I know, I know, you just want to zip in and zip out. But for those who would like to rest aspell, this is a beautiful story

My youngest, Jeanne, and I pack the pickup truck before dawn and head west toward rural Fitchburg, Mass. It's late autumn, and a blanket of frost covers everything.

Jeanne is so excited when we finally arrive at the farmhouse that she scrambles out of the truck as soon as I cut the engine. She heads into the barnyard where her grandmother has already begun her chores.

As I look for them in the early morning shadows, I reach down and scoop up a fistful of freshly plowed soil. When you've been raised on a farm, you need to go back on occasion. The quietness and smell of the land blend with memories to open up one's whole being.

When I stand erect again, I'm already beginning to relax. Looking out past the wooden gate, I spy my daughter and my mother in the field, standing amid some 500 Canada geese, a small flock of domestic hens, a few barnyard bantams and three Shetland ponies, all feeding contentedly.

Throughout the years, my mother has fed the flock, and they have grown to accept her. Now the geese hardly shuffle as grandmother and granddaughter scatter cracked corn and oats on the ground. Both marvel at the creatures as the elderly woman points out the long black necks, black heads and bills, and the patches of white on their bodies.

Library Lesson As they approach the gate, I hear my mother say "All of them have black heads, each with a white cheek strap. They are very special, for these markings are elegant and rare. "At first I didn't know much about Canada geese," she continues, "so I went to the library. I learned that Canada geese mate for life and that they're closely attached to their breeding grounds. This flock has returned here for the past 35 years.

"Canada geese are not native to this area" my mother concludes. "The Atlantic Flyway is over 60 miles to the east, and it is very unusual for them to be here."

Jeanne is bubbling with questions. "But, Grandma, how did they get here? Why do they keep coming back?"

"The story is very old. Perhaps your father will tell you." The child stares up at me expectantly.

"Let's sit here on the fence," I say, "and I'll tell you the story."

Far north, on Greenland's harsh southwest coast, the rhythmic roar of the sea is pierced by other sounds, for these are also the breeding and nesting grounds of migrant Canada geese. In a normal summer the long days are ample for the drama of life's renewal to be played out before the geese abandon this place to the Arctic ice. But in the summer of 1951, the great airstreams that control the weather change course, and storms pelt Greenland and the eastern coast of North America.

Despite the unexpected harsh elements, hundreds of goslings are hatched during the first four weeks of this violent summer. The youngsters initially look alike. But as their feathers grow, the colors may vary slightly, separating individual broods. Some inherit lighter shades, while others may have deeper and richer colors.

The winds are too high for most of the young birds, and ice makes their wings too heavy. But they have to learn to fly, for soon they must travel more than 2,000 miles to escape the impending freeze.

Snowy bundle The Arctic freeze has already begun when the geese lift off and head southeast along the Labrador coast, then south-southwest across the Gulf of St. Lawrence, Nova Scotia and the Bay of Fundy to the coast of the eastern United States. Most will reach their destination in Cape Hatteras, N.C. The rest will perish along the way.

On the day the geese are winging their way south, heavy snow is falling on the small milling community of Fitchburg. It's the first snow of the season, and three excited children are making their way home from school.

Gene, 14, turns to his younger brother and sister and shouts "Hurry up! The snow is getting deeper!"

To his annoyance, both have stopped. Carole, age six, and her brother Jon, age ten, then head for a small pine tree and the mound of snow beside it. Together they carefully scoop up the mound, snow and all.

When Gene reaches them, Carole is holding the bundle in her arms, and Jon is brushing the snowy mass with his mittened hand. The girl turns back to face her oldest brother, and Gene stops dead in his tracks

Carole is holding a half-grown gander. His wings are dark brownish-grey and his breast shades lighter. The feathers, however, are splattered with blood.

Grounded for Life Gently Gene takes the gander from his sister and probes under the wing for injury. Then he stoops and picks up a handful of snow. He presses it under the wing, holding it tightly, hoping that the bleeding will stop. He wraps the bird in his scarf.

"What happened to him?" Carole asks.

"Looks like he's been shot," Gene answers

"Let's take him home," Carole says. "Mom will know what to do."

The children run into the kitchen of the old farmhouse and stand facing their mother. The older brother is holding the gander, as the other two children lightly stroke the bird.

"Mom, we found him in the snow," Carole says. "He's been hurt, and he's not moving."

"Let's take a look." Carefully she inspects the bird's injuries. "He's weak, and both his breast and wing have been injured," she says. "Here, boys, you spread the wing and your sister and I will tape on a splint to prevent further damage."

"What shall we do with him?" Jon asks.

"We'll put him in a box by the stove for the night," she says. "Tomorrow I'll put him in the barn with the hens. But you must understand he'll never fly again; his wing is too badly shattered.

Unchallenged Leader Mom and the children place the limp gander on a soft towel in the box. By the time the children finish their homework and chores, the gander still has not moved. Before climbing the stairs, each child says a special prayer that the gander will get well.

In the morning Mom places the gander in the barn where she winters a flock of laying hens, some bantams, mallard ducks and a pair of domestic geese. During the first day, the gander merely squats on the floor with his eyes closed.

He'll pick up in a day or two and start eating, she says to herself. And sure enough, the small pile of grain she's left on the floor inside the gander's cage grows smaller and smaller. In less than a week, amid frequent visits from the children after school, he regains most of his strength.

With the coming of spring, the gander meanders out of the barn, but well behind the rest of the flock. Instinctively, he spreads his wings and tries to flap them. His right wing barely moves, however, and when he walks, the wing feathers drag on the ground.

From the beginning his strong, wild bloodlines prevail against the bantam cocks, the mallard drakes and the domestic gander. By the end of the first week out of doors when flocks re-establish their hierarchy, the Canada gander is the unchallenged leader.

Answering the Call During the summer and into fall, the gander grows larger and stronger. He begins flapping his one wing and honking all day. Mom knows this is the age-old call for a mate, but she's also certain that 60 miles west of the Atlantic Flyway is too big a distance for the call to be heard.

Then one fall morning she notices that the familiar honking has stopped. Her first thought is that something has happened to the gander. Her stomach tightens when she remembers that a pack of stray dogs was recently seen roaming the area.

The sun is not yet visible over the horizon and when Mom finally reaches the field and the makeshift shelter where the animals stay during the summer nights. The gander, who usually squats near the entrance of the shelter, is gone. She searches the shadows for nearly half an hour.

Mom beings to walk back through the field when she spies the gander beside a clump of hay. He is standing next to a sleeping Canada goose.

When she approaches, the injured gander suddenly bolts toward her, good wing flapping. She retreats, realizing that a Canada goose has finally answered the ancient call of the gander.

Downy Offspring For some unknown reason the goose had left her own flock. Perhaps she'd been too weak to continue the migration and somehow had followed the same route first charted over a year before.

Later the same day both geese ventured to the shelter for feed. Together they spent the winter in the barn with the rest of the flock. In the spring after the doors are opened, they nest in the field. Though the female usually incubates the eggs, both gander and goose alternate sitting on their six. At the end of the sixth week, the parents leave the nest and head toward the shelter with the six offspring walking between them.

Throughout the summer and into fall, the goslings feather and mature. By the first frost the six are almost fully grown and have learned to fly. They circle the field every day, while the crippled gander watches from a distant corner of the field, honking the whole time.

Early one morning, just before snow season, Mom and the three children watch as the seven geese lift off from the field and circle high above, honking. On the second full circle, the female forms the center of a wedge with three goslings on either side, and together the small flock heads south to winter feeding grounds.

The crippled Canada gander remains in the field and continues to honk long after the flock has disappeared. When he finally stops, it is late evening. Alone again, he wanders to the far corner of the field where he stays for nearly a week, refusing to eat.

Distant Honk Mom tells the children, "Perhaps in the spring his mate will return." But because of the great distance from the flyway, she isn't sure.

On the sixth night after the flock left, long after everyone is asleep, a whisper of wind carries a faint sound to the field. The gander's long neck tenses. For the next five mintues, he remains frozen in that position before he begins anxiously tossing his large black head up and down.

Far into the night the distant honk of a single goose pierces the darkness. He answers the honking with calls of his own. It is less than a half-hour before she lands within two feet of her mate.

In the morning, when Mom first sees her, the goose is still sitting on the same spot where she landed. Her mate is grooming her as she sleeps, plucking off feathers that have loosened during her flight.

Each year, Mom and her children watch as the geese repeat this ritual. Six goslings are born inn the field every spring. In late fall, while the crippled male waits, the goose leads her six goslings south. She then returns to spend the harsh New England winters with her mate. Meanwhile, whole flocks of wild Canada geese who were born here throughout the years return to the field during spring and fall migrations to eat and rest before continuing.

The sun has already turned to a bright orange and is only partially visible in the west when Jeanne, Mom and I walk slowly through the large flock of Canada geese that blanket the farm.

"All these 500 or so geese were born here," I tell Jeanne. She carries with her a small cup filled with cracked corn, some of which she scatters on the ground. Suddenly a hugh Canada gander - with one wing dragging the ground - chases the rest of the flock away before meandering over to the corn.

Mom reaches into the cup and grabs a handful of feed. She offers the grain to "the master" of the flock. The large gander with the wild bloodlines lays his head in her hands.

Mom talks to him, as she has for years, while he gobbles up the grain from the palms of her hands. Jeanne and I stare a long time at the small elderly woman with the smiling gray eyes and slightly stooped back, hand-feeding a large Canada gander with a crippled wing.

Note, this article appeared in Reader's Digest many years ago and I saved it as it was so touching. I was unable to find the author, book or publisher.