell you why if you try it and it works.”
Unable to get any more information from the professor, Farmer Johnson drove home, grumbling about the smugness of the professor’s tone and the strangeness of his suggestion.
“Yeast! What, is Duncan supposed to bake bread in his mane? Or will the swallows try to eat it and poison themselves?” That prospect made him a little uneasy. But he had said he would try anything, and Duncan was as close to a friend as any farm animal could be, so he went to the warehouse store and bought the yeast.
The next morning, after chasing the birds away and combing out Duncan’s mane, Farmer Johnson produced the bottle of yeast.
“I don’t know about you, Duncan, but I think this is all codswallop. Imagine putting yeast in your mane to keep birds away. But that professor guy said it would work, so here goes.” The farmer carefully sprinkled the whole bottle of yeast into the horse’s mane, being sure every single hair was covered.
The barn began to smell like a brewery as the days grew warmer, but the mornings were once again full of the normal sounds of awakening animals. Farmer Johnson bought yeast by the case and kept Duncan’s mane well covered in it, and the birds built their nest elsewhere.
As the summer ripened into fall, Farmer Johnson got a telephone call from the professor.
“Did it work?” asked the professor excitedly.
“Yes, it worked perfectly,” said the farmer. “Now will you tell me why?”
“Well,” said the professor, “it was only a theory, but it seemed logical. Yeast is yeast, and nest is nest, and never the mane shall tweet.”
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