The Parsnip and the Pheasant
By Daniel
Forde-Pogson
Published by Daniel Forde-Pogson at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Daniel Forde-Pogson
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It was time for the parsnip harvest, and the farmer, Mr Plum, made his way out to his big parsnip field beside the farmhouse. Behind his tractor he towed a shiny new parsnip harvesting machine which he was looking forward to trying out for the first time. It could pick the parsnips out of the ground, shake off the soil, and sort the vegetables into various different sizes.
This was the bit that Mr Plum would like the best. He had always been rather proud of his bigger parsnips and often entered a few in the village show. He had a good number of rosettes hanging in his farmhouse declaring that his parsnips had won first prize from among all the exhibits in the vegetable section of the Thorpe Scratchling Village Fete. This year, he hoped, would be no exception.
By the end of the day, using his amazing new harvester, the whole field had been cleared and the parsnips sorted into size. The machine had been no trouble at all – except for disturbing a couple of pheasants that soared up into the sky, cackling as they went. All that remained to be done was for the machine to be emptied into the parsnip barn at the farm. It was here that Mr Plum would inspect the biggest parsnips with his expert eye and choose the finest, the whitest and the plumpest to save for the show.
After he had won First Prize, which he was sure he would, he would have his photograph taken for the ‘Scratchling Chronicle’, which was the village newspaper. Then he would take his parsnip back to the farmhouse where his wife, Mrs Plum, would cook it for a special celebration dinner. Delicious.
Mr Plum rummaged through the biggest of his parsnip harvest hoping to spot a winning vegetable.
“Oh my word!” he suddenly gasped as he reached over to pick a parsnip out of the pile. It had been partly hidden behind two slightly smaller parsnips and a lump of mud which hadn’t quite been shaken off. His eyes widened in excitement.
“Oh my word!” he said again. “This has got to be the winner.” Mr Plum gently brushed away the last few bits of mud, checking the parsnip over as if it were a priceless diamond or an antique vase. The grin broadened on his face and seconds later he was dancing from the barn to the farmhouse and singing at the top of his voice:
“I can’t believe my eyes;
You’re going to win first prize.
If you were ten times thinner,
You’d still make me a winner.”
Mrs Plum met him at the kitchen door. “You sound very pleased with yourself,” she said.
“Oh yes,” replied Mr Plum, “and wouldn’t you be with a prize parsnip like this?” and he waved the enormous parsnip over his head like a pirate brandishing his sword.
After he had washed and polished the wonderful vegetable, he wrapped it in several large pieces of newspaper. He gently placed it on a shelf in the outhouse where it would stay cool and fresh until the show in two days’ time. Then he returned to the farmhouse for a well-deserved cup of tea and to dream of receiving his First Prize at the show.
But, in the outhouse, as night fell, the parsnip began to think to itself, “Hmph! It’s fine being picked as a prize parsnip. But I’m really no better off than any other parsnip.” Then he began to sing, mocking Mr Plum’s song:
“He can’t believe his eyes,
He’s going to win First Prize;
If I were ten times thinner,
He’d still eat me for dinner.”
The parsnip sighed. “Oh if only I were a pheasant like the one I saw today. Then I could fly far, far away and never have a worry in the world.”
Suddenly, and without warning, the parsnip felt a strange sensation flowing through him. The newspaper began to tighten around his body. Then it began to tear from the top of his shoots right to the tip of his root. He looked down at himself and realised that…he was covered in feathers. And at the bottom of the feathers were two scrawny feet. As he watched, two wings sprouted from his shoulders, just below where his lovely green shoots used to be. He stretched them out in wonder and amazement and shook off the last scraps of newspaper.
“Hee hee,” he chuckled, “I am a pheasant, I am a pheasant!” and he hopped off the shelf with a flutter of his wings and strutted proudly out of a hole in the door, towards the field, and his freedom.
The parsnip’s first day as a Pheasant was a little difficult. It was not easy to get the hang of taking off, and even harder to perform a safe landing, but he was determined to get it right. He practised and practised until at last, just as the sun was beginning to sink behind the hills, he had almost perfected his new flying skills. His take off wasn’t quite as quick as the other pheasants, but even so he was very proud of himself and of the fact that he would not be appearing in the vegetable competition.
The next day was the day of Thorpe Scratchling Village Fete and Mr Plum was frantically searching for his wonderful parsnip.
“Where on earth is the blasted thing,” he said, his cheeks red with frustration as he picked up shreds of newspaper. He could see a bird’s footprints in the dust on the floor. “Surely no bird came in here and stole me lovely parsnip. Why would they? Why?”
Meanwhile, the Pheasant joined all the other pheasants in a large field next to the beech woods. It was strange to peck around in the mud for bits of food. He used to just suck up his food through his root. This was very different, but he loved the excitement of learning something new.
Suddenly all the pheasants around him cackled loudly and took off together in one big flock.
“To the woods,” they called, “to the woods. Let’s go. Let’s go.”
The Pheasant couldn’t see what all the fuss and panic was about, but, not wanting to be left out, he spread his wings and leapt up into the air with the others. As he rose towards the trees he heard a deafening BANG, BANG. His whole body was suddenly filled with pain – something he’d never felt before – and his wings gave way. He felt himself falling to the ground, tumbling over and over.
“I’ve lost control,” he cried. “Somebody h-e-e-e-l-p m-e-e…” And suddenly he landed with a painful thud on the cold, damp mud. A minute later a hand gently wrapped itself around his body and picked him up. As everything grew dark around him he heard a voice. “Good shot. Look at that beauty. He’ll be grand for Sunday lunch, he will.” It sounded like Mr Plum.
The next Sunday Mr Plum sat down at the farmhouse kitchen table for a splendid meal. Roast pheasant and all the trimmings – including some wonderful fresh parsnips.
“Well, I don’t know what ever happened to that prize parsnip of mine,” he said to his wife through a mouthful of mashed potato, “but this plump little pheasant certainly makes up for it.
Mr Plum smiled as he jabbed a piece of meat with his fork, and put it into his mouth.