By GERALD S. HAWKINS

By GERALD S. HAWKINS

Rappahannock N*w« Contributing Writer

Adam came to Hawkridge to be the founding gander of a flock of white, emden geese, but his first mate, Eve, died, and the replacement Eva wandered off, leaving him the full run of the farm. Geese mate for life, so they say, and we wondered how Adam would adapt to the new situation.

The first indication came one winter evening when I was closing the door of his pen as a protection against predators. As I bent over to close the latch, he rushed up and gave me a peck in the rear. That’s what they mean by being “goosed,” I suppose, and I can say from personal experience that it is not a pleasant sensation.

My wife, Julia, understands birds and animals better than I do, and she thought Adam was not being mean, he was just telling me something. I went back down to the pen with a flashlight, and sure enough, I had inadvertently left his metal corn feeder hanging up too high, out of beak-reach. I unhooked it and lowered it down to the proper level, keeping my rear end safely out of the way.

Adam stood there serenely making a gentle clucking sound, and when everything was to his liking, he let me get out through the door with my dignity unharmed.

The goose pen was built under the verandah of the farmhouse, with a fenced enclosure on the south side. Since the farmhouse is on the side of a hill, this was quite a vantage point, with a distant view of the meadow and the approach of the long curving driveway. Adam would stand in the enclosure and make his flocking call at any object that caught his fancy.

We drive a brown station wagon, and he took to trumpeting each time he saw us coming. Neighbors said they could hear the noise even when we were at the farm gate, well out of sight of the house. He started to greet other brown cars, then blue cars, then pickups.

Helicopters were his main joy though, and he would give the loudest call when one of these occasionally flew over. It is easy to see how those geese of ancient Rome woke up the citizens when the Barbarians attempted to sneak in for a surprise attack.

Geese are good watchdogs, and good walkers. In England in the 18th century it was traditional to drive the geese to market in flocks. East Anglia, with its flat, lush marshes, raised excellent table birds, and the farmers drove them along the King’s Highway from Norwich all the way to London, a distance of 114 miles.

We eventually gave up the idea of a flock of geese on the farm (who would want all that noise?), and