Wilbur T. Cornfield: It was a fine name my parents gave me, and I know they were so proud on the day I was hatched. I was just a tiny featherless body with feet and a beak, but I guess that’s how all swallows look when they claw and peck their way out of the confines of their eggs.
Mom said that I was born with my mouth open and hungry all the time. She and Dad kept busy finding bits of food and flying back to stuff it into the mouths of their seven swallow babies. The interesting thing was that Rufus, Ralph, Rachael, Randy, Ruthie and Rasputin all obediently swallowed their food like good little swallows, but every once in awhile I felt this compelling urge to spit, instead of swallow. There was no reason; the food was okay, and I was hungry, but I just spit it out. Ralph was the biggest, and he generally got the food on the floor of the nest.
Mom and Dad caught me one time, and they lectured me pretty good. You know, “We work hard for our food. You’re being rebellious.” … and the ultimate, “Swallows are starving in China,” … or India, or some place.
Now, you and I both know that swallows are supposed to swallow, not spit. Well, maybe I was a little bit rebellious, but I wasn’t stupid. From then on, I tried to spit when no one else was looking. I would cover my beak with my featherless wing and spit as quietly as possible.
Ruthie was such a tattletale. And she watched me like a hawk, not a swallow.
“Wilbur’s been spitting again,” she’d say when Mom or Dad would light on the edge of the nest. I swear, she would rather tell on me than eat, and that’s saying a lot for a baby swallow.
I got into a lot of trouble growing up, but my feathers were growing pretty fast, and I was getting better at hiding my actions.
When the day finally came for us to leave the nest, I was more than ready. Mom and Dad woke us early one morning. “Time to try your wings, kids.” For days we had been jumping up on the lip of the nest and flapping our wings like we really would leap out to what we were sure would be certain death. Ralph almost fell one time. Rasputin and Randy beaked him just in time and pulled him back to the safety of the nest.
That morning there was to be no turning back. With their strong wings they forced Rachael up to the edge and over. The rest of us couldn’t see, but Mom took off with her and a couple minutes later Rachael landed on a branch above the nest. I knew they were going alphabetically and for once I was grateful that my name was Wilbur, instead of Andrew or Axel or something. Ralph was next, and he made it to the branch Rachael was on. Randy and Rasputin followed, flying and landing successfully. Rufus tried to hide, but let me tell you, a nest is not a good place for hide-and-seek. Boy was I glad to see Ruthie go over the edge: she was such a little snert!
Soon, my six siblings were perched on the branch above the nest. I knew what was coming, but I didn’t know if I was ready. Dad hopped toward me, and I don’t know what came over me. I started spitting uncontrollably.
“Wilbur!” I heard Mom say. “Now stop that! You’re a Cornfield and Cornfield’s don’t spit.”
I felt Dad’s strong wings pressing against me, and I think he pecked me, too. I was still spitting when I plunged over the edge of the nest. It was about 30 feet down, as the crow flies; but I wasn’t a crow, and at that particular moment, I wasn’t flying, either. The last thing I remembered was Ruthie yelling at Mom. “Wilbur’s spitting! Wilbur’s spitting!”
I don’t know how long I lay on the ground, but when I woke up and looked around, they were all gone: Mom, Dad, Rachael, Ralph, Randy, Rasputin, Rufus and Ruthie. I wiggled my feet, legs, neck and wings. Nothing was broken, but I was still pretty woozy. I hopped around a little and made some swallow sounds to let Mom and Dad know I was okay, and I was hungry. But they didn’t come.
I was very sorry for my rebellion then, and I swore to myself that if they would only come back for me, I would never ever spit again.
About that time, I heard a familiar flapping of wings. Suddenly Mom was there beside me, and I knew I would be safe. She fed me a morsel of food and told me that she loved me. I told her I would never spit again, and I was sorry for my rebellion.
I guess this is about the end of my story. Mom and I hopped over to the edge of an embankment. She flew out and back a couple of times to show me how, and then she gently nudged me. I flapped my wings, and before you knew it, I was flying. We rejoined the family just in time to head off to Capistrano.
The moral of my story is, “Children, obey your parents. And stop spitting!”
Signed,
Wilbur T. Cornfield
Swallow
P. S. The T. stands for Truebird
