Leftover from the Holidays

by BobA. Troutt

  *****

  Leftover from the Holidays

  Scrambled Eggs

  As old man winter quickly moved out, in rushed spring with its April showers, warm March winds and May flowers. Springtime had come to the little community of Deer Path. Everyone was excited about spring and the coming of Easter except Mr. Wendell J.P. O’Splithara, the rabbit who lived in a hollow tree in the forest.

  “I need a way to make some money,” he said as he paced back and forth across the floor. “There has to be a way for me to get my hands on some fast, quick cash,” he mumbled as he flopped down in his easy chair.

  As he was sitting down, he glanced at the calendar hanging on the wall.

  “What do we have here,” he mumbled as he eased up out of his chair and slipped over to the calendar.

  It’s getting clearer now, he thought as his sharp eyes stared down on Easter Sunday. Easter is only a week away, he thought to himself.

  “That’s what I’ll do,” he cried. “I’ll sell Easter eggs to all the folk in Deer Path; I’ll have money to do the things I want to do. But, how and where will I get the eggs?”

  He paused again and thought some more. He had to figure out a way to get some eggs.

  “That’s it,” he cried. “Oh, Mr. Wendell,” he said, “you do have all the answers. Shhh,” he hushed himself as he looked around. He whispered, “The old henhouse just across the way. That’s where I’ll get my eggs,” he sniggled. “I’ll snatch them from the hens, poke a hole in both ends and blow out the yolk and white. I’ll seal them on one end, fill them with cheap liquid candy and then seal the other end. I’ll be rich,” he cried.

  Mr. Wendell dashed about the room getting everything he needed to gather the eggs. He grabbed his hand drill, a big bit, a large needle, a flashlight, a bucket of tennis balls and his egg basket.

  “Now, all I have to do is wait for nightfall,” he said. “When it gets dark, the hens will be asleep. I will sneak over to the henhouse and drill a hole behind each nesting box. After I drill my holes, I’ll carefully slip my hand in behind the hens and not only take one egg but two or three if I can.”

  He laughed and snickered as a little dark sparkle twinkled in his eye. Slowly, the day passed and night fell on the little community of Deer Path. As Mr. Wendell crept through the woods, all you could hear was the breaking of the twigs and limbs under his feet and the lonesome cry of the owl high in one of the trees.

  “Mr. Wendell, what brings you out so late at night?” asked Big Al the owl.

  Mr. Wendell had to think fast. He hadn’t expected anyone to see him.

  “Oh, I’m out for a stroll,” he replied. “I couldn’t sleep; I thought the night air would help me relax.”

  “What do you have in the basket?” questioned Big Al.

  “Oh, just something,” he said, “nothing important. Well, goodnight, Big Al. It was good to see you again.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Wendell. I hope you can get some sleep. Whoooo, whoooo.”

  That was a close call, he thought as he rushed through the woods trying to get to the henhouse. Carefully, he stepped off the nesting boxes, placed the bit in the hand drill and placed the flashlight in his mouth with the light shining on the back of the henhouse. Slowly and quietly, he started turning the drill. As the bit dug into the planks on the back of the henhouse, little shavings of wood fell to the ground. In the far off distance, you could hear Big Al whooooing as the moonlit sky arched over the woods. In just minutes, he had successfully drilled holes through the back of the henhouse without awakening any of the hens. Very carefully, Mr. Wendell slipped his hand under the first sleeping hen. Cautiously, he slipped each egg out and replaced them with tennis balls. With just a little nudge, the tennis balls were in place and the hens were still asleep. Box after box, he went down the back of the henhouse until his egg basket was full. A giant smile crossed his face when he covered the holes with a dark piece of paper. He quietly chuckled to himself and tiptoed off through the woods for home.

  “Now, that should do it,” he said. “I’ll go back tomorrow night for some more eggs. I am a genius,” he said as he hurried home. “I fooled those chicks,” he laughed.

  Mr. Wendell spent the rest of the night tapping holes in the ends of the eggs. He blew the yolks and whites out into a bucket, sealed one end, filled them with cheap candy, sealed the other end and then spray painted each egg.

  “I’ll sell these eggs for seventy-five cents each. After I sell a few dozen, I’ll have me some money.”

  The night slowly went by while Mr. Wendell worked and worked. He fought to stay awake so he could finish all the eggs. After a short nap, Mr. Wendell was up and ready for the day. Cautiously, he made his way to the henhouse to see if there was anything going on. He needed to see if his plan worked.

  “Good morning, Mr. Wendell,” cackled the hens.

  “Good morning, girls,” he replied. “Isn’t it a beautiful day,” he stated.

  “Why, yes, it is,” they replied. “It’s a real fine day.”

  “Is everything alright, girls?” he asked with a quivering voice.

  “Why, is there something wrong?” they questioned.

  “Oh, no, not at all, by all means, everything is fine,” he nervously stuttered as he eased off.

  When he left, the hens got in a huddle and chuckled. Occasionally, one would look up and look around as the others chuckled on. Night after night, Mr. Wendell tiptoed through the woods to the henhouse. Night after night, he gathered the hen’s eggs and left behind tennis balls. Night after night, he blew the yolks and whites out of the eggs, filled them back up with cheap liquid candy and then spray painted the eggs. Night after night, he snickered and laughed as Big Al watched from up high.

  Every day, Mr. Wendell made sure he stopped by the henhouse to check on the hens. He was curious to see if they knew anything.

  “Good morning, girls,” he said.

  “Good morning, Mr. Wendell,” replied the hens. “It sure is a fine day.”

  “Do you know anything new?” he asked.

  The hens stopped for a moment and chuckled amongst themselves and replied, “We guess not.”

  Mr. Wendell would keep his eyes on them when he walked away. Surely, they can’t be that dumb, he thought. As soon as Mr. Wendell left, the hens would gather together in a huddle and talk.

  Later that evening, as Mr. Wendell rested, he looked about the room. He had boxes and boxes of Easter eggs. Dollar signs filled his eyes and he started thinking of everything he was going to buy. His heart had become greedy.

  “Just a few more trips to the henhouse,” he said, “and I will have all I need. Those silly hens are dumber than I thought. They can’t tell an egg from a tennis ball,” he laughed. “It’s just a few more days before Easter and I’m ready to set up my egg cart. Easter eggs for sale-75¢ a piece my sign will say. I will set up my new business at the corner of Cottonwood Drive and Sugar Tree Lane, the busiest part of town. I am so brilliant,” he laughed. “I am scared of myself at times. Huh, I am such a nut!”

  Finally, the big day had come. Mr. Wendell headed toward the corner of Cottonwood Drive and Sugar Tree Lane with his egg cart. As he made his way by the henhouse, he noticed that the hens were nowhere around. Carefully, he stopped and looked about the pen. There wasn’t a hen in sight, not even one feather. I wonder what’s going on, he thought as he began to worry. Where could they be? he said to himself as he pushed the egg cart on. Oh, well, they are probably still trying to hatch their nest full of tennis balls.

  Mr. Wendell finally reached the corner of Cottonwood Drive and Sugar Tree Lane. He parked his cart, opened the doors, pitched his sign beside the cart and began to yell.

  “Easter eggs, come and get your Easter eggs,” he yelled.

  Everything is quiet, too quiet, he thought. He yelled on, but everything remained quiet. Even he started whispering.

  “Easter eggs, Easter eggs,
come and get your Easter eggs,” he whispered.

  He looked around and no one was there; no one was stirring about. He was the only one there in the busiest part of town. There’s something terribly wrong, he thought. But, what is it? Nervously, he took up his sign and quietly closed the doors of the egg cart.

  “There’s something wrong,” he whispered. “I had better get back home.”

  Suddenly, he was bombarded with rotten eggs. Splat! Splat! Splat! They hit him everywhere.

  “Oh, mo, it stinks,” he cried.

  The hens were throwing rotten eggs at him from behind the bushes and trees.

  “Now, girls,” he pleaded.

  “Now, girls, nothing,” they yelled. “You think you can take our eggs; we’ll teach you.”

  Egg after egg flew through the air hitting him and destroying his egg art. He was stinking to high heaven. Big Al flew over with a big bag of tennis balls and dropped them on top of Mr. Wendell. He ran to take cover as the balls bounced everywhere amongst the runny eggs.

  “Don’t you think we know the difference between an egg and a tennis ball, Mr. Wendell?” they chuckled.

  “Yes, yes, I do,” he cried. “I’m sorry! Will you please forgive me? I’ll never do it again. I promise”

  “How do you like those scrambled eggs?” chuckled one of the hens.

  “Now, girls,” he replied, “I believe you made your point.”

  “Ooh-wee, Mr. Wendell, you’re stinky. Get away from us,” they laughed.

  While on his way home, everyone he passed grabbed their noses and made horrible faces. He was the one who was left not only with egg on his face, but all over him. He was ashamed of what he had done and he paid for it. I was brilliant alright, he thought. By the time he got home, the eggs had fried on him. He was so sticky and stiff he could hardly move. Without warning, there was a splash of water and then another. He was shocked; the hens were hosing him down with water.

  “No matter what,” he said, “you girls are the greatest.”

  “It’s the least we could do,” they chuckled.

  “Girls, girls, girls,” he laughed.